NEW YORK / KOBLENZ
6.1
The idea that she should speak to a private investigator came from her friends, the ones facing divorce, bankruptcy, or abandonment by husbands and partners, and for a while, being reluctant to enter this damaged world, she resisted the suggestion. But within two months of returning to New York, Anne realized that the various embassies and agencies were coming up with nothing and were starting to avoid her calls: the search, which was never a proper search, had no impetus and no direction. Hiring a private investigator became the most logical, and necessary, next step. She arranged an appointment with a Manhattan firm, Colson Burns, who came recommended as the best of the best; the most professional, the most discreet, and the most thorough, although this came at a high price.
The company agreed to undertake an initial assessment before they took on the case, a good number of missing-person cases were handed over to federal or state agencies, they warned, as they often involved prosecutable offences which came to light through their investigations. She needed to understand this – if they found anything illegal they would always hand the information to the appropriate authorities. It would also, possibly, draw up information about her son she might ordinarily choose not to know. Anne said that this was not an issue. She didn’t mind what they discovered, as long as they found him.
On her first visit to the company, the offices, being so deliberately against type, confirmed the rightness of the decision. Airy, bright, on the forty-third floor overlooking Fifth.
She arrived exactly at the time the meeting was to start and found herself uplifted by the bright lobby, polished concrete walls, and a series of drawings by Cy Twombly mounted along the corridors, strange investigations themselves, fine pencil lines irritating white fields, words or fragments of words suggesting logic, or sense to be made.
She was interviewed by a woman, Marcellyn, who would collect everything they needed for their primary assessment. Dressed formally in light pinstripe suit, lawyer-like, pale, she made listening a hard physical fact, her face and body set in concentration. Like visiting a doctor. The woman’s attentiveness made Anne question herself.
She told the woman facts about her son that she had not yet expressed out loud. She spoke about the computer, the recovered files, her son’s attempts to contact men, and her fears about these men. Marcellyn listened, nodded, and waited for Anne to break before picking up her pen, uncapping it, and writing herself a note. This rhythm continued through the interview. She would listen, and then she would write.
‘And this was your computer?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you have deleted these files?’
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘But you have the computer and we could examine the hard drive?’
‘Yes.’
The woman laid one hand on her notes. She had an outline, she said, which was a good start. She would contact the university lecturers and collect their testimonies, their outlines, but what she wanted to do now was draw out a timeline. Anne’s timeline. Marcellyn drew her pen elegantly through the air. ‘It helps to understand the sequence,’ she said, ‘from each perspective. It really does.’
Anne looked to the windows. The building seemed to give a giddy shift to the side, a view of sky, an unbroken grey, unfathomable. Aircraft level to her view.
In the months since her return from Europe not one person had asked for a simple recounting of what had happened, a simple step-by-step, not even Mark. Everyone already settled into their own idea, she could see it even before they spoke.
‘Take your time, Mrs Powell.’ The woman sat, tuned, attentive, the entire room an apparatus to focus and collect thought.
6.2
The businessman picked Ford up at Aachen service station and offered to take him south.
Rolf Ebershalder spoke at length about his country. Germany has no soul, he said. What was ripped apart is not bound together but lost. The younger generation have inherited a place that is strange even to them. How can they know what Germany is if it is always under question?
The businessman explained that he was heading to Boppard, a small town beside the Rhine close to Koblenz. Ford was welcome, but there was nothing in the town except a fine hotel overlooking the river. Quite something. But nothing much of anything if you didn’t have business there, and didn’t care for history, unless you wanted to buy wine or brandy or local crafts. He asked if Ford could drive, then found a lay-by so they could swap seats.
‘I drive all day. I have five people, I need more, but the taxes,’ he shook his head, ‘Europe is expensive, so I work and work.’
* * *
The businessman slumped back in the seat and gave directions. The road wound through the woods, beside bare green trunks, the ground copper with leaves. Rolf pointed out the hunters’ hides and said he had a good story about wolves.
