What’s gotten into this senile old man, you must be asking yourself, that first he calls me from across the pond—something he’s never done before—and now he’s gabbling on about books? I know, I know, it’s all out of character for your old friend Frank. But that’s right, I’ve called you to talk about books—just bear with me, I’m not going to tell you why yet. Let me do this at my own pace. Aside from Don Quixote, the only book that I care about is Gal’s. Well, yours and Gal’s, because it belongs to both of you, and hell, maybe it’s mine too, though I didn’t put in a single comma. And, actually, who knows how many people could claim a share, because in the end the book is about the Oakland and its people, right? So in a way it belongs to all of us. Well, that’s why I’m calling you. The thing is, the other day, before hanging up, April 14th, I told Louise that if she ever wanted to go up to Fenners Point again, all she had to do was ask, and I’d have a limo ready for her. I’d have Víctor take her and that’d be that. No, not Víctor, sorry, I mean Danny—see, I’m already losing it. She took a while to respond. She was quiet for such a long time that I had to ask if she was still there. And of course she was. Fuck, I thought, her voice is hoarser than ever—and it wasn’t exactly delicate before. She sounded like a cement mixer. She coughed a few times, a bad cough, that woman is going to pay a heavy price for all her smoking. Finally she goes and tells me that no, she would prefer not to see Fenners Point again. I definitely didn’t expect that. And I started to feel like maybe we’d all abandoned Gal after all—nonsense, I know, but as it was, the following day . . . I remember it was a Friday . . . I called Danny and told him: Danny, get ready, tomorrow we’re going to Fenners Point. I mean, I told him that on Thursday, Friday was the day we went. He had no idea where Fenners Point was. Which makes sense, where would he have heard about that godforsaken place? So I explained it to him. Hadn’t been there once, not a single time, I’m talking about me now. You see where I’m heading? No? We left early in the morning to avoid the weekend traffic. There wasn’t a soul on the road. They’ve built a highway now—not even God uses the old route. Obsolescence, as Raulito, who’s always been a bit pretentious, says. There’s no life in the seaside towns either—they were fishing villages in the old days, but now everyone buys farmed fish and the stuff tastes like rubber. They built the fish farms crammed all together on the east side of the county, near the river, which is good, that way they don’t ruin the shoreline. The thing is, the day we went, the sea was fucking gorgeous. The maple woods were beautiful. And you’re not going to believe it, but the sign that says Danish Cemetery was still there. As we took the road through the woods, I thought about the funeral. There were so few of us there, remember? Almost no one. Just Louise, you, Víctor, and couple of other friends. I remember I had to bribe one of the town councilors so he would look the other way regarding the burial, because who the hell could get a permission for such a thing in less than two days? He sent me some workers and told me not to worry, that he would fix the papers in exchange for a nominal fee and everyone would be happy. Later, I thought that perhaps it hadn’t been necessary, because, come to think of it, who the fuck remembered the Danish Cemetery? The consulate had done what they did after the shipwreck—which was big news, even the New York Times had a photo on the front page—but after that, nothing. The first ones who forgot about it were the Danes themselves. They put up the plaque, did their duty, and as soon as there was a change in diplomats, the new ones couldn’t give a shit. Anyway, when I went with Danny, it was a cold gray day, raining a bit. The sea was choppy and the waves crashed against the reefs—it was petty harrowing up there. I’m not surprised they nicknamed the place the Devil’s Pitchfork. But I’m getting ahead of myself again. There were some muddy stretches and it was hard getting up to the cemetery. Once there, everything was the same, or at least I didn’t notice anything different. I like Fenners Point. It doesn’t feel like a graveyard. It reminds me of that Japanese garden you took me to once in Queens, with all the white stone surrounded by grass. God knows the last time anyone set foot there. I went right up to Gal’s grave. I took my hat off and stood there thinking, which is how I pay my respects to the dead. I don’t know a fucking thing about praying, never been religious. Then, I noticed something strange. Someone else had been there after all. Danny was sitting on the stone wall and I called him over and told him about it. Do you remember, Ness, that I had a niche built into the gravestone, where we put the book? Well, I never went after that, although I arranged for everything. I called my friend the councilor again and he told me not to worry, a little more money and no problem, same old story. He had to send the workers back. You and Louise went, Víctor took you, remember? After the work was done, I only saw it in pictures. I still have one somewhere. It was delicate work because the headstone was thin as it was. And that’s where you put the book. So, well, that’s why I’m calling. Someone took it, Ness, believe it or not. The novel is not fucking there. It took me a second to notice because they tried to cover up the mess they left, but the glass was broken and they couldn’t close the latch. Who the hell could it have been? Someone who just found the place by accident? I have no idea. Or someone who wasn’t in too much of a hurry, or who didn’t like highways, a fisherman, a freak, an ecologist . . . ? Who knows? Maybe a driver saw the sign, and he got curious. That’s all it would take to fuck the whole thing up. I don’t have the slightest idea when it happened. It could have been weeks, months, even years earlier. There’s no way of knowing, since none of us ever go there. Imagine how fucking pissed off I was. I started thinking about who could have been there. The last one to go was Louise, but that was years ago. It could be that whoever did it had nothing to do with Gal. We may never know, although that would be horrible. I mean, if it was someone who’d never heard of him, now he knows all his secrets. Well, that’s why I was calling, muchacho, this is what I wanted to tell you. I’m sorry about the bad news. I’d like to do something about it, but I don’t know what. You neither, huh? What could anyone do? With a case like this, there’s not even a scent to follow. But, hey, how are you? Tell me something about yourself. When are you coming back to the States? Don’t think about it too much, old Frankie is running out of steam.
