What We Are Made Of [antikvár]

chapter one Engel They were late. They had no idea how long the taxi ride would take from the hotel down to 29th Street. They just wished, jet-lagged, exhausted, that the hot summer city would keep on passing by the car windows, while they shd towards each other on the soft back seat of the car, into the blast of air conditioning that dried their sweat until they started shivering. With exhaustion, he said. With excitement, said Liz, They kissed, stared outside, and then they were there. Just three steps through the evening, its air damp and heavy, and they were standing in the agreeably metallic chill of a restaurant whose French name Niklas Kalf had quickly memorized and, as they entered, promptly forgotten. Businessmen with braces, their jackets over their arms, jostled noisily at the bar by the door, women in linen suits held cocktail glasses, the barkeepers behind the counter had a lot to do and didn't smile. The restaurant itself was so dark that only the candles and the white tablecloths gleamed coldly, gold-framed mirrors and high-backed leather benches by the walls, bistro tables in front of them in a narrow line. Kalf recognized Albert Snowe immediately. Late forties, white shirt, red tie, and distinct stubble. He was