I handed her an envelope. “That’s a damn shame because I was thinking… ”
“Oh my god, the Concertgebouw! How did you do it?” She sprang from her chair and came at me full speed with a breathe-crunching squeeze rather than a hug.
“I don’t know what’s playing or who’s conducting, but it will kill a few hours.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go get genital herpes or gonorrhea?”
“As much as I love antibiotics,…”
We took a long stroll up Leidseplein to the concert hall. There is a large grassy area in front. We bought a disposable camera, and I took pictures of her posing seriously then hamming it up in front of the concert hall. To her good fortune and my dumb luck Bernard Haitink, her idol, was guest conducting. I really didn’t mind the music. There was a Beethoven Overture, a Sibelius Tone Poem and Dvorak’s Symphony from the New World; each had plenty of melody, soft and loud parts. Every once in a while I’d look over, and she was wiping away tears.
“Great art does that to me sometimes. It also happened once in Florence at the Uffizi gallery when I saw an altarpiece by Cimabue. Just ignore me.”
After the concert we chatted on the trek back. We decided the Netherlands work was ahead of schedule, and DRG could move on to Belgium tomorrow if we could schedule it. The client was the Victor Buyck Steel Company located in Eeclo in Flanders, a Dutch speaking area lending itself to her linguistic expertise. We could stay in Bruges, which Gretchen declared to be a delightful step back into the 16th Century.
Some blocks from the hotel she suggested that we try a “smoking” coffee shop where we could sample some local “skunk” or hash. It might be something to counter the sagas of sin Greg and Ron would surely report. I was game but afraid of initiating an asthma attack which often happens when I’m around too much smoke. We settled for a pub and drank a round of oude jenever with beer chasers before we both began to lose the jet lag battle.
In front of the hotel she stopped me. “I want to thank you for one of the best evenings of my life, to say nothing of a very exciting day. I know it was you who lobbied for me, but I’m happy that Greg and Ron respect me.” She gave me a real hug this time. I bent down and kissed her.
“Was that supposed to mean something?”
“I don’t know.”
“When do you think you’ll ‘know?’”
Her tiny room was on the fourth floor, the door barely clearing the bed as we entered. The eaves angled in so severely there was only an eight foot space where you could stand upright. For a few minutes we made clumsy jokes about the size of the place, and what Greg and Ron might say if they had to stay in it for a week. Then she came to the side of the bed and kissed me.
“I want to freshen up in the bathroom. Don’t fall asleep on me.”
I sat on the bed, slowly got undressed, and then went to the window to check out the peaceful canal view. When I heard the water shut off, I slipped into bed and pulled the sheet up to my stomach. The bathroom door opened and she stood naked in the doorway. The light was behind her. She was sensual in profile. She glided towards the bed then halted.
“Maybe I should enhance the mood by tossing a scarf over the lamp, add some atmosphere?”
“That would be great.”
She turned and bent over to rummage through her carry on bag. And there it was — the Moby Dick of all derrières, the dark side of the moon revealed at last. The size was imposing enough; I mean there is something aesthetically pleasing about looking at the Arctic tundra, a desert wasteland or even an atomic bomb-induced, mushroom-shaped cloud. What I hadn’t counted on was the cellulite. Like a smallpox epidemic it had begun to ravage the vast, naked whiteness with small craters, even invading the backs of her thighs with darkish spots like those on overripe pears. She found a kerchief, held it up, and then did a pirouette with an accompanying “ta-da” for my approval. I nodded that it was fine. She draped it over the lamp. Immediately the room took on a soft, rosy glow, and the reflected lights from the canal created a Christmas tree effect on the ceiling. She stepped back from the lampshade as if she had just sculpted a masterpiece, flashed an enticing smile and held her palms up questioningly as a gesture for me to render my opinion of her handiwork. She was beautiful again.
“Beautiful,” I said.
Steiner Requests His Hole Be Dug in Poland
The Border — April 1939
Ah, Poland! The giant, blundering cow lolling about her pasture mindless of the fact that progress is barking at her heels. Poland — breathing in the dust of the past now ground so fine that it barely grits the teeth, yet when one stands still long enough to catch a breath — there it is, visible in a thin coating over the entire land. Who knows? Perhaps she’ll benefit from some good German housekeeping.
Any Hole: A general plan
The deeper the better. Level off the perimeter to reduce muddening. Keep the sides smooth. (Nothing stirs the soul more than the smell of freshly dug earth.) Calculate the hole in relation to the size of an average man. If he is German, place him feet first so as to allow him the privilege of speculation. If he is Polish, it matters little which end is where.
The Beginning of the End as Far as Steiner Was Concerned
A truck pulled itself up the hill to the edge of the trees then stopped. There was a slight breeze. Hauptmann got out of the cab and turned towards the rear. From the back Endlich was the first out, then B., then Meyer. Some feel that Steiner was already in the woods, but who could be certain in that twilight. Hauptmann gave instructions to his men — short and to the point. B. broke from the small formation, headed back to the cab and shook hands with the driver. A signal was given; the truck reversed itself then teetered down the hill as the four started into the forest. It was just seven. Suddenly shots were heard.
Four Germans were dead in ambush and poor, bewildered Steiner was being held at bay by the Poles. So simple yet so complex.
Steiner Tries to Explain the Entire Incident to All of Poland
— I am Steiner. I wandered into your territory by accident.
— You were found two kilometers inside the border.
— I had no idea where I was. I am a musician. I know nothing of politics. (These Poles are all fools as concerns interrogation. Belinski, in this case, in particular.)
— Your name again?
— Steiner. I am a musician, violin.
— And the others?
— I know none of the soldiers. I was on a picnic. My companion left to answer a call of nature and was overdue. I began a search. I swear it before All Mighty God. (That’s it Steiner, swear. Test the breeze. Stand upwind from a Pole. Fart something divine. A Pole will smell it, then salivate his trust in return.)
Back to Those Shots in the Forest
The first — a quick, unsuspecting sound which had it not been so sudden and come during such a haphazard period of silence might well have acted as a warning to the second already breaking through the underbrush and pummeling into the still crumpling body of Hauptmann. Then came the third and fourth — still distinct enough to be counted and B. running from the rear, trying to keep low and to the side of the narrow trail and just getting up to the bend before the fifth shot rang out and then he also halted, freezing in mid- air until the sixth was heard and then he too slumped forward, a slight maroon circle visible beneath his side.