May 6, 2008
Fucking hell, Ness, more than a year without talking and now we call each other every other day. But today’s call comes with very good reason. Fasten your seatbelt. The motherfucking novel has been found. Pardon my French. I don’t know what the fuck’s happening to me, every day I curse more. Carolyn can’t stand it. How? I got it in the mail, that’s how. Believe it or not. Fuckin’ A. I’m at the door of the Oakland, and I see Peter, the mailman, coming over. He hands me the mail as usual, and then he says to hold on and takes a package from his cart and hands it to me. A big package. I sign for it, go to the office, open it, and there’s Brooklyn. What do you fucking think about that? No, no, it’s in good condition given how long it was at the grave and then who knows where else. It’s in pretty good shape, like it’s never been out of its little niche. And it came with a note of apology. Yes, addressed to me. Well, there are two notes, in fact—the second one’s for you. Shit, I don’t know, I haven’t read it. It’s in a sealed envelope. Mine doesn’t say anything specific. It’s handwritten. The person who wrote it apologizes, says that as soon as he (or she) finished the book they began to inquire about the Oakland in case it was still around, since the bar plays such a big role in the novel. When they confirmed we were still kicking, they sent the book here by certified mail. To me, of course. Think how much they know about all of us, now. I feel . . . well, it gives me the creeps, when I think about it. No, man, it’s unsigned. Isn’t it enough that they returned it? What? Registered mail, yes. Oh you’re right, I never even looked at the return address. Let me see. No, no, I have it right here in the office. Here it is. No name. Just PO Box 221, New York, New York 10021. There is also a note for you. No, goddamn it, I haven’t read yours, I told you I wouldn’t do that. What? Yes, that’s
the other reason I was calling, hold on, let me see. Now I’ve lost my fucking letter opener. No, I’ve got it. Ready? Okay, here I go.
Friday, May 9, 2008, 9:03 A.M.
Dear Mr. Chapman
I very much appreciate your prompt response. I wasn’t sure if you and Frank Otero were still in touch after all these years. These last few months have been very strange and confusing for me, and it would be impossible to sum them up in just a few words, particularly by way of something as insubstantial as e-mail. But I had to tell you what a great relief it was to find you. I won’t repeat what I said in my note. The important thing is that the book is back where it belongs. It’s so odd to be writing to you like this, since I know so much about you and you don’t even know my name. I apologize, but for the moment, I’d rather not be too explicit. For reasons too complicated to explain now, a number of Gal Ackerman’s papers ended up in my hands, that’s how I found out about the novel. I’ll give you the details when we meet in person. There are things that it’s better to say face to face. I realized that much right after I decided to return the novel. I have to admit, it was difficult, but you should know how good I felt afterward. Again, it’s a long story, but I’ve come to understand that the best thing I can do is to rid myself of Ackerman’s papers. It’s not just that they have a direct connection to the book . . . For personal reasons, it’s just painful for me to keep them. And since, on the other hand, I’m incapable of destroying them, I can’t find a better solution than giving them to you, who are so familiar with Gal and his writings. Bear with me for now. I promise to explain everything when the right moment comes. As for our possible meeting, it’s a blessing that you live in Madrid. I’m flying to Europe at the end of this month, specifically to Paris, right after the end of my semester. I’m studying architecture at Cooper Union. Once I take care of some personal business in Paris, getting to Madrid won’t be much of a hassle. My apologies for keeping everything so hush-hush. I understand that from your perspective it must seem utterly bizarre and theatrical. This is very important to me, from a personal standpoint, and it would be impossible for me to furnish all the details by phone or, God forbid, by e-mail. I will need quite a few hours to explain everything adequately. Best wishes (and my apologies for the lack of a signature).
Saturday, May 10, 2008, 9:07 P.M.
Dear Mr. Chapman,
First of all, thank you so much for agreeing to correspond with me despite my insistence on remaining anonymous. I knew I could count on you. Really, thanks. I’m not playing games. If I told you who I am, I would have to rattle off the whole story, and for that, I insist, we must meet in person.
