Текст книги "The Prodigal Spy"

Автор книги: Joseph Kanon

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

“As gold.”

The exchange, with its forms, took a little longer. They were allowed to wait outside now, and Nick stood by the car, looking up at the watchtower and the soldier staring down at him, gun ready. How could his father want to live here? Russia would be even worse. In the patchy sunshine, Nick began to sweat. The barbed wire was higher than he’d expected–you’d have to cut it to get through. He took a cigarette pack from his pocket.

“American?” a guard said, walking up to him. For a wild moment Nick thought it might be contraband, but the guard’s eyes were friendly and Nick realized he was just trying to cadge one. When he offered the pack, the guard smiled and took two.

“Děkuji vám.”

“Prosím,” Nick replied, trying it.

They stood side by side, smoking, staring down the road to Austria. Nick wondered if guards ever made a run for it. But they seemed sleepy and content, as if the guns and fences were invisible parts of the landscape, like power lines.

Nick felt the guard straighten before he saw the smudge in the distance. It grew into a bus, and the guard alerted the soldier in the watchtower, shouting up in Czech. The soldier answered, then another came out of the guardhouse. Something was going on. The guard next to Nick noisily drew in the last of the American smoke, stubbed it out with his boot, and stood straighter. The second guard joined him, and Nick had the feeling that the others inside were watching too.

The bus drew up at the Austrian crossing and pulled to the side of the road. The Czech guards were talking back and forth. People began filing out of the bus, and even at this distance Nick could see the tennis shoes and bright colors that meant a tour group. He imagined them crowding the interrogation room, exchanging money, flooding the counters with passports. The guards were imagining it too, their conversation a mix of groans and anticipation. The tourists stood to one side of the striped crossing gate, taking out cameras and aiming them directly up the hill at the iron curtain. Nick and the guards stood there, zoo animals. Then, pictures taken, the tourists got back on the bus. In a few minutes it turned around and, like a mirage, was gone.

Nick saw the disappointment on the guards’ faces and wanted to laugh out loud. Nothing was wrong. An American passport, an English car–they had been the only event of the day. The tourist buses, memories of the busy months last year when the border was porous, passed them by now. It wasn’t about him and Molly. Here, in this Cold War diorama, dressed up with the old symbols, the players had nothing to do.

At last they were allowed to pass. Beyond the Czech frontier, Nick could tell the difference immediately. The road, a major one, developed ragged shoulders, asphalt crumbling away at the sides. There were no houses, no billboards, few road signs of any kind, and even the landscape itself began to look rundown, dingy and ill kept around the edges. In only a few miles they were in another world. The road became the main street of villages, the way roads did before they were highways, passing mud puddles and ducks and women in babushkas, the timeless Eastern Europe of the folk tales. There were few cars. The villages depressed Nick–peeling plaster and old electric wires and a rim of dust extending up from the bottoms of the buildings, as if the whole town had been in a bathtub that drained, leaving a ring. People looked up as the car passed. The propaganda was true –nobody smiled.

“Do you want me to drive?”

“What?”

“I said, do you want me to drive? You seem a little preoccupied.”

“I’m fine,” he said, brushing it off. “How do we contact him?” He was staring straight ahead, edging away from an oncoming truck.

“We call him up,” she said, smiling. “It’s a city. Phones. Garbage. Everything.”

But he didn’t want to play. “I thought you said all the phones were tapped.” He drove quietly for a minute. “What if he’s not here? I mean, it’s been a month. What if he left?”

“Where would he go? You can’t just walk down to Cook’s and buy a ticket.”

“Back to Moscow. He could go back to Moscow.”

“Will you stop?” she said, rolling down the window. “Look, the sun’s coming out. Spring.”

There were in fact blossoms now, not just buds, and the countryside was coming to life, as if the border had been a poison leaching into the soil. Here and there Nick saw an old manor house, a steepled church, left over from engravings of old Bohemia, but he found it impossible to imagine himself back in time. The grim present was always around them–the housing blocks of damp concrete, the dusty streets, the pervading sense that he was somewhere foreign, on the other side. He knew this was silly–an American wouldn’t be in any danger–but he felt vulnerable and aware at the same time, as if he were walking down a dark street at night. Things were different here, as arbitrary and whimsical as a policeman’s goodwill. He felt like a child. Maybe the Czechs did too, made wary and fretful by unpredictable authority. Even in the spring sunshine it seemed to him a country of shadows. They were in Prague before they realized they had entered it. In America, the skylines offered a sense of arrival, but here there were simply more houses, then street signs, red with white lettering, and tram rails, everything getting denser as they moved toward the center. They came down a long hill, running along the wall of a park, and found themselves circling a World War II Soviet tank at the bottom before the road shot off toward the river. It was here, finally, that the city opened up to a vista, Kafka’s castle high on the hill to their left, yellow buildings with tile roofs, the graceful bridges, the sky spiked everywhere by steeples.

