by Adam Gittlin
I walked toward the front of the townhouse. Before turning up the stairs I kept straight and stopped next to one of the windows. I peeked out. A black-and-white, front windows half-cracked, was in the usual spot. An officer was hard at work inside. I felt for the gun in my waist. I checked my left pocket for my cell phone then my right for my flashlight. Low, I headed upstairs.
I stepped in front of the first drawing. Just as I had mentally rehearsed, I lifted it off the wall and headed back in the direction I came from. The plan was simple. Get all four drawings into the kitchen for a side-by-side examination. The table was smaller than the one in the dining room but outside the officer’s vision. One by one I brought them downstairs, grabbing the magnifying glass from the study before returning with the fourth.
I bent forward. I positioned the glass and switched on the flashlight. Each drawing was different from the next in size and frame. I started at the left. It was a tiger. He was captured in time lying in a field. There were mountains far in the distance. It was incredibly three-dimensional, not just the animal, but the entire scene. I could feel the clouds’ movement.
I traced the tiger. Nothing, just as I figured.
Look closer.
I moved to the periphery. I started at the bottom, in the field. Careful to be thorough, I went slow. It was obvious to me quickly the ground wouldn’t offer much. Too light, I thought. Nowhere to hide the letters.
I moved to the mountains, more particularly their edges, which were ripe for letters a touch bolder than their background or vice versa. The portion of the picture that filled the concave observation deck seemed to be protruding from the paper. I followed the peaks and valleys. It wasn’t long until I found something. I moved in even closer. It was along the earth’s crust going up toward the next peak. It looked like the word “We.”
I moved the magnifying glass and kept the light on the paper. No letters or words whatsoever were noticeable to my naked eye. I returned the glass and let it take the lead. Along the fringe of the distant range, the same fluid writing a la the sterling silver rattle’s “ours” spun into the shading, a message unfolded. “Miles apart. Answer lies in Omega. A could only be you.”
I checked the rest of the painting. Nothing else. Three quick sentences. That was it.
I was confused as hell. I was blown away.
Why would someone go to such trouble?
I stood up. Shadows of the shimmying shrubs danced on the wall in front of me. An expanding floorboard or wall whined across the room interrupting the silence. I looked down and shined the light on the bottom right-hand corner. 1974.
“Answer lies in Omega,” I repeated.
Omega. I racked my brain for any and everything I knew about or associated with the word. There was the obvious, the twenty-fourth and last letter of the Greek alphabet. There was the not so obvious, like the term or actual Greek letter being used to symbolize the phrase “the end” or the use of the word “omega” in the financial world as it relates to option pricing.
“The end,” I whispered to myself. “The end of what?”
It didn’t make sense. I stepped back from the table. I looked out the window. In the darkness I saw the light. In the light I saw the source of my trembling.
Omega.
As in Omega Seamaster, circa 1960.
Pop’s untouchable watch.
Crouched, I entered the master bedroom, which was upstairs but at the front of the house. I stopped at the foot of the bed. The morning Pop was shot he was going to play golf. This meant no Omega. My father, a six handicap, never wore a watch when he played; he said the uneven weight distribution threw him off. I looked at the rosewood nightstands. He never kept the watch in the safe. But it had to be close by.
I began with the nightstand to my left. I sat on the edge of the bed and scanned the top. Alarm clock, leather business card case, ceramic dish filled with change and collar stays, a letter opener, a pair of reading glasses, a pair of scissors, and a remote. I pulled out the one drawer. There were financial magazines, Fortune and Forbes. There were Clancy novels. Between the two small piles was a single, black calfskin watch box. I lifted it out and opened it. Inside was the Seamaster.
A couple of the room’s windows faced the street so I stepped into the bathroom. I closed the door and turned on the flashlight. The watch, once removed from the box, was lighter than I expected. It was thin stainless steel from the bezel all the way down to the clasped bracelet. The hands looked like long, slim daggers. Ten of the hours were marked with a single stainless bar instead of a number. Hour twelve had two bars. Hour three was a window for the date.