* * *
The hotel sat on a stone bank and commanded a view of the river. Ford parked in front of the hotel and Rolf asked him to remain in the car.
‘I could use a driver tomorrow,’ he said. ‘There’s a group of us, if you like I can arrange for you to stay in the hotel.’
That night Ford dreamed again of Kiprowski: the boy leapt forward through the dust and mayhem, not thrown so much, as taking a long lithe pounce.
6.3
The emails began shortly after her return to New York and continued through the early winter; monologues, which, at first, Anne did not answer as it seemed to her a final discussion. The beginning of a conclusion she would not welcome and did not want. Nathalie informed Anne about the briefest details of her own return, of how she had initially taken up new work at the university, but her interest in research, in teaching had diminished. ‘These people are remote,’ she wrote in a complaint about her colleagues. ‘They know nothing about the world. Not one thing.’ She imagined herself elsewhere, in London, Los Angeles, or New Mexico, where she would wait for news, start a new life. She could not decide.
* * *
She wrote: I heard from Martin a month ago. I knew he would be returning soon, but I didn’t want to see him. He has surrendered his position at the university and now works in seclusion because he fears for his life. I don’t know if you know, but he is continuing with the film – this is the reason for my writing. He intends to finish the films and to have them exhibited. I’m not sure what I think. He believes that Eric was kidnapped because of his project, although, of all the ideas about what has happened, this seems the craziest. Now he regrets ever having Eric involved. Although it is too late for this decision or such a discussion.
The Turkish authorities still have our materials, they say that they are to be released soon, but this has been promised for many months. The arrangement is that everything will be returned to the university.
* * *
She wrote: For the whole year before the trip Martin was in contact with an organization who work with the Kurds in Eastern Turkey and Northern Iraq. He met the group in Paris many years ago, and promised that he would do something to help with their cause. While this was only a small part of what we were doing, it became the most important part. I wanted you to know that Eric was involved in helping people come to Europe. He was helping people to make a new start, perhaps saving people’s lives. I want you to think of him in this way. The work we were doing, this part of the project, could only happen if we were allowed to speak with certain people. Martin arranged for us to bring money into the country, and this money was used for the families to come to Europe. Some were in need of medical attention, and others, families, had been separated for a long time. When I think of this I think that Martin is right to continue, and that this is something Eric would have wanted to see. But everything is in pieces. I’m not sure what can be salvaged.
* * *
She wrote: I know nothing about the things you have asked. If he was climbing then why did he leave his equipment? There is so much that I don’t understand. He would go on his own to these places. I made him promise that he would not climb, but I know that he climbed. I am certain. But I think if something had happened to him as you say then he would have been found. He had no transport, so he could only go to the places that were close, and the police checked these. It is unlikely that he would have gone to a place that wasn’t already in use, a place with other climbers. I don’t know what to suggest.
* * *
She wrote: I have spoken with Martin who has been in contact with the investigators you have hired. I have also made a statement to them. On the day that Eric disappeared the pension was being watched. Martin believes that this was the police. He thinks that they have taken Eric, because everything was taken from the room when we came back from Birsim. First Eric disappears, and when they go looking for him the police confiscate all of our belongings, all of our equipment for the project. There is hope that interest in Martin’s project will put pressure on the authorities in Turkey, who have not helped, and continue to be difficult.
* * *
She wrote: I have a theory about travel, that if I keep myself on the move I will finally find him. I see the same faces at airports and train stations, the same people in coffee houses and cafés, the same people are on the move, and there is an inevitability that, if he is moving, then we will connect through this motion. It is inevitable. I hear him sometimes, I see him often when I am boarding a train, or when I am tired, I see someone who has elements taken from him. I see these pieces that are taken and adapted by other people.
