“It’s a nice picture,” Bulnakov said. “And how nicely you put it: ‘the good times in Provence.’ It is amazing how you’ve developed. What a pity that you weren’t then who you are now. I’m sorry to bring this up again, but we could have worked so well together. As for the money…” He shook his head. “Even if we forget your little joke about the three million, I can’t see how… not to mention…” He rested his head on his right hand, and with his middle finger rubbed his left eyebrow. Then he sat up. “Give me a few days. I need to give this some thought and make a few calls. Can we reach you at your friend’s number?”
At the door Georg asked about Françoise. “Is she okay?”
“Most definitely. She’s living a quieter life, doesn’t get out much. She’ll go to a baseball game now and then,” Bulnakov said with a smile. “You might even bump into her at one. I hear you’ve become a Yankees fan.”
33
THE NEXT FEW DAYS were like a vacation for Georg. He spent them in Riverside Park. A blanket of heat was smothering the streets, but in the park there was a breeze from the river. He even put up with the pigeons. They covered the benches with their droppings and nodded their heads idiotically. Sparrows bathed in the dust. Squirrels darted nervously across the paths. The same homeless people sat on the same benches at the same time every day. The same joggers jogged. The same people walked the same dogs, some picking up the dog shit with plastic bags, others letting it lie, looking around guiltily. The same little brats in designer T-shirts terrorized the same black nannies.
Georg was pleased with the way his meeting with Bulnakov had gone. He hadn’t expected him to agree to his demand for money, let alone that he’d have paid it right away. Georg was happy to make Bulnakov squirm for a while before he would grudgingly realize that he had no other choice.
One afternoon there was a sudden thunderstorm, but Georg stayed on his park bench. The wind tore through the trees. Raindrops fell like sparkling pearls in the lightning flashes. Only one of the buildings on the street had a slanting roof, and the water came pouring down the incline, flooding the gutter and spraying over the edge. He was soaked to the skin and very happy.
Sometimes he brought along a book, newspaper, or magazine. It had been a while since he had given any thought to the world at large. Was the world giving any thought to him? He was glad to loosen up a little, now that the world was taking on a friendlier face, and that substantial investments were on the horizon.
There was an article in Newsweek that he found particularly interesting. A consortium of European aircraft builders was developing a new attack helicopter, in partnership with the Gorgefield Aircraft Company. A major political breakthrough was in the works: by the late 1990s all the NATO armies were to adopt this single make of attack helicopter. The aim was to break the superiority of the Russians. The conventional wars of the future would be won or lost with attack helicopters. Uniformity in this weapon system was of vital importance, which was why the NATO defense ministers were meeting in Ottawa with a view to clinching this political breakthrough. The technological breakthrough was already under wraps. The article mentioned stub wings, ABC rotors, and RAM-coating.
How very interesting, Georg thought. I’m not surprised that the Russians would do anything to get their hands on Mermoz’s plans. Back at the apartment, he took out the copies he had made during his last few weeks of working for Mermoz. He had translated words like screws, bolts, connectors, valves, spindles, flanges, nuts, clamps, caps, joints, spars, flex beams, mufflers, regulators, filters, slots, axels, rotors, and so on, without being interested in what they meant. Now he tried to decode their meaning.
In a nearby bookstore he found a book about attack helicopters and read up on stub wings, ABC rotors, and RAM-coating. Stub wings help support the rotor and carry the weapons. As Georg read on, he realized that the suspensions were connected to the stub wings. He also recognized that on his plans the rotors were closely stacked over one another, which in the ABC concept had the advancing blades providing more thrust than the retrograde blades, giving the helicopter the remarkable speed of over three hundred miles per hour. Finally he thought he had decoded the last series of plans. There were slots at the rear letting out compressed air, helping to make the tail rotor redundant. Sensational. He didn’t have the plans for the radar absorbing RAM-coating, but here it seemed to be more of a problem of the material and pricing than one of construction. About the Hokum, the newest Soviet attack helicopter, the book did not have much to say. But if it was true that the Hokum still used a tail rotor and could only reach speeds of two hundred miles per hour, then the Soviets had every reason to be alarmed by the NATO developments.
On Sunday he went to pick up Helen to take her out to brunch. The money from Germany had arrived. He had paid the rent, and had a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills hidden in his belt, and a wad of twenties in his pocket. He felt rich. Helen should enjoy his good times. When he arrived she was on the phone.
“No, Max, both shoulders. Take hold of both shoulders with both hands and fold them back until they meet. Now take both shoulders in one hand. Are you holding them? No, Max, not the sleeves… Of course I know that the sleeves begin at the shoulders, and if you mean the beginning of the sleeves… Are you holding both shoulders where the sleeves begin with one hand? Good, then with the other, fold the side with the buttons… over the other side… the side with the buttonholes. You can’t?… Because you’re holding both shoulders together with your hand? You’ve got to let go for a second. Then you can fold the side with the buttons over the side with the buttonholes, so that only the lining is visible. What? The jacket fell on the floor? You let go of it? You can only let go of it once you’ve folded one side over the other… You can’t?” She got up, cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder, and took her jacket off the back of a chair. “You see, Max, I know what I’m talking about. I worked in a clothing store. I have a jacket in my hands right now…” She folded it as she had described. You learn something every day, Georg thought. “I know you can’t see me. ‘You see’ is just a turn of phrase. Of course I know you can’t see me. All I wanted to say was, I have a jacket in my hands right now and it’s quite simple when the hand that holds both shoulders from inside… no, Max, I’m not coming over to pack your jackets for you. No. You don’t have many jackets, just one? Then why don’t you just wear it? Because it’s too warm in Italy? Listen, Max, I’ve got to go. Call me this evening… Keep practicing. Or don’t take the jacket with you, if it’ll be too hot for you anyway…” Helen had spoken the whole time with the utmost seriousness. Now she threw Georg an impatient, exasperated look. “Listen, I really have to go. Yes, I’m hanging up. Yes, now.”
She hung up and looked at Georg. “That was Max.”
“I heard.”
“He wanted me to tell him how to fold a jacket in order to pack it into a suitcase.”
“How does one do that? Does one take both shoulders in…”
“Stop making fun of me. Shall we go?”
He flagged down a cab on Broadway. Helen was surprised. They took a table in the garden at Julia’s, an elegant restaurant on Seventy-ninth Street, and ordered eggs Benedict and Bloody Marys.