Less assumes, during the fourth week, that his assistant is heartbroken. Already serious in demeanor, Hans is positively morose, sitting through the lesson with two hands holding up a head that seems as heavy as bronze. Surely a girl problem, one of those beautiful, witty, chain-smoking bisexual German girls in vintage American clothes and ironed blond hair; or a foreigner, a beautiful Italian in copper bracelets who flies back to Rome to live with her parents and curate a modern-art gallery. Poor, bruised-looking Hans. Less realizes the truth only while diagramming the structure of Ford Madox Ford on the board, when he turns around to find Hans has fainted onto his desk. From his breathing and his pale complexion, Less recognizes the fever.
He calls the students to take the poor boy to the Gesundheitszentrum and then goes to visit Dr. Balk in his sleek modern office. It takes three repetitions before Dr. Balk, wading through the stuttered German and then sighing “Aha,” understands Less needs a new teaching assistant.
The next day, Less hears Dr. Balk is down with a mysterious illness. In class, two young women quietly faint at their desks; as they collapse, their twin ponytails fly up like the tails of frightened deer. Less is beginning to see a pattern.
“I think I am a little spreading,” he tells Bastian over dinner at his local Kiez. Less initially found the menu so baffling—divided into Minor Friends, Friends Eaten with Bread, and Major Friends—that nightly he has ordered the schnitzel over vinegary potato salad, along with a tall shimmering beer.
“Arthur, you’re not making sense,” Bastian says, cutting himself a piece of Less’s schnitzel. “Spreading?”
“I think I am a little illness spreading.”
Bastian, mouth full, shakes his head. “I don’t think so. You didn’t get sick.”
“But everyone else is sick!” The waitress comes over with more bread and Schmalz.
“You know, it’s a weird sickness,” Bastian says. “I was feeling fine. And then you were talking to me, I felt light-headed and started burning up. It was terrible. But just for one day. I think the Brussels-sprout juice helped.”
Less butters a piece of dark bread. “I did not give Brussels-sprout juice.”
“No, but I dreamed that you did. The dream helped.”
A perplexed look from our author. He changes the subject: “Next week I have an event.”
“Yes, you told me,” Bastian says, reaching to take a sip from Less’s beer; he has finished his own. “You’re doing a reading. I’m not sure I can make it. Readings are usually boring.”
“No no no, I am not never boring. And next week a friend of mine is getting married.”
The German’s eyes roam to a television set, where a football match is playing. Absently, he asks, “A good friend? Is she upset that you’re not going?”
“Yes, good friend. But it is a man—I do not know the German word. More than friend, but in the past.” A Friend Eaten with Bread?
Bastian looks back at Less, seemingly startled. Then he leans forward, taking Less’s hand, smiling with amusement. “Arthur, are you trying to make me jealous?”
“No, no. It is the ancient past.” Less squeezes Bastian’s hand and lets it go, then tilts his head so that the lamp lights his face. “What do you think of my beard?”
“I think it needs more time,” Bastian says after some consideration. He takes another bite of Less’s meal and looks at him again. He nods and says, very seriously, before turning again to the television: “You know, Arthur, you’re right. You’re never boring.”
A phone call, translated from German into English:
“Good afternoon, Pegasus Publications. This is Petra.”
“Good morning. Here is Mr. Arthur Less. I have concern about tonight.”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Less! Yes, we talked earlier. I assure you everything’s fine.”
“But to double…triple-check about the time…”
“Yes, it’s still at twenty-three hours.”
“Okay. Twenty-three hours. To be correct, this is eleven at night.”
“Yes, that’s right. It’s an evening event. It’s going to be fun!”
“But it is a mental illness! Who will come to me at eleven at night?”
“Oh, trust us, Mr. Less. This isn’t the United States. It’s Berlin.”
Arranged by Pegasus Verlag, in association with the Liberated University and the American Institute for Literature, as well as the U.S. Embassy, the scheduled reading takes place not in a library, as Less has expected, or in a theater, as Less has hoped, but in a nightclub. This also seems a “mental illness” to Less. The entrance is under U-Bahn tracks in Kreuzberg and must have been some kind of engineering shaft or East German escape route, for once Less is past the bouncer (“I am here the author,” he says, sure that this is all a mistake), he finds himself inside a great vaulted tunnel covered in white tile that sparkles with reflected light. Otherwise, the room is dim and full of cigarette smoke. At one end, a mirrored bar glows with glassware and bottles; two men in ties work behind it. One seems to be wearing a gun in shoulder holster. At the other end: the DJ, in a big fur hat. The loud thrum of minimal techno beats is in the air, and people on the floor wag back and forth in the pink and white lights. In ties, in trench coats, in fedoras. One carries a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. Berlin is Berlin, Less supposes. A woman in a Chinese dress, her red hair held up in chopsticks, approaches him with a smile. She has a pale sharp powdered face, a painted beauty mark, and matte red lips. She speaks to him in English: “Well, you must be Arthur Less! Welcome to Spy Club! I’m Frieda.”
Less kisses her on each cheek, but she leans in for a third. Two in Italy. Four in Northern France. Three in Germany? He will never get this right. He says, in German: “I am surprised and perhaps delighted!”
A quizzical look, and laughter. “You speak German! How nice!”
“Friend says I speak like a child.”
She laughs again. “Come on in. Do you know about Spy Club? We throw this party once a month in some secret spot or another. And people come dressed! Either CIA or KGB. And we have themed music, and themed events, like you.” He looks again at the dancers, at the people gathered near the bar. In fur caps and hammer-and-sickle badges; in fedoras and trench coats; some, he thinks, seem to be carrying guns.
“I see, yes,” he says. “Who are you dressing to be?”
“Oh, I’m a double agent.” She stands back for him to admire her outfit (Madame Chiang Kai-shek? Burmese seductress? Nazi camp follower?) and smiles winningly. “And I brought this for you. Our American. That polka-dot bow tie is perfect.” From her purse she produces a badge and pins it to his lapel. “Come with me. I’ll get you a drink and introduce you to your Soviet counterpart.”
Less pulls at his lapel so that he can read what is written there:
YOU ARE ENTERING
THE AMERICAN SECTOR