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wasn’t something she could talk to him about, because he would only use it somehow.
    It wasn’t until she reached the airport that she called Geneva. Apparently, said Moritz, the three of them were alive. The Foreign Ministry had nobody reliable on the spot, he didn’t know of anyone who could be trusted with the negotiations. “The secretary of state?”
    “If all goes well, I’ll be speaking to him today.”
    “Where are you, actually?”
    “Don’t ask. Long story.” She let the hand holding the phone drop, Leo was already lining up at the departure gate, although none of the boarding personnel had yet appeared. She signaled to him, he shook his head violently, and waved to her to hurry up and join him. “I’ll call you back later.”
    In arrivals, they were met by a Mrs. Riedergott from the cultural institute. She was wearing a woolen jacket and thick spectacles. Her hair was pinned up, and her face seemed to be made of congealed pastry. “Mr. Richter, where do you get all your ideas?”
    “Bathtub,” said Leo, eyes closed.
    “And tell me, do you write …”
    “Always in the afternoons.”
    She thanked him for the information. The humidity made damp clouds in the streets, a president’s face grinned down off the wall posters, and whenever the traffic lights turned red, half-naked children jumped into the road and performed tricks.
    “I’m very tired,” said Leo. “As soon as my lecture is over this evening I need to leave.”
    “Out of the question,” said Mrs. Riedergott. “The ambassador’s expecting you. A big reception, it’s all been planned for weeks.”
    At the hotel Leo called the PEN Club and canceled the trip to Central Asia. Please would they turn to someone else, Maria Rubinstein the crime writer for example, she’d been saying to him only recently that she’d like to start doing more. He then sent a text message to Maria: Possible trip, v. interesting, alas can’t, PLS accept, I owe you, PLS thanksthanksthanks L. Then he spent some time complaining to Elisabeth about Mrs. Riedergott: her face, her total impassivity, her stolid arrogance. Was there anything worse than these people?
    “Yes,” said Elisabeth. “Yes, there is.”
    After that they made love, and this time it wasn’t a dream: for a moment all thoughts of captured colleagues were erased, and when she pressed her hand to his face so hard that he almost couldn’t breathe, he forgot for several seconds to keep up his complaining and his usual running commentary. Then it was over, and they were each themselves again, and a little embarrassed, as if realizing how little they knew each other.
    Leo gave his lecture in the ambassador’s residence. Germans from industry, business, and the Foreign Service were there, the room was filled with men in suits and women with pearl necklaces, and the villa looked like the villa from the day before, and once again a city was spread out beneath them, and had it not been even hotter and the air terrible, you would have thought you were in the same place. Leo spokeextemporaneously, his head tilted back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He performed well, but Elisabeth could feel his anger. Had it been within his power, he would have condemned every one of them to death. Leo was not a well-meaning man. He didn’t wish the best for people. This was so self-evident that she had to wonder once again why nobody seemed to pick up on it; and yet again she was forced to realize that people were bound up in their own preoccupations and worries, and registered so little of what was actually going on in front of them. When Leo finished there was applause, and then the previous day’s reception repeated itself like a nightmare all over again: someone introduced himself as Mr. Riet, another as Dr. Henning, and then here came Mrs. Riedergott again, pale with excitement, because the ambassador was standing at her side, clapping Leo on the shoulder and asking where did he get his ideas from. He’d