The Nuclear Age (37 page)

“No kidding?”

“Day after tomorrow. You’re out of work.”

The kid smiled and handed me a room key.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “And don’t forget, shower before you use the pool. New house rule.”

We spent Sunday in the water. It was our last full day together, the Committee, and there was lots of talk about where everyone was headed. After all the nonsense, it boiled down to the predictable. Tina and Ollie were returning to Key West, where
they would soon be very well-heeled revolutionaries. Ned Rafferty talked about buying himself a piece of property somewhere, maybe horses, maybe cattle, he couldn’t decide. He glanced at Sarah, who kept quiet. At times sadness intervened, but we fought it off—much splashing and dunking. It was a heated outdoor pool, big and comfortable, and we made the most of it, floating side by side, holding hands, turning sentimental in the way smart people do, hipping it, finally coming straight out and saying how much we loved one another and how it wasn’t the money that made it good, it was something else, the time together, all the ups and downs, and how we felt older and sadder, and how we hadn’t done much to change the world but how the world had changed us, and how the whole thing was like camp. We hated ending it. Ollie said he’d heard tell of rich lodes up in British Columbia. Ned said he’d heard the same stories. We’ll do it again, we said, but bashfully, with the sophistication of senior citizens who know better. Tina cried. Everybody hugged and kissed. “Maybe we should pray?” Ollie said. Nobody wanted to pray, but we knew what he meant.

In the morning, after some delays, we opened up substantial bank accounts at First National.

“We’re even now,” I told Sarah.

She nodded soberly.

“Even,” I said. “No debts either way.”

Ned Rafferty drove us out to the airport.

“British Columbia,” somebody said, and we all said, “Can’t wait, same time next year,” but not one of us was feeling wealthy.

In the terminal there was more hugging.

Ollie went first. He shouldered his duffel—a waddling, funny-looking guy in his cowboy hat and fancy boots. After a moment, Tina pecked my cheek and tagged along after him.

They boarded a Frontier Airlines flight for Denver.

Ned and Sarah and I waved at the windows, then Rafferty said, “Where to? Portland? Samoa?”

I said I was headed the opposite way. So did Sarah. Rafferty gave us a lift back into town, but this time there was little emotion.

“My problem,” Rafferty said, “is I can’t cry.”

We shook hands and then it was down to Sarah and me.

“There’s risk in this,” I told her.

“Accepted.”

“Thing is, I do love her.”

“You did,” Sarah said. “Perhaps.”

“So.”

“So let’s find out,” she said. “The uranium, that was a gamble, too”

Wrong, but I nodded. The uranium had to be there. That was science, this was something else.

“Ready?”

We were on the corner of Elm and Moore. Across the street was a parked tractor, and beyond that was the capitol dome, and far off were those mountains we’d plundered.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” I said.

Sarah slipped her hand into my back pocket, took out my wallet, and put it in her purse for safekeeping.

“Let’s at least keep the risks to a minimum,” she said. “How do we get to Bonn?”

First, though, I bought myself a motel. The night clerk took it pretty well. So well, in fact, he almost ruined the pleasure; it was a relief when he got a bit testy near the end.

A night later we were over the Atlantic.

“So let’s have the data,” Sarah said.

“Bobbi Haymore. Married a guy named Scholheimer. Bobbi Scholheimer.”

“Bobbi?”

“She can’t help it.”

“I suppose not.” Sarah levered back her seat.

“She
can’t
.”

“I know that. Unfortunate, though. I’m sure she’s a doll.”

“You want to hear it?”

“Everything.”

We were alone in first class. Two of the flight attendants were
already sleeping, and the third had gone back to help in coach. The jet seemed to fly itself.

“Well,” I said, “it was like getting shot by a stun gun. Just happened. The smile, maybe, I don’t know. Something clicked—the passion thing. There it was. When I saw her the first time, it was like I’d known her all my life, or before I was born. One look, you know? I’m sorry.” Sarah listened with her eyes closed. I could see movement beneath the lids, darting motions; I knew it was hurting but I had to get it said. I described the night flight and the bad dreams and the martinis and poems and hand-holding. “Couldn’t forget her,” I said. “All in my head, I guess. I’d keep seeing her face, hearing that voice, and sometimes—I
am
sorry—but sometimes I’d make up these stories about how we’d run away together. Pictures. Little glimpses.”