They drove toward the cobbled streets of the Malá Strana, and Nick could see that beneath the dust and the scaffolding the city was beautiful. There was no color–no ads, no splashy shopfronts, not even the usual variety of cars in the street–so the buildings themselves became more vivid. Their Baroque facades of light mustard and green and terra cotta dressed the town. The architecture seemed to have been put down in layers, one period after another, until the unremarkable hills along the river had become an astonishing city, one of those places where Europe rises to its high-water mark, rich and complicated. Mozart had introduced operas here. In the afternoon light, the city was a painting, full of brushstrokes and perspectives and lovely forms. It was also falling apart. Up close, some of the wonderful houses were buckling, the lemon plaster torn with cracks. The scaffolding he saw seemed like a fingerin-the-dike attempt to shore up the years of neglect. The buildings, unmaintained, were slowly dying. How the Russians must hate it, Nick thought. The whole city was a beautiful reproach. The gifts of centuries were wasting away in a system that could not even produce salad.

They crossed the Vltava, past the imperial National Theater and the nineteenth-century streets of the New Town to the hotel on Wenceslas Square. To Nick’s surprise, there was a doorman and an old man to help with the luggage, a service class he thought did not exist. The room was heavy and ornate, deep red that wouldn’t show the dirt, wardrobes instead of closets. The old porter lingered, pretending to adjust the drapes, clearly expecting a tip. Their windows faced the street, and Nick could hear the tram bells outside.

“Did I give him enough?” Nick said after the man left. “He looked disappointed.”

“He was hoping for dollars. Technically, they’re not supposed to get anything, so don’t worry about it.” Molly started walking around the room, looking at it. “Well, here we are. God, I’m dead. Aren’t you? All that driving.”

Nick shook his head. “Now what? It’s still early. Should we call my—”

She put a finger to his lips, then raised it and pointed around the room.

“You’re kidding,” he said.

“I don’t think so. The Alcron was popular with journalists. They all stayed here last year. So we have to assume—”

Nick stared at her, not sure whether to laugh or be frightened.

“The phone too?”

“That for sure. How about a little air?” she said, moving toward the window. Traffic sounds floated in with the spring air. When he came over, she leaned close to him. “I’ll call,” she said to his ear. “Just be careful. No names. You’ll get used to it.” He felt her breath, warm and smooth, on the side of his face, and it startled him, as if she had just whispered an erotic secret. He pulled back. “What?” she said.

He shook his head, to make the feel of her go away. “Nothing.”

She went to her purse and took out a small address book, then started toward the phone. The tapping on the door surprised them both, as if someone had been watching them. But it was only a difficulty about the car, a few minutes of Pan Warren’s time, if he would come down to the desk. Nick followed the old man, feeling, crazily, that he was being taken away.

The difficulty turned out to be an extra fee for the garage–he could not park in the street. Nick was so relieved that he forgot to be annoyed. “I’m sorry for all these bothers,” the desk clerk said, and Nick found the English charming. He paid and looked around the lobby, imagining it buzzing with reporters just a few months ago. Now it was nearly deserted, an elderly couple having tea and a man hidden behind a newspaper, so obvious that Nick thought he couldn’t actually be a policeman. Outside some students were gathering in the street, walking in a half-march toward the university. He didn’t care about any of it.

She was saying goodbye on the phone when he opened the door, and he stood there for a moment, waiting and apprehensive.

“Dinner?” he said finally.

She shook her head. “Some other time. They’re busy tonight.”

Nick looked at her in disbelief, the tone of her voice, social and pleasant, making the moment unreal.

“Busy?” he said dumbly.

“Mm. A concert,” she said evenly, looking straight at him. “At the Wallenstein. We might think about that, actually. It’s pretty. What about it? Are you too tired?”

“What’s the Wallenstein?” They were going to see him.