I turned it over and looked at the back of the face. Just as I expected there was an engraving.
“Oceans apart. One soul together.”
I leaned back against the wall. Under closed lids my eyes rolled back into my head. My theory about the watch had been right. What I was wrong about was the woman who gave it to him. I pinched the bridge of my nose, mashed my eyes, and sequestered some air. I held my breath for three seconds then exhaled loudly.
I recalled the message in the tiger drawing. “Miles apart.” But the next line was “Answer lies in Omega,” which, ultimately, just reiterated their connection. It didn’t add up. Unless—
I took my hand from my face and opened my eyes. “Miles apart” was not about my father. It was about Alexander, her husband. The third line of the message told me so.
“A could only be you.”
A. As in Andreu.
The year of this particular drawing was 1974. The year both Andreu and I were born.
She was validating the pregnancy. Which meant at some point, to her face or not I can’t be sure, my father must have questioned it. Maybe even after receiving the initial drawing of newborn Andreu. I thought, why couldn’t she just answer him? Better question, why could she only answer him like this?
I craved more time to process, but the circumstances wouldn’t allow it. I still had work to do. Theories spinning; some compelling, some absurd, I replaced the watch, returned to the kitchen, and moved to the next drawing. 1977. It was a shot of a sprinting puma, all four legs off the ground mid-stride. The streamlined animal was consumed with purpose. Each blood-filled vein in his neck told me so.
The ground, like the previous picture, was light. A few birds scattered from the onslaught. My attention swung to the top of the paper. Some overhead trees edged the image on both sides.
The dense leaf clusters were the perfect camouflage for the rolled up message I found. “Union of necessity is my shame. Must stay true to my own. Darkness for A and J. Or ruin.”
A and J. Andreu and Jonah.
The unfolding reality was a crushing one. My brain wanted to scramble, but I couldn’t let it. Not yet. I moved to number three. 1998. It was a lion, facing forward, with a mane and expression daring you to taunt him. He stood on muddy ground. A few antelope scattered in the foreground. A marbled sky threatened from above.
I started straight away at the top. There it was, fused brilliantly within the heavy clouds. “Brutus 3. 2.1. Common goals no longer common. No matter—4 of 6 confirmed your way.”
My shoulders dropped. My right knee nearly buckled.
Brutus.
The conspiring villain from Julius Caesar.
What a soulless bastard. Same as the Omega. My whole life, no matter which of the two I asked about, my father made me think the connection was to my mother without ever saying her name. Subconsciously he must have thought this tactic made him a better man. Or, consciously, just less of a bad one.
My left hand balled in a fist, a tear welling in each eye, again I left the kitchen. Brutus 3. 2.1. The 2,1, in Shakespearean lingo, definitely meant act two, scene one. The 3 after Brutus, I deduced, meant Brutus’s third time speaking in that particular scene. While I knew the play inside and out, I couldn’t recall the exact passage. I had to refresh my memory.
As I turned into the livin
g room, crouching, I could see the officer was still working. I went straight for Pop’s Shakespeare collection and plucked Julius Caesar, written in 1599, from the middle of the row. Kneeling on one knee, I parked myself under one of the room’s side, or east, windows. I opened the book. The parting of the browned pages emitted an aged scent. There was just enough nighttime light to read the text.
I traced down the page with the tip of my index finger. Brutus, Lucius, Brutus, Lucius, Brutus. “It must be by his death,” the paragraph began. I read all twenty-five lines. It was Brutus explaining his desire to kill Julius Caesar. He felt the young militant’s views were about to shift, the result of his ascension to greater power. He felt their common goals, once in sync, were about to change.
Four of six. The common goal that was no longer common.
Nineteen ninety-eight. The year Alexander Zhamovsky was murdered.
My hands started shaking. Deep down I knew why. As I hurried to replace the book in its central slot, I inadvertently set off what looked like two sets of dominos. Half the books fell left, the other half right. More than a few, along with the bronze bookends, went tumbling to the floor. The porcelain lamp went also, crashing in a heap.
