The Sea Beach Line (14 page)

“You can,” I said.

“Good. But you must understand that for us to have an honest conversation, and relationship, I need to be able to count on your discretion in
all
matters. It wouldn't do for me to find out you had been speaking about me, or about things I tell you, to other people.”

“I understand that. I understand discretion. And I don't want to . . . overstep with my questions. I only wanted to know a few things.” I was lost, but I needed to push forward. “A few pragmatic things. About the storage space, as Roman said. I didn't know how long the bill was covered for, and I was just afraid that the unit would get evicted before Alojzy returns. I don't want him to lose his stuff. So I didn't know when I'd have to pick up the bill to keep that from happening?”

“Don't worry about that. It is an annual payment, so it is fine until the end of the year. Perhaps your father will be back by then?”

“Perhaps, yes. Thank you.”

“Of course. Your father has done a great many favors for me. It's the least I can do.” More platters of food appeared. Glasses were refilled.

“So, Isaac,” Timur asked, “are you employed?”

“Not currently. I've just come back to the city recently. But I was thinking, actually, that I might handle Alojzy's bookselling business until he returns.”

“Very good. I'm sure he will be proud when he sees that. And personally, I like having friends on the street, who can keep their eyes open for me. We will be friends?”

“Absolutely.” I wanted to have friends like Timur. What's more, I needed to be in his confidence if I was going to find Alojzy.

“Good. Have you done work like this before?”

“No, it's new to me. I was a student, until very recently.”

“Ah, you've been to university. Excellent. What did you study?”

“Some philosophy. Some Jewish studies. Some literature, and art
history. Different things.” These were just classes I had taken. In two and a half years, I had never actually declared a major.

“Excellent. Excellent. Art history . . . so you know something about paintings?”

“A bit.” I pictured Hieronymus Bosch's
Hell
and
The Flood
. The scorched ground and fiery sky of hell. The lounging demons. The ark resting on the mountaintop.

“Your father studied art. He knows a good bit about paintings. A man of many talents. You take after him?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said. “I do take after him.” I hoped that saying it would make it true.

“Perhaps you could do one thing for me, as you will be going back to the storage center?”

“Of course.” I would never again make the mistake I'd made when I was sixteen of turning down an opportunity to be part of something real. These were my father's peers, and I wanted to hold my own with them, to belong with them.

“Do you know who Zoya is?” I recalled the argument the night before, and the girls folding the shirts in the morning.

“She's in charge of the girls who sell Soviet T-shirts?”

“Exactly. I have been meaning to get up to see her, and give her something, but perhaps you could bring it to her for me?”

“Absolutely. No problem.” I was happy to be trusted with a concrete task. Roman passed me an envelope, which I tucked into my jacket. It was thin, like it held only one or two sheets of folded paper. Probably the errand was of no great importance and Timur only wanted to test my reliability. I would make sure to pass the test and gain his trust so I could learn more about Alojzy's activities. Of course, I didn't know that I could trust them either. But trust was a two-way street, and I would do my part to establish it between us.

“Let us drink,” said Roman, who refilled our water glasses with vodka. We raised them up. “To your father's health.” I drank it down in one gulp. These men were clearly deeper into my father's world than anyone else I had met. If they believed he was alive, he had to be, and I would find him, sooner or later.

On the train ride back to Manhattan, I finished reading
The Yeshiva Bocher
. The student has grown old by the end of the last chapter. He has lived a hard life and is dying in the poorhouse in Baghdad. As he takes his last gasping breaths, he notices three letters traced in the thick dust by another dying old man. Hebrew letters, letters from the beautiful aleph-bet he forgot long ago on the battlefields. A beth, a shin, and a taw. From those three letters, he puts the whole alphabet back together in his mind, and from that he is able to assemble the whole of the Torah he studied long ago in his youth.

With all his strength, he pulls himself to his feet. He takes one step and finds himself stepping back into the Shabbos dinner in Poland he had been stolen from so many decades before. In the time it had taken him to live his life, only one minute has passed at the rabbi's table. The traveling master winks at him, and pours him a small schnapps to settle his nerves.

When I entered Becca's apartment, she and Andrew were sitting on the couch watching a movie. On the screen, a man and a woman sat across from each other on a train, arguing. Becca and Andrew were giggling. They didn't seem to be paying attention to the movie. Becca wasn't normally someone who giggled, but Andrew had a strong effect on her.

“Oh, hey,” Becca said. She held a glass of white wine in her hand.

“Hey,” said Andrew.

“Hi,” I said. “How are you guys doing?”

“Not too bad,” Becca said. “We were both off work early, and we went for Thai food. I was hoping you could get dinner with us tonight. But of course we had no way to get ahold of you. I got you some veggie pad Thai. I know you like noodle-veggie dishes.”

“I do. Thanks. I had dinner with some people in Brooklyn, so I'm stuffed. But I'll have that for lunch tomorrow.”