“A palace in the Malá Strana. They give concerts in the courtyard. It’s nice. What do you say?”

“Can we get in this late?”

She pointed to the phone. “Try the concierge.” She raised her voice, taunting the microphone. “You have dollars. You can get anything you want with dollars.”

Chapter 7

THE STUDENTS WERE lighting candles in the middle of Wenceslas when they left the hotel. The crowd was small, a fraction of the old rallies, but the police were out in force, patrolling the long street and pretending to ignore the students. No one wanted any trouble. From the candles Nick assumed it was a memorial service, but the signs they held up, in Czech, might have meant anything.

“I wonder what it says,” he said idly, looking at the quiet group. Behind them the street rose up to meet the giant columns of the National Museum, still scarred from the previous year’s shelling.

“‘Be with us. We are with you,”’ she said.

“You can read Czech?”

“No. It was the slogan. You used to see it everywhere. It’s their way of telling the police they’re all on the same side.”

Nick wondered what they expected the police to do –drop their guns and walk off the job? But it was all, from the incomprehensible signs to the sad, divided loyalties, someone else’s problem.

They walked down toward Národni Street, past the párky stalls, then threaded their way through the narrow streets of the Old Town to the river. This was the tourist route, full of marvels and medieval towers, but Nick found himself hurrying, oblivious. The Charles Bridge, with its ornate statues, was full of couples looking down at the water, arms around each other, the girls all with bleached-blond hair that seemed to hang straight from poor chemicals. On the other side, the Malá Strana, there were thick arcades and cobblestones, lit by dull street lamps and the glow of passing trams.

The Wallenstein was not far from the river, and when they got there a crowd had already gathered on Letenska Street, waiting to get in. Most of them wore coats against the spring chill, and Nick saw that they had dressed up, men in ties, women in cloth hats. No one was young. The street door led through the honey-colored stone wall directly into the formal gardens. At one end of the central courtyard, musicians sat in front of the high arches of a portico, tuning instruments. Folding chairs had been set up on the pebbled ground, and people claimed them, first come, first served, then stood looking around for their friends, waving and chatting, just as they must have done when the palace was first built. Behind the walls, away from the tanks and the lines for carrots, Prague still had its evenings.

Nick found chairs toward the back, so he could look out over the crowd, and stood watching the people file in. What would he look like? Was it possible he wouldn’t recognize him? He would be how old now? In his sixties, like most of the audience. Gray? White?

“Don’t crane. It’s too obvious,” Molly said. “Maybe we’d better sit down.”

“No one else is.”

It was true. People stood talking, their voices rising over the violins and cellos being stretched into tune. Did they all know each other? A few people near them stared frankly at their Western clothes. Why so public a place? Why meet in front of an audience? The lights were being lowered now, people finally taking their places.

“What are we supposed to do, save seats?” Nick said.

“He just said he was coming to the concert. Don’t worry. He’ll find us.”

A couple sat down next to them and the man nodded at Nick, but it was just a concertgoer’s greeting, polite and vacant. The music started, a series of Mozart divertimenti, as formal and airy as the gardens. Only the portico was lighted now, and Nick looked around the dim courtyard at profiles and shapes of heads, waiting for someone to turn in the dark. How would his father find them? It was Nick who would have changed, no longer a boy. It occurred to him–a new thought–that his father would know him only because he was sitting with Molly.

At the intermission, while people smoked and drank beer, he stood near the bright stage, impossible to miss, but no one came up, and only a few people looked toward him at all, glancing at his shoes. Molly said nothing, but he could tell from the way she bit her lower lip that she was worried, that it should already have happened. Czech, fluent and guttural, surrounded them, making him feel isolated, not even free to eavesdrop.

When they sat down again, he knew his father wasn’t coming. Something had happened, or maybe he had balked, unable to go through with it after all. Nick stared at the Baroque walls, not hearing the music, and realized that he felt a kind of relief. It was better in so many ways to keep things as they were. His body began to sag a little, coming down to earth. The past wasn’t meant to come back. Except there it was again, the walking away. In the pretty courtyard, listening now to Brahms, he was at the back door again, being left.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispered to Molly, and when she looked alarmed he smiled and said, “Bathroom,” and slid out of his seat, crouching as he slipped farther back into the dark garden, trying not to crunch pebbles.

