Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Moving back toward the bed, he stood in front of the nightstand mirror to get a better look at his face. As his fingers touched the area below his eyes, they felt something coarse and, looking closer, he saw a burn, almost circular, the size . . . the size of a cigarette tip. Closing his eyes Rosen saw those same specks of light he had remembered seeing last night, only now they weren’t innocent flashes, but the burning ends of cigarettes moving toward him and away, each time a little closer, until wincing he opened his eyes and caught his breath, trying to remember more, to remember whom. Unable, he lay back in bed and, despite the flashes of light behind his eyelids, fell into a deep sleep.

  When he awoke, Rosen saw on the night table a new white paper bag, whetting his appetite with the smell of hot grease. Trac sat in the chair near the ashtray and held what looked to be a long slender guitar. She was polishing the instrument with a chamois, working so carefully that she didn’t notice him watching. The first Christmas card Rosen had ever seen depicted the Madonna bending swanlike over her child; Trac was like that now. A devout Jew believes in the essential goodness of man, and looking at Trac that moment made it very easy for Rosen to believe.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said.

  She looked up. “It’s nearly one. Have you been asleep all this time?”

  “Almost. Collinsby called just after you left. Then I fell asleep. I must’ve slept straight through till now.”

  “Good. How do you feel?”

  “Better. In a few days I’ll be good as new. That’s a beautiful instrument.”

  She smiled. “A vo de cam—the three-stringed guitar of my people. I needed one for an upcoming museum exhibition on the music of Southeast Asia. A family friend who lives down the block brought this from Vietnam. He was one of the boat people. He carried a guitar across the ocean instead of an extra sack of rice and almost starved to death. You should hear how he plays.” She strummed the instrument, sending a murmur into the room like a breeze rustling through chimes.

  “Can you play?” Rosen asked.

  She blushed slightly and nodded.

  “Please.”

  Pausing a moment, Trac’s fingers returned to the vo de cam, playing a sad melody. She began to sing a Vietnamese song in her soft voice, flitting around the music like a butterfly in a field of flowers, a caress all the more desirable because it was so elusive. He felt the same stirring as when, earlier that morning, his fingers brushed against her leg. No, that was not what he needed—not now with the trial coming up and questions that wouldn’t wait, some involving Trac. Did not the Talmud state that women were to be seated apart from men in synagogue so as not to distract them from the worship of God? No, that was not what he needed, yet she sang so sweetly and it had been such a long time.

  “I’ve put you to sleep?” she asked, having finished her song.

  “No, no. It was beautiful.”

  “I thought you only cared for jazz.”

  “You remind me of Lu. The same instrumental quality of your voice, the same . . . sadness. What was the song about?”

  “It’s from my country’s greatest poem, ‘Kim Van Kieu,’ about a young woman who becomes a prostitute to save her family’s fortune. After fifteen years she meets her childhood sweetheart in a temple. Despite all that has occurred he still loves her and asks for her hand, but she refuses, not wanting to bring him dishonor.”

  Trac sang a portion of the song and translated, “‘Should you look for a flower when its season has passed, so you will draw attention to my shame, and hate will replace the love in your heart.’” She sang more. “He told her, ‘the mirror of your soul is dean of all the dust of the world, and the years have only deepened my love.’ But in the end she convinced him. Not like the movies here with their happy endings. My people are not used to happy endings.” Trac looked down at the instrument. “This was my sister’s favorite song. I would play while Nhi would sing.” She strummed softly a few more chords and lapsed into silence.

  Rosen said, “You two were very close.”

  “We were once, but when I went away to college, she drew closer to my brother Van. Whenever I came home on vacation she remained distant. You know how sisters are supposed to have their own little world where they share secrets about their dreams and love. In our house my brother held Nhi’s confidence. They would whisper to one another, stopping abruptly whenever I entered the room, as if I were a stranger. It had been over a year since I entered this room. Not until after she . . . after she died.”

  She set the vo de cam gently against the wall and moved to the chair beside the bed. Opening the bag of food, Trac smiled. “I’ve been talking while you must be starving. I hope you like it. I wasn’t sure what to get.”

  “Some Vietnamese delicacy, no doubt.”

  She took out the sandwiches. “A megaburger from the Sultan of Sandwich on the corner. Here’s a Benzai Shake and some french fries as well.”

  He laughed. “Is this the kind of stuff you eat regularly?”

  “Not really. I prefer pizza and tacos.”

  “No rice or fish?”

  “You mean soul food? Yes, when I have time to cook. I used to take back jars of nuoc-man, a fermented fish sauce—it’s the one smell that dominates all others in this neighborhood, but the neighbors in my apartment complex complained about the odor. Thus went a bit of my ethnicity. Mm, it’s still warm,” she said, biting into her sandwich.

  As they drank their shakes through carnival straws, Rosen thought this was the closest he had ever been to a date at a fast food drive-in. In his old neighborhood there was a McDonald’s he had to pass every day on his way home from cheder, and often his eyes wandered to the parked cars with the boys snuggling close to their girlfriends while sipping through the same straw. He would often carry that image the next day as he bound the phylactery around his forehead to keep the thought of God before his eyes. It was a sort of blasphemy, one of his first, and a sin not so much because it had occurred but that he did nothing to prevent it.