Oh, and about the return address—my roommate, Amanda Stevens, knows the whole story. After going through the novel and all the papers with me, she suggested that I rent a PO box especially for the occasion. Now that I’ve exchanged a few words with you, of course, I feel that I can trust you. Nevertheless, please allow me to take things at my own pace?
Sunday, May 11, 2008, 6:13 A.M.
I’m very sorry to hear about Frank Otero. I hope he recovers soon. Meeting in New York is another possibility, of course, but it won’t be possible for me before the 21st. I’m very busy writing papers, and I can’t afford any distractions till then. Look, it’s only ten more days. You can make it.
Monday, May 12, 2008, 6:21 A.M.
No, it’s not that either, don’t worry about it. On the contrary, in a way it’s a relief. Holding onto all these papers has been a source of terrible anxiety for me, and just speaking about them, even if it is by e-mail, is a relief. You ask how often I check my messages. In general, once a day, early in the morning. I love getting up before dawn, especially now that the sun rises so early (sometimes I go online more than once a day, but I never plan on it).
Your friend (if I may).
Tuesday, May 13, 2008, 7:55 A.M.
That’s very sad, about Frank. It’s the same for me as it is with Gal, with the rest of the characters in the novel, I feel guilty because I know so much more than I should. Please keep me informed about his condition. Do you plan to come to the States to see him? It’s not clear from your message.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008, 9:31 A.M.
My friend,
I am writing you again before you have a chance to respond to my previous message, because something’s come up that could affect our plans. My father was supposed to travel to London, but has now decided to stop over in Cádiz, Spain. A friend of his is curating an art exhibit there. This is rather sudden—I mean the change in my father’s travel plans, not the exhibit.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008, 4:33 P.M.
After what I said before about checking my e-mail only once a day, here I am sending you three messages in a few hours. You’re going to think I’m a flake. I’m writing in a rush, I’m not going to have time to breathe until I finish this damn paper that I don’t seem to be able to get done. Yes, my father knows everything. You’re the only one at a disadvantage for now. My father is an art expert. As for the exhibit, a friend of his—an Ensor specialist—is the one responsible for the change of plans. Ensor is one of my father’s favorite painters. It’s a small show, but exquisite, I hear. My father has to take care of something at the Tate Modern before going to the opening and he asked me to join him.
By the way, what you say about Cádiz is (really) striking! I had no idea. I’m joining my father in Madrid, where he has to spend a few days, so I could conceivably meet you there. But since I’m also going to Cádiz, where Ralph Bates’s great-grandfather is buried—says you—I thought that we could meet there instead. Your call.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008, 12:44 P.M.
Dear Néstor,
I’m so glad to hear such good news about Frank! So where are we going to meet, finally? Madrid or New York? If you’re still thinking about coming to see Frank, we can meet over here. My father will arrive in Madrid on the 28th. I’m going to take a few days off until I leave, probably on the 25th. Let me know what you think when you can.
Thursday, May 15, 2008, 7:11 A.M.
No, no, that’s crazy. It would make no sense at all for me to meet Frank, nor am I interested in setting foot in the Oakland. I’m fond of Frank, sure, but for me he’s just a character in the novel. Your relationship with him is a different story. You’ve met him in person, he’s your friend, you’ve gone through a lot together. As for our own meeting, I have selfish reasons. For me, getting rid of those papers represents the possibility of bringing a very difficult situation to its conclusion.
Thursday, May 15, 2008, 6:26 P.M.
It’s a good thing for you to remind me that you’d rather look at things from a literary context. That’s not how it works with me, but I guess that’s irrelevant. As to the possibility of meeting in Cádiz, we can do that, if that’s what you prefer.
Warm regards
Friday, May 16, 2008, 7:07 A.M.
Néstor! Please, don’t insist. I thought we had an agreement. The reason I’m holding onto the papers has nothing to do with literature. You really can’t wait a few days?
Friday, May 16, 2008, 7:50 A.M.
Okay, I give up. I’ll send a list of Gal’s papers, when I’m home in a few hours. It’ll be pretty late, Madrid time, I fear.
Friday, May 16, 2008, 11:03 P.M.
You’re in luck: I’m in a good mood because I finally finished the paper that was driving me crazy. Now I can concentrate on yet another assignment, my very last one. In the meantime, here goes: a bundle of seven letters, including the original in English that Abraham Lewis wrote Ben Ackerman; and yes, you’ll be happy to know that I’m including the draft with the cryptic title “τπ,” and “Kaddish,” which is mentioned in the novel. “Kaddish” is the story that Gal published in the Atlantic Monthly (I have the original from the magazine as well as the Spanish translation.) As for “τπ,” all I have is the Spanish version (which I haven’t read). In the end, Gal Ackerman is dragging all of us toward his mother tongue. The rest of the stash is as fo
llows:
Call Me Brooklyn Page 28
