Call Me Brooklyn Page 8

  I’m not sure exactly when the abandoned grounds begin to fill up with shapes. Leaning in a corner, a thin man with a black leather jacket watches the movements on the block closely. Every once in a while someone approaches him and there’s a quick exchange. Heroin, I imagine. The shadows of a prostitute and her client cross a vacant lot. I follow them with my eyes until they disappear behind an abandoned boat. I still can’t decide if I should move away from the phone booth. Some time passes—I don’t know how much—when I hear a very high-pitched whistle that reminds me of the cawing of wild birds, and the street again empties out. A few moments later, I see the red-and-blue glare, and moments after that the beams of light sweeping the asphalt. The patrol car advances down the street toward me. The glass of the booth reflects the multicolored lights. I hear static crackling, the clamor of voices coming from a radio. I feel eyes on me. The car slows down even more as it passes my booth, but it doesn’t quite stop. At the dry dock, it turns right and vanishes as eerily as it had appeared.

  Gal is nowhere to be seen. There’s no sense in my hanging around any longer. I cross various lots, leaving behind the Shipyard. I go up a slope sparsely covered with shrubs and arrive at a deserted street that winds along the river. I walk on, and as I turn a corner, the violent blaze of the skyscrapers on the southern tip of Manhattan surge up before me, a black mountain range whose peaks of varying heights are pierced by quadrilaterals of light. A street-sweeper rumbling by shakes me from my reverie. I follow behind, walking in the middle of the street, stepping on the glittering puddles of water it leaves in its wake until I see the distant glow of an empty cab and hail it. I climb in unsteadily and give him directions to my place. We take a side ramp onto the Brooklyn Bridge. 1:06 A.M. on the Watch Tower clock.

  Five

  ZADIE

  Hell’s Kitchen, October 23, 1973

  When I woke up, the insistent noise that had infiltrated my dream, something like the howling of a siren or the squawking of a seagull, had faded into the drone of an engine that was coming from the courtyard. The alarm clock glowed in the darkness. Six-thirty. What day of the week was it? I walked up to the hallway still half-asleep, opened the door, and retrieved the New York Times from the doormat. It was Sunday. Back inside, I lit a cigarette. The flame illuminated the hallway revealing my face in the mirror, haggard and unshaven from the night at the Chamberpot hanging out with Marc and Claudia. In the kitchen, with the lights off, I heated coffee from the day before and tossed the newspaper on the table. A photograph of Nixon, under some headlines that I couldn’t make out, shimmered under my eyes. The first sip of coffee helped me piece together last night’s events. After the Chamberpot I had gone to Claudia’s place. I had a vision of her naked body, her lips descending toward my cock, fucking. The first brightness of the morning—a pale, second-hand light came in through the window looking out on the courtyard. I drew the curtain to block the view of the brick wall across the way, turned on a lamp and placed the Underwood on the kitchen table, the best place in the house to write. I slid a sheet of carbon paper between two pages and rolled it in, then stared at the blank page. I needed to break the spell. But my mind was as blank as the page. The Underwood was at the mercy of a whirlwind of possibilities, storm clouds gathering over the slanted horizon of rounded keys, each with a letter or punctuation mark protected by a sharp-edged metal border. One idea, one word, one phrase, is enough to destroy the latent magic. Or to set it off. Marc says that he writes much better when he’s hungover, with his antennae clean and his sensibility raw, but I couldn’t get going. I caressed the cold steel frame of the Underwood, and then I glimpsed the corner of the letter protruding from the side of a pile of papers. I had slid it in between the pages of a notebook I bought in Deauville when I went to see Louise. Now, a tiny paper triangle peeked out of its pages, laying claim to my attention. I still hadn’t used the notebook, so its binding was stiff. I pulled at the corner of the envelope. It had been a week since I had opened it the morning after finding it in between the pages of the New York Times Magazine at Port Authority, and I hadn’t resealed it. I had looked at the contents of the envelope endless times. The image on the surface of the Polaroid was in danger of being worn down from having been looked at so often. I examined it one last time before putting glue on the edges of the flap and sealing the envelope. I liked the feel of the thick, double-weight paper, rough and soft at once. I passed my fingertip over the traces of ink, going over the name and phone number, letter by letter, digit by digit—large handwriting, rounded, somewhat childlike. I read the text aloud, as if doing so could provide more information.