A long arcade led back to an ornamental pool, and he stopped for a cigarette near one of the pillars, away from the crowd. Phones were tapped. Maybe he had had to change plans at the last minute, to keep the secret. Who knew what his life was like now? Maybe he would be idling on Letenska Street when they came out, a chance meeting. And maybe not.

Nick went into the bathroom. Damn him, anyway. He wasn’t going to do it twice. Molly said he lived here; she’d spoken to him. What did it matter if Nick called? Who cared who listened? He was still taking precautions, and in America nobody even remembered his name. Old politics, all forgotten, as dated as a hemline. But his son was here. How could he not want to see him?

Nick came out into the soft light of the arcade and stopped. The man near the other end was walking carefully, as if he had forgotten his cane in his rush to get to the bathroom. No, not that old. The waves were gone, thinned to a dusting of hair across his scalp, and his body had thinned too, so that the suit hung loosely, the sleeves too wide for his wrists. He kept coming. Nick couldn’t move. There hadn’t been years to watch the change, just this one minute. An awful mirror. He was looking at himself old. This is what he would be like, bony, almost bald, shoulders slightly drooped. And the face. It was coming into the light now, as inevitable as a ghost. Paler than before, the skin still tight over the cheekbones, then a little slack, a gravity pull. His own face. But the eyes. The shine of liquid full to brimming over, catching all the light, so full Nick thought he might drown in them.

“Nicku.”

The voice seemed to touch the back of his neck like a shiver, drawing him nearer. Voices didn’t change. The same sound, wrapping around him, his earliest memory.

“Nicku. My God.”

And now the eyes did spill over, a wetness at the corners, as he raised his hands, putting them on Nick’s arms. Nick thought of the day they had left Washington, when his heart had literally hurt in his chest, a kind of practice death. He felt it now. Take a breath. He had wondered what it would feel like, this moment, and now he saw that it was like falling. His stomach was light; the ground had slid away. But his father had taken him in his arms. He could feel his cheek, the head leaning into his shoulder, the arms circling his back, holding on to him for dear life.

They sat by the ornamental pool in the dark, his father clutching Nick’s hand, holding down a balloon that threatened to get away. Without the light of the arcade there was only his voice, so that Nick slipped back into it, not distracted by having to see him.

“So tall,” his father said, his voice shaky, “so tall.” And then, patting his leg, he said simply, “You came.”

“I got your message.”

“So you knew. I wanted you to be sure it was me. I thought maybe that’s why you didn’t answer before. You couldn’t be sure.”

“Answer?” Nick said, lightheaded again.

“My letters.” His father paused. “I see. You never got them.”

“You wrote to me?”

“Of course. In the beginning. I should have known they would stop them,” he said, his voice suddenly older. “But I thought–never mind. You’re here. Look at you.” Touching him again.

Nick wondered if he could see in the dark; maybe just the shape of him was enough.

“Who stopped them?” Nick said. “Mother—”

“No, no. My friends.” An edge of sarcasm. “How is your mother?”

The question itself seemed absurd, as if everything that had happened to them could be reduced to a polite inquiry.

“She’s fine,” Nick said, at a loss. “She’s married.”

“Yes. To Larry. You took his name.”

Nick glanced up at him, trying to read his face in the faint light. “She thought it would be easier, I guess. You were –famous.”

“Famous,” he said, almost pouncing on the word. Then he edged away, conversational again. “But you didn’t have to be. Yes. I suppose I should be grateful to him. He’s been a good father to you?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, then looked away, to his own thought. “Is she happy?” he said, but when Nick didn’t answer, he brought himself back and sighed. “Well, what a question. How do we talk? There’s so much—” He put his hand on Nick’s knee. “You came. You don’t know what it means. I thought, what if he never wants to see me again?”

“No,” Nick said.

“But I had to try. It was a chance.”

“Why now?”

“And not before?” He stood up, looking toward the music. “I’m not sure. I suppose I thought you were better off. Maybe I was afraid you wouldn’t answer, like with the letters. But then, when I heard you were working with Wiseman–oh yes,” he said, answering Nick’s expression. “I keep up. I have your graduation picture.”

“What?”

His father smiled. “So much information from America. They still work overtime at it, my friends. Like addicts. I thought, why not a little for me? Don’t they owe me that much? Of course, the newspapers I could see for myself at the institute. But the rest—” He paused. “I didn’t want to miss everything in your life.”

