The Moment Read online

  THE

  MOMENT

  ALSO BY DOUGLAS KENNEDY

  FICTION

  Leaving the World

  The Woman in the Fifth

  Temptation

  State of the Union

  A Special Relationship

  The Pursuit of Happiness

  The Job

  The Big Picture

  The Dead Heart

  NONFICTION

  Chasing Mammon

  In God’s Country

  Beyond the Pyramids

  ATRIA BOOKS

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.simonspeakers.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Douglas Kennedy

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Atria Books hardcover edition May 2011

  ATRIA BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  “The Layers.” Copyright © 1978 by Stanley Kunitz, from THE COLLECTED POEMS by Stanley Kunitz. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.

  Alabama—song from Mahagony Songspiel, lyric by Bertolt Brecht, music by Kurt Weill, copyright © 1927 by European American Corporation and Universal Edition.

  Designed by Kyle Kabel

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Kennedy, Douglas.

  The moment : a novel / Douglas Kennedy. — 1st Atria Books hardcover ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Travel writers—Fiction. 2. Americans—Germany—Fiction. 3. Cold War—Fiction. 4. Foreign agents—Fiction. 5. Berlin (Germany)—History—1945–1990—Fiction. 6. Spy stories. gsafd 7. Love stories. gsafd I. Title.

  PR6061.E5956M66 2011

  823.914—dc22

  2010048577

  ISBN 978-1-4391-8079-2

  ISBN 978-1-4391-8080-8 (ebook)

  Contents

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PART FOUR

  NOTEBOOK ONE

  NOTEBOOK TWO

  PART FIVE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For five great friends:

  Noeleen Dowling of Grangegorman, Dublin,

  Anne Ireland of Falmouth, Maine,

  Howard Rosenstein of Montreal, Quebec,

  Judy Rymer of Sydney, New South Wales,

  and Roger Williams—across the street from me in Wiscasset, Maine.

  And to the memory of another great friend,

  Joseph Strick (1924–2010).

  Oh, I have made myself a tribe

  out of my true affections,

  and my tribe is scattered!

  How shall the heart be reconciled

  to its feast of losses?

  —Stanley Kunitz, The Layers

  THE

  MOMENT

  PART ONE

  ONE

  I WAS SERVED WITH divorce papers this morning. I’ve had better starts to the day. And though I knew they were coming, the actual moment when they landed in my hand still threw me. Because their arrival announced: this is the beginning of the end.

  I live in a small cottage. It’s located on a back road near the town of Edgecomb, Maine. The cottage is simple: two bedrooms, a study, an open-plan living/kitchen area, whitewashed walls, stained floorboards. I bought it a year ago when I came into some money. My father had just died. Though broke by the time that his heart exploded, he still had an insurance policy in place from his days as a corporate man. The policy paid out $300,000. As I was the sole child and the sole survivor—my mother having left this life years earlier—I was also the sole beneficiary. My father and I weren’t close. We spoke weekly on the phone. I made an annual three-day visit to his retirement bungalow in Arizona. And I did send him each of my travel books as they were published. Beyond that, there was minimal contact—a long-ingrained awkwardness always curtailing any ease or familiarity between us. When I flew out alone to Phoenix to organize the funeral and close up his house, a local lawyer got in touch with me. He said that he’d drawn up Dad’s will, and did I know I was about to receive a nice little payoff from the Mutual of Omaha Insurance Corporation?

  “But Dad was hard up for years,” I told the lawyer. “So why didn’t he cash in the policy and live on the proceeds?”

  “Good question,” the lawyer said. “Especially as I advised him to do that myself. But the old guy was very stubborn, very proud.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “I tried sending him some money once, not that I had much to offer him. He returned my check.”

  “The few times I saw your dad, he bragged to me about his son the well-known writer.”

  “I’m hardly well known.”

  “But you are published. And he was very proud of what you had accomplished.”

  “That’s news to me,” I said, remembering how Dad had hardly said anything about my books.

  “That generation of men—they often couldn’t articulate a damn thing they were feeling,” the lawyer said. “But he obviously wanted you to have some sort of legacy from him—so expect a payout of three hundred grand in the next couple of weeks.”

  I flew back east the next day. Instead of returning home to the house in Cambridge that I shared with my wife, I found myself renting a car at Logan Airport and pointing it in the direction of places north. It was early evening when I left the airport. I guided the car onto Interstate 95 and drove. Three hours later, I was on Route 1 in Maine. I passed through the town of Wiscasset, then crossed the Sheepscot River and pulled into a motel. It was mid-January. The mercury was well below freezing. A recent snowfall had bleached everything white, and I was the only guest at the inn.

  “What brings you up here at this time of year?” the clerk at the reception desk asked me.