* * *
She wrote: Everyone believes that there are plots. Everyone believes one or another theory. That he was kidnapped, taken as a hostage, so that he is innocent and we are guilty. Everyone believes that we are involved and that we know where he is, and there is some ransom to be paid and that we are hiding something, because it is impossible for someone to disappear so completely. They have found Eric’s traveller’s cheques, and it is possible that he was in Izmir.
* * *
She wrote: Our film has been returned. Eric’s notebooks are among the last of the pieces to come back from the police. Everything is here. The people you have hired came to collect them yesterday. At last we can move forward. Perhaps there is something in his notebooks which will help us.
* * *
Anne spent her days in the apartment. She explained to her husband that it was easier to work at home. There were politics at the museum she would rather avoid, and as long as she completed her research and met her editor’s deadline then no one worried about where she actually worked.
Her mornings followed a pattern. On a good day she would contact Marcellyn at Colson Burns and work through the information they provided. Much could be accomplished from her home computer: checks and queries, messages sent. She could call and hassle the consulates in Istanbul and Ankara. She would feel herself surmounting the problem. On a bad day she curled on her son’s bed, inactive, unable to move. On a very bad day she would take the room apart, carefully re-explore every drawer, every item, every moveable speck. She would take the posters down from the wall and return them with particular care to their exact place. Recently there were many more very bad days than bad days, and more bad days than days she could tolerate.
The habit established itself. As soon as Mark left in the morning she steeled herself to her tasks: started up her computer, set out her books, opened up the files, drew out the images of The Betrayal, and Portrait of a Knight, ready across her desk. Then – force of habit – she would walk to Eric’s bedroom, and lose her day.
The last message from Nathalie knocked this schedule aside in one swoop.
* * *
Nathalie wrote: I am glad for your letter. He wanted to see you. I know because we spoke about this, and he was looking forward to coming to Malta – of this there is no question. Of the Englishman Tom we have heard nothing. And I have held back a small piece of information from you, which, given the concerns you raise in your letter, might help settle your mind.
Tom was at the pension for a short time. Three nights only, I think, and he shared a room with Eric, and Eric became fond of him. I thought this was only a small thing, nothing more, but it is possible that this was something more important for Eric? I don’t think this affection was returned. It was just a start, but what this means I can’t say. On the day that Eric disappeared Tom helped to look for him. Tom said that Eric had approached him and made it clear how he felt – when they came to say goodbye Eric tried to kiss Tom – and Tom was embarrassed. He was uncomfortable about this, I think it seemed strange to him because Eric had known him for only a few days and because he did not feel the same way.
I have found one picture, which is enclosed.
* * *
Anne opened the attached image and found a photograph of a man, taken three-quarter profile, almost in silhouette, light spangling about him, furring the image. She studied the photograph with care, and thought the man familiar, but not familiar enough to place. He wasn’t a friend or an associate, she had a good eye for faces, but someone she had met or seen more casually. Recent, yes, but not so recent. Her instinct made her dislike the man – so this was the kind of man her son sought out, the type he talked with, online, on this very computer. She read Nathalie’s message and tried to keep herself composed. He’d met the man in a coach station and later attempted to kiss him in a market, in public, in a small town in Turkey. This gesture seemed both rash and delicate, too tender and impetuous for a boy who solicited sex, advertised himself in online forums, spoke frankly about his experience. The pure naivety of falling so quickly for a stranger struck her as a sign of inexperience. The kiss was a truer sign of who he was, and it hurt to think that it had been refused. He deserved to feel loved, as everybody is deserving of love.
With a print of the photograph she returned to Eric’s bedroom and set it on the bedside table. Curled up, hands to her chest, she told herself to sleep, and in this sleep she would figure out who this person was, or who he reminded her of; the connection would come to her as soon as she set her mind elsewhere. But the image remained locked and became immoveable. The figure stopped tantalizingly …
Anne called her husband, then cancelled the call as the dial tone sounded. She contacted Colson Burns and told them to expect a message with an attachment.