  “I’m glad you have an appetite,” Trac said. “That’s a good sign.”

  He watched her cheeks pucker while she sipped her drink. One of her legs rested against the bed very very dose to his hand. He had wondered what the boys’ hands were doing after disappearing below the steering wheel.

  She continued, “You know a great deal about my family background, but I know nothing of yours.”

  He shrugged, looking at his hamburger. “There’s nothing to tell. Nothing that would interest you.”

  “Were you one of those typical suburban kids spoiled rotten by his parents?”

  “I thought all Orientals were supposed to be demure and never ask personal questions.”

  “You forget what an American I’ve become. We live in a democracy, where everyone has an equal opportunity to embarrass himself. Come on.”

  Rosen looked at her, and she smiled at him the way girls smile at their boyfriends. “All right.” He put down the sandwich. “What do you want to know?”

  “Your family?”

  “There’s so much you won’t understand. I don’t mean to sound patronizing, but you must know how it is. Unless you’ve lived through something . . . well, you know.”

  “Fair enough.” She settled back in her chair, the milkshake resting on her lap.

  “You keep talking about how you had to assimilate into the American culture. We have more in common than you think. I had to assimilate too.”

  “I assumed you were born here.”

  “It’s not a matter of geography but of time. I was born two hundred years ago. For me Chicago might just as well have been a Polish shtetl—village. My grandfather died a few years ago still thinking the Tsar ruled Russia. I never heard him speak a word of English, nor did he understand how the twentieth century differed from the nineteenth. I’m sure he had no idea of atomic energy, and cars—they were what sinners rode in on the Sabbath. He often said that God made eyes for one reason only, to study Torah, the Law. As he became o
lder, when he wasn’t bent over Torah, he would cover his eyes with a rag so as not to waste their energy. Growing up, I sometimes had the feeling that we were a colony of Martians living in the midst of these earthlings with their strange passions and mindless energies. We might just as well have been Martians the way people looked at us, the long black gaberdines, earlocks below the ears, and always holding our books as some men might embrace their lovers.”

  He stared at Trac, waiting for her to say something, but she only looked back at him, her eyes very soft.

  “You told me about the rituals surrounding your sister’s funeral. You thought you might amaze me.” He gave a short laugh. “Do you know how many commandments I had to follow? Six hundred and thirteen. I’m not talking about the run-of-the-mill not killing or messing with your neighbor’s wife or stealing an apple from the street vendor. I’m talking about your basic Leviticus—when to wash; when to work; when to pray; how to act with your parents, your wife, your children; whom to avoid; when to light one candle; when to light two candles.”

  He held up the small bit of hamburger that remained. “And eat, that’s a whole ball game by itself. This ‘terefah’ . . . this hamburger . . . I never had one until I went away from home. What do you expect, a rabbi to stand in the slaughterhouse and bless the cows on their way to McDonald’s? To have two order windows—one for meat and one for milkshakes? Besides, you couldn’t drink your milkshake until four hours after eating the hamburger.”

  Rosen felt himself breathing heavier; he was sweating under his shirt, and his face was hot. After a long drink, he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ramble.”

  Trac leaned forward in her chair. “When did you . . . leave all that?”

  A sick smile briefly crawled across his face. “You never leave something like that, not really. I was sent away. My father wanted each of his sons—there are three of us—to uphold the faith without deviation. Only then might each of us become a tzaddik, a righteous one. You see, my people have their stories too. One of them, which my father devoutly believes, is that God allows the world to exist only because there are thirty-six just men on earth, the tzaddikim. That’s one reason it’s such a sin to kill anyone—the person might be a tzaddik keeping the earth going for the rest of humanity.” He shook his head slowly.

  “And you didn’t live up to his expectations?”

  “When I was fourteen I made friends with a Jewish boy down the block. His family was very modern—they believed God was some kind of wind-up clock in the sky. I started spending a lot of time over there and pretty soon became a secular addict. First eating a piece of chicken that wasn’t kosher, then having it with a piece of buttered bread on the same plate. I became interested in baseball, went to a few Cubs games instead of study sessions with the rabbi. When my father found out, he didn’t say much, just asked me if I wanted to repent. I wanted to talk, but for him this was not a subject for discussion. It was one of those ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions in which that one word is the first step in a direction from which you can never turn back.” He shrugged. “Well, that’s about it.”

  “What do you mean? What happened?”

  “He sent me to one of our cousins, a wealthy contractor who was also an unrepentant. When I went to live with his family, the first thing I did was to cut my two curls. For so long I had thought of them as chains and wondered what I would do if I ever became free. When I saw them lying in my hands, I felt so naked that I stayed in my room for the whole day. I suppose that’s the way I’ve always felt since that day, a little naked. And all for watching the Cubs, as if they weren’t punishment enough.”

