"No. No," she said decisively. "They're very careful, you know; security and all. The vice presidential candidate and the mayor and all those other bigwigs will be there."
I didn't say anything. I felt both insulted and embarrassed.
"Ronny?" There was a strangeness about her voice, something I couldn't identify.
"Yeah."
"Don't be insulted. You know how much I like it when you come with me. Who else do I have to be proud of, if not my beautiful boy? You won't be missing anything - just a boring ceremony. I'm only going in order to make Aunt Ida happy."
I realized that the strangeness in her voice was the tail end of tears. I wondered whether she'd fought with the man with whom she'd spent the night, or whether you'd finally managed to get her on the phone and reprimand her because of what I'd told you. Either way, she sounded so battered that she aroused my pity.
"Ok," I gave in, "just take care of yourself."
"Yes," she said, "of course... and you know that if we only had another ticket...”
"I know," I assented, at that very moment realizing that we did have another ticket, the one I'd written your numbers on. I put down the receiver and went back to my flophouse. I took the gun out from under the pillow and put it in the jacket pocket, then zipped up the jacket.
I lay down on the bed, fully dressed. Out of all that had happened, only one thing puzzled me: how had he found me at the club, that guy from the Lincoln Tunnel? I couldn't stop thinking about it. The sleep I had longed for so desperately during the night suddenly overcame me. My eyes closed. I only intended to doze off for a minute, but I slept until 10:00, when the desk clerk knocked on the door and said it was check-out time.
*
I wandered around the streets until I noticed a poster advertising an old film I'd wanted to see. I bought a ticket and went inside. At noon, the alarm on my wristwatch went off. Everyone else in the audience was laughing over some hilarious misunderstanding that was taking place on the screen. I sat there, sweating. I kept thinking about what was happening at that very moment at The Society for Proper Nutrition and Care of the Body. At 12:15 I wondered whether the guy was already dead and how it had happened. I could picture the street opposite the old dock in Nyack overrun with police cars and hear the APB to find the murderer and all other suspects. Oddly, I felt prepared to face whatever came; I just hoped that Dad was in a safe place, and that everything would be all right from now on.
I stayed for two showings, but I didn't manage to follow the plot. When I left, it was 3:00 p.m. There was still some time until the service began at 4:00. I started toward the Temple. After walking a few blocks I took the jacket off and slung it over my shoulder. Then I remembered the gun; I was afraid it would slip out of the pocket. I ducked behind a billboard and took the gun out of the pocket. I considered what to do with it. I tried putting it in my pants pocket. My pants were too tight. There were no pockets in my new shirt. The only other option was the boots. The slack sides of each boot were held to my calves by the big buckle. I undid the buckle on the left boot and slipped the gun inside. Within a few minutes it had absorbed the warmth of my leg, and I forgot it existed.
I walked briskly the rest of the way, but I was late anyway. When I reached the entrance to the Temple it was already 4:20. It didn't look like much from the outside: just a big old building that could have been a movie theater, or even a bank. Maybe that was because it didn't feel like a holiday. For all I could tell, the men in tuxedos and women in furs who were visible on the other side of the big, plate glass window-walls could have been attending a conference of insurance salesmen. I walked along the glass and tried several doors. All of them were locked. I found an entrance around the corner. It was blocked by a folding table. A guy wearing a gold Magen David on a chain sat behind the table.
"There are no classes today," he said politely. "This is a closed event."
"I'm invited," I said, and showed him the ticket.
It was worn and crumpled from all I'd been through in the last few days. He placed the ticket in front of him and threw a questioning glance behind him. That's when I saw that he wasn't alone. Six or seven guys in grey suits hovered behind him in the shadows of the lobby. They looked identical to one another, as if they'd come off an assembly line where they'd been supplied - as a parting gift - with a tiny earphone that was plugged into one ear. They all wore the same detached expression. It was clear that they wouldn't intervene until the little earphone told them to.
The guy gave up on getting help from them and looked back at me suspiciously. I smiled pleasantly. He shot back a forced smile, turned the ticket over, and saw the telephone numbers.