Sarah laughed. “And me?”

“You were there, too.”

“Steady Sarah. Go on, you’re breaking my heart.”

The jet made a slight adjustment to starboard.

I told her about the airport stakeouts—just a game at first, but then a desperate game, something to live for and hope for—an obsession, I admitted—and then I talked about the chain of events, how the trail led to Manhattan, then the phone calls and the navigator and finally Scholheimer.

“Hot pursuit,” Sarah murmured.

“I guess so.”

“And then?”

I shrugged. “And then nothing. Called her up. Told her—you know—told her I loved her. Big confession. Big hopes. All those stories and pretty pictures … Anyway, she was nice about it. A couple of times I thought, God, it’ll
work
, I could hear this—I don’t know—this
willingness
in her voice. So after a while I asked if we could have dinner or something, or run off to Hudson Bay, and then she laughed, but it was a nice laugh, like wistful, and she told me, No, she couldn’t, because she was going to Bonn, and there was this married guy she was going with. ‘The guy’s married to me,’ she said. Just like that. But sort of sad, too. ‘The guy’s married
to
me
.’ That’s all I remember. Except I wanted to ask about that grass she gave me. Grass—what’s the grass mean? This time I’m asking.”

“She sounds swell,” Sarah said.

“Yes, but I love her.”

Sarah was quiet. She covered herself with a blanket and watched the flashing green light at the edge of a wing.

“Grass,” she finally said, and sighed. “If I’d only known it was so easy. Grass galore. Poems, too. Would’ve pinned them to your ears. ‘What is love? ’tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter.’ That turn you on, William?”

“Let’s just wait. See what transpires.”

“I’ll eat her alive,” said Sarah.

In Paris, the choice was either a train that afternoon or a plane the next morning, so we took the train. Sarah said it was best to keep up the momentum. She didn’t want things fizzling out in some quaint hotel room. For the first hour or so we sat up watching the suburbs and grapes go by, then Sarah began making up the berth.

“It isn’t just that I love you,” she said. “I mean, we’ve committed
crime
together. Doesn’t that count for anything? Aren’t we thick as thieves, you and I?” She pulled the shades and undressed and got into bed. There was a red bow in her hair, a cigarette in her mouth. She looked lean and unladylike and smart. “William,” she said slowly, “the girl won’t even recognize you. Things have changed. You’ve changed. The uranium, for God’s sake. What’s she to make of it? One look, she’ll see you’ve lost that crazy edge of yours. Mr. Normal. Ban the bomb to boom the bomb. Denim to sharkskin, plowshares to swords. How does dear Bobbi-cakes cope with all that?”

“I’ll explain.”

Sarah sniffed and kissed her kneecaps. “Rancher Roe?” she said. “You’ll explain how we conned that poor old fairy? Take a
look
at yourself. Not a moral fiber to be found.”

“I’m sweet, though.”

“Nixon was sweet. Oppenheimer was sweeter. Einstein—
sweetest old geezer who ever lived.”

“Yes, but Einstein warned us.”

“That’s how sweet he was! Invents the end of the world, then sounds the alarm. Isn’t that how relativity works? Szilard was a sweetie, Fermi was a pussycat. Just like you and me, William. We’re all such charmers.”

“If you’re feeling guilty—”

“Guilt?” she said. “Forget it, man. Guilt went out with culottes. It’s a new world.”

Sarah crushed out her cigarette and winced and stroked a thick red blister at her lip. It was a blemish that had been recurring for years now, but here, in the flickering light, it seemed to have its own organic mandate. I wanted to reach out and brush it away.

“Face it,” she said, “we’re
established
. Donated our scruples to the highest bidder. Buckled, snapped, sold out. Sweet Bobbi will see the change.”

“Enough,” I said.

“Am I a nag?”

“A little.” I watched her massage the blister. It was the color of her nipples, almost exactly, and it did the same thing for me. I locked the door and took off my clothes and squeezed in beside her.

“You love her, William? Really?”

“Pretty much.”

“Maybe we should take separate compartments.”

“If you say so.”

“But maybe not,” she said. “In a case like this, proximity’s important.”

“Fine,” I said.