Before I did anything, still ducking, I took a few steps toward the street. The cop was still in his car. Only he had stopped writing. He was looking at the house.
“Oh, fuck!”
As I placed the books, in no particular order, back on the chest and fastened the upright row with the bookends, a car door shut. I dashed to the room’s exit, catching another look outside. The officer was walking toward the front door. I looked back at the pile of lamp.
No time.
Now in the foyer, adrenaline skyrocketing, I had two choices. I could turn right down the hall toward the kitchen with a good chance of being spotted. Or, even less desirable, I could jump behind the front door and wing it.
As close to the hinge as possible, I hugged the wall with my back like an escaping convict trying to avoid the tower spotlight. Careful not to let any air pass through my nose, I slightly parted my lips as I breathed. The satin-nickel, single-cylinder handle clicked. The door opened. Fusion of streetlights and the moon softly kindled the antechamber. Not two feet from me the officer stepped inside. A five-inch thick piece of mahogany was all that separated us.
The officer, soles snapping against the floor, turned right and walked toward the living room. He took five or six steps before stopping in the entryway. The more I calmed myself, the tighter my muscles wound. Neither of us offered a sound.
After a few more seconds, he flipped the switch to his left. A couple of the living room lights turned on. Faster than he’d previously walked, he headed, I figured, to the fallen lamp. Now was my chance.
Or was it?
I was confident I could slink around the door and disappear. On the other hand, what would happen if he checked the rest of the house? If he stumbled across the drawings laid out in the kitchen?
Fuck!
I couldn’t leave. Unless, I thought, he was immediately pulled from the house once I did. Save myself now, clean up the mess later. I could put a rock through someone’s window. Or set off a car alarm. I could dissolve into my old neighborhood. Then rehang the drawings later.
Fuck!
Bailing was the right decision. I knew this. Still, I couldn’t move. Reminding myself freedom was my most vital ally, I ramped up my determination and got ready to go. Just as I did there were footsteps again. I returned to the wall.
I’d missed my chance.
He was coming back. Without stopping, midstride, he flipped the lights back off. Each step was louder than the previous as he approached. Quickly he reached the front door. Instead of leaving, he stopped.
Did he hear me? Could he see my shadow somewhere? A hint of my sneakers?
I was ready for him to peer around the door. I was ready because I had to be. The plan now was simple. Take him out with the door if even one hair on his head entered eyeshot. Then, using my knowledge of the layout, lose him by jetting out the exact way I came in. Head stationary, eyes anything but, I evaluated the door for what I could best determine as the sweet spot. I braced and prepared for impact.
The officer exited, closing the door behind him. I leaned my head back against the wall. I jump-started my breathing which in the previous seconds had stopped.
Knowing I was short on time, I scrambled back to the kitchen. I wanted to throw the drawings back on the wall and leave but couldn’t. Not yet. One fact was as real as my near hypersonic heart rate. There would be no more returns to the townhouse.
I dove into the last drawing, the zebra. 1980. The writing was deep in the background where the brush met the sky. “DJE + ENE = 2. Return to Homeland? My proper thank you in Sardinia.”
DJE. Danish Jubilee Egg.
ENE. Empire Nephrite Egg, found also in 1979.
I looked again at the date. 1980. The year Danish Jubilee Egg, currently in my possession, was anonymously purchased at auction by an American.
Purchased by my father.
Nothing registered from the phrase “Return to Homeland?” but Galina referring to her “union of necessity” now made sense. As did the phrase “4 of 6 confirmed your way.”
Four of the six remaining missing eggs.
“Confirmed your way”; confirmed — in 1980 when the zebra was drawn — in the United States.
This explained why Pop had kept Danish Jubilee Egg on American Soil — most of the collection was already here and it didn’t make sense to unnecessarily move individual pieces until the assemblage was complete. What could possibly serve as a better deterrent to potential pirates than a loan to the U.S. government so they’d watch it 24/7?
