The Informer (32 page)

F
rieda leaned against the wall of the burned-out kitchen. Felix had no pressure gauge, but Manfred had taught Felix to put his ear close to the copper pot and to listen to the sounds. If the mash made a roiling noise and a quick bubbling, not to mention a hissing from the screw, it meant the still was getting ready to blow. Felix put more wood under the fire, watched the flames splay out on the bottom of the cooker, listened to see how it was going, and then sat down next to Frieda. She leaned against him now and then, trying to get comfortable, and once she turned to look right at him. She rarely looked at anyone straight on, but now she did so, her pale and beautiful blue eyes set on him.

“Sometime you and I should take a walk,” said Felix.

“Where would we go?” said Frieda.

“Oh, we could go into the park,” said Felix.

“What would we do?” she said.

She looked at him again, her glance piercing and frank.

“Oh, we’d walk around,” he said.

“What would be the point of that?” she said.

“Getting away,” he said. “You know, out of here, away from things.”

She leaned against him.

“I’d like that,” she said.

“Sure, you would. Sure,” he said. “Why we’d pretend it was like before the war. Just walking along.”

“Would you like that?” she said.

“Oh,” he said. “It would be all right.”

“That would be nice,” she said.

“Maybe soon,” he said. “This week. After we sell this lot.”

“We could save a little for ourselves,” she said.

“I won’t need anything like that,” he said.

The light from the window became more dim and a little blue. The fire under the cooker burned all the brighter as the light failed, and when Felix stood up to look out the window, his shadow fell across the wall. He stood still, hands on the sill, and looked out the window.

At first he thought that there was something wrong with his eyes. From time to time he saw little speckles of light, which, if they hadn’t made him uncertain as to what was happening, would have been almost beautiful: little flecks like the glowing bits that came off a sparkler. But, this was different: the entire northern sky, beyond the broken-tooth horizon, seemed to be moving, and not only in motion, but it advanced with a silver and blue throbbing, like a silver curtain that was blowing in the wind. Felix closed his eyes. A slight, distant buzz came across the rubble.

The wall approached. The silver part of it looked like someone was tossing bits of a broken mirror into the air. Felix realized, when the first of the insects landed near him, that the blue came from the mass of dragonflies that made the wall, the conglomeration of them forming one swarming mass. The insects were blue with silver wings.

Felix squinted. Then he stood and put a hand to his eyes, like a man saluting the distance. Yes, he thought, bugs.

“My uncle said he’d seen a swarm like that,” said Frieda. “Before the war.”

The light dimmed and the wall came across the park. Frieda and Felix went outside while a chattering sound, which was a rush of transparent wings, like cellophane, swept up to the building. The insects were oddly delicate in Frieda’s hair, almost caressing. Just a bunch of bugs, he thought.

The insects moved south, and as the wall thinned out over the park, a woman with red hair and freckles, dressed in a gray coat, emerged from the mass of them. She was only visible as an outline, like a figure in the fog, but then the sun returned and she became visible as she came toward Felix and Frieda, although occasionally she looked back, over her shoulder, as though pursued.

What’s her trouble? thought Felix. As though I didn’t have enough to worry about.

Her reddish hair was a bright spot against the otherwise dull landscape
and the glittering wings. Here and there some dragonflies launched themselves again and darted one way and another. The woman walked with an upright, square-shouldered gait: she seemed to be straining, as though she had something heavy in her pocket. Even from a distance she seemed familiar. Her steady gait, so definite and yet suggesting something else, not anxiety, not worry, but desperation, left Felix thinking, Sure, sure. She needs a drink. A rummy. Why, what wouldn’t she do for a slug of something to keep the DTs away. That’s what makes her look that way. A good customer.

Armina walked the last distance through the glittering street, where a few of the dragonflies flitted around.

“What do you want?”

“Why,” said Armina, “I thought you’d know.”

“This batch isn’t ready,” said Frieda.

“Yeah,” said Felix. “You’ll have to wait. We’re cooking now. Isn’t that what you want? A little hair of the hound?”

“No,” she said.

“No?” he said. “Then why do you look sort of sick? I guess you’re one of those who’s ashamed.”

