by Marc Levy
When he got inside, Mr. Williams told his wife that he wished they’d hurry up and put in the new elevator. Riding in this one had become a living hell.
At 7:30, Deepak went down to the basement and changed his clothes. Some might have accused him of abandoning his post an hour before he was supposed to leave. But no matter, he had a promise to keep. Once in his street clothes, he brought the elevator upstairs for its final trip of the day and rode it back down a few moments later.
Still recovering from her fall, Chloe had to handle another challenge. Going from her wheelchair to the shower chair had to be done very carefully. Except for the little incident in the kitchen, the day had been good. The publisher had come to see her in the studio. He had congratulated her and given her another book to do, saying he was ready to sign a new contract.
She would celebrate with her father, but not tonight. She was exhausted.
The hot water streaming over her shoulders felt wonderful.
After putting on her robe, she went to the living room and sat by the window. She was surprised to see Deepak get into a cab with Mrs. Collins. Then, suddenly understanding the reason behind their excursion, she had an idea.
The Day I Took the Subway Again
Taxis were costing me a fortune. I could only use the minivans that have a ramp and a sliding door. Unfortunately, most taxis are sedans—the driver has to get out of the car, load my wheelchair into the trunk, and then go through the whole rigamarole again at the end of the ride. Most of them simply ignore me when I try to hail them. Some of them even have the courtesy to speed up, as if they’re afraid I might grab on to their bumper.
I headed down into the subway, thinking of my first euphoric trips underground when I moved to New York. It’s best not to breathe in too deeply when you take the elevators, and they move so slowly that it’s like descending into a cavern. I avoided rush hour, and when I got onto the train at West 4th Street, everything went smoothly at first. My brakes were on so I wouldn’t go flying into the doors when the conductor halted the train. The car was almost empty, and the passengers, eyes glued to their cell phones, paid no attention to me. Things got more complicated at Penn Station. A crowd of people pushed into the train. My wheelchair took up too much space, and the passengers who were standing up had to press against me. I was surrounded by a ring of coats, shirts, belt buckles, briefcases, and purses that grew tighter and tighter. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. The train was moving fast, and as it went around a curve, a heavyset man fell into me and then suddenly regained his balance, griping loudly. Another charmer almost sat on my lap. I felt like I was suffocating. I panicked and started shouting. People are naturally on edge in big cities (I, for one, certainly know why), and when a woman starts yelling in a crowded train, the effect is immediate. There was a stampede, and I felt ashamed when I saw a mother pick up a terrified little girl so she wouldn’t be trampled. Then a man ordered everyone to calm down. There was space around me now—I must have looked like a crazy woman. I was sweating, I was panting, I was trying to breathe normally again, and people were staring at me, a mixture of fear and disgust in their eyes. A woman forced her way through, squatted down in front of me, and told me to breathe slowly. She said I had nothing to fear and everything would be okay. She took my hand and massaged my fingers. “I know,” she murmured. “My sister’s in a wheelchair, and this has happened to her lots of times—it’s totally normal.”
I didn’t see anything normal about making a spectacle, wetting myself, frightening a little girl who was still shaking, and attracting stares from everyone in the car. The idea that this would happen to me many times over was something I couldn’t conceive of. Even this woman’s kindness wasn’t normal.
My heartbeat slowed, I finally became calm again, and people stopped staring. I thanked the woman who had helped me and assured her I felt better, but when the train finally stopped, she insisted on accompanying me onto the platform. She truly must have had a sister like me; she didn’t even try to push my wheelchair. She just led me to the station manager. I wouldn’t let him call an ambulance. I just wanted to go home.
When Dad came home from campus, he asked me how my day was. I told him I took the subway. He was thrilled for me, and said he thought that was absolutely wonderful and congratulated me.
12
Mr. Groomlat didn’t have a secretary, not because he was cheap but because he didn’t trust anyone but himself. He arrived at his office early and kept a lookout for the elevator-replacement crew from his window. He wanted to personally make sure that Deepak would help them with their work. The old Indian man might be offended, but to hell with being sensitive—he was the executive leader of the co-op, and he had a job to do.
When Deepak saw Mr. Groomlat arrive earlier than usual, he immediately realized his intentions. Groomlat was the kind of person who would have paid for a seat at an execution. He led the accountant and the technicians to the storeroom.
“How long will it take?” Groomlat asked. “We don’t want the elevator to be out of service over the weekend.”
“This is incredible,” exclaimed Jorge Santos, the elder of the two technicians and clearly the boss.
“What’s incredible?” Groomlat asked in a worried voice.
“I’ve modernized some of these old models, but this one is in remarkable shape—it’s almost like new.”
Deepak took off his cap, offering one final moment of silence to something he had cherished for so many years. Of course it was almost like new, you idiot, he thought. He couldn’t have taken better care of it if it were his own child.
“Any last-minute regrets?” Jorge Santos asked. “After the job is done, we’ll change the certificate and the work will be irreversible.”
“You’re asking me?” Deepak chimed in, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
“Get it done,” Groomlat replied drily.
