“No. No Rimberg.” He was wrapping roasts, blood all down the front of his apron. He looked like the narrator in the Fiddler on the Roof movie only covered in blood. “No,” he told me. “Are you going to buy meat or make questions?” I left. He intimidated me. All that blood. But out on the street, I realized I was an idiot and a weakling, so I turned around.
The bloody butcher rolled his eyes at me when I reentered. He'd moved from wrapping and was cutting long strips of muscle from backbones.
No. He didn't say anything. He kept cutting. I announced I had one more question to ask. He kept cutting. I asked the butcher if he ever got a letter or package or anything from Antwerp, from a company called Green Bay–Palanpur Blue. The butcher stopped cutting, squinted at me. “Not from company. But from Antwerp.” He pronounced a name, something like Shaj bar-e. I wrote Jhavari on a piece of butcher paper, and he got red in the face, real nervous. “I do service. Take some money, hold envelope until woman from bookstore come to pick up. Each month bill Shaj bar-e Antwerp for kosher meat.” I then convinced the butcher I was going to arrest him if he didn't give up the name of the bookstore. “You are in serious trouble with the United Nations,” I told him. I said the money was meant to fund terrorists and he was a dupe, funneling cash to Islamic terrorists.
Indeed, my friend. Very dramatic.
Yes. He gave me good information. I found the bookstore. Watanabe Bookstore.
It was the most amazing thing I've ever experienced.
Right. But I told you, I don't remember the accident.
Cover Letter,
faxed to Fr. Barry McGinn,
August 19, 2005
* * *
Dear Father McGinn,
Attached you will find three message from T. Rimberg. He contacted me via these notations, by leaving with cashier at bookstore I own with my husband. I had only learned of T. existence and also his brother in June 2004, when my father arrived to Warsaw to live. I am most happy to assist your investigations as I am able. T. departed Warsaw in May with boy with blue hair (Nik) and I have not heard of him in several weeks and become very concerned. It is happy news he is safe. My mother will be very pleased to know this.
Regards,
Paulina Watanabe
Note 1,
Faxed to Fr. Barry McGinn,
August 19, 2005
* * *
October 27, 2005
Dear Ms. Watanabe,
I am trying to locate one Josef Rimberg. I have shaken down the kosher butcher and gathered information that leads me to believe you are in direct contact with him, or at least might provide specific clues regarding his whereabouts. I am from a special investigative branch of the United Nations and I will have you arrested and jailed if you do not contact me immediately. You, Ms. Watanabe, have run afoul of international laws re: laundering money for terroristic purposes. I am at Le Meridien.
Sincerely,
T. Rimberg
United Nations—New York
Financial Investigations
Day Ten:
Transcript 5
* * *
Well, I might have been ashamed, if I hadn't been in the middle of dying from pneumonia.
Yes, I used my own name. It was a tip-off. T. Rimberg looking for Josef Rimberg. I don't suppose a secret agent would scrawl an official communication on hotel stationery, either.
I received one reply by the next morning. It just said something like “Father dead. Leave us be.”
I didn't believe Dad was dead. I'd heard that before. I believed Dad wanted me to be in Poland. I believed he was waiting for me. I left the hotel to get a coat at an outdoor flea market because I was freezing and figured I'd have to walk around a lot to . . . do surveillance.
Yes, it's the black fur coat from the picture. Full-length sable. I looked crazy. And with those shades? I looked like P. Diddy. That coat probably saved my life, though. I needed warmth. Poor little sables died so I might live.
Paulina left two more messages at Le Meridien while I was out.
She said she knew who I was and she wouldn't be shaken down. The second one said that I should meet her and her mother at the store at five p.m.
She thought I knew who she was, which I didn't. She thought I knew about Dad. I didn't. I also didn't have a clue why she would bring her mother. Didn't really care. I was so ill, Barry. I just wanted to see Dad and tell him I loved him before I died. Love as an action.
I received the messages at two p.m. when I returned from the market. Then slept until 5:15. I got to the store forty-five minutes late, and there she was.
Letter 54
October 28, 2004
* * *
Dear Hayley Mills,
I'm drunk from my secret sister's vodka.
You know that scene in Parent Trap when you're in the green nether world of summer camp and you realize that the girl you hate with the short bob who looks like you (who is also played by you in the film) is actually your twin sister separated at birth? She's got her mother's picture and that picture is also of your mother? And then she (the other, bob-haired you) cries on your camp bunk and you comfort and hug her (you)?
I know how you feel, except there is no hope.
I've been separated from my half-sister Paulina by circumstances and geography and culture, too, and so I didn't know she existed, and then I dreamt her for two months, except she was tinier in my dreams than now. And then there was a lightning storm inside her bookstore, and I wanted to beat Paulina because I was so terrified (like you fighting yourself at the camp dance when you and your sister, whom you didn't know was your sister yet, are bitter rivals). I also wanted to pull out my hair. Paulina doesn't look like me but looks like my brother David if he weren't fat and old.