"They're my uncle's, Mr. Steinman," I explained. "He's the president of the Board of Trustees of this Temple."
He asked for my name. I told him.
He asked, "Do you have any identification?"
I showed him my driver's license. One of the guys in the grey suits now approached us. He looked at my license for a long time, then tugged the end of a wire in the inside pocket of his jacket and whispered something. The earphone answered something straight into his brain. He nodded to the guard to let me in, then moved aside.
I got the license and the ticket back. I walked around the table and was given into the hands of two other suits from the same assembly line. One of them frisked me while the other passed a metal detector over my body. The left boot caused a prolonged shriek to emanate from the metal detector. My immediate reaction was: Run!
But the security guard just said to his partner, "Look at all the noise these accessories make." He tapped the steel tip of the boot and stood up.
Inside, the view was truly impressive. I know you're proud of your Temple, and with good reason. It's very cleverly built. Take the plate glass walls, for instance. From the outside they look like a giant trap for dirt and fingerprints. But from the inside you can see they were built to show off the green treetops of the park. The pews sit on a series of graduated platforms, like in an old-time movie theater - so everyone can see and be seen. The organ, the cantor, and the low lights all add to the air of majesty.
There weren't any vacant seats, so I walked around the room and stood off to the side, near the altar, among the others who either didn't have assigned seats or who had arrived late. I searched for familiar faces in the crowd. I picked you out right away. You were sitting in the first row and - as usual - you looked great. On either side of you sat the mayor and some other man, perhaps the guy who was running for vice president. A minute later I spotted Mom's head. The main aisle was to her left. To her right sat a completely healthy-looking Aunt Ida who was busy tugging on her silk handkerchief. I also found Aunt Lilian and Uncle Freddy from Rego Park, and Rabbi Goldwasser, who comes to see you every holiday to offer his blessings and get a hand-out.
The cantor finished singing and asked you up to the altar. You thanked him with a nod and invited the mayor and the vice presidential candidate to join you. They got up from their places in the first row and walked toward you all full of smiles and handshakes. This was my chance to go up the side aisle and get closer to Mom. I moved forward with soft, silent steps, but the stairs creaked anyway. Heads turned with each row I passed, and several people whispered a reproving "Sssshhhhh". I lingered opposite Mom's row. Aunt Ida saw me and waved hello. Mom was obscured behind her and was looking straight ahead at the altar as if nothing else existed. I signaled Aunt Ida to get Mom's attention, and Aunt Ida signaled back. Something about Mom disturbed me, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I signaled again, but Aunt Ida was already absorbed in the game and she waved back to me with the hand that gripped the handkerchief. As Aunt Ida leaned forward I could see more of Mom, and I realized what it was that had bothered me: she was wearing the pink shirt with the black stripe.
At first I thought: it can't be! That had all happened hours ago at The Society for Proper Nutrition... I regretted having stayed at the movies instead of finding some electronics store or restaurant
with a TV where I could've watched the news to see whether it had really happened. I still thought there had been some mistake, but I couldn't help looking at the faces of the men who sat nearby, trying to guess which of them was the man who for the last two weeks had aroused in me feelings of hatred, anxiety, guilt, and - more than anything else - curiosity: the man Mom loved.
How could I find him? How could I possibly guess who belonged to whom in a world where opposites like K. and his wife attracted? I studied some of the faces nearby. It couldn't have been any of them - and it could have been any of them. "You'll see me," she had told him over the phone. I descended a row. There, too, everyone was riveted to the altar; no one turned around to look at the pink shirt with the black stripe. I'd almost decided that nothing was going to go wrong, that Mom had just worn that shirt because she had already laid it out. Nevertheless, I went back up two stairs and checked the row above hers. The first two seats were fine: an old man and his wife occupied them. Next to them sat a kid about my age. Next to him were three women sharing a prayer book. Next to them sat someone who pressed himself back in line with the other heads. It was a very slight movement, and under normal circumstances I never would've thought he was trying to hide; but in my current state, every twitch made me suspicious. I moved aside in order to see better. He was wearing a dark suit, like most of the men there, but it was impossible to miss the blond curls, the pleasant face, and the pale eyes.
