Told almost exclusively through dialogue, Konfidenz opens with a woman entering a hotel room and receiving a call from a mysterious stranger who seems to know everything about her and the reasons why she has fled her homeland. Over the next nine hours he tells her many disturbing things about her lover (who may be in great danger), the political situation in which they are enmeshed, and his fantasies of her. A terse political allegory that challenges our assumptions about character, the foundations of our knowledge, and the making of history, Konfidenz draws the reader into a postmodern mystery where nothing—including the text itself—is what it seems.
As soon as the woman enters room 242, the phone rings.
She does not answer immediately. She remains there in the doorway, her suitcase in one hand and the key in the other, examining the empty room, as if waiting for someone to appear out of nowhere and answer.
The phone rings again.
I see the woman hesitate for one more moment. Then, suddenly in a hurry, she lets the suitcase fall, crosses the room, and picks up the receiver. Before she can speak, she hears the voice of a man.
“Barbara?”
It’s a voice the woman has never heard before.
“Who’s this?”
“One of Martin’s friends.”
“That’s a relief. I was beginning to get worried. Martin wasn’t waiting for me at the . . .”
“But the chauffeur did come to . . .”
“Yes, but he didn’t bring any message from Martin. He seemed deaf and dumb. And the truth—”
“The truth?”
“It seemed strange that Martin should send a limousine. Not exactly his style. ”
“I sent the limo, Barbara.”
“Thanks, but you shouldn’t have bothered.”
“I wanted to make sure you had a smooth arrival, Barbara. Your departure must have been a bit difficult.”
“It wasn’t, well—easy.”
“But you’re here.”
“My father has connections.”
“So you shouldn’t have trouble going back.”
“Why should I have trouble?”
“Some people do.”
“I don’t expect any trouble whatsoever.”
“I’m glad to hear that, for your sake. It’s always good to be able to go back to one’s own country.”
“You’re also from . . . ?”
“I thought you would have guessed by now.”
“Are you?”
“Not anymore.”
“Not anymore? Martin never told me he had a friend who . . .”
“A friend who—what?”
“A friend like you.”
“You got letters from him?”
“He wrote a lot.”
“And he never . . . ?”
“No.”
“He probably had better things to write about.”
If someone were watching her, it might seem that she hesitates, that she waits before answering. The pause, if it exists at all, lasts only for an instant. Then she says:
“What I’d like to know is why Martin didn’t . . . ?”
“He couldn’t make it to Paris today.”
“Where is he?”
“On his way.”
“And he asked you to take care of me?”
“Not exactly.”
“So then why have you . . . ? When is he coming?”
“As soon as he can.”
“Look, Mr. . . . Mr. . . . Excuse me, but I don’t believe you told me your name.”
“You can call me Leon.”
“Does that mean your name isn’t Leon?”
“It matters that much—what someone’s called? Here in France, people call me Leon.”
“Look, Mr. Leon, I —”
“Just Leon. No misters, please.”
She does not answer right away. She has the feeling that someone is watching her. She turns. Through the half-open door, a maid who is pretending to clean up observes her.
“Can you hold on for a second . . . Leon?”
She goes to the door. The maid does not react. While her hand continues polishing a small marble table in the hallway, she stares into the room. Barbara doesn’t say a thing. She brings the suitcase in and closes the door.
“Leon?”
“Something happened to you.”
“A maid was looking at me through the door.”
“Through the keyhole?”
“I’d left the door open when I —”
“The French can be extremely intrusive. Don’t worry about it. They hate us because of —”
“I don’t know what I’m doing in this hotel. Martin has an apartment.”
“You were surprised when the chauffeur brought you to the hotel?”
“It is slightly—extravagant. But I thought Martin—well, he wanted someplace special to welcome me—you know . . .”
“Yes. Someplace romantic.”
“Of course, a romance needs two participants, Leon, and as I see no sign of Martin—it might be better if I went to Martin’s apartment to wait for him. Don’t you think so?”
“And you know the address?”
“Not really. He asked me to write to a post office box, he told me—”
“That concierges in Paris can’t be trusted with the mail, right?”
“Yes, that is what he wrote to me, in fact. But I know that it’s in the rue des Canettes, his apartment, I mean. Of course you must know the address. Given that you seem to know so much about him.”
“And what if Martin no longer lived there?”
“He didn’t tell me he was moving.”
“Moving is not the word I would use.”
She waits for a moment. From a nearby church, a bell begins to peal. When it stops, all she can hear is the sudden agitated flapping of a pigeon’s wings against her window. Finally, she speaks:
“Look, Leon, you don’t have to go on pretending with me.”
Something seems to change in the man’s voice:
“What do you mean?”
“Something’s happened to him. To Martin.”
“Oh.”
“So you really don’t need to pretend any longer. I know that something’s happened. That’s why I came. I would never have come if I hadn’t — I don’t like to leave the —”
“The boys. Yes. Martin told me that you’re working with those boys. Did you bring copies of the photos?”
“Some. Why are you asking?”
“Just wondering. I’d like to see what they see. The city as they —”
“They’re very talented. I’m just worried whether they’ll be able to manage until I —”
“I’m sure they’ll manage without you.”
“I don’t think so. They need me. But when I got Martin’s urgent note . . .”
“Life or death.”
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