And I'll tell you this, Hayley Mills: No matching bobbed haircuts can put us back together. There's no one left to trap. There are no ranches in California, no mansions in Boston, no crafty double-crossing plans to make us whole. This is Poland, Hayley Mills. Godforsaken Poland. My stepmother is a fat Polish woman named Jadwiga who doesn't say a word, but is puckered and concerned and crying. Everyone dies in Poland, Hayley.
I have twin daughters who remind me of you. Little, blond pipsqueaks with sharp tongues. I think there was a remake of your movie, because my daughters exchanged places last summer to confuse me when I was drunk. You make me so sad, Hayley Mills. But we have so much in common.
Are you alive? My father isn't.
I have a sister in Poland.
T. Rimberg
Day Ten,
Transcript 6
* * *
When I walked in the door and we met eyes, it was like standing in the middle of an explosion that wouldn't stop. Blinding light, and the room spun, and our eyes were locked, and the light crashed around us . . . audibly and it . . . echoed. And then Paulina started screaming bloody terror, and the books shook and windows rattled, and I cried out, “It's you . . . It's you . . . It's you . . .” And then coughing took me down, coughing and coughing that doubled me over. I had to brace myself, hold myself up against a stack. And Paulina shouted, screamed in Polish.
I had no idea yet she was my sister.
No. Not Julia. Paulina, without question, without doubt. Paulina was the little girl in my dreams.
The two of us could barely talk—we were both shaken. I mean, Jesus Christ, Barry. She said, “I dream you every night.”
Yes, same dreams. Or similar. I mean, hers seemed to have her acting and me showing up in them . . . so not exactly my dreams . . . but war dreams. And sometimes I'd save her. Sometimes I'd laugh at her and run away and she'd be destroyed.
Oh, but she did say she dreamed getting attacked by old ladies right around the time I was in Antwerp.
We dreamed more . . . together . . . after we were actually together.
Poor Pani Jadwiga, Paulina's mother, had no idea what was going on. She stood there with her mouth open. I mean, Pani Jadwiga knew Dad, the father of her daughter, had kids
from another marriage—apparently he'd talked about me often. But this thing between Paulina and me . . . how do you explain that?
Paulina pulled a bottle of vodka from under the register, and we drank and stared at each other, and Pani mumbled at us in Polish and shook her head. I couldn't have explained it to Pani even if I thought she knew English. She did know English, by the way.
I gathered enough information to understand that this old woman was my father's romantic partner and that this dream person—this Paulina was my sister.
Yes. I've identified my grandmother Aida in photographs since then. David and Paulina look like Aida. All dark hair and dark eyes.
We got bombed. I was so ill I couldn't stand. Paulina put me in a car that took me back to my hotel. We agreed to meet the next day. I laughed hysterically all the way to the hotel. I think I was in shock. The driver mumbled at me in Polish and shook his head. I said to him “Pani Jadwiga!”
I was arrested, which is what kept me in Poland. So no, we didn't meet the next day.
Note 2,
Faxed to Fr. Barry McGinn,
August 19, 2005
* * *
October 29, 2004
I hope you are well, sister. I received your message about meeting together an hour later than we'd planned this afternoon. But I cannot. In a moment I will go with the police. I am being questioned about the death of a man who stole my suitcase on the train from Berlin. I did not kill this man. I assume he jumped, but the serving girl in the dining carriage is certain she remembers me throwing this man from the train. I'm sorry to miss our appointment. I'll be in contact soon.
T.
Note 3,
Faxed to Fr. Barry McGinn,
August 19, 2005
* * *
October 29, 2004
Dear sister,
I write to tell you I am the prime suspect in the murder of Pawel Kowolski. He is dead, having fallen from a speeding train with my personal belongings in his hands. There are three witnesses who claim they saw me lift Pawel above my head and throw him out the window. Two were his friends in the dining car who pretended they didn't know where he was after he disappeared. The other was the attendant in the dining car who looked to be strung out on some barbiturate. Do you know of a lawyer? I asked the investigator, who has a crew cut, why the three witnesses did nothing to prevent my murderous act and did nothing to stop the train after Pawel flew from it. He said I have no right to make such questions with him. I make such questions because I was in the bathroom when Pawel stole my suitcase and I don't want to be in jail. In any case, I am not guilty and am dying of a cough. Could you please help me in some way? I am in lock-up at the police headquarters (komenda glowna—is that right?), where I am periodically asked ridiculous questions. I hope this gets to you. I don't have your phone and am depending on the smiling hotel concierge to get you this message.
T.
Day Ten:
Transcript 7
* * *
Yes, finally in jail. Where I belonged. It had been a long time coming.
No, I don't mean that at all. I wasn't even philosophical about it. In Paris, if someone accused me of killing someone, I would've said, “Yes. That's me. I murder just like everyone else. Put me away.” In Antwerp I would likely have thought, “I'm crazy. Oh no. I did it and don't remember.” But I remembered exactly what happened on the train.