“You could say that,” said Armina.

“Well, you’ll have to wait. It’s going to be a good batch. Get a bottle and come back tomorrow.”

The mash had a breadlike, yeasty scent, which seeped into the air from the kitchen at the back of the building. Felix squinted at Armina, as though recalling the detail of a dream, then licked his lip, and reached for his lower leg, where he kept the ice pick, but then he stopped and stood up again.

“Well, well,” he said. “Look who’s here. Didn’t recognize you at first. It’s been a while.”

Armina nodded. Yes, it had been a while.

“So,” he said. “Where have you been?”

“America,” she said.

“No kidding,” he said. “America. So why come back?”

“You might be able to help me with that,” she said.

“A poor man like me?” he said. “What can I do? Look at my coat. Why, I’m lucky to be alive.”

About forty or fifty meters away, beyond a pile of rubble, men spoke to one another although the language was unclear. Not German, not English. Probably Russian. Still, even from here, the words were slurred and the men spoke in short argumentative exclamations. They sounded like hungry dogs barking at one another through a fence.

“Did you see those insects?” said Frieda.

“Yes,” said Armina. “I saw them.”

“Sort of sudden,” said Frieda.

“Yes,” she said. “They just arrive, out of the blue. And there they are.”

“Just a bunch of bugs,” said Felix. “Who cares?”

Three Russians emerged about thirty meters away, one pushing another, although even this was done with a fumbling ineptness. They couldn’t just shove one another out of a boozy anger, but instead they had to think about it, weaving back and forth like figures in a mirage. Then they started walking toward Felix, Frieda, and Armina. One pretended to take a long draft out of a bottle. What we need, he seemed to say, is another drink. He stumbled then kicked the brick that tripped him. Why even the stones in this godforsaken place were worthless.

“You’ve grown up,” said Armina to Felix. “Or at least you’ve gotten older.”

“See,” said Frieda. “She’s an old friend.”

He went on staring at Armina. She put her hand in her coat pocket and touched the pistol.

“Do you remember Gaelle? And working in the park?” said Armina.

“What’s she talking about?” said Frieda. “What’s that about the park. Aren’t we going to take a walk there?”

“Maybe,” said Felix.

“So,” said Armina. “You’re going for a walk?”

“Sure,” said Frieda. “Why not?”

“Why not?” said Armina.

Felix took a step to the side, moving from one foot to the other, and when he did he made a quarter moon–shaped mark in the dust. Armina looked down, and then at Felix.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Felix. “All of that was a long time ago. What difference does it make?”

“I want to go on a walk,” said Frieda.

“And there were others, too,” said Armina. “Weren’t there? We never talked about them, did we?”

“Go be a snob to someone else,” said Felix. “You’re just a snob.”

The Russians veered in one direction, as though bound by a rope, but then they corrected themselves, squinted at Armina, Felix, and Frieda, and took a more direct path. Two of them had a rifle slung over a shoulder.

“Russians,” said Frieda.

“Customers,” said Felix.

Frieda turned to Armina. “I think we should go.”

The cooker in the kitchen of the bombed-out row house made a steady hissing. At first, it was like gas escaping, a mild
ssssss
, but it seemed to get more intense.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Felix.

The hissing got louder.

“Go check it,” he said to Frieda.

“Why me?” she said. “Why don’t you go?”

An intense, watery hissing came from the still, and then a Bang! Coppery shrapnel flew in arcs out of the window, the edges of the metal as bright as a new penny. Armina turned, tripped over a stone, and dropped the pistol into the rubble. The smoke appeared like a gray pennant that curdled into a ball and rose along the side of the building.

Felix reached down and took the pistol and put it into the pocket of his coat.

“You were supposed to watch,” said Felix to Frieda. “What did I tell you? Watch. Listen.”

“I came out to look at the bugs,” said Frieda. Felix turned back to Armina.

“I haven’t got time for you,” said Felix. “I’ve got things on my mind.”

Felix and Frieda went to the side of the building. The kitchen was covered with the mash, and the still was gone: just bits and pieces of copper, none bigger than a hand. In the middle of the fire sat one jagged piece of copper that had been the base of the entire thing.