That meant that everything was going to happen here, now.
I imagine I must have flinched somehow, because he gave up trying to conceal himself and turned a direct, piercing glare on me. This was the first time we had ever looked each other in the eye.
"Ok, wise guy," his eyes said. "What are you gonna do now?"
What was I supposed to do? What would you have done in my place?
The mayor and the vice presidential candidate had reached the altar and were standing beside you. You had asked several other important types to join you: members of the board, big givers, guys like that. I watched Mom out of the corner of my eye without taking my eyes off him. He cast a few quick, sidelong glances. It seemed he was weighing his options. He fingered something under his jacket and leaned forward as if he were about to run. Someone who was hurrying up to the altar tapped my shoulder and asked to get by. I descended a row and mumbled, "Excuse me." When I went back to where I'd been standing, the guy was no longer sitting in his seat.
He was a few chairs away, halfway to Mom. The people who were sitting in his way shrank back and pulled in their knees. He didn't even apologize; he just pressed forward, his hand inside his jacket as if he had a stomach ache. I think that was when I spoke to him for the first time.
"Hey," I called out in a coarse whisper. Several people sitting nearby turned their heads. He kept going.
"Hey," I called again. He bent his back and took his hand out from under his jacket.
He didn't have a gun, or a knife, or anything else scary - just a rather wide manila envelope that was stuffed full. He stretched out his other, empty hand and lightly tapped the back of Mom's chair. She turned around. He held the envelope out to her. She nodded sadly, as if the envelope and what was in it symbolized a hard but inescapable fate. The look on her face was just awful. Actually, her face looked awful, as if the mask she had constructed to hide her age - the makeup, the facials, the optimistic expression - had crumbled all at once, leaving only the truth: a network of deep, bitter lines, hard shadows under the eyes, and a look of utter hopelessness.
The guy's hand was still in mid-air, clasping the envelope. Mom hung back. My confusion and curiosity turned to dread. I could no longer console myself that it was Dad who was involved and that the chances of his doing anything to hurt Mom were slim. On the contrary; quickly I ran through all the things that could be hidden in a fat manila envelope: a bomb? A bottle of acid? Poison? Mom was thinking, too. Suddenly her eyes went blank, as if she were about to cry. The guy moved his hand in an arc, building speed to hurl the envelope into her lap. My terror took on a life of its own - I couldn't control it.
I heard myself scream, "No!"
Just then the last of the notables had arrived at the altar. No one was speaking into the microphone, and the last of the applause had died down. My cry echoed in the sanctuary loud and clear. The guy threw me another glance and turned back to Mom. I shouted again, this time in Hebrew.
"Leave her alone!"
It might have all ended there. The guy could have realized it was a lost cause, continued to the end of the row, and run out. I would have apologized or fled and Mom would have been left there, in her embarrassment, to explain. But Aunt Ida tried to help. She grabbed the envelope and pulled. Overcome by surprise, the guy pulled back. Mom watched it all from the side, as if none of it had anything to do with her. Aunt Ida mumbled something. The guy pursed his lips. He tugged harder and more violently. His free hand went for his pocket, perhaps to take out a weapon.
I remembered the gun. It was pressing against my ankle, as if it had awakened to remind me it was there. I bent over, undid the buckle and threw off the boot. The gun fell by my side on the floor. I picked it up and pushed my way forward, stepping on the toes of the old man and his wife, the kid, and the three praying ladies.
"Get away from her!" I yelled, aiming the gun at him. "Get away from her or I'll shoot!" The trigger was lighter than I'd anticipated - or maybe in my confusion I pulled it by accident. I heard a small `pop' and the tinkle of glass as the bullet hit one of the giant windows.
