A Matter of Honor

Chapter Twenty-five

It was called Teufel’s Atelier, a restaurant-disco on a narrow street leading off one of Heidelberg’s old stone bridges. From a revolving bandstand a group in silver tuxedos played soft rock music. Blue and green lights flashing out over the dance floor gave an incongruous modern effect to the otherwise burgherish atmosphere of Germans dining seriously in red leather banquettes. A group of candle-lit tables for two encircled the dance floor.

At the mahogany bar at one side of the room, there was another clash of styles; a plump bartender wore leather breeches, a green vest and a yodeler’s hat while the other, a young man with thick blond curls, was outfitted in tight black jeans and a spangled white shirt open to the navel, showing a hairy chest and a glitter of neck ornaments.

Lasari sat with Greta and Sergeant Strasser in one of the banquettes. The German girl wore a white cashmere sweater with a pink scarf and a short white corduroy skirt. Her blonde hair was brushed back from her face and fell smoothly to her shoulders from a ridge of amber combs. A waiter had been standing on one foot and then the other while she frowned and studied the long menu. A bottle of white wine stood next to her goblet. Lasari was drinking beer, the sergeant a citrus soda with Dutch gin.

“Everything they have here is so German,” Greta said, tapping the rim of her wine glass. The waiter filled it for the second time.

“We have hamburger with frites,” he said, “and shrimps in dill sauce, fraulein.”

“That’s what I mean,” Greta said. “The hamburger will have gravy on it and the shrimps are boiled in beer.” She faked a delicate shudder and then said in a singsong voice, “I don’t want dumplings or oxtails or sauerbraten, or any kind of apple Kuchen or whipped cream or suppen mit ei...”

“Goddamn it,” Strasser said, “then don’t order anything. Just drink the wine and have some bread and butter. We’re in Heidelberg, Greta, der Faterland.”

He had been drinking double gins and his voice was sarcastic. “Do you hear me, dummkopf? Heidelberg! You think that’s Yonkers or East Lansing? This joint’s called Teufel’s Atelier, heinie talk for Devil’s Workshop. You think that’s a fucking pizza joint in the Vatican run by cardinals? No offense, Jackson, but we go through this every time we go out. She’s pure Deutscher but I’m gonna die of hunger some night while she’s wondering why she can’t get chop suey or chile rellenos.”

Strasser put both hands over his heart. “Give us a break, Greta.”

Greta decided on an omelette with truffles and the sergeant ordered steak tartare with rolled anchovies and rye toast for himself and Lasari, then waved a hand for more drinks all around.

A half hour later they were joined at the banquette by two men in dark suits who nodded briefly at Greta and then bowed formally when they were introduced by Strasser to “Private George Jackson” as Pytor Vayetch and Herr Manfred Rauch.

Pytor Vayetch turned to Strasser with a fixed smile and said, “No one should sit eating while there is music and a pretty girl. Go on, enjoy yourselves.”

Greta hesitated and then said uncertainly, “Ah, yes. We can leave the dessert cart for later. It is exciting to have something to look forward to...”

Vayetch looked expectantly at Strasser, but Rauch, a tall, broad man with sallow features and gaunt cheeks, looked solemnly down at his hands. Lasari knew an order had been given and there was an unmistakable weight behind it. Strasser slid out of the red leather booth, took Greta by the arm and led her to the noisy dance floor.

The two men seated themselves opposite Lasari, Herr Rauch taking the inside seat next to the wall. Vayetch gestured to the waiter to clear the table, then asked for a bottle of Scotch and iced Perrier. Rauch picked up a clean napkin, shook out the folds and tucked a corner into his vest.

Neither man spoke. Vayetch took his time about tapping a cigarette on the back of his thumbnail, then lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter. He was a large man with a round-shouldered plumpness that made him look small next to his rangy, angular companion. His face was smooth and hairless, lightly tanned, so unblemished as to seem poreless, like smooth doeskin across his face. He was perhaps thirty-five with dark eyes and carefully combed dark hair, touched with gray above the ears. His mouth was full, almost sensuous, but Lasari was aware of the tic at the corner of his lip, a quiver that had come alive when Greta was hesitant about leaving for the dance floor.

The men were obviously well known at the Atelier; with the liquor order the waiter brought Rauch an appetizer of chopped pickled herring with onion rings and a bottle of red wine. Rauch began to eat immediately, while Vayetch studied Lasari with his flickering smile, then poured himself a whiskey and Perrier, stirring the cubes with a manicured finger.

“Are you enjoying Heidelberg, Mr. Jackson?”

Lasari nodded. “What I’ve seen of it is very interesting.”

“You like the town clock?” the man asked. “Those droll little figures who come out with sledgehammers and pound the drums to tell the hour?”

