The Children's War (118 page)

46

W
HEN
P
ETER
FINALLY
dragged himself out of bed and into the kitchen, Zosia was not only already awake and dressed but she greeted him with a cheerful good-morning, a boisterous kiss, and an attempt at fried eggs.

He poked at the overdone eggs with his fork and wondered at her change in mood. Call him a collaborator, invoke saintly Adam, then let it all slip away! When she went into the bedroom for something, he discreetly poured a generous serving of vodka into his coffee and then sat down to begin eating the eggs she had cooked for him.

“How are they?” she asked cheerfully as she sat down opposite him.

“Awful. Why did you cook them so long?” he replied with unnecessary honesty, and sipped his coffee with surreptitious pleasure.

“Oh, I was reading this article and I just forgot about them.” She shoved a story about life in the NAU at him. It was written by an American, so it was, he thought, of doubtful value to an outsider. He paged through to look for photos, but there were none—the article had been downloaded from an illegal satellite link and reprinted as a samizdat publication, and any photos had been sacrificed in the process.

“Does it have any useful insights?” he asked somewhat dubiously.

“Who knows? I didn’t get very far when I realized that I was burning the eggs!” She laughed. “You should read it though. It’s important we present your story well. There are a number of things we’ll have to refine. I’ll go over the list with you later. And about that other stuff—you know, well, we’ll just forget all that, okay?” Then leaping up, she blew a kiss at him and announced, “I’ve got to run—there’s a problem with some of the partisans in the northern sector we’ve got to sort out. Ta!” She was out the door before he could say anything.

So much for a discussion, he thought. He forced the eggs down, resupplied his coffee with more vodka, and then sat down to look at the article. He scanned it, looking for insights, but it was full of nothing but trite and self-congratulatory generalizations. It talked glowingly of the American spirit of independence, their drive and self-reliance—as if, he thought, no one else has a spirit of independence or drive or self-reliance. The article continued with folksy stories of the typical American’s willingness to help his or her neighbor in times of need. It rapidly became clear that
neighbor
meant “American neighbor” and that the author was an isolationist.

And this was the culture he would try to impress into action! What a hopeless, thankless, and unpleasant task! He tossed the article into a corner. A few seconds later, he got up, picked it up, and carefully filed it among Zosia’s stack of current readings, then he went to the cabinet and poured more vodka into
his mug. He scanned the supplies, realized that he needed to restock the kitchen, especially the vodka supply, and decided to do that before he went in to work.

Later in the day, Zosia stopped by his office. She looked for a moment at Barbara and Olek as if deciding what to say, then spoke to him instead. “I need to talk to you alone,” she said, indicating the other two with her eyes.

Without even being asked, they both rose, made excuses, and left. He felt a slow burning sensation at her usurping his authority in the office but did nothing more than raise his eyebrows expectantly. Zosia watched as the two disappeared down the hall, then she shut the door and said, “There’s a minor problem with Barbara.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Her parents want her reassigned. It seems rather abrupt, I don’t even think Barbara knows.”

“Oh, shit,” he groaned. “She’s of age, isn’t she? Do they have the right to do that?”

“Who knows? Whatever right they have or don’t have, they can make trouble for her—she lives there after all.”

“Yes, but she could move out.”

“There’s hardly room for independent young people. Besides, I’m interested in sorting the problem out, not destroying Barbara’s family. Now, do you know what this is about?”

He admitted that he probably did, and he relayed the incident of the previous night.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, what the hell were you thinking about?” Zosia scolded.

“Nothing!”

“Clearly!” she agreed sarcastically. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that a married man twice their daughter’s age bringing her home, drunk, in the middle of the night might worry them?”

“I just wanted to make sure she got home okay. I didn’t expect her to get drunk; we didn’t have that much.”

“Not by your standards.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, my dear, even vodka has a smell. You’re not exactly discreet.” She nodded her head meaningfully toward his coffee cup.

“Oh, leave me alone!”

“Look, I don’t care how much you drink as long as you can handle it—and usually you can. But don’t go getting young girls drunk out in the woods! We have to maintain some sort of society here, and these people have sensibilities about these sorts of things! Do what you want, screw the girl if that’s what you want, but for God’s sake, be discreet!”

“Zosiu! All we did was talk, all I wanted to do was talk . . .”

“I know, you wanted a sympathetic ear. But don’t you realize she has a crush
on you? She’ll be sympathetic no matter what you say. And you’re leading her along. Don’t you have any consideration for her feelings? You’re using her.”

“No, I’m not, she’s a friend, I like talking to her. You talk with Tadek—how’s this so different?”

Zosia apparently felt the differences were sufficiently obvious that she could ignore his question. Instead she said, “She’s very vulnerable. Be careful. You’re not the only person in the world who can be hurt.”

He decided it was not worth another fight and surrendered. “Okay, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to calm her parents? An apology?”

