Claude noticed the man twisting his body to look out the back window.
"It's okay, sir," she said. "I'll know." She glanced at her side mirror and then the rearview. "I'll know."
"Of course," the man said.
Claude was surprised to hear her call him sir. He could not remember hearing her call anybody sir.
"It's ridiculous," the man said with a foreign accent. "Melodramatic. But we have to be careful."
"Yes."
"We are very grateful. We know you work hard and long hours."
"It's an honor, sir."
They drove through the dark city, the streets almost empty, going uptown two blocks, west one block, uptown two blocks, west one block, again and again in such a way as to catch all the lights.
"A good trick," the man said, and Claude recognized his accent as German, the kind he heard often in Yorkville. "I did not know this trick."
She pulled to the curb at the corner of Madison and Ninety-second. "We're on schedule," she said.
They waited in silence, the meter ticking near Claude's head. After some time a man in a light brown coat emerged from an apartment building and approached the cab.
"It's him," the German said, and opened his door for the newcomer, who slipped into the cab.
"Gerhardt."
"This is foolishness," the German said.
"Well, they were meeting anyway. I thought they should see you."
She made a U-turn on Madison and proceeded downtown.
"You know where to go?" the newcomer asked. He was an American.
"Yes." She glanced into the rearview.
"I don't see what you hope to accomplish," said the German.
"Money, for one thing," the American answered. "It's expensive to be on the run. The more you have, the better. And there are other reasons we don't have to go into."
The German sighed heavily.
"Just let me handle it," the American said. "These people are submarines, mostly. Completely undisciplined. They'll blather on all night about Browder, white chauvinism, and God knows what else if you let them. They're like children."
"I can imagine. I don't know how you put up with it."
"I have very little choice, obviously."
She parked near the East River. Claude watched the electric signs go on and off on the other side, floating in the darkness.
"The house should be two blocks down," she said.
The men got out and crossed the street.
She looked down at Claude. "Pull that blanket up and go to sleep. This will be a while."
He lay on his side, his hands folded under his head, and drifted off.
***
A bright, windy afternoon. Weisfeld had closed the shop early and now, after hot tea and donuts at the luncheonette on the corner of Third and Eighty-fourth, they walked to Park Avenue.
"It's a concert grand," Weisfeld said. "Nine feet. A Bechstein. Maestro Kimmel brought it with him on the boat years ago. A fabulous instrument. But he can't play anymore."
"Why not?" Claude asked.
"He's an old man, and he's got some kind of muscle disease. But he still writes." He tapped the manuscripts under his arm. "He writes incredible music."
"But how can he do that if he never comes out of his room? If he can't play it, how does he know what it'll sound like?"
Weisfeld laughed. "In his head, my boy. He hears it in his head. Strings, brass, tympani, everything. He doesn't write for piano anyway."
"And they play it on the radio?"
"Oh, yes. Yes, they do. The older stuff."
They turned south on Park Avenue. The wind whipped the stiff hedges in the islands running down the center of the street. In the distance, clouds sped behind Grand Central Station, creating the illusion that the building itself was in motion.
"Here we are."
Claude stopped in his tracks. It was Al's building.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing," Claude said.
"There's no need to be nervous. You won't even see the man."
For a moment it seemed to Claude that it was simply too great a coincidence, that Weisfeld had somehow found out about Al and the trips in the dumbwaiter, and that a reckoning was at hand. But a glance at Weisfeld's earnest, open face reassured him.
"It's okay, sir," she said. "I'll know." She glanced at her side mirror and then the rearview. "I'll know."
"Of course," the man said.
Claude was surprised to hear her call him sir. He could not remember hearing her call anybody sir.
"It's ridiculous," the man said with a foreign accent. "Melodramatic. But we have to be careful."
"Yes."
"We are very grateful. We know you work hard and long hours."
"It's an honor, sir."
They drove through the dark city, the streets almost empty, going uptown two blocks, west one block, uptown two blocks, west one block, again and again in such a way as to catch all the lights.
"A good trick," the man said, and Claude recognized his accent as German, the kind he heard often in Yorkville. "I did not know this trick."
She pulled to the curb at the corner of Madison and Ninety-second. "We're on schedule," she said.
They waited in silence, the meter ticking near Claude's head. After some time a man in a light brown coat emerged from an apartment building and approached the cab.
"It's him," the German said, and opened his door for the newcomer, who slipped into the cab.
"Gerhardt."
"This is foolishness," the German said.
"Well, they were meeting anyway. I thought they should see you."
She made a U-turn on Madison and proceeded downtown.
"You know where to go?" the newcomer asked. He was an American.
"Yes." She glanced into the rearview.
"I don't see what you hope to accomplish," said the German.
"Money, for one thing," the American answered. "It's expensive to be on the run. The more you have, the better. And there are other reasons we don't have to go into."
The German sighed heavily.
"Just let me handle it," the American said. "These people are submarines, mostly. Completely undisciplined. They'll blather on all night about Browder, white chauvinism, and God knows what else if you let them. They're like children."
"I can imagine. I don't know how you put up with it."
"I have very little choice, obviously."
She parked near the East River. Claude watched the electric signs go on and off on the other side, floating in the darkness.
"The house should be two blocks down," she said.
The men got out and crossed the street.
She looked down at Claude. "Pull that blanket up and go to sleep. This will be a while."
He lay on his side, his hands folded under his head, and drifted off.
***
A bright, windy afternoon. Weisfeld had closed the shop early and now, after hot tea and donuts at the luncheonette on the corner of Third and Eighty-fourth, they walked to Park Avenue.
"It's a concert grand," Weisfeld said. "Nine feet. A Bechstein. Maestro Kimmel brought it with him on the boat years ago. A fabulous instrument. But he can't play anymore."
"Why not?" Claude asked.
"He's an old man, and he's got some kind of muscle disease. But he still writes." He tapped the manuscripts under his arm. "He writes incredible music."
"But how can he do that if he never comes out of his room? If he can't play it, how does he know what it'll sound like?"
Weisfeld laughed. "In his head, my boy. He hears it in his head. Strings, brass, tympani, everything. He doesn't write for piano anyway."
"And they play it on the radio?"
"Oh, yes. Yes, they do. The older stuff."
They turned south on Park Avenue. The wind whipped the stiff hedges in the islands running down the center of the street. In the distance, clouds sped behind Grand Central Station, creating the illusion that the building itself was in motion.
"Here we are."
Claude stopped in his tracks. It was Al's building.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing," Claude said.
"There's no need to be nervous. You won't even see the man."
For a moment it seemed to Claude that it was simply too great a coincidence, that Weisfeld had somehow found out about Al and the trips in the dumbwaiter, and that a reckoning was at hand. But a glance at Weisfeld's earnest, open face reassured him.
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