“Here,” she said, handing him the shoes. “Let me get my bag.”
He stood there, shoes dangling from his fingers, and watched her weave over to the table and struggle with a strap that kept missing her shoulder as she tried to fling it in place. Finally he went over and took the bag from her, sliding it onto his own shoulder.
“Well, aren’t vou nice? Stupid thing.”
“Come on, you could use some air. What have you got in here?”
She giggled. “Oh, I forgot. You. I’ve got you in there. Wait a minute,” she said, stopping him and fumbling with the zipper. “Fresh out of the darkroom. Well, fresh. I’ve been carrying these around for days.” She pulled out some glossies and shuffled to find the right one. “Here we are. Our man in Berlin. Not bad, considering.”
He looked at himself stepping into the right half of the picture, leaving the Document Center behind. Thinning over the temples, a surprised expression. “I’ve looked better,” he said. The same feeling he’d had seeing his reflection in KaDeWe’s window-someone else, no longer the young man in his passport photo.
“That’s what you think.”
Off to the left Joe stood posing, as tall and blond as a poster Aryan. One of the tech boys, according to Brian. Breimer’s friend. Jake dropped the picture on the pile, then stopped and pulled it back, looking again.
“Hey, Liz,” he said, staring at it, “what’s Joe’s last name again?”
“Shaeffer. Why?”
A German name.
He shook his head. “Nothing, maybe. Can I keep this?”
“Sure,” she said, pleased. “I’ve got a million more where that came from.”
Blond, like a German, Frau Dzuris had said. The right fit. But was it? In the picture, another camera trick, he and Jake were standing on the steps as if they’d been together all along. Nothing was what it seemed.
He glanced at his watch. Frau Dzuris would be getting ready for bed, disturbed by a knock on the door. But not asleep yet. He grabbed Liz’s arm and began tugging her across the floor.
“Where’s the fire?”
“Let’s go. I have to see somebody.”
“Oh,” she said, an exaggerated drawl. She reached over and took her shoes. “Not this time. Let her wear her own.”
Jake ignored her, hurrying them to the jeep.
“You know, it’s none of my business-” she began as she got in.
“Then don’t say it.”
“Touchy,” she said, but let it go, leaning back in her seat as they started down the road. “You know what you are? You’re a romantic.”
“Not the last time I looked.”
“You are, though,” she said, nodding her head, having a conversation with herself.
“What’s Joe doing in Berlin?” Jake said.
But the drink had taken her elsewhere. She laughed. “You’re right. He’s not. Anyway, what do you care?” She turned to him. “It’s not serious, you know. With him. He’s just-around.”
“Doing what?”
She waved her hand. “He’s just around.”
She put her head back against the seat, cushioning it, as if it were too much trouble to hold it upright on the bumpy road. For a second Jake wondered if she was going to pass out, but she said idly, “I’m glad you like the picture. It’s a fast shutter. Zeiss. No blurs.”
The blur instead seemed to be in her speech. They had circled the old Luftwaffe building and were heading into Gelferstrasse, almost there. In front of the billet, he idled the motor and reached for the shoulder bag.
“Can you manage?” he said, fitting the strap in place.
“Still in a hurry, huh? I thought you lived here.”
“Not tonight.”
“Okay, Jackson,” she said softly. “I’ll take a hike.” And then, surprising him, she leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, a full kiss.
“What was that for?” Jake said when she broke away.
“I wanted to see what it was like.”
“You’ve had too much to drink.”
“Yeah, well,” she said, embarrassed, gathering her bag and getting out. “My timing isn’t the best, either.” She turned to the jeep. “Funny how that works. It might have been nice, though, don’t you think?”
“It might have been.”
“A gentleman,” she said, hitching up the bag. “I’ll bet you’re the type who’ll pretend to forget about it in the morning, too.”
But in fact it stayed with him all the way to Wilmersdorf, the unexpected mystery of people, who they really were. He’d been right about Frau Dzuris, ready for bed and clutching her wrapper, frightened by the knock. And he’d been right about the picture. “Yes, you see, like a German,” Frau Dzuris said. “That’s the one. You know him? He’s a friend?” But in the dim light of the doorway, his eyes never went to the photo, caught instead by the empty space on the cloth over her left breast, where a pin once would have been.
The next day it was Liz who didn’t remember. She was on her way to Potsdam with one of Ron’s tour groups, thinned out by hangovers, and seemed surprised that he mentioned Joe at all.
“What do you want to see him for?”
“He has some information for me.”
“Uh-huh. What kind of information?”
“Missing persons.”
“You going to tell me what you’re talking about?”
“You going to tell me where he is?”
She shrugged, giving up. “He’s meeting me, as a matter of fact. In Potsdam.”
“Why Potsdam?”
“He’s getting me a camera.”
