The kettle whistle startled him and he hurried to make the tea. Why now? He sat back down in front of the electric fire, counted the orange bars, and sipped from the mug. He could will himself to be calm. Read something. As long as he didn’t think. Then he glanced out the window and saw the top branches of the leafless tree and 2nd Street came flooding back, racing through his body until he actually felt memory, a tingle in his fingers on the cup. Everything he’d pushed away at Jules. Scene after scene. Had she thought he was indifferent? That it wasn’t still there, just waiting? Welles and his stupid gavel, rattling ashtrays for the cameras. The swarm of hats outside the window, drinking coffee. His mother all dressed up for the charities benefit. The pearls flung backward on the dented car roof.

He stopped. That was the other thing. She’d left her apartment, checked into the Mayflower, and jumped. That was all. A girl at Garfinkel’s. But before that, what? Discussion groups about capitalism? Saving the world from fascism? What had made her come forward, unraveling her lethal thread? What did the committee know, anyway? His father’s judges. One of them, it turned out, had been a member of the Klan, convinced the Communists were organizing Negroes. It was there in the index cards. He glanced over at the desk. Indifferent? Then why the stacks of cards for Wiseman, the trail back? Larry had known instinctively that the research was a pose. He was studying the mechanics of history to find out something else. Had his father gone there that night, a last stop at the hotel? And now the one person who could tell him had sent a message and he sat with a mug of tea, too afraid to ask.

The room was warm enough for him to change now, and he went over to the closet to put his jacket away. He could read something until he fell asleep. Trollope, maybe, who’d probably seen houses like this going up and thought they were handsome. But his hand fell on an omnibus Stevenson, and there was memory again, Kidnapped in the club chair. He took it out anyway, a gesture of refusing to be intimidated, and threw it on the bed. He’d never read Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde, just seen the movie, and that seemed safe enough. Then he realized, with a sighing irony, that he wasn’t going to escape it. Who was that, after all, but his father, one person, then another? Except that Dr. Jekyll couldn’t help himself, once he’d taken the medicine.

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 fiancée, 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.”

Chapter 6

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?”

“I don’t know. Why did my father send you?”

“Are you trying to scare me? He just wants to see you.”