She spent her afternoon, and many afternoons afterward, examining the image, scanned every pixel to interpret the data, to draw out information: but returned only to the basic fact of a man, English, perhaps forty years old, thin-faced, short hair, sharp features, drawn, dark against the focused light.
6.4
To save money Ford slept in the cars he delivered rather than stay in the roadside motels. He returned receipts to Rolf Ebershalder, who never queried the expenses, and seemed happy that Ford took his work seriously and did not complain about the hours or the lost weekends. Ford, living hand to mouth, told himself that he was lucky, but understood that Rolf could terminate their arrangement at any point.
At Aachen services Ford pulled into the car park and began to make himself comfortable. He reclined the seat, tuned the radio, and took out the mobile phone Ebershalder had given him so that he would be more available on the road. Intrigued, he checked through the functions and games, and attempted to connect with the internet. With a small satisfaction he found himself online, a satisfaction which failed when he realized that he had nothing to check or search out – except for the one email account. He’d scored a line beneath HOSCO and Geezler, a temporary decision.
Doubtful that the account would still be available after such a long time, the password being the same as the account name, it opened on first attempt to thirty-seven messages, fourteen marked urgent from a man called Colson Burns, which he immediately deleted. Among the remaining messages were eight from Nathalie_SD, the subject lines reading: Tom; Tom Please Open; Nathalie from Narapi; Turkey; message regarding Eric Powell.
He read the messages in order. The first, an apology, said that she had passed his details to an investigative team hired by Eric’s mother. They want to speak with you. I have given them your details, told them everything I can remember. I hope this is OK?
In the second message Nathalie gave details about the search for Eric: The Turkish authorities still have our equipment, the cameras, the lenses, the tripods, all worth a small fortune. I think they mean to punish us. Everything else is in the hands of investigators hired by Eric’s mother. They talk to us regularly, and ask for this detail or that detail, which gives us an idea of what they are thinking, but nothing real. They say that they have not heard from you? Are you there? Are these messages getting through? They look at what they have, examine an idea, and then discard it. They take up with another idea, and so on. On and on. Perhaps when you speak with them you will remember some small thing, something which helps them. For now they go endlessly over the same material. Nothing new is discovered. They take trips to Narapi, to Birsim, to Kopeckale and find nothing. Eric’s diaries caused a great deal of interest, but once they broke the code they found nothing unusual, and they began to believe that his explanation of everything he was doing was another kind of code for something else. But still, even now, they have discovered nothing.
* * *
I write to Eric’s mother. I cannot imagine what she is going through. I think that these letters must be an irritation to her, but I cannot stop myself from writing – and I do not want to.
I do not believe that he is alive. I do not. Is this terrible to write? It is impossible to say. But I cannot see how someone living can become so silent.
* * *
And you also do not write. I have no one to talk to. Martin will lose his work, this is certain. The university cannot get rid of me. My father gave money to the department, my chair is secure, so I have been offered a sabbatical which I will take. Returning to Grenoble is too painful.
* * *
My hope is that he has written to you, that Eric has something to say which he can only confide to you, and while we worry about him you understand, or know, somehow, what he is doing. How he is. You must write. You have no curiosity?
* * *
Her final message contained a suggestion that they meet: I write in the hope that you will receive this. Eric’s belongings will be returned to the university so that his mother can collect them. The investigators are returning from Turkey and they will leave everything here for his mother. His dormitory also is to be cleared and offered to another student. They cannot keep it. I know that you wished to see his diary, that there was something in them of concern to you. The situation is not so easy between me and the university, but I still have some friends, and I could arrange for you to see these notebooks if you want. If it is possible for you to visit I could arrange for you to have access. Let me know. I will not trouble you again. Nathalie.
* * *
Under her name in smaller text ran an address and a contact number.
