A Replacement Life (37 page)

While Vova idled, they strode arm in arm onto the grass of Riverside Park, the bottle of champagne in Slava’s hands. They sat down on a bench and swigged from it like two homeless men.

“So, this is it,” Israel said.

“This is it,” Slava said.

“It’s leafy.”

“Like spinach.”

They hollered like children.

“This is what you spent the two-fifty on, isn’t it?” Israel said.

“Russian limos cost less than American limos. There’s plenty left over.”

Their shouting and vagrancy attracted the squint of a patrolman from the pavement on the other side of the grass. Open consumption of alcohol invited more law-enforcement attention than freelance climbers of municipal property. Slava tossed the empty bottle of Spumante into the bushes and they made legs back to the car.

The desk nurse rose in flames when she sighted the pair, still laughing, emerging from the elevators on the third floor of Maimonides. She began to shout, wresting Israel from Slava’s hold. Israel patted the arm emerging from her uniform. “Nice,” he said in English. “Beautiful lady.” He and the false grandson laughed again, though Slava let go. The nurse walked Israel back to 317, Slava following. “I should have you barred,” she hissed at the young man as she settled Israel in the bed. “I just need another minute,” Slava said. “If something happens to him, we’re no longer responsible,” she said angrily, walking out. “It’s happened already,” Slava said after her.

He stood by Israel’s hospital bed. “Do you need a book?”

“I came prepared,” Israel said, and nodded toward the locker. “Come closer.”

Slava leaned toward Israel’s face. It smelled of cellars, mushrooms, earth. Israel’s hand enclosed Slava’s, and lifting his head, the old man laid a pair of blue lips on Slava’s forehead.

“You didn’t send it out in time, did you?” Slava said.

“I’ve had a little attack here,” Israel said, “but I’m not brain-dead.”

Slava smiled.

“Go forth, my son,” Israel said.

T
he New York headquarters of the Conference on Material Claims Against Germany was neighbored by the offices of German economic initiatives and foundations, as though these could not rightly proceed with their business without a reminder of what their forebears had wrought. Where had this gray-haired man, a lanyard swinging over his bow tie, been? What had he done? Or not done.

The woman at the front desk, her cheekbones as sanded as a promontory and a bundle of black hair bridled by a zirconia-studded barrette, was whispering to someone in Russian on the telephone. Lyudmila, a nameplate made clear. She smelled of clothes freshly removed from the closet. On sighting Slava, she extended a manicured finger toward a red leather chair without interrupting her conversation. Slava tried to gather his thoughts, but they refused to stay put, and he simply gazed at the oatmeal-colored carpet.

Ten minutes later, he still hadn’t been called. Apparently, as far as Otto was concerned, Slava could have risen and gone four ways at once. When he inquired with Lyudmila, she reminded him that “he will see you very soon, please” and indicated once more the red leather chair, into which Slava hopelessly sank.

When Slava was finally led into Otto’s office, the big man rushed over to pump Slava’s hand and apologize for the wait. “Everything is upside down because of the renovation,” he said, mashing Slava’s palm.

Slava looked around aimlessly. He hadn’t noticed anything amiss in the hallway.

“No, it’s not important, it’s not important.” Otto waved him in. He beamed at the receptionist, as if it were an achievement to have a personage such as Slava in his office. “Thank you, Lyudmila.” He turned back to Slava. “Coffee, would you like, tea?”

“Coffee,” Slava said weakly, and Lyudmila nodded with elaborate competence.

The vaguely classical motifs inscribed on the wood paneling in Otto Barber’s office lent it a conservative authority that was undercut by the same oatmeal carpet and rec-room love seats. It looked as if the receptionist had made her own trip to the furniture emporia in lower Brooklyn. A triumvirate of miniature flags—Germany, Israel, and the United States—decorated Otto’s desk.

If they had Russians, why had Slava been given the German? he wondered. Had the Conference done research and determined that one of his own was less likely to make an impact? Had the “suspect’s past rejection of his community” been highlighted in the report? “Mr. Gelman maintains an adversarial attitude toward people from his community. It may be more productive to present him with someone from a neutral or unfamiliar background.” He could have written it for them.

