Call Me Brooklyn Page 17

  “Unfortunately, we get a lot of calls like this,” Lt. Deluise commented.

  What Gal labeled “version” was his own transcription of the story he had read in the Times, which he had edited slightly. The original clipping wasn’t in the folder, although he’d cut out and preserved a picture of the note that had been pinned to the blanket used to wrap the child. Gal had taped the picture right below his version of the article:

  Please Take Care of my Daughter.

  She was Born on April 26, 1991 at

  12:42 pm. Her Name is April Olivia

  I Love Her very much

  Thank You

  She Died at 10:30 am On April 29, 1991

  I’m sorry.

  In the second folder there was a sort of sketch of the area Gal called the Shipyard at the Brooklyn piers. Looking at it brought back memories of the time I’d been there with him. In the margins of the paper, outside the perimeter of the Shipyard there were some names I recognized: Atlantic Avenue, Luna Bowl, the Oakland. An arrow originating from the first name pointed directly to the middle of the avenue and next to each of the other two names, there was a cross, penciled in blue, from which there emerged a second and third arrow pointing to two buildings on the map. I noted too that there were places Gal had singled out within the boundaries of what he called the Shipyard: the names sounded familiar from Gal’s conversation, although I wasn’t quite sure what they meant to him. I read the words many times over, as if they held some hidden meaning: Dry Dock, Round Tower, Water Tank. Elsewhere on the page, Gal had written the words “temple” and “altar.” There were five or six spots labeled in this way, scattered around the Shipyard. There was also a series of dotted lines, the meaning of which I was unable to decipher: some of these joined together different places marked on the map, while others seemed to float in space, where nothing had been written. Lower down on the page was a date: June 1, 1989. So the map of the Shipyard was two years old. Before putting it away, I studied the sketch at length, and as I did, I began to remember more and more clearly details from the one time I had gone to the piers with Gal. His imaginary geography wasn’t entirely foreign to me. The temples, the altars . . . I had been there with Gal. He had shown me those places, explaining what they meant. I had stood before those mounds he had decorated so strangely, and I had climbed the steps of the decrepit, yellowish brick building that he had named the Temple of Time . . .

  In the third folder was a carbon copy of a letter from Nadia that Gal had typed up with great care. As is the case with the letter that Abe Lewis wrote to Ben Ackerman, letting him know about his encounter with Pietri, I have not been able to find the original manuscript or typescript.

  January 20, 1980

  Dear Gal,

  I’m writing from Coney Island to tell you that there’s something wrong with me, and I don’t know what it is. I feel like crying but I can’t. Remember when I told you that sometimes when I’m in this kind of mood, I see images of the sea that seem to be coming to my rescue? You used to laugh, but that’s exactly how I feel now. A little while ago, I heard a tiny, weak voice—it was hard to make it out. No, it’s not one of my episodes; let me tell you. It was me, my own voice when I was a little girl in Laryat. You have to believe me. I made a test. I closed my eyes and I could see everything as it was back then: an opaline sky and a lake. No, it’s not in Laryat and it’s not a lake. It’s the sea and I am four years old, because that was my age when we came to America. On the beach road there’s Dad’s blue Mustang, and it’s Nantucket, because that’s where we spent our first summer. Sasha is not with us. I don’t know why. My parents are very young, younger than I am now. The very idea of that makes me uneasy, but let me go on with my memory. I see father’s masculine, athletic body; he’s wearing a black, tight-fitting bathing suit with a white stripe on each side. He comes up to me smiling, lifts me in the air, and gives me a kiss. My mother is sitting on a towel. She’s wearing sunglasses and is smearing a white lotion on her legs. Gal, do you think it’s possible for me to remember things from when I was four years old in such detail?

