“And what happens afterward? To me, I mean.”
He chewed on this for a minute, then asked me what I wanted to happen.
“I don’t know,” I said. “If you think I’m being wasted at St. Ed’s, then what’s the plan? Were you thinking I’d go back and waste myself some more?”
“You’re right to ask,” he said, as if I didn’t already know it. “There is no plan as such, but I feel it’s an unspoken assumption that this would mark the beginning of something new for you.”
“I’d rather hear it as a spoken assumption, Fr. Lulfre.”
“You’ve heard it spoken by me, Jared. Won’t that do?”
I wouldn’t have minded hearing it spoken by a few other people, but he didn’t offer to arrange such a thing, and I didn’t want to be churlish about it, so I told him sure.
The end of the beginning
That was the day before yesterday. Yesterday and today I’ve spent canceling appointments, parceling out my duties at St. Ed’s, making travel arrangements, and bringing this diary up to date. There’s something else on my mind that should go in here (maybe a lot), but I don’t quite know what it is and won’t have any leisure to look for it till I get on the plane to cross the Atlantic.
Tuesday, May 14
Salzburg
If a spymaster in Len Deighton or John Le Carre sends you to have a look at a man in Salzburg, chances are the man will be found in Salzburg. Real-life spymasters are not as reliable as this. Charles Atterley is not in Salzburg. As far as I’ve been able to learn in two days, he’s never been here and isn’t expected here. In fact, no one has ever heard of him.
Salzburg, however, is very cute and full of Olde Worlde Charm, and the locals tell me again and again, “Your friend is probably waiting for you in Miinchen.” They make it sound as if Munich is packed solid with American friends that have been mislaid in Salzburg, and one of them is bound to be mine.
I may as well have a look.
Thursday, May 16
Munich
I haven’t been able to turn a trace of Atterley here, and I’m beginning to feel rather stupid. I didn’t come to Europe prepared to play detective, and I haven’t got a single “in” anywhere.
I did manage to find a friendly librarian with a computer, and she gave the problem half an hour, but you can’t be very inventive when all you’re drawing is a blank. What do you do after you’ve checked all the newspaper files back to the Beer-Hall Putsch? Ask the concierge, I suppose. The concierge knows everything. But what do you do after the concierge gives you a vacant stare?
I suppose I should call and confer with Fr. Lulfre, but this isn’t an idea that appeals to me.
To this point, I’ve been behaving rather compulsively (though that may not be quite the word I’m after). I’ve been acting as though I could find Charles Atterley by dint of sheer, unremitting determination. This strategy certainly hasn’t worked, and pursuing it has left me feeling ridiculous and inept.
The following are facts: I wasn’t given a deadline, no special urgency attaches to my mission, and I have no idea what to do next. Therefore (therefore!) I might as well relax and go with the flow for a while.
Adieu.
An invitation
I went for a walk.
I’m not, in truth, an adventurous traveler. As I say, I went for a walk in the vicinity of my hotel and looked in shop windows. I paused here and there to study a menu in a restaurant window, as if I knew what any of it meant. There went an h
our, frittered away like a carefree vagabond. I slunk back into my hotel and hung around the desk in the absurd hope that someone would tell me a message had come during my absence. Finally, hopelessly, I slunk into the bar, sat down at a table, and ordered a beer. After a few minutes the barman brought over a bowlful of salted peanuts and said the gentleman at the bar wondered if I was American, and if so, would I object to his joining me?
The gentleman at the bar was a spare, bright-eyed person in his sixties, European, from the cut of his elderly but very respectable suit. I wondered why he would want to join me if I was an American but presumably not if I wasn’t, but gave him a nod and a welcoming smile, and he brought his drink over, introduced himself with Teutonic formality, and sat down.
I was ready for some sympathy and suggestions, and Herr Reichmann didn’t have to pull out my fingernails to get me to talk about my quest for a man named Charles Atterley (though of course not a syllable of the word Antichrist passed my lips). I had long since invented a flimsy but apparently adequate cover story to explain my interest: I am a freelance writer investigating a man said to be leading a new religious movement.
“A new religious movement?” Herr Reichmann inquired with amused incredulity. “You know, we Europeans are not so gullible as you Americans, with your angels and your magic crystals.”
“Exactly so,” I replied smoothly. “That’s just why Atterley seems so significant.”