Then came the screams. The congregation dove under the pews. Something in the tug of war between the guy and Aunt Ida had gone awry. The envelope tore, and out fluttered a wad of papers covered in scrawl. Mom covered her face with her hands. Aunt Ida stared in astonishment at the remains of the envelope in her hand. The guy didn't wait a second. Again he performed one of his fantastic feats: he sprinted to the end of the row, hurled himself on the floor, rolled down the main aisle - and vanished. The guys in the suits came rushing in from all sides. A few of them raced up to the altar and positioned themselves as a protective wall around the mayor and the vice presidential candidate. Others took up positions near me and aimed their guns.
"Drop the gun," someone yelled. "Don't bend over, don't move, just let it drop." I did what he said with a deep sense of humiliation and pain - not because I had to obey, but because I longed to give Mom a hug. She was sobbing bitterly and, for the first time since all this had started, she seemed real, and human.
You already know what happened next: they held me in a small room that's usually reserved for the cantor. Two of the guys in suits guarded the door. You used your connections to persuade the mayor and the vice presidential candidate to keep me under house arrest until the matter had been investigated, rather than send me to jail. The mayor agreed on condition that two of the guys in the suits accompany us here to make sure I wouldn't escape. With equal ease you arranged for Mom to go to a sanatorium you were associated with. (For some strange reason no one examined the papers that had been in the envelope. As she was taken away she clasped them, wrapped in a new plastic bag, to her chest.) You undoubtedly also convinced the mayor's publicity men to spare the press - so anti-Semitic, anyway - the ridiculous story of your brother's crazy grandson shooting into a crowd of Rosh Hashanah worshippers at your Temple yesterday evening.
That's it. That's what happened.
All I have to do now is wait for you to come.
It's already 9:47. You're almost an hour late. Is that a good sign, or a bad sign?
There's a really old movie on TV with Mae West and Cary Grant. I think I'll turn it on and watch until you get here.
A LETTER, OR THE NINTH AND FINAL NOTEBOOK
I don't have a clue how this envelope will get to you, and I don't know what address it will bear or whether it will contain everything I've stuffed into it: this letter and the eight notebooks. The people taking care of us tried to persuade me that it would be healthier for me not to writ
e to you; but my psychologist, Dr. Lifshitz - he's a pretty smart guy (though, come to think of it, maybe he's an officer in the Mossad, not a psychologist) - took care of everything by telling them I needed to, "tie up loose ends".
So, let's tie up those loose ends.
I'll pick up where I left off: September 8th, 9:47 p.m., the day after your service and 47 minutes after you were supposed to have arrived, but hadn't. The guys you'd left to guard me were watching television. I could tell by the voices. I turned on my TV, too. Like I said, they were showing a movie with Mae West and Cary Grant. When it got to the famous part where Mae West looks at the bulge in Cary Grant's pants and says, "You got a gun in your pocket, or you just glad to see me?" a light went off in my head.
You know the feeling, like when something suddenly becomes crystal clear - and then disappears before you have a chance to really grasp it. That's exactly what happened: suddenly I understood everything - but then it slipped away, either because I was exhausted or because, as Dr. Lifshitz says, "I wasn't yet psychologically ready to face the truth."
Again I tried to make sense out of everything I knew. There were two "teams" playing this game, weren't there? One comprised Dad and the Mossad; the other was made up of Mom and the man she loved. And there was a third, complicating factor: the guy from the Lincoln Tunnel. It wasn't clear whether he was on the first team, or whether he was working in the service of a third, mysterious player. But what Mae West had said (the bulge in Cary Grant's pants could express one of two entirely different things: either a deadly weapon, or sexual excitement - this, too, was Dr. Lifshitz's assessment) revealed another possibility, one that no one had thought of: what if the man Mom loved was also the man who was somehow behind all the bullying and harassment?
Of course this was all speculation, a wild hunch. But after all, it was you who taught me never to ignore my hunches. Again I scanned the notebooks. I made a list of everything I knew about the man Mom loved. It was a very short list: he was Jewish, he worked in the administration of The Society for Proper Nutrition and Care of the Body, and his secretary's name was Miss Fletcher... what else? Wasn't there anything else I could surmise from the way in which they met, from the things she'd written to him, from the way the offices of that society in Nyack were set up?
The Last of the Wise Lovers Page 20
