A Replacement Life (13 page)

There was a commotion down the hall. Through the knuckles rubbing his eyes, he registered Beau making his way toward the Junior Staff pen. As Beau passed, the heads of writers and editors popped out of the offices that lined the hallway, several deciding to join the boss’s procession, as if he were leading a chorus. By the time Beau arrived in front of Junior Staff, he had an entourage.

“Morning,” Beau said, surveying the Juniors. With two thumbs, he snapped his suspenders. He held a box cutter. “Mr. Grayson?” he called out. With a great exhalation, Junior Staff’s bow-tied captain bounced from his chair. (Mr. Grayson smoked three packs of Merits a day. For his seventieth birthday, the Juniors threw together to get him a carton of Nat Shermans from the Forty-Second Street store, and he still coughed out praise of their fine smoke two years later, though everyone knew they remained untouched in the bottom drawer of his desk.)

Mr. Grayson declined the bald globe of his head. “Mr. Reasons?”

“How many ad pages this issue?”

“Ho, ho, ho,” Mr. Grayson said, regarding the floor. “I’ll have to count to be sure. Sixty-four, I believe, Mr. Reasons. Sixty-four. Don’t quote me on that.”

“Sixty-four!” Beau yelled. “What was it two years ago?”

The eyes of Junior Staff swiveled back to Mr. Grayson.

“In the twenty-to-thirty range,” Mr. Grayson said obediently. “Is my best recollection.”

“Twenty to thirty,” Beau said chidingly. “And what was two years ago?”

“I believe when you started, Mr. Reasons,” Mr. Grayson confirmed bashfully.

“I raise ad pages twofold—more—and what kind of letters do we get?” Beau said. “‘Too many ads.’ It takes them an hour to find the first story.” He held up his hands. “But that’s fine. We’re in the business of serving our readers. We’re going to change the layout designs. Starting next month, you’ll be able to order the magazine in three versions: the regular, the low-ad, and the no-ad. Like milk. But it has to go manual for an issue or two before the layouts are reprogrammed. Who’s the Layout liaison among you?”

Heads turned to Avi Liss, who raised his hand fearfully.

“So you’ll be the point man,” Beau said. He held up the box cutter. “This is top-of-the-line, okay? One slice and it’s out, straight down the margin. Watch your fingers—this thing can cut glass.”

Avi remained seated, so Beau waved the box cutter impatiently at his employee. “But—” Avi said.

“You don’t have to do all three million!” Beau said, laughing. “It’s a pilot thing. Twenty thousand. Give or take.”

Avi walked up to Beau, closed his fingers around the cutter, and returned to his desk
shamefully. Silence took over, ringing phones filling the void. Beau stared at the Juniors. The Juniors stared at their boss.

“That was a joke,” Beau said disappointedly. He turned to the editors behind him. “It was funny back there.” He turned back to Avi. “Give me that razor.”

Avi, his head hung, returned the box cutter, several obliging titters rising from the crowd.

Slava peered at the next newspaper in his pile, wishing Beau would get on with it. On the front page was a photo of earthmovers by a riverbank. A flub invented itself, along with a newspaper to shame:

“Good issue next week,” Slava heard Beau say, nodding at Peter. Slava burned in his seat a little. “I need to know where we are on a couple of things.”

Slava’s desk phone rang: 718. Brooklyn. He didn’t recognize the number. In the brief pause of Beau’s monologue, the ring was shrill and grating. Slava grabbed the receiver and lowered it back into the cradle.

“Mr. Headey,” Beau said. “Where are we on food flavoring?”

You just had to give it some specific detail—Fran’s Fry-Up—and it sounded real. You might even get away with inventing a town called Rinkelrinck. Let Paul Shank notice. Finally, he would notice.

Charlie Headey answered Beau in too much detail. Beau politely heard him out, feeling bad about the box cutter. Then he turned to Avi Liss and asked about the layout, though he knew perfectly well from the Layout department. Reliably, Ari flubbed the offer of rehabilitation, mumbling for eternity about sources and deadlines.

“Ms. Bock—‘Missing Leonardo’?” Beau said.

Arianna delivered a false claim of progress, swiftly and briefly; she had barely started. Beau’s eyes thanked her for her quiet efficiency.

The phone rang again. Slava would really have to change the ringtone. He peered at the display—same number. Watching Beau recede down the hallway, he snatched the receiver.

“Allo
?” a hoarse voice said in Russian. “
Allo
?”

“Yes?” Slava answered obediently.

“You are being called by Israel Abramson,” the caller announced. “
Allo
? You are very difficult to hear.” A throat was cleared on the other end. “Excuse me.” Then, with a mix of apology and disappointment: “You are busy?”

“Busy?” Slava said. “No. I’m sorry, who is this?”

“I heard about the letter you wrote for your grandfather,” Israel said. “It’s very good.”

Slava was stunned into silence. It couldn’t be. “I didn’t write any letters for my grandfather,” he said quickly.

“Take it easy, young gun,” Israel said. “Your secret’s safe with me. By the way, Israel’s not my real name. I took it when we came here, to show my support. It was Iosif before, but you know who else had that name.”

Slava didn’t say anything, his mind scrambling. Did
Century
keep phone records?

“Stalin!” Israel said. “You don’t know history? That butcher. In 1952, my cousin was working at the Second Children’s Hospital—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Slava said. “Israel . . . I’m sorry—what’s your patronymic?”

“Good manners still, that’s nice,” he said. “Arkadievich. Israel Arkadievich.”

“You . . . you . . .” Slava said.

“You want me to get to the point,” Israel said. “I understand completely. I want you to write a letter for me also. You wrote a pretty good letter for your grandfather. You need to pinch a couple of things here and there, but otherwise. I do some writing myself, I understand these things.”