  “So you became a lawyer,” Trac said. “Perhaps you didn’t fall away as far as you thought. Your life as a child was bound by laws, and so is it now. Have you really changed that much?”

  “One difference, one important difference!” He caught himself and lowered his voice. “I’m a defender. You see the difference? I defend those accused of breaking the law. I make certain their right to be heard is respected. Even a scum like Basehart has a right to make his case.” Rosen leaned back and stared into his cup.

  “I understand. Do you ever see your father?”

  He continued staring, almost in a trance.

  “Nate?”

  “He’s a . . . very busy man. So much to look after, the moral fiber of the world. No, he’s much too busy.”

  “Perhaps you judge him too harshly. He must have a father’s love.”

  Rosen muttered, “A love that kills.”

  They lapsed into silence, until Trac said, “But you have your daughter.”

  He smiled. “Yes, Sarah.”

  “She must be a wonderful girl.”

  “I haven’t shown you her picture, have I?” He took his wallet from his back pocket, opened it to the photograph, and passed it to Trac. “It’s about six months old, before her mother had Sarah’s hair cut. Over my protests, I might add. Let me clean all this up.”

  While Trac looked at the photograph, Rosen stretched his limbs stiffly, gathered the wrappers and walked slowly to the wastebasket in a corner of the room near the ashtray. He felt a little better. Bending to drop the papers into the garbage, he noticed the latter was filled with crumpled tissues.

  “She is beautiful,” Trac said. “I see the resemblance between the two of you, especially around the eyes.”

  “Not now, I hope,” Rosen replied touching his bruises. “You have a cold?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “All this Kleenex. Looks like someone’s been sick.”

  “I don’t know about that. The wastebasket was filled when I arrived. It hasn’t been emptied since . . . since Nhi was here.”

  “Maybe she had a cold.”

  “Nhi? I doubt it. None of us, Van included, ever got sick, except for Van’s appendectomy last year. Van used to say that even American doctors would grow poor if they had to depend on us for a living. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason I guess.” But as he put the wrappers into the wastebasket, he removed one of the soiled tissues, rolling it into a small ball and slipping it into his pocket.

  “Same for those cigarette butts?” he asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “I haven’t seen you smoke. These butts must be from before.”

  “I suppose so.”

  He turned and saw that her hands were gripping the sides of her chair. “What do you mean? You should know.”

  “I suppose so. How do I know? The police coming here day after day. Some of them were smoking. They probably . . .”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t see why this is of any importance.” Her knuckles whitened.

  “It’s not. You know how lawyers and cats are—always curious. Sorry if I’ve upset you.”

  “Upset? I’m fine.” She tried to smile. “Come sit down. You look very pale.”

  He returned to bed and sat against the pillow, while Trac brought a fresh pan of water from the bathroom sink. Taking the cloth she dabbed his eyes which caused him to wince and draw back. She moved closer to examine the wound and, in doing so, her hair brushed across his cheeks and he inhaled the warm musk of her perfume. His arms encircled Trac who let her body be drawn over his; Rosen felt both heartbeats quicken as they kissed. Gone was the pain that racked his body. Gone too were doubts and duty and even the great Eyes of God—all pushed aside by the urgency of his hands and mouth, while Trac murmured something deep in her throat and helped him with her clothes. Her skin was incredibly smooth as his mouth followed the line from her shoulder to her small firm breasts. Wrapping around each other, man and woman reveled in the original sin, their bodies moving with the same abandon the ancients displayed before Baal. In his final shudder Rosen lost all shame but only clung tighter to her until she cried out then lay back panting, her hand wandering aimlessly across his back. When he finally drew away she pulled him back, and this time it was her mouth and hands that moved with such abandon, drawing his blood, his v
ery soul into her.

  Sometime later Rosen became aware of his surroundings. They lay together, arms and legs entangled, and at first he wasn’t sure which were his. Stretching his limbs he watched curiously certain sets of fingers and toes move.

  Trac stirred, her eyes fluttering open, and smiling she snuggled closer. “Is there anything I can get you?”

  Clearing his throat Rosen replied, “No, thanks. I seem to be feeling much better.”

  “You certainly weren’t acting like a sick man.”

  They both laughed, she moving to rest comfortably in the crook of his arm. They lay quietly for the next few minutes until Rosen asked, “Do you know what time it is?”

  “My watch is on the chair. Let me see.” As she reached over him, he saw tiny discolorations on the inside of her forearm. His body chilled, and he pushed away from her arm.

  “Two thirty,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, I guess.” Indeed he hadn’t known why, but now the marks on her arm brought him back, and he heard the clock inside his head start ticking again. It was ticking for Basehart—Rosen never heard it sound so distinctly, and he saw each second mark as clearly as the needle tracks on her arm.

  He moved away from her and sat up.

  “What’s the matter?” Trac asked sleepily.

  “Nothing. It’s just that I’d better be going. I have to meet Collinsby at four. Lester said the grand jury might hear Basehart’s case in a few days.”

  “Will my parents or I have to testify?”