“Wait a minute.” A sudden anger. “You had people spy on me?”

His father shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. Just what anyone would know. The public record.” He stopped. “Well, once. In the beginning. I was so desperate –I couldn’t bear it. So I asked someone at the institute. You know, it’s so easy. To arrange that. He brought me pictures. Hockey in Central Park. You were still a boy. Then I saw how crazy it was. How could I do that to you? It was my fault, all of it. I had to let go. So I made them stop.” He turned to him. “It was just that once.”

Nick stared up at him, not knowing what to say. In all the years, he had not once imagined what his father had felt. Now he saw, as in the science experiment, that if you just took a few steps to the side, the angle of the world was different.

“What else?” he said, curious.

His father shrugged. “It wasn’t much, Nick. A picture. A few clippings. I couldn’t watch you grow. Remember the height marks?”

Nick nodded. The notches on the side of the cabin door, measuring him every six months.

“It was like that. Just the marks. So I’d know how you were doing.”

His father was quiet for a minute, and Nick could hear the music rising in the background, almost at an end.

“So college and then the army and—” His father stopped, took a breath. “All the time, I thought, he doesn’t even know me anymore. Leave it–it’s over and done with. But then you went to London to work with Wiseman. Un-American activities. And I thought, it’s not over for him either. It’s time.”

“For what?” Nick said, standing up. “Why now?”

His father looked around, disconcerted, as if the question had come too soon, then turned to face him.

“Because I’m dying, Nick,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Nick stared at him, seeing now that what he had taken for age was really illness.

“No, don’t look like that,” his father said quickly, concerned. “It’s all right. I don’t say it to upset you. It’s just–a fact.” He paused. “So it has to be now.” He looked away from Nick’s gaze. “Please don’t. I know I’m a stranger to you. I didn’t ask you to come to—”

“Why did you, then?” Nick asked, unexpectedly bitter, his voice unsteady. “To say goodbye?”

“No. I wanted to see you, it’s true. Selfish. But there’s something else.” He reached up, putting his hands on Nick’s shoulders. “I want to put an end to that time. For both of us. I need you to help me.”

“But—”

“Don’t you see? You’re the only one I can trust.”

Nick looked at him, amazed. In the distance, the applause began. “To do what?”

His father looked up at the sound of the clapping, the lights beginning to come on, and patted Nick’s hand. “Not here. We’ll talk. It’s a long story. We can’t start it here.” Then he held him by the arms again. “Tomorrow.”

But the lights seemed to bring with them a kind of urgency. There would never be time to catch his breath, sort out the noises that were a jumble in his mind. He watched me grow. He’s dying. Something’s worrying him. Was any of it real? He felt somehow that his father might rise up and float away, like the applause.

“Nick!” He heard her voice from the other end of the arcade, tentative, obviously looking for him, and he grabbed his father’s shoulder.

“One thing,” he said. “I have to know.”

His father looked at him, surprised at the strength of his grasp. “What?”

“Tell me the truth. The truth. Just to me. That night, when you left–did you go to the Mayflower?”

His father stared, assessing, then looked down, almost with a smile. “So you think that too. I thought I was the only one.” He looked back up. “No, I didn’t go there. Somebody else killed her.”

There it was, as simple as that. Nick felt empty with it gone, the relief of an aching limb finally removed.

“But you do think she was killed?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Nick.” Molly again, closer now.

“Who—”

“It’s all the same crime, you see,” his father said, leaning toward him, conspiratorial. “What happened to her. What happened to me. That’s why I need your help. I want to know. While I still have time.”

Before Nick could respond, Molly was with them. His father glanced at him, a flicker of the eye to signal an end to the conversation. But why shouldn’t she know? Secrecy became a reflex. Nick looked at her, waiting to see if she’d overheard, but the words, so loud to him, evidently hadn’t carried.

“There you are,” she said. Then, to his father, “Hello again.”

His father took her hand. “Thank you. For bringing him. I owe you a great debt.”

“I’m glad someone does,” she said cheerfully, refusing to be solemn. “You’ve had a visit?”

“A sighting,” his father said. He looked around at the people milling toward the garden door. “Tomorrow we’ll visit.”

“You’re going?” Nick said.

“It’s better.”

“But we’ve just–I’ll come back with you.”

“No, no. Tomorrow. The country.” He smiled at Nick’s urprise. “The weekend is sacred here. To stay home would be noticed. We leave our flat every Saturday at eight. Like clockwork. So we must keep the clock running.”