  Zadie (212) 719-1859

  It’d be better to call tomorrow, Monday. For some reason, I’ve concluded that it’s a work number, although I have no real basis for my guess. It’s irrational, as was the reaction I had when the envelope slipped out of the pages of the magazine and I tried to cover it up, instinctively, as if I had just stolen it and was afraid someone would notice. In Deauville, news of Sam Evans’s death made me forget about the letter for a few hours, but that night, alone in my room, when I was about to start writing in my notebook, I came upon the envelope again, which brought to mind everything that had happened at Port Authority. I thought that the best thing would be to open it very carefully and then, depending on what was in it, reseal it. I decided to wait until the next day and then steam it open in the kitchen while Louise painted upstairs in her studio. Another irrational urge. Why did I need to hide it from Louise? The entire operation of opening the envelope with steam was also a touch absurd. I had seen a character do something similar in an old black-and-white spy movie. I set myself to it. Mesmerized, I watched the flap of the envelope ripple and unseal like a wound with the stitches coming loose. But I hadn’t counted on the sense of unease I would feel when I emptied the envelope. First, out came some sheets of rag paper, identical in texture to the envelope. As I was unfolding them, a Polaroid glided out and fell face down on the table. I flipped it over. It was a blurry picture, of very poor quality, but it was her, the girl from Port Authority. When I recognized her, my stomach knotted up just as when I had seen her in person. She was different in the Polaroid, dressed more formally, with her hair short. Her face and eyes, so alive when I had seen them up close, were devoid of expression.

  The man who was with her in the picture was the same one who had picked her up at the terminal. They were in a seaport, in wintertime, it seemed. He had his arm on her shoulder and they both smiled. There were scattered dots of light all over the surface of the Polaroid; that’s why the image was so fuzzy The note said:

  Dear Sasha,

  I am so glad about your new job, although now it will be even longer before you come to see your Nadia. Or am I wrong? I hope I am and that you come to visit New York soon. I am very happy with my violin classes. I am killing myself rehearsing for three concerts. I have also found a job. Well, three days a week, in the archives at the public library in Lincoln Center. Since she took up with her boyfriend, Zadie almost never comes to Brooklyn. I have the apartment practically to myself. The subway ride is too long, especially at night, but I like the neighborhood a lot. In Brighton Beach, almost everyone is Russian, and you almost don’t need to speak English, which is funny to me. My building is huge and I don’t like it except for one thing: I live on the thirtieth floor. The view of the coastline is amazing, you can see all of Coney Island and beyond. In the morning, the light in the dining room swallows you up. I’m not going to ask you to write, but you could call once in a while at least. Please don’t let so much time pass before we speak, and don’t make me be the one who has to call all the time. Tell me how things are going for you. Call, even if just to say that everything is okay. Has Boston changed a lot? I don’t know why I ask you all these questions that you will only ignore. I’m sick and tired of it, actually, but you should know that your sister misses you and loves you.

  Nadj

  October 24, 10 A.M.

  Leichliter and Asso
ciates, good morning.

  Good morning.

  How can I help you?

  May I speak with Zadie?

  Zadie Stewart? (Professional tone. I note the last name.)

  Yes, please.

  What is this in reference to?

  It’s a professional matter.

  (A long silence.)

  Who’s calling?

  Gal Ackerman.

  One moment, please.

  (Two short beeps, then a click, then another voice.)

  Hello?

  Ms. Stewart?