The Russians stopped, as though the sound were a wall they had run into, and then they gesticulated to one another, throwing up their hands to
suggest the explosions, the copper shrapnel, as though retelling it could make sense of the fact that they weren’t going to get anything to drink here.

Frieda stepped backward, keeping her eyes on the Russians, and then as she turned she said to Armina, “You should go.”

“I’ve got something to do,” said Armina.

“No you don’t,” she said. “Believe me.”

“It won’t take long,” said Armina.

The Russians came along in the circuitous path of drunkeness, heading one way and then another, bumping into one another and then shoving the one who had done the bumping.

“There’s where you’re wrong,” said Frieda. “It can take a long time. A long time. You’re going to need help.”

“I’ve got something to do,” said Armina.

“You should listen,” Frieda said. “You won’t ever forget. That’s the worst part. At three in the morning you go through it again. I’m not waiting for that, and you shouldn’t either.”

Frieda’s thinness, her delicate way of walking, her long fingers and slender legs made her seem vulnerable as she went as quickly as she could, not running, but obviously wanting to. Her dusty hair and her worn, gray dress, and her odd sense of disorder helped her disappear into the rubble. It was as though she had been erased.

The skin around Felix’s nostrils was white, his breathing shallow and wet. His coat hung on his shoulders and made him look like a jacket hung on a frame made of sticks. He went into the building to look at his cooker.

The oldest of the Russians, a man of thirty or so, swayed back and forth. His eyes moved from Armina’s hair to her breasts, to her stomach, her legs, down to her shoes. One of the younger Russians sang a song, humming the words he didn’t know, but he looked Armina over, too, from her legs to her face. The oldest Russian took some potatoes out of his pocket, six altogether.

See, he seemed to say to Armina, these are for you. There are six potatoes. There are three of us. That’s two for each. See? He dropped one, and when one of the younger Russians tried to pick it up, he bumped heads with the oldest. The oldest Russian pushed the younger one out of the way
and picked up the potato. The other Russian, a young blond man, swayed back and forth as he stared at Armina.

“He has something,” said Armina to the oldest Russian. “I want to show you.”

The young blond man looked at Armina’s face. The oldest man offered the potatoes again, swaying as he did so. Then he reached into his pocket and took out another potato. Seven potatoes. He said something in Russian, and one of the younger men pulled his pockets inside out to show that that was all he had. That was his last, best offer. Three of them. Seven potatoes. He shoved the potatoes in Armina’s direction. See? You better take it. There are other ways of doing business. The older one swayed again.

“A pistol,” she said.

She made a gun out of one hand, pulled back her thumb like a hammer, and shot it. She said, Bang! Then she did it again.

“Where?” said the man with the potatoes. He put them into his pocket, dropping one and picking it up, almost falling. Then he stood up and blinked.

Armina pointed to the apartment where the smoke rose from the window. She made the pistol out of her hand again. Felix came out from the building.

“Him,” she said.

The youngest Russian, the blond boy with white skin, made a quick movement and grabbed Felix by the arm. Then he reached into Felix’s pocket and took out the pistol: it had some nicks on the wooden grip and some of the bluing had gone from the barrel, although Armina had kept it oiled, and the metal underneath had a silver glint.

“You,” the oldest Russian said to Felix. “Come.”

“Don’t you want to buy some booze?” said Felix.

“No,” said the older. “Later. We’ll find someone else. Come.”

They dragged him through the rubble to an open place in front of a brick wall.

“Hey,” Felix said. “Hey.”

The two younger Russians stood back a couple of feet. The older one held Felix by the arm.

“Hey,” said Felix. “It’s not mine. It’s hers. It’s not mine.”

“You had it,” said the old Russian, who stood next to him. “That’s it. Kaput. Bang.”

“Yes,” Felix said. “But there’s more to it—”

“No there isn’t,” said the older Russian.

“Put him over there,” said the older Russian. He gestured to the wall. “Make him stand.”

“They don’t always want to,” said the younger one.

“It doesn’t matter. He can stand or not,” said the older one. “I don’t give a shit.”