“You’re going away?” Nick said, incredulous.

“And you. Leave the hotel early, with your camera. There’s a lot to see in Prague. I can pick you up by the tram stop—”

“We have a car.”

His father smiled. “Rich Americans. I forgot. Even better. Two cars. You know the tank at the bottom of Holečhova?” This to Molly, who nodded. “Eight-ten. It’s quite safe. They never follow us there.”

His voice, growing faint, ended in a small cough. Then the coughing came again, stronger, until he was forced to give in to it, partially doubling over to catch his breath.

He took a handkerchief out of his pocket to cover his mouth.

Nick leaned forward, peering at him. “What’s wrong?”

His father waved his hand dismissively, still catching his breath. Then he managed a smile. “Nothing. Overcome with emotion.”

He tossed it out casually, and in that second Nick heard his father again, young, unable to resist an ironic turn. But he looked drawn, shaken by the cough.

“It passes,” he said, and fumbled in his pocket for a small tin box, the kind used for pastille candies. When he opened it, the pills seemed enormous. “Soviet medicine,” he said wryly. “Not for the weak.”

“There’s some water in the men’s room,” Nick said, turning to get it. To his surprise, his father leaned on his arm and began walking with him.

“Just a moment,” his father said to Molly, attempting to be jaunty, but his voice was raspy now, and Nick wondered if it really was just a coughing spell.

In the men’s room, people were lined up at the urinals. Nick’s father went over to the washbasin, taking his time with the pill. He chased it down with water and stood quietly for a minute calming himself. A few men left.

“Better?” Nick said.

His father nodded. “What we talked about before? It’s better, I think, not to say anything.”

“To Molly, you mean. Why?” A man at the urinal glanced in their direction, surprised at the English, but Nick ignored him.

His father was nodding again, stifling the beginning of another cough. “Not yet. Not even her. Not until I’m sure. I’ll explain.”

“You all right?” Nick put his hand gently on his father’s back, afraid that a stronger pat would set him off again.

“You think it’s crazy, don’t you? Whispering in corners,” he said, his voice now in fact a whisper. “You’re not used to it.”

Nick looked around the room. The overhead vents might be hiding mikes, but why? Who would bother to bug the men’s room at the Wallenstein Palace? It occurred to him for the first time that his father, this man he didn’t know, might really be paranoid, common sense and skepticism worn down by the years to a membrane too thin to stop suspicion seeping through.

“Is it always like this?” Nick said.

“No. Sometimes they really are listening.”

Nick smiled, relieved. It was the kind of offhand joke his father would have made on 2nd Street, having a drink with his mother before they went out. A throwaway, not a story, and she’d be smiling, just happy to be with him. His father smiled now too, pleased with himself. But when he spoke, his voice was serious. “I don’t do it for myself,” he said, looking straight at Nick. Then another cough, his face crinkling up a little in pain, and he turned around to the basin so that Nick had to look at him in the mirror.

“What’s wrong with you?” Nick said, alarmed, frustrated at not knowing how to react.

In the mirror his father lowered his head, eyes dropping out of sight, and waved his hand again. “It’s all right. You go. Please. I’ll be fine. Tomorrow. By the tank.”

But Nick wouldn’t let go. He took the back of his father’s shoulders, turning him. “It’s not all right. You’re sick.”

The man at the urinal had zipped and now came over, saying something in Czech. His father answered quickly, the sound of Czech surprising Nick.

“He thinks you’re molesting me,” his father said, his head still down, trying again for a wry joke. “You’d better go.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.” Nick still held him by the shoulders, but when his father lifted his face Nick let go, stung by the look of dismay.

“It doesn’t matter. Just a side effect. Please,” his father said quietly. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

Nick looked down in confusion and saw the stain. His father had wet himself. When he looked back up, his father’s eyes were moist with embarrassment. “It’s all right,” Nick said, words to a child.

But his father shook his head. “No. Now you’ll always think of me this way.” He looked up, his eyes a kind of odd plea, past all the jokes. “I can’t make it up to you. I’m not expecting—” He stopped, his voice almost feverish. “But not this. Not some stranger with wet pants.”

Now it was Nick who reached out to him, bringing him close in the dingy men’s room, holding him, whispering into his ear so that no one could hear. “You’re not a stranger,” he said.