“Maybe you should write it yourself,” Slava said. “Just to make sure you get everything right.”

“Oh, don’t be a schoolgirl.”

“I don’t want to talk about this at work,” Slava said. “How did you get my phone number?”

“The ghetto inmate himself gave it to me.”

“I have to call you back,” Slava said, and hung up.

He heard Arianna’s fingers rapping the divider. In the past week, they had taken to passing notes around it. Slava would hear a tap, and there would be a folded square of paper between two fingers reaching around the edge of the wall.

Slava began to pound digits. He kept misdialing. If he had Grandfather’s calculating acumen, if Arianna had not interfered, probably he wouldn’t have dialed from his desk phone. Probably he would have gone into the library and called from his cell phone. Later, he would wonder about this moment.

“Yes,” Grandfather said wearily.

“I just had a really incredible phone conversation,” Slava barked in Russian into the phone.

“Who is this?” Grandfather slurred.

“Oh, come off it,” Slava said. “Do you understand what can happen if someone finds out?”

“Please don’t yell at me.”

“I’m not yelling, I’m whispering loudly.”

“I was proud of my grandson, what can I tell you.”

“Don’t give me that. Who is he, anyway? You need him for something?”

“I need him for something? He can barely walk.”

“You are not acquainted with the law here,” Slava said. “But they take this shit seriously.”

“You listen to
me
,” Grandfather said, his voice stiffening. “Your grandmother died not a week ago. You remember that, or you’re already on with your life? Because here, we still remember—”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with what I’m saying!”

“Here, we’re still mourning,” he went on. “And your philosophical questions . . . Your grandmother is in a coffin. There’s your philosophy, Einstein. So I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Who is he?”

“Who?”

“Israel. Iosif. Whatever his name is.”

“He’s from Minsk, too. We grew up together. We go to Dr. Korolenko together. I’ve got the gout, and he’s got knee stuff or whatever.”

“You don’t have gout.”

“Just don’t worry about it. He couldn’t come on Sunday, so he called to say his condolences. I thought you were a writer. So here’s another story.”

“You want to make a family tradition of going to prison?” Slava yelled. Immediately, he regretted it. Grandfather didn’t know that he knew.

The old man coughed painfully. He was so fragile, and Slava insisted on committing attacks. Then he said lightly, “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“I have to go,” Slava said as angrily as he could, and hung up.

His heart smashed in his chest. He made himself inhale and exhale. He was overreacting.
Century
didn’t keep phone records—why would it? He would tell Israel no, a misunderstanding, his fabulist grandfather, the usual schemes. Israel would grumble, and then it would be over. He couldn’t do it. Could he? Did
Century
keep phone records?

Sweat on his forehead, Slava opened his Web browser. In response to “Holocaust restitution claims,” he got a long list of newspaper stories about recent developments in the restitution program. Some group was getting together to advocate for an expansion of eligibility. Not what he needed. “Holocaust restitution claims,” he retyped, and then added, “fraud.” He had an alibi, if he ended up pinioned in some defendant box. He could have been researching an article, or a comedy item for “The Hoot.” Holocaust restitution-claim fraud: yuks.

He got a promising link. Professor Andrew Morton, Stanford Law School, “a leading authority on Holocaust restitution agreements, appeals, and abuses.” An alliterationist, to add. It was just after nine a.m. in California. He waited to hear what Arianna was doing. She was busy on a call, so he rose and stole off toward the fact-checkers’ library. Out of view in a dim corner, it had been left unrenovated during the makeover. As he was scouring the nooks for
Century
personnel, he remembered that he had left the search screen up on his desktop and, racing back to his desk, nearly toppled Arianna. “What’s
with
you?” she said, screwing up her face. “Tell you later,” he said.

“Professor Morton’s office,” a peppy, young voice said when he finally dialed. It had a proprietary air, its owner charged with guarding the oft-stormed gates of Andrew Morton’s life.

Slava made himself stop pacing and sit down in a torn armchair. “Professor Morton, please,”
he said.

“And who may I say is calling?” the sun beamed protectively on the other end of the line.

“Peter Devicki,” Slava said. “From
Century
magazine,” he added meaningfully.

“Oh,” she said. Those magic words always parted the doors. “Just a second. It’s
Century
magazine,” she announced to the professor, as if she’d gotten Slava to call. He mumbled something and they giggled.

“Hello?” a squeaky voice appeared on the line. “Peter? How can I help?”

“Devicki,” Slava emphasized. “We’ve got a story about the Holocaust restitutions happening now, and an expert of your stature . . .” He waited, then added cautiously: “More about what if there were a fraud of some kind.”

“All right,” Morton said.

“And the main issue is what kind of liability would there be if, you know, someone were inventing the stories that go in those claims.”

“Has something happened?” Morton said.

“To whom?” Slava said.

“You were talking about invented claims.”

“Oh,” Slava said. “No, no. Strictly hypothetical. We like to cover our bases—you know.”

“
Century
,” Morton said bashfully.

“
Century
,” Slava said.

“I grew up reading it, you know. I’d steal it from my father’s shelf because he collected them.”

You had to give them a moment to fanboy.

“In any case, the key thing is the money,” Morton collected himself. “Does this person make a profit? Has the bogus claimant been indicted?”

“I’m sorry?” Slava said.

“Indicted. Has the bogus claimant been indicted?”

“Indicted,” Slava repeated.

“Well, yes,” Morton said. “There’s liability in criminal law. I don’t have the time to go into it now, but it’s money obtained under false pretense. So it’s theft—fraud. Criminal law obtains. The question is, is there a federal or state statute that makes this a criminal liability? Where is this happening?”