He was used to being admired by women and had taken full advantage of such admiration. As for what was referred to as “romantic love,” he had neither experienced nor wished for it. He was often disgusted by its display. His sexual fantasies dealt with images of half-dressed women being fucked in different positions. Rear entry particularly excited him. He recalled incidents where he had ripped off women’s clothes and fucked them in the ass. He forced women to fellate him and swallow his ejaculation. Images like these helped him to masturbate. None of this had anything at all to do with romantic love.
He had believed that such personal sentiment was unmanly, irrelevant, and unnecessary. Besides, such sentiment was dangerous and debilitating. Romantic love, he was convinced, like religion, was an opiate. It enfeebled people, made them fearful and decadent. The Jews used such emotions to fill people’s heads with enslaving ideas, like inventing the movies, which glorified individual sentiment and promoted the idea of romantic love. It was nothing more than a mind drug.
Yet, try as he could to rationalize his odd, new feelings, he could not banish thoughts of Stephanie Brown.
In the morning, he struggled to get out of bed. Because of the difficulty, he had not undressed. With his crutches, he managed to reach the bathroom but it was too awkward to wash or shave. With effort and the use of his crutches, he made it to the elevator. The man at the desk ushered him over and gave him a paper bag.
“From Florence Nightingale,” the man said, smiling lasciviously. “She brought it herself. I let you get away with it yesterday, seeing your situation. No more — nurse or not.”
Miller grunted, ignored the man, and looked inside the bag. There were sandwiches, candy bars, and two pints of milk. He had intended to go to the Peoples Drug Store across the street for a sandwich and to make his call. Instead, he used the open pay phone in the lobby and went upstairs to his room to eat.
The delivery repeated itself for the next few days. He was baffled by her conduct, but he accepted her largesse out of necessity. Suspicious of her motives, his gratitude was complex. After a week of these food gifts, she appeared in the lobby herself, holding the bag.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked.
Nevertheless, he was glad to see her. She looked wonderfuclass="underline" fresh and smiling. She wore black slacks and a turtleneck sweater that emphasized her full bosoms. He hadn’t realized how really tall she was.
“You look terrible,” she said, ignoring his question.
“I hadn’t noticed,” he lied, feeling awkward and scruffy.
He had paid no attention at all to his appearance.
“At least, you’ve been eating,” she said.
“Okay, so you have my thanks.”
He continued to hold the bag of food.
“How about you go upstairs and clean yourself up, and let’s get out of here for a while.”
She had her hands on her hips and spoke in a mock commanding tone.
Good idea, he thought and then shook his head, refusing the offer.
He shrugged and they exchanged glances, but he did not move.
“Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
He wanted to tell her she was wasting her time. Instead, he said, “In this condition? Go where?”
“It’s a nice day. I’m on the nightshift. The weather is perfect. I have a wheelchair.”
She pointed to a folded wheelchair leaning against the wall.
“Do you good to smell the roses,” she giggled girlishly.
“It’s December,” he said. “There are no roses.”
“We’ll make believe. Besides, it’s unseasonably mild.”
“I didn’t ask you to come,” he muttered.
“So I’m a pain in the butt. Now, go get cleaned up.”
He turned and pressed the elevator button. Each day he was having less of a struggle. The chest cast was more burdensome than the ankle cast, but he was, with the help of one crutch, soon able to take halting steps. The elevator door opened, and he pressed the button of his floor. As the elevator ascended, he decided to join her. Uncomfortable about his easy compliance, he was unable to resist.
He cleaned himself up in the communal bathroom, shaved, and managed to get into clean pants, a shirt, sweater, and windbreaker. He groomed himself carefully, taking his time, a reminder of his SS glory days. He half hoped she would grow tired of waiting.
He was wrong.
“You clean up nice,” she said. She led him to the wheelchair, which she opened, then patted the seat. “Enthrone yourself.”
The man behind the desk shook his head. She threw him a haughty and contemptuous glance, then moved the wheelchair into the street.
She had been right about the weather, which was uncommonly warm for December. She wheeled him slowly past the Ellipse in the direction of the Potomac. They passed rows of temporary office buildings.
“Remember your stroller days?” she said, moving at a swift pace, stopping finally at a bench overlooking the tidal basin and the Jefferson Memorial, its white marble gleaming in the sun.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” she said.
He hadn’t said a word since leaving the Y. The situation was both mysterious and frightening. He tried to put it in the context of an intrigue, giving it a business twist, eschewing any emotional content. He forced his thoughts to deal with what her motives could be. Surely, he tried convincing himself, she had glommed on to him for a reason. Either the Americans were on to him, or the NKVD was concocting another plan. He had acquiesced, he assured himself, to get to the bottom of such suspicions.
Trust no one, Dimitrov had cautioned.
If she were an enemy, he would have to find a way to either evade her or dispatch her. Sitting here in the open, with little chance of being overheard, he speculated that she might be the conduit for more instructions from Dimitrov. It was inconceivable that her attraction was casual.
“So why are we here?” he asked, observing her in profile.
She turned to him and smiled.
“You’re a strange one,” she said. “Why not just enjoy it?”
Was she being cagey? He wondered. Or playing with him?
“I’d like to know why,” he said.
Despite the pleasure of her proximity, he could not shake his suspicions.
“So would I, if you must know,” she chuckled. “I’m not sure myself. It’s a bit of a mystery, even to me.”
“What is?”
“Never mind.”
He saw her flush, as if little patches of rouge had been applied to her cheeks.
“Maybe you’re a challenge,” she mumbled. “Maybe that’s it.”
“A challenge?” He was baffled.
“Am I making a fool of myself?” she asked.
He shook his head and sucked in a deep breath.
“You’re making a mistake,” he told her.
“You’re probably right.”
They sat quietly, he in the wheelchair, she on the bench. From their vantage, they could see the low line of the Pentagon. He was conscious of her disturbing presence beside him.
This is stupid and wrong! He rebuked himself, still unable to fully trust her motives.
Then suddenly, he felt her hand touch his and caress it. He dared not look into her face, but he felt the inspection of her eyes.
Inexplicably, he allowed her fingers to entwine with his. He felt her hand’s pressure in his and, to his surprise, returned it. She said nothing, turning her head away, watching the lazy flow of the muddy Potomac. As the sun declined, the air turned cooler.