He folded his pants and put them on a hanger and started unbuttoning his shirt, staring down at the pile of laundry on the closet floor. He’d have to go to the Chinese tomorrow. When it hit him, he held on to the open front of his shirt, literally dizzy.
The shirt. His father hadn’t been able to help himself then; Nick had helped him. It was something only they knew, that Nick had tried to help. In his child’s mind, he had even been willing to break the law, anything. He was asking for help. That was the code.
Nick stood for a minute, arguing with himself, but he knew beyond reason that he was right. There had never been any point in making the message cryptic-why not just ‘Come see me’? “He’ll know.” And he did know. I need your help again. Don’t tell anybody. Between us, like before. It couldn’t mean anything else. His father might have used a hundred references from Nick’s childhood, but he used the shirt, their secret. Molly could have thought it was an old family joke, nothing more. Was that what his life was like now, so cautious he didn’t even trust his own messenger?
But he trusted Nick. Nobody else had ever tried to help him. And now there was another shirt.
Nick walked over to the desk, pulled by strings that stretched so far back he was afraid mere movement would make them snap. What if he were wrong, standing there in his socks and underwear in the middle of the night, reading things into an innocuous hello? Or maybe just telling himself a story that would make him do what he wanted to do anyway. What if?
He picked up the phone and started to dial, surprised at the clunking sound in the quiet room. Flaxman nine. A Fulham number. Maybe he was still stoned. But he had never felt more alert in his life.
“Hullo?” The phone was picked up on the first ring, as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear.
“It’s Nick.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
Why hadn’t he waited until morning? But it had already been a month. “I know. I’m sorry. It couldn’t wait.”
“What?”
“I’ve changed my mind. You still willing to make the trip?”
“Maybe we’d better talk about this in the morning.”
“Are you?”
She paused. “What made you change your mind?”
“It doesn’t matter. You were right. I have to go. Can you leave right away? Tomorrow?”
“Are you crazy? We have to get visas. It takes a few days. You can’t just walk-”
“Okay, where do we go for the visas?”
“Czech consulate,” she said, suddenly practical. “It’s in Notting Hill Gate.”
“Will you meet me there? First thing in the morning?”
“Try noon. They don’t open till late. And you just have to wait in line anyway. But go early if you want.”
“No. We have to go together. You’re my fiancee, remember?”
She laughed. “Do I get a ring?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I was kidding, for God’s sake. Are you all right?”
“Okay, noon. Where in Notting Hill?”
“Meet me at the tube stop. It’s about a block. Nick?”
“What?”
“Are you sure? I mean, you seemed so — I have his phone number, you know. I can just give it to you, if you want.”
“No. The way he says. You’ll be the contact.”
There was a silence. “I thought you didn’t want to see him.”
“Now I do.”
In the morning he saw Larry’s lawyer, who droned on for half an hour about financial responsibility before he finally let Nick sign the papers.
“When can I draw on this?”
“This week, if you like. I’ll arrange a wire transfer. Are you planning to buy something?”
“A car.”
The lawyer smiled. “That’s usually the first thing, isn’t it? I’ve seen it time and again. A young man will have his car.”
At Cook’s, overflowing with brochures, they were happy to arrange anything, the whole world for a price. Bratislava was only fifty kilometers from Vienna, a tram ride in the old days. There was a Danube cruise, highly recommended, though of course it was early in the season. Prague was a bargain, since tourists were still a bit skittish about the Russians, but Budapest might surprise him. They had several groups going to Budapest.
By the time Nick got to Notting Hill Gate, he had a plan and the beginnings of an itinerary. He found Molly waiting on the street, looking at a Czech phrasebook, and she had changed herself again-plaid skirt, knee socks, sweater, and hair pulled back into a pony tail, a conventional American girl. Passport officials would know the type in a second.
“I thought I’d better start boning up,” she said, holding out the book.
“Perfect,” Nick said, implying that it was a prop.
“No, we’ll need it. Unless you speak German. They hate it, but they speak it.”
“Come on, let’s go. We need to hit the Hungarian consulate later.”
“We’re going to Hungary?”
“Vienna and Budapest. The old empire. I thought it would be better if Prague was a side trip. You know, as long as we’re in Vienna, so close, you couldn’t resist showing it to me. In case anyone checks.”
“When did you think all this up?”
“Last night. It has to be casual-a quick look-see and we’re on our way, before anyone notices. With an itinerary to prove it.”
“Why should we have to prove it?”
