The prodigal spy

It was a typical Larry meeting, caught on the run, with a return plane to Paris waiting, a phone call expected, so that Nick became marginal, someone he’d managed to fit in. But Nick hadn’t wanted it either. Molly had taken the film to a photographer friend downtown, and Nick had watched it drop into her purse with dismay, afraid to let it out of his hands for even a minute. Outside, with its swarms of bright yellow taxis, New York was rich and busy and filled with sunshine, everything Prague was not, but all he could think about was Molly being followed or the photographer-how good a friend? — amazed at the pictures appearing in the fixing tray. But Larry had insisted; he had only the afternoon. So they both sat there, prickly, like pieces of tinder ready to ignite. When Larry said, “Chicken salad and iced tea. Two,” Nick wanted to jump on him. I can order myself. A kid again.

“Why didn’t you say anything to me? That’s what I want to know. What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“I told you, he didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Well, that’s typical, isn’t it? I suppose you know your mother’s a wreck. For Christ’s sake, traipsing around behind the iron curtain without telling anyone. Now, of all times. What do you think I’m doing in Paris, going to the Louvre? Did you ever think how this would look for me?”

“No, Larry, I never thought about that.”

“Well, thanks very much.”

“It had nothing to do with you.”

“Of course it did. You’re my son.”

“I was his too.”

“I’m surprised you wanted to see him. After everything. Why didn’t you ask me to arrange it if it was so important to you? Do it the right way, not sneak around like this. Like some-” He hesitated. “Spy,” he said, unable to resist.

Nick looked at the man his father had thought would help. Mistaken about everyone to the end, except Nick. “What’s the right way? What would you have said?”

Larry looked away. “I’d have tried to talk you out of it, I suppose. What was the point, Nick? All these years.”

“The point was he wanted to see me. Before he died. I couldn’t say no to that.”

“Before he died?”

“I think he knew.”

Larry looked away, disconcerted. “What did he want, to tell you he was sorry?”

“More or less.”

“Christ. So off you go. Not a word. And the next thing I hear you’re in a Communist jail-”

“I was never in jail.”

“And now I’ve got the FBI all over me. Did you know your son is in Czechoslovakia? Oh, really. Fucking Hoover on the phone. Now I’m supposed to owe him one. God knows what that favor will be. Your son’s been arrested, but we got him out. Well, thanks, Edgar, I appreciate it. Do you have any idea what it’s been like?”

“They didn’t get me out. You don’t owe him anything.”

“Well, they still want to see you. Is there something else I should know before they start calling me again? What’s all this business about him coming back? What did he tell you?”

“He said he wanted to come home, that’s all. Maybe the FBI thought he meant it. I don’t know why. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Larry paused. “He said that, about coming back? Christ. What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t real, Larry, just some dream he had.” And here, with the sun flashing on the yellow taxis, was it anything more?

“How could he think-? Come home. He must have been out of his mind.”

“Yes, he must have been,” Nick said, an edge. “He killed himself.”

Larry stopped and looked down, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

Nick said nothing, letting the moment hang there, everything awkward. The chicken salad arrived. Larry sipped his iced tea.

“They said you found the body. That must have been-” He switched tack, avoiding it. “How did he do it? They didn’t say.”

“He jumped off the balcony,” Nick said, matter-of-fact.

“Jumped?”

“It’s an old Prague custom. Like Jan Masaryk.”

“Yes,” Larry said, surprised at the reference. “I remember.”

Another awkward pause, a sip of tea.

“That doesn’t always work. Was he still alive when you found him?” Larry asked, his tone almost delicate, talking around it, like asking a cancer patient the details of his medication because you couldn’t ask how it felt to die.

“No. No last words,” Nick said.

“It must have been terrible. Finding him.”

“Stay away from it. That’s why they thought I killed him, at first. It wasn’t jail, you know, just a few questions.”

“Christ, what a mess,” Larry said. “You’d think he’d have waited. Not while you were still there.”

“I don’t think he was thinking about that, Larry,” Nick said.

“No.” A quick step back.

“Maybe it’s because I was there. His seeing me. That’s what the police think.”

Larry grabbed his arm across the table, almost violent. “Don’t you think that. Ever. Don’t you do that to yourself.” Then he pulled his hand back and looked away. “Hell,” he said, general, meaningless, like shaking his fist in the air. He picked at his salad, letting the polite room settle around them. “What was he like?” he said finally, as if they were just making conversation.