“No,” Lasari said. “I don’t like droll little figures. I like a Timex.”

“Ah, you think German culture is too florid, too ornamental?”

“I haven’t thought of it one way or the other,” Lasari said. “That’s not the purpose of my trip.”

“I see. You are practical, that is good,” Vayetch said evenly. “Let me explain something practical then. In about three weeks you will be receiving certain merchandise, delivered to you near the Czech border. Now, in terms of ownership, that particular merchandise will be existing in a state of limbo. You are a Catholic, Mr. Jackson?”

“No, but I understand the term.”

“Very well. Limbo is like purgatory, neither heaven nor hell, an in-between, a waiting. The occupants of limbo belong neither to God nor to the devil.

“Until it leaves limbo, money for that merchandise will not be paid to us. In fact, it will not be paid until you have delivered the goods to heaven, the United States in this case...”

The waiter was hovering and Vayetch fell silent until the man whisked some imaginary crumbs from the tablecloth. Then he said, “Have you ever attended the celebration of Fasching here in Germany, Mr. Jackson?” Lasari shook his head.

“It’s like a pagan explosion. I am trying to pick experiences we can both relate to... beer foaming in the gutters, virgins throwing themselves at young men, it’s carnival, it’s fiesta, just before Lent, before the devil presents his bill for the year’s sins.

“But the riot of Fasching is nothing compared to the organized chaos in this country when the NATO games are here, troops from Greece and Turkey and France and others including your country swarming the towns and countryside of Germany during combined military maneuvers.”

Vayetch shook his head as if he could not quite believe the vision he was creating for Lasari. “It is like the Tower of Babel, but with military orders. Everyone is in command and nobody knows what the other is doing. It is the perfect climate for us to do business, new faces, new languages, movement and displacement, all official, but here today, gone tomorrow.

“But you must be very resolute while you hold our merchandise in limbo. We all have our jobs to do and Herr Rauch will make sure you have no trouble sticking to yours. If you are tempted to disregard instructions, you can depend on him for support to resist that notion, I assure you. You may not see him, but he will be nearby.”

The waiter came forward to remove Herr Rauch’s herring course and replaced it with a double steak on a wooden platter, surrounded by roast potato balls and minced parsnips.

“You have no comments, Mr. Jackson?”

Lasari shook his head and shrugged. “I’m a good listener,” he said.

Vayetch nodded with an approving smile. “I can see that. And you have direct and revealing eyes. You are allowing me to see your doubts, your caution, your distrust. But what I had hoped to see was greed.”

Herr Rauch looked up and laughed suddenly, and a bit of steak caught in his throat. He hunched his shoulders and coughed, took several swallows of wine in a fast, sucking motion, then returned to his food.

“Eyes, yes... you have made me think of something that has often puzzled me,” Vayetch said. “That custom of tying a scarf over a man’s eyes as he meets the firing squad. What is the purpose? How do you know you are punishing a man if you cannot read the fear in his eyes?”

“The blindfold, the last cigarette, that’s to give the condemned man a moment of dignity,” Lasari said.

“No, no, it shouldn’t be that way,” Vayetch said with sudden agitation. “The dignity is in the hand that holds the gun, make no mistake about that, my friend.”

Vayetch sipped his Scotch, allowing a calm to return to his face. “I know some interesting things about you, Jackson,” he said. “As a youth, you played baseball, you were wounded in Vietnam, but you were a good soldier. You deserted your army and decided to return. That was a mistake. You hesitated, you became a philosopher and now you are in big, big trouble. Fate casts you on our side.” He looked thoughtful. “So full a life for a young man.”

Greta and Strasser returned to the table then. The sergeant’s forehead was blistered with sweat but before he could sit down, Vayetch waved him off. “No, no, go back and enjoy yourself, sergeant. We are just getting to know each other here.”

When the couple left, Lasari said flatly, “Unless you ask the right questions, I can’t tell you what you want to know.”

“Answer me this then. We are sports fanatics here in Europe, you know. We watch Wimbledon, the soccer matches from Argentina, the Stanley Cup finals. We get your World Series by satellite. It took me a long time to understand the philosophy of the ‘base on balls,’ I’m still not sure I do. The defensive team can refuse to pitch to a strong batter. That would be unthinkable in cricket. Or in a contest of boxers, if one side would refuse to come out for a round because the opponent was stronger. Where is the fairness of that?”

“A walk puts a runner on base for free,” Lasari said, trying to interpret the opaque face of the man opposite him. Herr Rauch continued to eat steadily, slicing the steak into neat squares, chewing carefully and washing each mouthful down with a gulp of wine.