  My father puts me back on my towel. He darts off toward the shore, runs into the water, and when it reaches his hips he dives in without a splash and my mother returns to her book. The crests of the waves move in an orderly fashion, forming hollows in which the figure of my father surfaces and submerges. I can’t take my eyes off the tiny dot of his bobbing head, which looks smaller each time till it disappears. I panic at the thought that he may not come back, that the sea has swallowed him. I look at my mother, but she doesn’t seem the least bit alarmed. Although she must have noticed something, because she takes off her sunglasses and smiles at me, as if to say I shouldn’t worry. I have a picture of her on that same beach. She’s looking at the camera holding her sunglasses in one hand, wearing the same bathing suit, a floral print with anemones that contrasts against her tan skin. Her toenails are painted a very bright red, a red I can see now in all its vividness even though the picture is in black and white.

  Papa hasn’t drowned, his head resurfaces; I see his arms flashing rhythmically as they go in and out of the water—a wake of foam trailing behind him. When I see him swim back, getting closer and closer to the shore, I scream with joy. Unable to control myself, I run up to meet him, and he takes me in his arms. The water is freezing and I get the chills, but I love it. He walks up to my mother, who puts her book in the straw bag next to her and gets up. From this moment on, she’s the only living thing in the entire universe to me. She puts on her swim cap, gathers her hair and tucks it in, leaving only the soft hairs at the back of her neck visible, and fastens the rubber strap under her chin.

  She does things differently from my father. She doesn’t plunge; she walks into the sea and when the water covers her knees, she crouches, splatters her shoulders and chest carefully, then goes on until she can’t touch bottom. She’s an elegant, delicate swimmer. And she doesn’t stray from the shore but glides parallel to it. And I’m never, ever afraid that she will drown, not only because she’s always careful enough to stay within sight, for my sake, but especially because, knowing that I’m watching her, every now and then she stops to wave at me.

  Papa isn’t much of a reader, so he always comes up with something else to do with me. He takes me by the hand and tells me stories about everything around us. I loved hearing his explanations, always so detailed, and the way he pronounced certain words, whose meaning only he knew. He made me repeat them till I’d learned them by heart. There were a lot of them. Remember I used to recite them to you? The rocks on the breakwater were tetrapods. One word that I couldn’t pronounce without cracking up was coelenterate. I can’t tell you how much I loved those walks, which my father called “verbal hunting expeditions.” Our games ended when my mother began to swim toward the shore and we went to wait for her.

  Once, shortly after one of our games, while the three of us were sitting on the sand, we saw a disturbance way out in the water. My father explained to me that it was a school of dolphins. A few days later, on the ferry, the waters by the side of the boat began to swirl. We leaned over the railing and I asked my mother whether it was sharks, and she laughed and said no. No, Nadj, my love, they are dolphins, just like the ones we saw on the beach. Don’t you remember? She said it in a way that made it obvious she cared very much about them. You really like them, don’t you, Mama? She said she did. And when I asked her why, she said, Because they are just like you, Nadj: they’re little kids. Dolphins have the souls of children. And Papa explained to us that the reason why humans were always cheered up by the sight of them was the fact that they laughed, even though we couldn’t hear it. The dolphins remained with us for a good while, on that trip, as if they were interested in what we were saying.

  One day, taking a stroll at the Boston seaport, I saw one up close. It was dead, with its mouth open—very small. It made me feel so sad because it was just a baby. I asked my mother what made men kill such innocent creatures. She explained to
me that they didn’t do it on purpose—the dolphins became tangled in fishing nets. It wasn’t enough, though, that explanation—I went on thinking that the fishermen must have been killing them on purpose.

  It’s so strange being in the Brighton Beach apartment without you. When I came in, many memories came rushing back, most of them of you. It’s been years since I was here. The place is mostly empty. Zadie got married and is going to sell it. You don’t know how much that saddens me. I want to see you so badly, have you here, next to me, but not quite yet. I need to be alone for a while, get used to the pain of the loss. I know exactly what’s wrong with me. The irony of it is that it’s you of all people that I need to tell. It’s not fair, but I can’t help it: Gal, I’ve had another miscarriage. Not again, please, I said, and went to the gynecologist, who explained to me that the likelihood of my carrying a child to term was getting smaller every time. I thought I’d die from the grief, at first. I’ve heard people say that drowning is an especially agonizing way to die, but I find that hard to believe; on the contrary, I imagine it must be a very sweet death compared to this, going numb bit by bit until you’re gone. Forgive me, Gal, I’m talking nonsense but I don’t know what else to do to relieve my suffering. And I have a good reason to suffer. I most likely will never be able to bear children.