Having deposited Slava in a leather chair on the other side of his desk, Otto sank into his own and pointed at the air-conditioning panel behind him. “Is it too cold for you? I am an arctic person at heart.”

Slava shook his head weakly.

“Mr. Gelman, I can’t hide my excitement to see you. But you, it seems, could be more excited to see me!” Otto sniggered.

“You weren’t concerned I’d run off?” Slava said, trying for defiance.

“That’s very funny!” Otto said. “It’s very funny that you are thinking this way. No, I knew you would not run away.”

“Why is it funny?” Slava said. “Were you so sure?”

“Well, perhaps it is because you are innocent!” he laughed. “You seem to be not considering that possibility yourself!”

Slava hung his head. “You have your evidence,” he said derisively.

“Incorrect! You have the evidence. You hold all the power. And so if I say, ‘You must come to me tomorrow,’ pathetic!
I
don’t have the power to make you do this. You must come when
you
want to come.”

Slava’s forehead was clammy with sweat, but he didn’t dare acknowledge it by swiping at it.

“Then again, I have read that a good investigator begins from far away.
Misdirection
is the word. And then he jumps like a jaguar!” Otto tore out of his chair. “So perhaps I am catching you! With the fish. How do you say.”

“Baiting you,” Slava said morosely.

“Yes,” Otto said, settling back in his chair.

Lyudmila walked in with a tray bearing implements for coffee for one. The tiny spoon clinked against the porcelain cup in her hands. She disappeared as quietly as she had arrived. Otto rubbed the space between his eyebrows.

“Did you bring the china with you?” Slava said, sitting up. He coughed self-pityingly and tried to focus.

Otto looked up. “I’m sorry?”

Slava pointed at the coffee cup. “Is it German?”

“No. I do not know, to be honest. I can find out,” Otto said, leaning toward the intercom.

“We had a set of German china when we lived in the Soviet Union,” Slava said. “My grandfather collected china. This one set from Germany was his prize possession. Cobalt with gold trim. He had to leave most of it behind because there was a limit on how much we were allowed to take with us, but there was no question this set was coming. My grandmother wrapped it up in newspaper. That bundle was half as big as a person. We trundled it all over Europe.”

“Mm-hmm,” Otto nodded.

“When we finally got to JFK, we relaxed,” Slava said. “My uncle was meeting us at the airport. Everybody was crying and hugging. He wanted to show us he was a big man already, he could take care of things. So he picked up the suitcase and threw it into the porter’s cart. We all froze. We all thought the same thing.”

“No,” Otto said. “They were broken.”

“Only one. When we got to my uncle’s house, my mother and grandmother went into the bedroom to check. Only one cup had broken. The rest were okay.”

“Well, that is good luck,” Otto said. “But you see, the manufacturing in Germany is superb. If my father could hear me now. It was his wish that I pursue a position in the private sector instead of the government.”

Slava didn’t respond. It was unpleasant to think of Otto’s father as also a father.

“So, Mr. Gelman, you have rushed in almost the very next day,” Otto said. “Two days later. Why is it so? Was the guilt tickling your nose hairs?”

It must have been an expression in German. “I wanted to help,” Slava said feebly.

“Yes, we are talking about something very important,” Otto said. He rose from the chair and strode toward the window. The sky had become overcast again: the unreliability of late summer. “Tell me now, Mr. Gelman,” Otto said gravely. “Tell me everything.”

Slava listened to the muted honks rising from the street. “What do you think I should do after this, Mr. Barber?”

Otto turned around. “Are you leaving the magazine, Mr. Gelman? I think you can do anything. This is beneath you. Maybe you should go to a different place. New York City does not feel like your natural condition.”

“I would like to see Lubbock, Texas.”

“This would certainly classify. It is different from New York, you can say that.”

“You know it?” Slava said.

“I am sure you have not been to the Statue of Liberty as well. Visitors take a different interest in your country than people who live here. I spent two weeks in Texas visiting the sites of the Mexican War. Don’t mess with Texas, ha-ha. But Lubbock, Texas—it is not quite Shangri-la, Mr.
Gelman, if that is what you are expecting.”

“They are installing a bike share,” Slava said desolately. He stared at the coffee, regret forming at the sudden upswell of camaraderie between them. He had to return the conversation to its original subject. “I will tell you everything, Mr. Barber,” he said. “But first I want to give you one last chance to do the right thing.”