In a breath, again, my world changed. The implications were horrifying: from Galina and possibly my father involved in Alexander Zhamovsky’s murder to Galina being the mutual acquaintance who led Andreu to Derbyshev. Arms at my side, a ray of light pointed at the floor, the moment filled me. I was tortured by all of the lies and utter betrayal by so many people on so many fronts. I remembered our family trips. Was my father so lonely, I thought, he’d fall for a woman like this? Was it the excitement? Why did Galina want these eggs so desperately, so recklessly, so heartlessly? What did she mean when she referred to “her own”?
All night, prior to reaching the townhouse, I kept coming back to the same thing. Five letters, four drawings. When Pop mentioned Ia signed her work with a date he mentioned something else. She didn’t just draw.
A fifth letter. 2003. An Asiatic Black Bear on its hind legs, belly and fangs exposed. I turned off the flashlight. In the same order I took the drawings down, I returned them to the wall. I checked the window. The officer, still writing with one hand, sipped coffee with the other.
There had to be a fifth piece. I wasn’t leaving until I found it. For time’s sake I started with the closest rooms and stealthily, the officer back writing in his squad car, checked the dining room then the parlor. I checked the entire ground floor. I found nothing I hadn’t seen.
Blending with the night I made my way upstairs. Something of interest appeared in the study. On one of the bookshelves was a small, ivory sculpture that in the dark could have been a bear as easily as a dog. The study faced the street so the flashlight was turned off. I moved in close. I didn’t see any marks, dates or otherwise. I turned the animal over with my left hand. There was a year, 1989, followed by the signature of the famous Chinese sculptress Xie Jiang Ling.
A bathroom off the hallway produced a print that seemed to be new, but on first sight it was an abstract limited edition Barnett Newman. The guest bedrooms, my bedroom, and Pop’s bedroom all proved fruitless. Pop’s bathroom. Nothing. When I got to Pop’s walk-in closet something grabbed my eye. I pulled the door closed behind me. I turned on the flashlight.
Hung high on a narrow stretch of wall between two suit racks was a small oil painting. It was a Black Bear
on its hind legs, belly exposed and fangs poised. I approached for a closer look. I checked the bottom right-hand corner. 2003. It was at least six inches above my eye level, too high for a detailed scan. I removed it from the wall. I turned to place it on a dresser. When I did, I heard and felt something move. Something light. Something inside the painting. I turned it over. I gently shook the picture. Again, something inside shifted. In the brown papery backing, hugging the frame, was a five-inch slit. I angled the painting and slid the mystery item toward the opening. I gingerly inserted my pointer and index fingers. I pulled out a Russian stock certificate. It was exactly like the seven I found in the safe.
There was no English translation. Russian or not, I knew I was looking at shares for Prevkos subsidiary Alex Com II Exploration. It didn’t take long for Galina’s letters to reenter my mind. More precisely, how each ended.
“Enjoy the gifts (so much in a name).”
Gifts. A word, at first, I figured referred only to both the drawings and hidden messages.
“So much in a name.” As in the names of Prevkos’s subsidiaries, further illustrating her manipulation of Alexander, and not the titles of her artwork.
I turned the painting over. Like the drawings, the piece was done with uncanny precision and use of shading. The fine strokes meshed together as one everlasting image. Unlike the other pieces there were colors. The sky was a rich blue. The few soaring vultures were dark brown and black. The bear was predictably the focal point of the scene. He was face-forward, as described, standing on his hind legs in a grassy clearing. The surrounding green foliage faded evenly into the background, as did a distant military jeep that looked stolen from the show Mash.
I honed in on the jeep. It was heading in the opposite direction. I moved the magnifying glass closer still. On the side of the vehicle were two flags. One, dissected horizontally by a thick, diagonal white stripe, was red on the top and blue on the bottom. In the top left-hand corner was a small tiger. The other I had seen often growing up. It had a gold hammer and sickle, along with a five-point star, in a sea of red. It was the flag of the former USSR.
