After an unbearable time the old man closed the folder. He took off his glasses, brought a white handkerchief from one pocket, and began to clean them. He looked up at Frau Kroll with tears in his eyes. “Thank you for letting me see it,” Denton understood him to say in German.
Frau Kroll and her husband exchanged a look.
“Do you speak English?” she asked Herr Neumann.
“Yes,” he switched at once, offering Denton a small smile.
“We do business in English, yes? Herr Wyle gived me a price for the papers. Now you please.”
Denton uncrossed his leg and crossed the other one. He had to pee all of a sudden, probably because his insides were gripped so tightly there was no room for any fluids.
Herr Neumann continued to clean his glasses, calmly and serenely unaware of the tension in the room. The Krolls were trying to look businesslike, but her hands gripped and regripped her apron and he was licking his lips like a dog with peanut butter.
“What was the current bid, might I ask?” Herr Neumann said, looking up as though this had just occurred to him.
The Krolls discussed this briefly, in hushed tones. He seemed to be in favor of telling; she was not.
“Four thousand,” she said hesitantly. “In American dollars.”
“It was five thousand,” Denton rushed in, “wasn’t it? I thought… And that was just an opening bid.”
Frau Kroll and her husband exchanged a smirk. Denton didn’t care. He had flinched; he’d admit it. Whatever. Let them milk him dry. Let them retire to the Bahamas.
“I see.” Herr Neumann put his glasses back on.
Denton forced his mouth to stay shut. They waited.
“Very well,” the old man said with a sigh. “I have no objection to this young American owning the papers. Perhaps he and I can reach an agreement later, if he would be so kind.” He smiled distractedly at Denton.
Frau Kroll exploded. She must have been holding her breath, because what came out of her mouth was ejected on a fury of air and spit. She was ranting in a mixture of German and English, “You can’t do that! You can’t make a deal with him later! You have to pay me now! You swine, son of a swine, swine’s ass, nose of a swine that’s in another swine’s ass…” Her husband joined in. Clearly they had wanted a bidding war and were a little put out that they hadn’t gotten one.
Herr Neumann sat looking down at the closed folder in front of him with an expression so tranquil it was almost a smile. Denton thought he was plumb nutty.
It was clear the old man wasn’t going to do anything, and Denton hated, hated, arguments. He stood abruptly, knocking over the kitchen chair. He righted it, clumsily, while the Krolls turned their expletives at him.
Denton held up his hands, pleading surrender. “Ten thousand,” he said, and when it got no response he repeated it at the top of his lungs: “Ten thousand!”
The Krolls fell silent.
“Ten thousand U.S. In cash,” Denton added, taking a heaving breath.
Herr Kroll pulled his wife into the other room to consult. Denton waited, glancing out the window nervously. No one else was showing up, thank god. He glanced at the old man, who smiled at him politely. Denton tried to look unfriendly to show his suspicion. It was so unlike him that it took him a minute to remember that a frown went down instead of up.
The Krolls returned. Denton had just bought himself a chunk of Kobinski’s manuscript.
Outside in the driveway, Denton’s feet followed the old man to his car. In one hand was the manuscript folder (god, he had to get it hermetically sealed or something, and soon). Herr Neumann opened his car door, then turned to acknowledge Denton’s hovering.
“Mr. Wyle, I hope you won’t mind if I ask you what you intend to do with the manuscript?”
Denton didn’t answer. “Who are you?” he demanded, the old man’s passivity giving him a semblance of courage. “Did Schwartz send you?”
“No. You see, I would have offered any price, but I’m afraid I have no money. None at all.” His eyes were a fading brown. The sincere smile on the old man’s face trembled. “If you would please answer my question. I hope… I hope you have no intentions of publishing it.”
Denton’s suspicions were renewed. But there was a sincerity and dignity to Neumann that he found hard to dislike. And he was so fraiclass="underline" the skin on his face, now that they were outside in the daylight, was thin and spotted with age. Beneath were veins so lightly blue and thin that it appeared no blood at all could move through them anymore, like the veins of a dried-up leaf.
“Please tell me. I can offer you something in return.”
“Like what?” Denton asked, with a huff.
“Information. I knew Kobinski well.”
Denton experienced a surge of greed so powerful it made him wobble. If only! But he shook his head. “You couldn’t!”
Neumann reached a small hand into the large sleeve of his overcoat and pulled down the top of his glove. In the warm daylight, the numbers, blue and faded as his veins, were delineated against the thin white skin of his arm: 173056. Denton sucked in his breath.
“Oh my god, you really knew him?” He felt an absurd urge to fall on his knees, as if the Virgin Mary, and not a Holocaust survivor, had suddenly materialized in front of him. He reached out his fingers to touch the numbers that, maybe, Kobinski himself had seen, touched. Words tumbled from his lips: “Did he talk to you about the gateways? Do you know what happened during the escape attempt? Were you there?”
“Reb Kobinski was taken up to Heaven.” Neumann nodded, eyes glowing. “But he’ll be coming ba—”
Neumann frowned, his head pivoting. In the distance, coming down the dirt road from the main rural highway, was a gray sedan.
“Schwartz!” Denton exclaimed. He’d already bought the manuscript, true, but he still had no desire to see or be seen by that man, that threatening bunny killer, that Jewish Aleister Crowley.
“Not Schwartz,” Neumann said in a dead voice. Then, before Denton could react or even think, Neumann snatched the folder neatly from his hand, got into the car, shut the door, and locked it.
“Hey!” Denton screamed. He tried to open the door and failed. But he was still not really comprehending what was going on—not this nice old man, a Holocaust survivor, not after he, Denton, had spent ten freaking grand…
Neumann started the car and rolled down the window a crack. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Are you crazy?”
But the car was reversing now. It pulled out and drove toward the gray sedan and the main road with what looked to Denton like ironic slowness. Denton might even have chased it on foot, if he hadn’t been too stunned to move. The other car, still a half mile from the house, rolled to a stop as Neumann’s car cruised gently by. Denton thought he saw Neumann wave to the other driver.
“Hey!” Denton shouted again.
The sedan made its choice and continued on toward Denton and the farmhouse. Denton kicked at the dirt and sobbed in frustration.
Denton had just figured out that he had at least a couple of good reasons to get into his car instead of standing there furious (follow Neumann, get away from whoever was coming, which still might be Schwartz, whatever the old guy said) when the sedan pulled into the driveway. Too late.
He moved for his car anyway, though the sedan appeared to be purposefully blocking the drive.
Two men got out. Big men. They looked like casually dressed businessmen, casual in a flashy, somewhat overdone European style. One wore Armani loafers and a sports coat; the other, a black leather jacket in a froufrou style (as Denton thought of it) that Middle Easterners and Italians favored. They looked at the house, then at Denton.