  There are chance occurrences that I don’t know how to interpret. I guess they mean nothing. Coincidences, that’s all. The day I went to the clinic was my twenty-ninth birthday. It seems impossible. Where has the time gone? You turn a corner and you’re old. Look at my mother, sixty-one years old already; it seems inconceivable to me that she’s lost that stunning beauty that once turned heads. In the mornings, when I get out of the shower, I look at my body, check up on the damage, the ravages of time on my face, the wrinkles around my eyes, my lips; nobody else can see them, they’re too subtle, but I know they are there. I’m not complaining—it’s not that. The truth is I don’t mind getting old. It’s inevitable, so it makes no sense to try to pretend it’s not happening. But above all, Gal, I don’t mind getting old because I am not afraid of what’s in store for me. I’ve lost all hope. I’m trying not to deceive myself. I’m approaching the future as if it were the edge of a cliff. There’s nothing out there waiting for me, in the void. Sometimes I find beauty in moments, places, or people. But I’m not capable of holding on to anything, of risking it all for someone, Gal. You know that better than anyone. No one knows me like you do. Something in me keeps me searching, even though I couldn’t tell you for what. Is that why I wanted to have a son, I mean, a daughter? Or was it just a whim, something irrational, inexplicable? Maybe it was just Nature, although of course I know women who would shudder at the idea of having kids. A child, Gal, a daughter. I guess I’ll have to resign myself to the fact it won’t happen. That’s why I’m satisfied with the smallness of certain moments. Beauty is just about the only thing that comforts me, although often it’s tinted by sadness. You know, the world is full of people who know what they want. They’ll do anything to get it. But me, I just don’t know, I’ve never known what I really want. I don’t try to impose my will on the world: I accept things as I find them. And if I can ever manage for a moment to peek behind the veils that hide their true nature, sometimes a little miracle happens, an instant of real peace or beauty. We should be happy with that. In the end, that may be what it means to get old. It’s like autumn, a prelude to the death of things. Like snow, like fire. Things that are simply beautiful. But for me they are also sorrowful—I can’t help it. I write all this thinking that one day you will read it. As I write it, I feel that my ideas become clearer and I understand things better. When I was with you, I could never talk to you this way: it’s not possible when someone is so close to you. When there’s so little space between us, all we can do is to understand each other through our bodies. You told me that. If I had you here, I would like to touch you, to bite you, sweetly or in anger. That’s what happens when desire takes over. As it is, so far away, while night falls, I’m writing words that, when we were together, didn’t know how to be born on their own. They rush toward me now, here, and here I leave them for your eyes only.

  Let me make a confession, Gal. All of a sudden, I stopped writing, just for a moment. I needed to speak to you, hear your voice, so I went to the phone, and without lifting it off the hook, I dialed the number of the Oakland . . . several times. Each time I did it, I said to myself: what if I call him for real? Only to remind myself that it can’t be. I let the dial rotate back one last time and when it came to rest, I went back to this letter. I mean, let’s suppose that it’s a real one, even though I’ll probably never send it. You know, in the clinic, when I came to, I spoke Russian for a while with the nurse who was attending me. She was Ukrainian, from Kiev, and her name was Inna. I asked her about the gender of my unborn child. She gave me a reproachful look for asking something that we both already knew. I was seven weeks pregnant. But when she saw me cry, she said it was a girl. I asked, What do they do with it? She turned around indignantly and walked out. But, really, Gal, what do they do? What is it that they do with these unborn children? Something horrible I once heard came into my head: they use them to make cosmetics. Their tissues are so delicate that they’re perfect to make products to help people look young. It was a girl. When they told me, I remembered how you said once that one day we would have a baby girl and we would call her Brooklyn. Brooklyn, imagine that. Sorry, sorry. How strange it is to need to talk to you so badly when I know that you can’t hear me. How strange that this is the only way I can talk to you. Now I’m positive that the best thing would be not to send you this letter in which I’m just jotting down my wandering thoughts. I probably won’t. I know it wouldn’t mean the same thing to you. It would make a big difference to you, yes, but most likely I won’t. At any rate, whether I send it or not, it’s already done me good. It’s enough for me to know that you are there. I feel that if I put my thoughts down on paper, they’ll somehow get to you no matter what. I can even hear your voice, soothing me, telling me that everything is fine, saying I should go to sleep. You always told me I was very fragile, but that’s where you were wrong. I’m actually very strong. As a matter of fact, you’ve always been the weak one. Weaker than me. I’ll leave you now because I’m very tired. I’ve taken a pill and I don’t know what I’m writing anymore.