  “No idea,” I said.

  I couldn’t sleep that night and drank most of the fifth of bourbon I had packed in my travel bag. At first light I got back into my rental car and started driving. I followed the road east, a narrow two-lane blacktop that snaked its way down a hill and around a curvy bend. Once that bend was negotiated, the payoff was spectacular. For there in front of me was a frozen expanse, shaded in aquamarine, a vast sheltered bay, fringed by iced woodlands, with a low-lying fog hovering above its glaciated surface. I braked, then got out of the car. A boreal wind was blowing. It chafed my face and nettled my eyes. But I forced myself to walk down to the water’s edge. A
meager sun was attempting to light up the world. Its wattage was so low that the bay remained dappled in mist, making it seem both ethereal and haunted. Though the cold was brutal, I couldn’t take my gaze off this spectral landscape. Until another blast of wind made me turn away from it.

  And at that precise moment I saw the cottage.

  It was positioned on a small plot of land, elevated above the bay. Its design was very basic—a one-storey structure, sided in weatherbeaten white clapboard. Its little driveway was empty. There were no lights on inside. But there was a “For Sale” sign positioned out in front. I pulled out my notebook, writing down the name and number of the Wiscasset real estate agent who was handling it. I was going to approach it, but the cold finally forced me back to the car. I drove off in search of a diner that served breakfast. I discovered one on the outskirts of town. Then I found the agent’s office on the main street. Thirty minutes after I crossed his threshold, we were back at the cottage.

  “Now I have to warn you that the place is a bit primitive,” the real estate agent said. “But it’s got great bones. And, of course, it’s right on the water. Better yet, it’s an estate sale. It’s been on the market for sixteen months, so the family will accept a reasonable offer.”

  The agent was right. The cottage was the wrong side of rustic. But it had been winterized. And thanks to Dad, the $220,000 asking price was now affordable. I offered one eighty-five on the spot. By the end of the morning, the offer had been accepted. The next morning I had—courtesy of the real estate agent—met a local contractor who was willing to redo the cottage within my budget of $60,000. By the end of the same day I finally called home and had to answer a lot of questions from my wife, Jan, about why I had been out of contact for the last seventy-two hours.

  “Because on the way back from my father’s funeral I bought a house.”

  The silence that followed this statement was an extended one—and, I realize now, the moment when her patience with me finally cracked.

  “Please tell me this is a joke,” she said.

  But it wasn’t a joke. It was a declaration of sorts, and one with a considerable amount of subtext to it. Jan understood that. Just as I knew that, once I informed her of this impulse buy, the landscape between us would be irreparably damaged.

  Yet I still went ahead and bought the place. Which, in turn, must mean that I really did want things to turn out this way.

  But that moment of permanent schism didn’t happen for another eight months. A marriage—especially one of twenty years’ duration—rarely ends with a decisive bang. It’s more like all the phases you go through when confronting a terminal illness: anger, denial, pleading, more anger, denial . . . though we never seemed to reach the “acceptance” part of the “journey.” Instead, during an August weekend when we came up to the now-renovated cottage, Jan chose to tell me that, for her, the marriage was over. And she left town on the next bus.

  Not with a bang, just with a . . .

  Subdued sadness.

  I stayed on at the cottage for the rest of the summer, only returning once to our house in Cambridge—when she was away for the weekend—to pack up all my worldly goods (books and papers and the few clothes I owned). Then I headed back north.

  Not with a bang, just with . . .

  Months passed. I didn’t travel for a while. My daughter, Candace, visited me at the cottage one weekend per month. Every second Tuesday (her choice) I would drive the half hour from my house down to her college in Brunswick and take her out for dinner. When we got together we talked about her classes and friends and the book I was writing. But we rarely mentioned her mother, except for one night after Christmas when she asked me:

  “You doing okay, Dad?”

  “Not bad,” I said, knowing that I was sounding reticent.

  “You should meet someone.”

  “Easier said than done in backwoods Maine. Anyway I’ve a book to finish.”

  “Mom always said that, for you, the books came first.”

  “Do you agree with that?”

  “Yes and no. You were away a lot. But when you were home, you were cool.”

  “Am I still cool?”

  “Way cool,” she said, giving my arm a squeeze. “But I wish you weren’t so alone.”

  “The writer’s curse,” I said. “You have to be alone, you have to be obsessive, and those nearest to you frequently find that hard to bear. And who can blame them?”

  “Mom once said that you never really loved her, that your heart was elsewhere.”

  I looked at her carefully.

  “There were many things before your mom,” I said. “Still, I did love her.”

  “But not always.”

  “It was a marriage—with all that that implies. And it did last twenty years.”