“A freebie, that’s the price the pitcher pays for giving a base on balls,” Lasari said. “After that, a runner can steal, advance on a passed ball or a hit, then a single could score him. The defensive team gives up the opportunity of striking out a hot batter, but they must also take the chance he’ll score anyway.”

“You deserted the army in the United States from a hospital,” Vayetch said, “not in the field, not in the face of the enemy. That would be something else altogether.” Lasari nodded. “And in baseball,” Vayetch went on, “were you a good hitter? Did you have — how do you say — great strength at the plate?”

“I had a good glove, I was better in the field,” Lasari said carefully.

Vayetch shook his head. “I do not understand. You were afraid of big league pitching? You were afraid of being struck by a ball? Is that why you were not strong at the plate?”

“You got it wrong, Mr. Vayetch,” Lasari said. “It was the opposite. I disregarded caution, I crowded the plate. I made myself a target.”

Vayetch nodded, a sudden look of excitement in his face. “I enjoy my holidays in Spain often and I’ve learned something of the bullfight. Some toreros work close to the horns out of courage, others out of fear. But you were not afraid of being hit by the baseball, you are saying?”

“Of course I was afraid of being hit, but I didn’t expect it,” Lasari said. “I didn’t wait for it... that’s the difference.”

Vayetch smiled sympathetically. “Everyone is afraid of certain things, Jackson. Herr Rauch here could break me in two like a stalk of celery, but I’m not afraid of that, because I trust him. But I am afraid of misjudging you. A great deal depends on my estimate.”

Then he laughed, as if dismissing the subject. “You may consider all this torero talk as so much bullshit, if you’ll forgive a pun. We are in Heidelberg, not Valencia, after all. We have our reality.

“You’ll be training dogs Sergeant Strasser tells me,” Pytor Vayetch said. “Are you good at that, is there some quality of personality that allows you to gain their fear or confidence?”

“A dog is a dumb animal with keen instincts,” Lasari said. “A raw canine recruit from the kennels will be trying to figure out what a trainer wants from him. If you can make a dog understand your wishes — and you can do that by your voice, by repetition, by using simple commands and a choke chain — if you can do all that, he’ll try like hell to do what you tell him, what you show him you want. Never mix work and play in training sessions. Work an animal only as long as his patience and attention hold, then reward him with food, a pat on the head, tell him he’s doing great, and you’ll get results. And don’t forget the choke chain. A smart dog understands getting his wind cut off once in a while...”

Vayetch nodded thoughtfully. “Everybody’s in limbo, it seems. The batter at the plate, the bullfighter, the dog on the leash, caught between a heaven and hell they’re hardly aware of.”

The waiter removed the steak platter and set a bowl of blueberries and cream in front of Herr Rauch.

Lasari sipped his beer and looked toward the dance floor where he could see Strasser and Greta, her shiny blonde head bobbing up and down among the dancers.

“This is a hypothetical question, so perhaps you can give me only a hypothetical answer, but try to be honest. Would you have deserted in a combat situation in Vietnam?” Vayetch said.

“No,” Lasari said. “No, I would not.”

“Always you would crowd the plate, work close to the horns, right?”

“I walked out of a hospital in the States, but I wouldn’t walk away from a platoon in a firefight.”

“You’re certain of that?”

“Mr. Vayetch,” Lasari said, “if you’re interviewing me for a job, why don’t you come out and ask me what the hell you really want to know. Will I run out on you or not? Will I try to fuck up your deal or not? That’s what you’re trying to find out, isn’t it?”

“That is my concern,” the man said, and signaled for the check.

“You spelled it out earlier, Mr. Vayetch,” Lasari said. “I’m in big, big trouble, and that’s why I’m here. So think of me as a dog you’re training. Keep your commands clear and easy. I don’t want to guess, I don’t want to think. I’ll do what I’m told, but if I were you I’d keep a choke chain handy. Either you know how to use me or you don’t. It’s all really up to you.”

“It’s not that simple,” the man said. “The decision is not completely mine.” He opened his wallet, counted out a stack of deutsche marks and put them on top of the check.

Herr Rauch had finished his blueberries. He wiped his mouth on his napkin and drank the rest of his wine. Lasari noticed the berries had stained the man’s mouth, edging his heavy lips with a faint line of blue. Vayetch glanced at his companion directly for the first time.

“Well, Herr Rauch?”

The man continued to wipe his lips with the napkin. At last he looked at Lasari and nodded dourly. “He is right for us, Vayetch.”

Rauch dipped the corner of his napkin in his water goblet, then daubed his cheeks and forehead, as if he felt faint. Standing suddenly, he said, “I’ll wait outside for you, Pytor. Even from the dance floor, the whore’s perfume spoiled my dinner.”