* * *
Ford retrieved the messages from Colson Burns, and read of their interest in meeting him, and their interest in allowing him access to Eric’s papers if he could consent to an interview. There was a window of opportunity between their arrival in Grenoble and Anne Powell’s departure. Everything, most likely, would then be taken back to New York.
The small car shivered as trucks passed on the slip-road, gathering speed for the autobahn. Ford watched traffic come and go in the long lot beside the motorway services, a kind of game, a possible pattern: one arriving, one leaving; two arriving, one leaving, as if some strategy was being played out, some binding intelligence to their movement. He had no money. Ebershalder paid him cash, gave him a pre-paid swipe card for fuel, and repaid in cash his train journeys. Not unlike the cars he was watching there also appeared to be some pattern behind his movements, when in fact there was none: this was motion which only sustained itself. He wasn’t going anywhere, not unless he called Nathalie and took up her offer to see Eric’s notebooks.
6.5
The report from Colson Burns told her nothing that she didn’t know. The man in the photograph remained unplaceable. The irony of it wasn’t lost on her: this is what I do, she complained, I study, I examine, I look for likeness, for similarities, in images, this is easy. I find one man in two paintings painted three centuries ago, this is easy, this I can do.
Despite her efforts the man remained unknown to her.
At Colson Burns the enquiry focused on two men from the Maison du Rève. The first and most suspicious, a man believed to be working for the police who was monitoring the pension, and second, the traveller Eric had met at Kopeckale. A man called Tom. Tom’s replies to Nathalie’s emails came from different locations. The IP addresses confirmed that they originated in Germany, but never from the same location. ‘The man is travelling in Germany’ appeared to be as much as they could say, information included in the content of the messages. Information which was interesting because there was nothing else to focus on. The man had not replied to Colson Burns’ requests, which told her that he had nothing to say.
From December 13: Nathalie, I’m sorry for all of this trouble. The way things are I doubt I’ll be able to come to the university. Is there any way that you could copy or somehow find the information I need in Eric’s diaries. I could reimburse you, or pay someone to do this? Tom.
From December 19: I can’t. I’m travelling. I can’t say where I’ll be next week. There are five numbers, one begins with the letters HOS/JA: followed by eight digits. He wrote this in the back page of one of his notebooks. As I remember there’s a codeword, something like HOMELESS, A. Cheers, Tom.
From December 22: Let me know when the material arrives. Tom.
From January 14: I can make February, this is the soonest. Will you be there? Sincerely, Tom. Except for one mention she found no mention of Eric, but found nothing out of the ordinary in this. He met her son by accident, shared a room, and until Eric had attempted to kiss him, he had no knowledge about his affection for him. His expression, one brief mention, was at least sincere. I hope he returns soon, I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for his family. Regards, Tom.
* * *
Anne sat up in bed and couldn’t settle into Eric’s book; the stories, she found, were scattered and repugnant. No reason, no solution offered. Mark refused to read, refused to talk through the details of the investigation.
‘Why don’t you read this?’
‘You know why.’
‘No, I don’t. I can’t imagine why you would be indifferent.’
Mark hefted onto his side, propped his head in his hand. He took the book from her hands and folded over the pages, deliberately losing her place. ‘Exercise the inner critic,’ he said.
‘And I’m supposed to know what that means?’
‘It means you need to listen to yourself.’
‘I listen. All the time. It’s you who ignores what’s happening.’
‘No. You don’t hear yourself. You tut. Four times a page. You complain in small ways. You move like you have cramp. You read this because you think it’s something you should do.’
Anne removed her glasses. ‘I do?’ She swept the novel from the bed. ‘I don’t want this in my head.’
‘What do you want?’
The question, so obvious, hurt when she considered it. How could he ask something so profoundly stupid?
‘There are things,’ she said, ‘that you don’t know about Eric.’
‘What things?’
‘It’s nothing.’ Knowing he would not insist on a proper answer, Anne turned to her side, her habit now of ending conversations with a hard refusal.