  “Even if your heart was elsewhere?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Only because you’re so evasive, Dad.”

  “The past is very much the past.”

  “And you really want to dodge that question, don’t you?”

  I smiled at my far too precocious daughter and suggested we have another glass of wine.

  “I have a German question,” she said.

  “Try me.”

  “We were translating Luther the other day in class.”

  “Is your professor a sadist?”

  “No, just German. Anyway, while working our way through a collection of Luther’s aphorisms, I found something pertinent . . .”

  “Pertinent to whom?”

  “No particular person. But I’m not certain if I got the quote exactly right.”

  “And you think I can help you?”

  “You’re fluent, Dad. Du sprichst die Sprache.”

  “Only after a couple of glasses of wine.”

  “Modesty is tedious, Dad.”

  “So, go on: tell me the quote from Luther.”

  “Wie bald ‘nicht jetz’ ‘nie’ wird.”

  I didn’t flinch. I just translated.

  “How soon ‘not now’ becomes ‘never.’”

  “It’s a great quote,” Candace said.

  “And, like all great quotes, it speaks a certain truth. What made you single it out?”

  “Because I worry I’m a ‘not now’ sort of person.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I can’t live in the moment; I can’t let myself be happy with where I am.”

  “Aren’t you being a little hard on yourself?”

  “Hardly. Because I know that’s how you are, too.”

  Wie bald ‘nicht jetz’ ‘nie’ wird.

  “The moment . . . ,” I said, as if trying out the word for the first time. “It’s a very overrated place.”

  “But it’s all we have, right? This night, this conversation, this moment. What else is there?”

  “The past.”

  “I knew you’d say that—because that’s your obsession. It’s in all your books. Why ‘the past,’ Dad?”

  “It always informs the present.”

  And because you can never really escape its grip, any more than you can come to terms with that which is terminal in life. Consider: my marriage may have started to disintegrate a decade ago, and the first sign of the endgame may have been that day last January when I bought the cottage in Maine. But I didn’t really accept the finality of it all until the morning after my dinner with Candace, when a knock came on my cottage door around eight fifteen.

  Now the few neighbors I have do know that I am not a morning person. This makes me rare in this corner of Maine, where everyone seems to get up an hour or so before dawn and where nine a.m. is already considered the middle of the day.

  But I never emerge into the world before noon. I’m a night man. I usually start writing after ten in the evening and generally work until three, at which point I nurse a nocturnal whiskey or two, watch an old film or read, and eventually climb into bed around five. I’ve been living this way since I started writing twenty-seven y
ears ago—a fact my wife found somewhat charming at the beginning of our marriage and a source of great frustration thereafter. “Between the travel and the all-night work binges, I have no life with you” was a common lament—to which I could only reply, “Guilty as charged.” Now, with my fiftieth birthday well behind me, I’m stuck with my vampiric lifestyle, the few times I ever see the dawn being those occasional nights when I’m on a roll and write until first light.

  But on this January morning a series of loud authoritarian knocks snapped me awake just as the tentative rays of a winter sun were cleaving the night sky. For a befuddled moment I thought I was in the middle of a mad Kafkaesque reverie—with the forces of some sinister state about to arrest me for unspecified thought crimes. But then I came to. Glancing at my bedside clock I saw that it was just after seven thirty a.m. The banging intensified. There really was someone pounding on the front door.

  I got out of bed, grabbed a bathrobe, and wandered to the front door. When I opened it I saw a squat man in a parka and a knitted hat standing outside. One hand was behind his back. He looked cold and aggrieved.

  “So you’re here after all,” he said, a fog of frozen breath accompanying his words.

  “Sorry?”

  “Thomas Nesbitt?”

  “Yes . . .”

  Suddenly the hand behind his back emerged. It was holding a large manila envelope. Like a Victorian schoolteacher using a ruler to discipline a child, he slammed the envelope right into the palm of my right hand.

  “You’ve been served, Mr. Nesbitt,” he said. Then he turned and got into his car.

  I stood in the doorway for several minutes, oblivious to the cold. I kept looking down at the large legal envelope, trying to come to terms with what had just transpired. When I felt my fingers going numb I finally went inside. Sitting down at the kitchen table I opened the envelope. Contained within was a petition for divorce from the State of Massachusetts. My name—Thomas Alden Nesbitt—was printed alongside that of my wife—Jan Rogers Stafford. She was named as the Petitioner. I was named as the Respondent. Before my eyes could take in anything else, I pushed the document away from me. I swallowed hard. I knew this was coming. But there a vast difference between the theoretical and the hard-faced typography of the actual. A divorce—no matter how expected—is still a terrible admission of failure. The sense of loss—especially after twenty years—is immense. And now . . .