  Speaking. What can I do for you, Mr. Ackerman?

  Well, actually, it’s not a professional matter at all. Although I wouldn’t say it’s personal either, exactly.

  I’m afraid I don’t follow you. (A soft, patient tone.)

  I’m sorry. I’ll get right to the point. I’m calling because I need to return something that belongs to you or to someone you know. Around ten days ago . . . eleven to be exact, on the thirteenth, I picked up a magazine that someone had left on a bench at Port Authority. When my bus left New York, I started to look through it and inside found an envelope on which was written only a name, Zadie, and this number.

  And?

  I came back to the city on Saturday and thought I’d better wait till today to call. I don’t have the slightest idea what’s inside the envelope, but I thought it might be something important. That’s it.

  I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand. An envelope with my name and phone number?

  Right. It was inside a New York Times Magazine I found on a bench.

  Got it. I appreciate this, you’re very kind. Did I hear you say that you weren’t at all curious about what’s inside the envelope?

  Of course I’ve been curious. Very curious.

  But you haven’t opened it?

  (I hesitate before answering.)

  No.

  (Silence. Ms. Stewart has realized that I am lying.)

  I see. In that case, I suppose, you can’t tell me any more than you’ve already said.

  (Obstacle cleared. Relief on my part.)

  Indeed. If it’s all right with you, Ms. Stewart . . . Zadie. May I call you that? I can bring the envelope to you in person. (Silence.) I live in Midtown. I freelance, so my schedule is very flexible . . . (Terrible excuse, made worse by my nervous giggle.)

  You’re very kind, Mr. . . . Ackerman, but you really don’t have to put yourself to more trouble. I would appreciate it very much if you mail the envelope to Leichliter and Associates, care of me. The address is 252 East 61st, 10028.

  Are you sure you don’t want me to just bring it over?

  Very sure. It really isn’t necessary. Thank you again, Mr.

  Ackerman. Have a good day.

  (She hangs up. The hum of the line.)

  1 P.M.

  Strange and intense these last ten days, like a long tunnel between two nightmares, literally: one before leaving for Deauville and the other on my first night back in Hell’s Kitchen. I have to think, go over what’s happened, I’ve barely had time to take it all in. It was good that I went to Deauville, as always, despite the unexpected blow of the news of Sam’s death. I hardly wrote anything, not even in my diary; I spent the time strolling around, reading, thinking, and chatting with Louise. She’s doing well. She understands me like no one else, and leaves me alone most of the time. She works all day. She’s up to her neck with the preparations for an upcoming exhibition. At the end of the day—she always stops working the moment the last light fades—she likes me to go up to her studio. She pours herself a whiskey—a vodka for me—and she shows me what she’s done, smoking, not saying anything. We go back down to the kitchen and then we talk and talk. She asked me about my stories. I told her about the one that was getting published in the Atlantic Monthly, and gave her the last story I had written. I finished it the day before leaving for Deauville. It’s called “The Lights of the Synagogue,” and it’s about a Sephardi from Granada who one day decides to return to a Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn in search of his American ex-wife. It’s not exactly true that I didn’t write anything during my stay in Deauville. I wrote a biographical sketch of Sam, a memory, a good-bye piece, not even a tribute. It was hard to write. While I was on his turf, his absence was something very real. One morning, I went to see Rick, and by chance while I was there, Kim showed up—the woman who used to wash Sam’s clothes and cook his meals. Afterward, I walked to Stewart Foster’s ranch. He took me to the stables, filling me in on his new acquisitions and the most recent births. He insisted I stay for lunch, and, naturally, Sam came up during our conversation. That afternoon, while Louise painted, I wrote about Sam. But ever since returning to Hell’s Kitchen, my memories of him have become insubstantial. Everything has been tainted by that run-in at Port Authority—the letter, the picture. I don’t know why all of it is affecting me so much. Absurd, given it’s someone I don’t even know. But the fact is that I can’t get that woman Nadia out of my head.