She shook her head slightly. “I don’t think an apology makes sense; after all, you didn’t really do anything. And it was kind of you to see her home. No, I think an apology would just send the wrong message.”

“Then what can we do? She’s good at her job, I don’t want to lose her.”

“What you have to do is behave yourself from now on. Otherwise, I think I’ve already handled the problem.”

“How?”

“I suggested that if she leaves your office, she be assigned to do assassinations with me as her mentor. Somehow that cooled their enthusiasm for her being transferred.”

“I wonder why,” he mused humorously.

“Apparently my reputation is even worse than yours. I am reputedly quite a difficult woman,” she answered with obvious amusement.

“So I’ve heard, and it’s true.”

Zosia feigned a pout.

“But I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He rose to lock the door. “I’ve missed you terribly during this disagreement. Maybe we can just put it all behind us?” He approached from behind to kiss her neck.

“So you won’t cancel your tour?”

“No, I promised you I’d go, and if you think it’ll be all right, then it’ll be all right.” He moved his hands forward and began undoing her buttons.

“Oh, it’ll be all right,” she agreed happily. His hands moved under the material-of her blouse, and she moaned slightly. “I don’t think this is the right time,” she protested gently. “This is hardly the way good, decent folk behave!”

He ignored her scruples, began telling her how incredibly beautiful she was, how he longed to hold her, touch her, stroke her. He ran his fingers through her hair, kissed her silken curls. He cajoled, flattered, complimented, stroked, and eventually overcame her not particularly forceful objections.

As they lay on the floor, among the stacks of documents and books and desk chairs, Zosia snuggled closer to him and thought about the last woman he had made love to. She had never been jealous in her life as it had not suited either her disposition or her purposes; still, she could not help but wonder at the comparisons Peter might make in his mind. Was Elspeth’s power an aphrodisiac? How
had he managed to drum up enough enthusiasm to actually do it with her? If he had no desire at all for Elspeth and still managed to have sex with her, was there any possibility that he was doing the same now?

He was such a great lover, so wonderfully satisfying of her needs. Indeed, though she hated to admit it, he was much better than Adam, for the two of them had grown too casual and Adam had never bothered to exert himself to find out what she might want beyond what pleased him. Peter was completely different: he made her feel as though she were the most extraordinary woman in the world, that simply being able to lie next to her, to enjoy her body, was more than he had ever hoped for. In the middle of the day, he might do no more than run his finger along her face—yet the smile of pleasure, the obvious enjoyment he received from such a simple gesture, left her feeling sexually charged. Or the way he sometimes just brushed his lips against her hand—not a prelude to sex, not a come-on; he did it just for the joy of kissing her. It all made her feel so special. And he seemed to read her mind, to hold back when she needed time, to push forward despite protestations when she wanted that as well. How did he do it? His whole being seemed intent on pleasing her, or rather, seemed pleased by her—she had never experienced anything so sexually stimulating. And it seemed that he gained the most pleasure from her happiness. It was wonderful, electrifying, but was it all part of a service? Did he feel any real desire for her?

The questions plagued her, not because the philosophical or theoretical elements appealed to her—she would never do anything so foolish as to analyze a sexual relationship that worked so well—but because, for the first time in her experience with him, she had faked her response. She had been unable to enjoy his attentions because she had kept wondering if he had behaved the same way with Elspeth. What sweet, meaningless words had he whispered to her? What tone of voice did he use with her? Did he betray his cynicism or did Elspeth believe that he really wanted her? Had he really wanted her? Had he voluntarily made love to a woman who had treated him so inhumanely? Had he been so warped by his experiences that he might even have enjoyed it? Had Elspeth been attractive to him? Zosia grimaced at the thought, realized that she was as intrigued by the idea of seeing that woman as he was with seeing his child.

She stretched and accidentally knocked over a stack of files with her arm. She rose up on an elbow and looked at Peter as he lay with his eyes closed and with a satisfied smile. “Peter?”

“What?” he asked dreamily.

“Would you like to see your child?”

He opened his eyes to look at her. “Yes, you know I would. But how can I?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking. There’s some difficulty with Ryszard’s household help—he has a man and a woman, they’re a husband and wife team. They need to handle some personal problems. I guess the wife’s mother is dying, and they want about a month out of Berlin. We could go in as a temporary exchange, you
and me. Then we’d be in Berlin and maybe somehow we could arrange for you to see your kid.”

“I’d love that.” Peter’s voice brimmed with gratitude. He sat up and kissed her, hugged her, then contemplated her for a moment. “Zosiu, would you even consider doing this if it weren’t for the kid?”

“Heavens no! My brother can be a pain at the best of times. The last thing I’d want to do is spend a month under his thumb, but I know it’s important to you to see your daughter.”

“A daughter? It’s a girl?”

“Yes, I finally got a chance to look it up today. You have a little girl. Her name is Magdalena.”

“A little girl. A little girl.” He wrapped his arms around Zosia, kissed her warmly. “Thank you! Of course I want to go. Thank you! A little girl!”