  A kiss from your

  Nadj

  After reading Nadia’s letter, there was a riot of conflicting memories in my head. I put the folder away, feeling almost feverish, as if this action could shut it all away—the story of April Olivia, the scenes evoked by the map of the Shipyard, today’s date, and now Nadia’s words, which brought her to life for me for the first time as someone real, not just some ghostly projection of Gal’s imagination. All of it filled me with dread. I had a premonition that, though vague, didn’t presage anything good.

  Dylan stuck his head inside my cubicle, making me return to reality.

  I brought you the special of the day. Here’s your change.

  Thanks, Dylan. Listen, something’s come up. I have to go.

  What about the sandwich?

  I’m not hungry anymore.

  And the article?

  Typed up. I edited the ending a bit, though.

  Non ti preocupare de niente . . . I’ll take care of it. But hey, you seem upset. Did something happen? Are you all right?

  Yeah, I’m fine. It’s Gal.

  Something happen to him?

  I don’t think so, I don’t know. Enough questions, Dylan. I’ll explain everything tomorrow.

  You got it, boss. My apologies . . . He was going to add something, but I rushed past him down to the lobby.

  Outside, I practically threw myself in front of a cab. When it stopped, I barked at the driver to take me to Brooklyn Heights.

  Frank was at the bar, chatting with Víctor Báez.

  I blurted out everything about my run-in with Gal that morning at Fuad’s place. Frank listened attent
ively and, when I was finished, raised his right hand urging me to calm down, and told his assistant to call the Luna Bowl. Infected by my nervousness, Víctor rushed to the phone booth by the jukebox.

  Spoke to Jimmy, he said as soon as he hung up. He’s got his eyes peeled too. It seems that old man Cletus told him he had seen Gal wandering around near the gym in the afternoon, although he never went near the door. According to Cletus, he seemed very upset. He went up to him to make sure he was all right, but Gal ignored him and went off toward the piers. He was making weird gestures. Cletus says he saw him trip a couple of times and almost fall.

  Frank took off his cap and scratched his head.

  What’s today’s date, Ness?

  June first.

  Damn, of course. How could I forget?

  This is the folder he asked me to give to you, I said. He insisted I look inside. Everything has to do with Nadia, today’s date, and the piers.

  I gave him the folder. Frank handed it to Víctor with a thoughtful expression.

  Put it in my office, please.

  [Copied from my diary, August 6, 1989. Notes toward a pastiche of Gal’s style.]

  “On How Néstor Oliver-Chapman Heard about the

  Shipyard for the First Time.”

  (A Very Brief Account)

  One morning the police showed up unexpectedly at the Oakland. Apparently, some teenagers who had been messing around shooting at rats with pellet guns around the garbage dumps near the Dry Dock had found a man passed out near one of the piers. The closest thing to an ID that they had found on him was the Oakland’s business card, with Frank’s name. That’s why they had come.

  Frank’s voice:

  They were two tall guys, one dark-skinned, Italian-looking, and the other one was this big kid, with a very wide handlebar mustache, blond hair, and blue eyes—Irish, apparently, from the nametag: MacCarthy. The Irish cop’s belt was more than a little lopsided, so he reached down to hoist it up and told me they had just come from the piers. An ambulance had taken the unidentified man to Long Island College Hospital. The business card they had found on him . . .