  2:30 P.M.

  When I arrived on Saturday, there was a message from Marc on the answering machine telling me to stop by the Chamberpot around eight. He was with his buddies, drinking and playing pool. It felt good to see him again. He asked me to go walk with him to his place and when we got to his door, he asked if I wanted to come up for a drink. I told him I was tired but he insisted. Hours later, I woke up in the middle of the night, disoriented, thinking that I was still in Deauville. I was awake for a long time, smoking and looking through his books, and when I realized I wouldn’t fall back asleep, I left him a note and came here.

  9:30 P.M.

  Marc, you’re there. I’ve called you a few times.

  I was in Long Island, just got back. What mess have you gotten yourself into now? You better be careful, you saw what happened in Midtown yesterday.

  What happened?

  Haven’t you seen the papers? The Westies executed somebody right in the middle of the street. When I saw the picture, I recognized the guy. You know him too. He used to go by McCourt’s a lot. He’s the third one to go down this week. They’re not kidding around.

  I didn’t know. It’s been days since I’ve read a newspaper.

  You’re missing out. This Westies thing is better than a novel.

  Not to change the subject, but we have to talk.

  About the girl in the photograph?

  How did you know?

  Because it’s the only thing in your head, apparently. Nothing else interests you—and you just proved it. Yesterday it was all you talked about all night.

  There’s been a development, that’s why I’m calling you.

  Oh, yeah? Go on then.

  I finally called the number on the envelope this morning, and spoke to that Zadie woman. She works for a company called Leichliter. I didn’t ask what kind of company it was, but it sounds like a real-estate agency or something. I have the address. It’s not far from my place, but as much as I insisted, she didn’t want me to deliver the envelope in person. So I need your help.

  Me? What do you want me to do?

  To come with me to her office. Sending that envelope by mail is out of the question. I think you should give it to her in person, pretending you’re me. I’ll wait for you in a coffee shop nearby. This way I can follow her around without her suspecting anything . . . until I can meet up with my friend again.

  You mean the girl from the bus?

  Who else? Her name is Nadia.

  Yeah, yeah, I remember. You’ve told me like twenty times. So when do you want to do this?

  As soon as possible. Not now, of course. Can you get away tomorrow? Please. It’s important to me.

  I’ve noticed. But you’re in luck. I can go sometime before lunch, around eleven thirty. Is that good?

  October 25

  Things turned out pretty much as I expected. Almost right across the street from Leichliter there was a bar called the Next Door Lounge. I sat at a table by the window and somewhat anxiously followed Marc’s mo
vements. Midtown is full of people at that time of day. Walking with an exaggerated seriousness, Marc crossed the street and lifted the envelope over his head to signal at me. A couple of passersby turned to look at him. Then, becoming even more solemn, he walked up to a mailbox and made as if to put the envelope in. He put his right hand over his eyes, squinted, and pretended to scan the horizon. Finally, he showed me the envelope again, and making a slashing gesture across his throat as if I were putting his life at risk, headed for the front of Leichliter and Associates. Now I was the one who was squinting, trying to see what was happening on the other side of the street. I could see that he had spoken to a receptionist and was waiting. After a few moments, an assistant came up to him and he disappeared into one of the offices. Less than five minutes later, he was on his way back to the Next Door Lounge with a confused look.

  How was she?

  Who? Zadie? A beauty. We’re having dinner tonight. Too bad I don’t like girls.

  I’m taking this seriously, Marc, whether or not you think it’s worth it.

  Okay . . . the receptionist said that I could leave the letter with her, but I told her that I had instructions to deliver the letter to Zadie by hand, so she called her assistant who led me into Ms. Stewart’s office on the third floor. That one up there if I’m not mistaken.

  He pointed to a window on which the name of the firm was printed in an arch. From our spot, all you could see inside the office were some tubes of fluorescent lighting.

  And?