“Maybe we can finish tonight,” Jorge Santos said.
“What does this ‘maybe’ depend on?” asked Groomlat.
“On you. Given the excellent state of the machinery, we just have to install the electronic relays and the button panel in the elevator compartment. If we put the panel where the handle is, it’ll be quick. But if you want to keep the handle, then we’ll have to cut into the woodwork on the other side of the gate, and that’ll take an extra day.”
“Why would we want to keep it? It won’t be of any use, if I understand correctly?”
“For charm. Some people get very attached to antiques.”
“My wife, for example,” Deepak said offhand.
“Let’s limit unnecessary expenses. Remove the handle and give it to Deepak. We’ll be happy to give him this nice souvenir.”
Santos’s coworker, who was kneeling in front of the two boxes, stood up abruptly. “There’s one little problem, though.”
“What?” Groomlat spun around to face him.
“Well, your elevator may be well preserved, but these parts I’ve just inspected have aged rather badly. I’d go so far as to say they’re dead,” continued the second technician, who, according to the name stitched on his overalls, was known as Ernest Pavlovitch.
“What do you mean, ‘dead’?” Groomlat said indignantly.
“Oxidized, if you prefer. In any case, we can’t use this junk.”
“What are you talking about—they’re brand new!” Groomlat protested. “They haven’t been taken out of the packaging since we received them!”
“I’m not so sure about that. These boxes weren’t closed tightly. See for yourself—the packaging was torn when they were stored underneath these pipes.”
Groomlat’s cheeks turned crimson. He noticed Deepak’s amused look and regained his composure.
“Come on, can’t you just clean them off?”
“No way, they’ve been eaten away by moisture,” the elevator expert explained, displaying the whitish substance covering the electronic components. “Mm-hmm,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re shot. You gott
a buy a whole new kit.”
“Okay, you can charge me for it! Go get it and come back right away.”
The technicians exchanged a mocking look.
“You think we have this stuff just lying around? It’s custom made—the parts have to be manufactured, then tested in the workshop.”
“How long will that take?” The accountant sighed.
“Twelve to sixteen weeks, minimum. Plus shipping time from England.”
“England?”
“The only company that still makes this kind of equipment is near Birmingham. But they’re very thorough, don’t worry. Well, anyway, I think we’re done here. I’ll send you a new quote ASAP.”
Groomlat wasn’t the only one watching for the technicians’ arrival from the window. When Chloe saw them get back into their van, half an hour after they’d shown up, she knew her plan had worked. It only remained to be seen if the crime was as perfect as she thought.
“Well, don’t just stand there. You must be pleased—it seems we’ll need your services a bit longer than planned,” the accountant grumbled.
“Twelve to sixteen weeks, plus shipping …”
“I can only imagine how happy this makes you.”
“Why would I be happy when my job ends tomorrow?”
“I haven’t officially let you go yet.”
“Yes, you did, yesterday.”
“Watch out, Deepak, if you want to cash that check one day, I suggest you don’t get smart with me.”
“A binding contract guaranteeing eighteen months of work, with a year’s salary when we leave. And Mr. Rivera gets the same deal, of course. Put it all in writing, or come Saturday, everyone will be taking the stairs, both night and day.”
“How dare you blackmail me after all the trouble I went to for you?”
“Mr. Groomlat, I’ve been taking you up and down in my elevator for ten years, and I’ve never underestimated you. Have the courtesy to return the favor. You have until tomorrow to get me a signed letter from the co-op. My shift is over at seven fifteen p.m., and when I say ‘over,’ I mean it might be over for good,” Deepak replied, leaving the accountant behind in the basement.
“What about nights? What will we do for the night shift during all this time? And what will Mr. Bronstein say when he finds out his daughter—”
“Leave the Bronsteins out of it—they can speak for themselves. As for nights, I’ll see what I can do about it as soon as I have my letter in hand.”
Deepak waited for the accountant to go back to his office. For once, his morning had had more ups than downs.
At ten a.m., his cell phone vibrated. Chloe was waiting for him on the landing.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Yes indeed, although the forecast calls for rain in the early afternoon.”
“A good rain will clean off the sidewalks.”
“That’s one way to look at it. Would you like to go down or would you rather just talk about the weather on the landing?”
She rolled in backward, and Deepak closed the gate. He remained silent until the fourth floor.
“Why are you so cheerful this morning?” he asked as they passed the third floor.
“I’m always cheerful,” she assured him at the second floor.
Deepak preceded Chloe into the lobby and accompanied her to the street.
“Should I get you a taxi?”
“Not today, thanks. The Christopher Street station is ten minutes away, and I can take the one train to the recording studio, so there’s no transfer. Don’t worry about me, as Lazarus would say.”
As Deepak watched her leave, he admired how energetically she steered her wheelchair, but was also just a tiny bit suspicious.