Otto smiled combatively. “And what would that be, Mr. Gelman?”

“Pay them all,” Slava said. “Because you are responsible. Or because you can. Fate has put you in this lucky position to do the just thing.”

“Would you call this position lucky?” Otto said. “I do not call this position lucky. I do not wish this position on anyone. Mr. Gelman, please tell me you are noticing that I am handling all of this differently from the way my superiors probably wish.” He shook his head. “Can I ask you something? What is it like, to sit there writing the letter and think: No, this detail is not gruesome enough. I have to find something more gruesome. Is ‘gruesome’ the right word?”

“It’s not hard to find gruesome details,” Slava said.

“But you must choose. This is gruesome in the right way, this is not. Does it give you a chill?”

“No,” Slava lied. “A chill is what was done to them.”

“You are a curator of suffering.”

“And you are the purveyor. Which is better? You have given me too much to work with. You think of that time as a museum, an aberration of history, but someone goes through it all the time. Your Turks go through it. The blacks here go through it. Jews go through it everywhere except Israel and America, more or less. Things get better, there’s no more lynching, and they don’t break your knees for being a kike in the Red Army. But it goes on all the time, somewhere.”

“Don’t use that word, please.”

“Are you sensitive, Otto? It’s quite a business you’ve chosen if you’re sensitive. My grandfather says ‘kike’ all the time. ‘Die among kikes, but live among Russians,’ he says. You ever hear that one? He likes to show his home nurse he’s not clannish. It makes her uncomfortable, just like you. No, Otto. This man lost his family, lost a limb, lost his hearing, lost his sanity, but he is not eligible because he was a soldier. This one was in the ghetto and slipped out—that person
is
eligible. Who is the curator?”

“But is it not strange to take that memory and use it for profit?”

Slava laughed. “A man of means acquires them God knows how and then lectures the man without means about honor. Is it not strange to kill diligently and then commemorate diligently? That profit is for old, pathetic people who can’t understand anything other than dollars.”

“I am disappointed not to have changed your mind.”

“My mind is changed. By you or not, it is changed.”

“I meant it when I said something better awaits you.”

“You don’t have to tell me who called, Otto. Just tell me if it was one of us.”

Otto considered this new bargain. “And then you will tell me?” he said.

“Then I will tell you everything.”

“Yes,” Otto said.

“Young, old?” Slava said.

“Mr. Gelman.”

“I will guess old.”

“Fine,” Otto said.

They worked over this new information without comment. Then Slava said: “Do you want me to tell you how it works?”

“Very much,” Otto said. “I want to put this behind as much as you, Mr. Gelman.”

“I don’t want to put it behind,” Slava lied. “I had only just started when I heard from you.”

“Are you implying you’re going to continue?”

“That’s for your sleuthing, isn’t it?”

Folding his brows, Otto withdrew a note card from a desk drawer and scrawled something. The pen wouldn’t collaborate, and he threw it into the garbage with irritation, the stem thunking the side of the basket.

“You were in such spirits when I saw you last,” Slava said. “You were laughing, as if we really were just two friends talking in a bar.”

“Do you have many friends, Mr. Gelman?”

Slava pressed his lips together. In his mind, he counted Arianna, Israel, Grandfather. “Yes,” he said. “Average age a hundred.”

“I would like to remind you, Mr. Gelman,” Otto said. “This could have happened very differently. I am trying to be sensitive. I am trying to help.”

“I know.” Slava hung his head. “That’s why I will tell you everything.” He straightened in his chair, defeat on his face. “I don’t know what you were told,” he said, so softly that Otto had to move closer to hear. The German’s eyes shone wetly with anticipation of Slava’s disclosure. Slava aimed for a look of perseverance despite complete conquest. “But I’m going to guess.” He tried to look at Otto, purposefully failing. “Has Lyudmila explained to you about these old people? They live on envy. You had it right—your caller was getting even for something. There wasn’t enough of the most basic things where they lived. If you were a Jew, you got even less. But there was always a guy who had more. Because he knew the right people to bribe. So he could get his ham from the back of the store, the good cut before the rest was laid out, half of it spoiled. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”