Sylvia’s stomach churns with the last word, but she steadies herself.
“I’m glad for you,” she says, picking up the wineglass. A beat goes by. The boy looks from her face to the kitchen, but he doesn’t seem to know what to say.
“Well it was nice meeting you,” Sylvia tries, but he ignores the words and bulls ahead.
“You like film?” he asks.
She doesn’t want to prolong the interruption but she can’t help asking. “What’s your name?”
“Jakob.”
“Jakob,” she says, “have you ever met anyone who didn’t like film?”
He doesn’t seem to understand the question and when he pulls out the opposite chair and sits down she realizes she’s made a big mistake.
“My father,” he says, challenging, “he hates the cinema. I doubt he’s ever been to a movie in his life.”
“He’s indifferent,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s indifferent. It’s not that he actively dislikes movies. Film just isn’t a big part of his life. He’s indifferent to it.”
“No,” he says. “This is not the case. Not in this instance. I have to disagree.”
She sighs and says, “Well, I guess you know your old man.”
Either the kid is genuinely lame or he’s playing the part to avoid leaving the table. He smiles and shakes his head as if she’s putting him on and they both instinctively know it.
“What about yourself?” he says. “Are you an enthusiast?”
She thinks about just ignoring him, but decides that’s actually more work than giving in and talking.
“I don’t get out as much as I used to,” she says. “But I used to go a lot when I was younger.”
“I knew it,” he says. “What are some of your favorites? Who would be your favorite director?”
“Fritz Lang,” she says, spearing an oyster and remembering Dr. Jessner from German Giants class in college.
It’s a mistake. Her answer sends Jakob into something approaching a spasm.
“Lang,” he says, voice too high. “Really, Lang. You’re a Lang devotee, yes? I knew it. I knew this. How many people even know Lang today? Unbelievable. I saw you walk in, I said, film woman, yes, I knew it.”
“Film woman?”
“Who else? Please. Who really does it to you?”
It’s strange. Having someone ask her opinion.
“Murnau,” she says, “Dupont—”
“A weakness for the Germans—”
“—Herk Harvey, Browning, Dovzhenko—”
“A buff,” he says. “You’re what they call a buff.”
“Oh, c’mon,” she laughs, protesting like some easy prom date. But suddenly she doesn’t mind him sitting at the table.
“I bet you don’t mind going to the films alone. Correct? Yes? They say a real buff never minds going alone.”
“That’s in the book,” she says. “That’s one of the definitions.”
“How about Schick?” he says. “Do you know any Schick?”
It stops her cold. She puts down her wineglass and stares at him.
“What is the matter?” he says, sticking his neck out.
Sylvia doesn’t know what to say. She feels like she should be angry, but she’s mostly confused. Did Schick send this kid down here as some kind of joke? But Jakob was here before her. He was sitting in here reading when she came in the door. Schick couldn’t have known she’d be coming here because she didn’t know she was coming here. Maybe the kid saw her come out of Herzog’s. Maybe he saw her leave the Skin Palace and ran to get here first. But again, how could he have known she’d come in here?
She knows she should just get up now and leave. Put some money on the table and get the hell out. There’s no need for her to be here. She shouldn’t be drawn here in the Zone in the first place. What’s happened today just proves that.
She throws down the rest of the wine in one huge gulp and starts to push away from the table.
“What’s wrong?” Jakob says, sitting back.
“I’ve got to go,” she says and stands up.
He gets close to panicky. “Forgive me, please. What did I say?”
Sylvia nods goodbye and moves around the table, but Jakob stands up, mortified by some unfathomable social mistake, and starts to follow her to the door. She reaches for the doorknob and he puts a hand on her shoulder and says, “Hold on, please. What is the matter?”
She doesn’t turn around. She twists the knob and in as even a voice as she can manage she says, “Get your hand off me now or I’ll scream.”
He removes his hand from her shoulder and grabs her at the elbow. She tries to yank the door open but it won’t budge. Her heart and her breath go crazy and she wheels around to push him, but someone’s beaten her to it. A bearded man has Jakob by the shoulder and is yanking the kid backwards. Jakob lets go of Sylvia’s arm and his eyes go huge and he starts to stammer, “I did not do anything. I did not do a thing. We were just talking. Please, madam, tell him, please.”
The man looks to Sylvia for an explanation and she in turn stares at the fear and confusion on Jakob’s face and says, “It’s all right, you can let him go. It was just a misunderstanding. I’m not feeling well. I’ve really got to leave.”
She turns and tries the door again and realizes it’s locked.
The man looks her up and down, then lets go of Jakob and steps forward to turn the deadbolt and open the door.
Jakob says, “We were talking. She looked perfect for the part of the waitress. We were just talking.” Then his voice dissolves into a gasped breath and he runs out of the café and disappears down Verlin.
“Are you all right?” the bearded man asks. “Did he hurt you at all?”
“No,” she says, suddenly feeling flushed from the wine and the upsetting. “No, it was a misunderstanding. He didn’t … I should really just get going. It’s been an awful day.”
“Would you like me to call you a cab?” he asks. He’s got a very soft voice and he’s dressed in kind of old-fashioned lounging pajamas, that same deep rose color as the walls and the waiter’s jacket. They look as if they’re made of silk. Sylvia looks down to see he’s got slippers on his feet and she’d think that he recently rolled out of bed if it weren’t for the fact that his hair looks just washed and combed.
She thinks about walking out of the Zone or waiting for a bus and she surprises herself by saying, “Could you? I’d really appreciate that.”
“Of course,” he says, looking like a concerned doctor, gently taking her arm and leading her back to her seat.
“Why don’t you just sit down and relax for a second. I’ll be right back. There’s a phone in the office.”
Sylvia watches him walk away and though it’s probably a stupid thing to do, she takes a long drink of Pernod. She’d not tell Perry anything about today. She’s going to chalk the whole thing up to some bad misjudgment and let it go. She doesn’t know what she was thinking of, coming down here, alone, following Quevedo into his store, walking into the middle of the crowd outside Herzog’s. As soon as the cab drops her home she’s going to shower and change and cook dinner. Something nice and warm. Something Perry likes. Maybe some meatloaf and baked potatoes. Something kind of hearty that her mother would cook. She’ll tell Perry she’s changed her mind about the camera. That she doesn’t need the money. That they can buy something else. Or they can bank it. They can start the house fund like he wants. Maybe they’ll talk houses over dinner. Where they want to live, what style of house they agree on. Features they want. She hopes the cab comes quickly. She just wants to be back in the apartment, to lock the door and take a steaming shower, put on some tea and listen to some music. Maybe she’ll call Perry at work, ask him to come home a little early. Ask him to pick up one of those real estate magazines at the supermarket. Tell him she’s sorry about last night. That she just hasn’t been feeling well. That she misses him.