We made Bonn late the next morning. Sarah wanted to get right down to business—no last-minute waffling, she said—but I needed a day for reconnaissance and planning. No mistakes. Ten years and more I’d been dreaming about this, how one day I’d pack my bags and take off after her, chase her to the ends of the earth, do it right this time, show her what a brave and sane
and exciting man I am, make her beg for me, buy her furs and jewels, the things of the world-as-it-is, real things, show her how life is meant to be lived, show her what she’d missed. I was done with half-assed fantasies. I was a pragmatist. Let the world stew in its own bloody juices, it didn’t mean a damn next to Bobbi.

“You want it too bad,” Sarah said. “You can’t win.”

I told her to wait and see.

We found a room near the government district, unpacked, then went out for lunch and a walk. It was the burning end of August. There were giant shade trees along the Rhine, and bridges and boulevards; there was a sidewalk café where we ate sausages on brown bread and drank beer. We were beginning to feel rich. We rode the riverboats, bought cameras, bought clothes, dined elegantly at a high rooftop restaurant. Sarah looked great. She looked tan and aristocratic, silver earrings and a Cyd Charisse dress that was made to dance in, so we danced slow to jazzy music, then we rented a hansom that took us clomping through the wee-hour streets.

“A question,” I said. “Put yourself in Bobbi’s shoes. A night like this—will it win her over?”

Sarah snuggled close. She had a shawl around her shoulders. Her shoes were off.

“Depends on the vibes,” she said.

“How are they?”

“Ho-hum, sort of. This is Europe, man, you have to wear your wealth more freely. Take it more for granted.”

“What about the basics?”

“Passion,” she said. She showed me a brown leg. “Otherwise it gets soupy and she starts thinking of you as something sweet. Like Fermi and Einstein. Take some chances. Get violent.”

“Like so?”

“Harder. We’re talking
violence
.”

The hansom circled through a park. I practiced violence for a time, then got sleepy, and Sarah ended up paying the driver and seeing me to the room.

In bed, she cried.

“This lip of mine,” she said. “I’m not hideous, am I? I mean, I’m still kissable?”

“Absolutely.”

We kissed cautiously. Afterward, with the lights out, Sarah slipped a pillowcase over her head and came in close for warmth.

“Idiot,” she said, “I love you.”

In the morning I began making calls. There wasn’t much to go on—a few vague possibilities. All I remembered, really, was that her husband had taken a position as a visiting lecturer in prosody at Bonn University; Bobbi had planned to teach English to the children of embassy officials.

But all that was nearly a decade in the past.

“A cold trail,” Sarah told me.

She lay in bed as I made the calls; after each strikeout she kissed me and said it wasn’t meant to be. I tried the university, the American Embassy, and the central APO mailroom in Bad Godesberg. No one knew anything. In part, it was a problem in detection, teasing out clues, but there were also the complications of language and uncertainty and Sarah.

“It’s an omen,” she said. She was at the foot of the bed, legs wrapped around a phone book. “Tell you what. Let’s get married.”

“Not that simple.”

“It
is
simple. Get hitched in Istanbul. Honeymoon in Venice and then settle down in some nifty castle on the river Rhone.”

“Nice thought,” I said, and frowned at her. “Maybe I should try American Express.”

Sarah put her head in my lap while I dialed.

“Man and wife,” she said lightly, not quite teasing. “We’ll do it right. Have portraits done. Those rich, dark oil jobbies that age so nicely. Hang them in your hunting den. You’ll call me Lady, I’ll call you Sir William. Dine each evening at eight sharp. Very proper, you know. I’ll run charity balls and you can chase foxes with your friends. Late at night we’ll talk pornography. We can
do
it.”

American Express had never heard of Bobbi Scholheimer.

“William, for God’s sake, don’t you
love
me?”

We had breakfast in bed, then I tried several hotels and pensions, then the German-American Club, then each of the banks. I was getting desperate. Somehow, for all the wasted years, I’d always thought that when the time came it would be easy. Ring her up and plead my case and start making children. I’d run through the image a million times.

“Hey, look here,” Sarah said. She went up into a handstand at the foot of the bed. “Command performance. How does Bobbi match up?”

“Stop it.”

“I’ll bet she can barely stand on her
feet
.”

“Sarah—”

“Balance, man.”

She curled her toes toward the ceiling, the muscles at her hips correcting for the wobble in the bedsprings.