Composing this e-mail was one of the most humiliating experiences of his career. Mr. Groomlat had chosen each word with the utmost care, emphasizing that no one could have predicted that the automation kit would be damaged, not even him. He had reported the facts in detail, being careful not to relate Deepak’s demands. As he reread his words, he swore to himself that he’d find a way to avoid honoring a promise that had been extorted from him. He hit send, and his e-mail flew off to its recipients.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Williams turned up in his office.
“You don’t find it strange that this equipment, which cost us a fortune, is unusable and that we just happen to discover this on the day it’s supposed to be installed?” she asked.
Groomlat cautiously moved his pawns forward. “Do you think it was defective to begin with?”
“I hope that, after buying it without our permission, you at least checked its condition when you received it!”
“Let’s not play cat and mouse. If you want to criticize me, please just say so in plain English.”
“Don’t get hot under the collar,” she said, sitting down in the armchair across from him. “It just seems as if there have been a lot of odd coincidences in this building recently.”
“If you aren’t accusing the suppliers, then who is to blame?”
“Ask the Clercs—when they aren’t busy getting it on, they watch cop shows. Unfortunately, I can hear both their moaning and the sound of their TV.”
“And what exactly should I ask them?”
“The motive! When you establish the motive, the mystery’s solved. Who had a reason to keep things the way they are? I’ll let you think it over. In the meantime, you simply must solve the problem of the night shift. I had to postpone my dinner until next week—I can’t put it off again!”
She left without saying goodbye, leaving Groomlat pensive.
He called the elevator company and said he urgently needed to speak with Jorge Santos.
His inquiry consisted of a single question: What could be the cause of such significant damage?
The technician knew his stuff. Since he was familiar with his customers’ tendency to always find a good reason not to pay their bill, he had a ready explanation at hand. Storing electronic equipment under heating pipes wasn’t very smart. Condensation had probably oxidized the equipment.
This certainly didn’t substantiate Mrs. Williams’s veiled accusation of Deepak, especially since the elevator operator had never been informed of the contents of the boxes in question. But one detail did come back to him: he didn’t recall having smelled the least bit of dampness when he opened them.
“Could this damage have happened over just a few days?” he asked in a low voice.
“I’d be surprised. I’ve rarely seen so much grime. I don’t know what filth is running in your pipes, but I wouldn’t drink that water if I were you. The relays were covered with a whitish substance, salt or lime,” Jorge Santos explained. “I e-mailed the manufacturer. With any luck, they may have another kit in stock, or a model they could adapt. We might just get lucky.”
Groomlat thanked him warmly.
When he got home, Deepak suggested to Lali that they eat out, which didn’t particularly surprise her, since it was Thursday. But when he cheerfully suggested they invite her nephew to go with them, she was intrigued. The last time she had seen her husband in such high spirits was when Virat Kohli, the captain of the Indian cricket team, had been named best batsman in the world by ESPN.
But they hadn’t heard from Sanji, and it was already getting late. Lali preferred to stay at home and have dinner alone with her husband.
The Day I Started Physical Therapy
When I was acting, I never had a personal trainer. My career hadn’t propelled me into that special club. But losing half my legs granted me automatic membership. The human body is an incredibly sophisticated mechanism. Designed to adapt to any situation, it conceals dormant secondary circuits—hidden treasures, ready to be unearthed when the need arises. Gilbert explained all this to me. He was an expert physical therapist who came off as a rambunctious Tibetan monk.
He taught me that if I wanted to be able to wear prostheses, stand up, and walk again one day, I would have to develop my hamstrings and glutes—my ass,
basically. But even before that, if I wanted to get around in my wheelchair without screaming in pain at the end of the day (and without developing the bulging physique of a bodybuilder), I’d have to learn to spare my pectoral muscles and rely on my deltoids, instead. Gilbert put me to work, session after session. I hated him. I despised him. I yelled at him. And the more I complained, the more complicated he made the exercises. He was a real sadist, a torturer, even, when he started in on my quadratus lumborum and my iliocostalis. I owe it to him that I can sit up straight. My legs haven’t grown back, alas—I’m not a salamander. But I can carry myself proudly, my torso is incredibly flexible, and my slender arms have become more muscular. Thanks to Gilbert, I can now go all over the city and prove Deepak right: I don’t need anyone’s help to get around as I like. Except when the elevators in the subway are out of order. Then a little bit of help is welcome.
13
Ever since she had run into her seventh-floor neighbor in the aisles of their local gourmet food shop the night before, Mrs. Zeldoff had been on a crusade. The conversation had taken place in the fruit and vegetable aisle. Mrs. Williams was buying organic zucchini, the first of the season, when she shared her suspicions with her easy prey.
“Mr. Groomlat thinks the equipment was vandalized?” Mrs. Zeldoff asked in shock.
“He did not dismiss the possibility that someone purposefully let this happen,” Mrs. Williams said carefully.
After thinking for a moment and hastening to pick out some of the lovely zucchini for herself, Mrs. Zeldoff added, “Of course, our two elevator operators had everything to gain. If they’d gotten wind of Mr. Groomlat’s plan two years ago when he ordered the kit, they could have taken drastic measures.”