“Cool.” She muted the television, but didn't turn it off. “But you really should get a cell phone. It's kind of ridiculous you don't have one.”

“Yeah. I should. I'm going to get one,” I lied. When I lost my last phone, it was month to month so I just let it go. Honestly, I liked not carrying around a machine that could buzz and suddenly take me away from my own thoughts. I liked walking around feeling untethered, like I could just drift above the earth. This train of thought reminded me of the Galuth painting, how the woman only appeared to be rising.

“What do you put on résumés?” Becca asked.

“What?”

“Aren't you applying for jobs? What phone number do you put so they can call you back for an interview?”

“Oh, just the landline here, for now.”

“Okay. You have been applying for jobs, right?” She meant this conversationally, but it felt like an interrogation.

“Yeah, sure, jobs. Absolutely, jobs.” I had no intention of getting any kind of straight job that would require a résumé, but knew not to tell Becca that.

“Are you drunk?” She looked at me with reproach.

“No, but I was drinking . . . I was drinking with these guys . . . don't worry about it. It's okay. I'm good to talk.” The truth was I was still a little drunk from all the vodka, but was starting to sober up after the long train ride. That process, mixed with the meat in my stomach, was making me feel sick, dehydrated, and light-headed. I went over to the kitchen and drank a glass of water.

“Okay,” Becca said, “whatever.” She chewed her lip for a second. “Look, Izzy, I'm happy to have you here. I really am. As long as you want to stay.” She meant it earnestly. “I'm not trying to hassle you. But when you said you wanted to come out here, you said you wanted to get your life going.”

“Get the story of my life going. Yeah.” I still hadn't told her that my primary reason for coming East was to find Alojzy, who she didn't like talking about, but she was right. I had also traveled out here to change my life.

“Right. Whatever. So any help you need doing that, I'm here.”

“We're here,” said Andrew.

“I know,” Becca continued, “it's hard in this city. Especially with the economy these days. And especially with you not having a degree. Not having a degree
yet
. And it sucks to say, even though I have a good job now, I don't love what I do. And I loved it even less when I was still an assistant, let alone an intern.” Becca had gotten through college in three years, and had started at her company as a full-time intern when she was still twenty-one. “But that's the way it is. I have a good position now. I have this apartment.”

“Becca,” I pleaded. My sister's lectures were even worse than my mom's.

“Look, dude, I'm not trying to nag you. But I had to figure all this stuff out myself. Mom wasn't . . . super helpful. She was encouraging—a driving force—but not helpful in any practical way. I'm trying to help you. You need to get a start somewhere.”

“Well, actually,” I said, “I might have something going on downtown, a job opportunity.”

“Doing what?”

“Selling books. But I haven't officially started yet.” I struggled to put my experiences into acceptable language without lying. “I went down yesterday and had a paid training session. I'm going to have a full trial run tomorrow, to see what it's like, make sure it'll work out. It might not be anything real.”

“That's the problem, isn't it?” I heard Becca's voice beginning to switch, the way it did. The way Alojzy's voice switched when he got angry. “You don't seem to know what's real and what's not real.”

“Come on, Becca,” Andrew said. He heard the switch too. “Lay off the guy. Let him see if the job works out first.”

“Stay out of this, Andrew. I'm trying to help my brother.”

“I know you are, babe. He knows you are. But look, how about this: I'll take Edel the Kid out Friday night, when I meet up with the guys. The kid clearly needs to blow off some steam. Am I right, Izzy? And it would be good for him to meet those guys. They have connections, you know? I'll tell them he's looking for career experience, so they can see if they hear of anything.”

“Sure,” I said. “Sounds good. Thanks.”

“Okay,” said Becca. “It might be good for Izzy to spend some time with you and your friends. I just want to make sure, Izzy, that staying here is helping you get on the right track. I'd feel better about you staying here if I knew you had a position, or some structure.”

8

I TOOK ALOJZY'S BOOKS
out onto the street the next morning. His handcart was smaller than Mendy's rig, but it was still a lot to maneuver by myself. At the perfect angle the weight of the boxes was balanced on the wheels, so the cart required hardly any force to push forward, assuming I didn't encounter any cracks or uneven pavement. The problem was, when the cart was angled that far back, it increased the weight on my arms. I toggled back and forth the whole way to West Fourth Street. By the time I got my books set up, I had completely sweated through a nice button-down shirt. I decided that from then on I would just work in an undershirt. If it got cold in the afternoon, I'd put on one of Alojzy's big sweaters. Luckily, he had a couple packed in the supplies bag on the rig.

Not wanting to step on anyone's toes, I asked Mendy, who was already on the corner where Washington Square East dead-ended at West Fourth Street, where it was okay to set up. He said that if I stayed off the corner, he and I would stay friends. He also said I probably shouldn't set up directly to the west of him, because that was
Hafid's preferred spot, but directly east of him—which was actually where Alojzy had usually set up—should be fine. Asher and the others mostly set up farther east, toward Mercer Street, so I wouldn't be encroaching on anyone's territory.