I wasn't in jail for long—a lot longer than I should've been. I was never charged. Spent a couple of days trapped in there.
Oh yeah. Serious jail. They put me in a cell.
The crew cut man kept telling me, “Not arrested.” Bullshit.
So damn sick! I was feverish and kept passing out. There was a wet cot in the cell they stuck me in. Bad sleep.
Yes, I do. I'll probably always feel guilty about the Polish man, even though I know I didn't throw him from the train. He'd likely be alive right now if I hadn't ventured aboard the Varsovia on that particular day. It's strange to think of our crossed destinies . . . the fact that I was born and quit my job and left for Europe was part of his. Part of his destiny was my affair with Chelsea. But I had no intent and wouldn't have harmed him. Maybe he would've jumped off the train that day with someone else's bag. Who knows? He didn't have a very good escape plan.
The Polish authorities took my backpack for a chunk of time at one point, which made me go ballistic—I screamed all kinds of profanity at them, which didn't help my cause. I don't know what they read or what they got out of it, but when they returned my notebooks they'd pulled all the metal spirals out of them and my pack was filled with loose paper.
Maybe they read the suicide letters and thought I'd kill myself with the wire?
Of course I asked.
The crew cut guy spoke reasonable English, but he wouldn't tell me why. He kind of “pff'd” when I asked what the hell, and curled his lip and shook his head.
Pani Jadwiga. She stitched them back together with yarn. She's very sweet. She knows how important documents of this type are to Rimbergs.
I didn't belong in jail. But Paulina and Pani Jadwiga took their time getting me out. Even when they did get me out, they didn't tell me I'd been cleared.
Oh no. No. No. I don't blame them. I love these women. I love my sister as myself. Poor sister! I missed her twenty-fifth birthday last month. She was born eleven months after Dad left me.
Is that a pizza guy at the door?
Letter 55
Written from police headquarters,
Warsaw, Poland
October 30, 2004
* * *
Dear Kara and Sylvie,
Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday!
I have ten-year-old girls! I remember the day you were born. Me and your mother were so amazed at this gift. Not one, but two beautiful and healthy daughters. Your mother always told me to expect twins. Aunt Carol had twins. But I couldn't believe it, even when we saw you both on the ultrasound. Two girls? Could I be so lucky? When you were born, I hugged you both in my arms and promised you I would give you everything. I cried—I was so happy and exhausted. When Charlie was born, your mother and I would fight over who got to hold him. When you two came, we each got a beautiful girl to hug and whisper to. If I could live the day of your births over and over and never leave that day, I would be the happiest man on the planet.
When you turn twenty-five, think how young you feel, then think of me at that same age, witnessing the birth of twin daughters. It was perfection.
Happy Happy Birthday!
I love you.
Dad
Letter 56
Written from police headquarters,
Warsaw, Poland
October 31, 2004
* * *
Hello Charlie, my boy,
It's Halloween. Are you going trick-or-treating? You're almost twelve, just a few days until your birthday. You're not too old to go door-to-door, yet, are you? What are you going to be? I bought the funniest-looking sunglasses you've ever seen. I wish I were at home with you, so you could use them. I can imagine all the poses you'd strike wearing these shades. It just makes me laugh. My dramatic, beautiful boy.
I love you, Charlie.
Dad
Day Eleven:
Transcript 1
* * *
Thanks for the birthday pizza last night. I'd nearly forgotten what good food tastes like.
Yes. I finally saw it on the Today show. Aren't all those people hampering the clean-up?
The lights were blurry on the videotape they showed. I couldn't really tell.
Have you been out there?
What do you think, Barry?
I'd like to see it, I think.
NBC makes me look pretty. Mary (my ex-wife, not the virgin) must have given them the picture. It was taken during Charlie's first birthday party. It's my favorite.
I was young, about Paulina's age.
What do you know about All Souls' Day, Barry?
Yes, huge in Polan
d.
That's how I left jail, the excuse Paulina gave them—or at least told me she gave them. She said I was dying (which seemed true) and I was in Poland to visit the graves of loved ones on All Souls' Day and I would be returned to the jail by my family.
I never went back to jail. It was a lie, actually. Paulina knew the druggie train attendant in the dining cart had retracted her statement about me killing Pawel.
I didn't find out I was off the hook until the embassy tracked me down in the spring. That's right about the time Cranberry showed up, too.
Paulina was pissed. She and Pani Jadwiga had to pay a lot of money to get me untangled from the legal system over there, even though I was innocent. Corruption, you know? They had to bribe some commissioner to get me out quickly. Paulina said it was an ass-load of money . . . And, you know, Paulina had only met me that one time . . . we hadn't even talked yet, more than cursorily, about the dreams . . . although she dreamed about the jail cell I was in and Brett Favre, too. She didn't know me like she does now. They'd paid lots and lots of money to get Dad cancer treatments, too, and they really were dependent on the money coming from the Jhavaris month-to-month. I'd upset the kosher butcher with my threats, so that relationship was endangered.
The Miracle Letters of T. Rimberg Page 18
