The Changeling

by Victor Lavalle

  He picked up the plastic knife on the table, and with one move he cut the red string off her wrist. It fell onto the plastic tabletop. Emma shivered. He held on to her hand.

  “I promise you,” he said. “With me, all three of your wishes will come true.”

  In this moment Emma Valentine faced a choice. She could see this moment as proof that Apollo Kagwa was an arrogant dick, or she could decide he was bold and worthy. He’d made his move, and now she must make her decision.

  EARLY EVENING BY the time Apollo arrived at the two-story row house in Ridgewood, Queens. As he scuffed up the front stairs, he laughed at how, when he lived in the two-bedroom in Flushing with Lillian, these sorts of places—not apartments but actual homes—had seemed so high-toned. He’d ask her why they didn’t live in one, and she’d say, Those are for owning not renting. Even now that he and Emma had an apartment of their own—on the island of Manhattan—he couldn’t stop himself from admiring the row house, gawping at the second-floor windows, the rain gutter running along the roof. Apollo Kagwa, thirty-seven now, but he still felt like that little boy.

  When Apollo rang the bell, he heard a woman calling from inside, and then the locks clicked and the curtains of the first-floor window slid aside a few inches so he could be seen there on the stoop by someone he couldn’t see. Then another voice, deeper, male, and the door stopped being unlocked. Apollo felt thrown back to the days when he’d been left waiting outside some nervous bookseller’s storefront, or all the times the owner of a private residence refused to let him in. I am the god, Apollo, he thought. I am the god, Apollo. These days the mantra came automatically, as commonplace as breathing. He took out his cellphone while he waited and sent Emma a text. He wondered if she’d already made it to the restaurant.

  Will be late for dinner, but I’ll be there.

  “Hold on!” a woman shouted from the other side. “I’m here!”

  The door shook in its frame, locks clacked then clicked, then clacked back again.

  “Come help,” the woman growled. “Don’t you see me?”

  The curtain in the front window fluttered, another set of footsteps, heavier and faster. Two clicks, and the knob turned, the door opened. A man in his early thirties stood in the doorway, and behind him was a small, much older woman. White folks, they looked like a pair out of some old central European woodcut. Those gaunt, lined faces and stiff postures.

  “It’s that easy!” the man said, shouting at her over his shoulder. He seemed too old to sound so childish.

  The woman pulled at the man’s arm so he’d move.

  “Mrs. Grabowski?” Apollo asked.

  “You’re the book man?” she asked.

  “I’m the book man.”

  Apollo held out his card for her, but the man snatched it fast, then retreated into the house. Apollo decided to call the man Igor, no matter what his real name turned out to be. The old woman, Mrs. Grabowski, smiled tightly and waved Apollo in.

  They entered a dining room where six cardboard boxes were laid out on the dining table. There was a sectional couch in the adjoining room, a large flatscreen television on a stand, and little else.

  “You said your husband died,” Apollo began.

  “Ex-husband,” Mrs. Grabowski said. She looked around the dining room. There was a dining table here, but no chairs. The off-white walls so dusty, they appeared gray. Black garbage bags were heaped in one corner of the dining room. One of them lay open, and a few dingy sport coats, weathered slacks, spilled out. Mr. Grabowski had succumbed to bachelorhood in his old age.

  “My son and I have lived around the corner in recent years.”

  “At least you stayed close,” Apollo said.

  Mrs. Grabowski shrugged. “This is Little Ukraine. Where else could we go? Now we have to clear it out by the end of the week. The owners want to rent to someone else.”

  She had an accent, though she might’ve been living in the United States for twenty years. Lillian never lost that faint British lilt that had got her hired by Glamour Time over forty years ago. Apollo used to get such a laugh out of hearing his mother pronounce aluminum like a Brit. Al-loo-min-ee-um.

  Igor waggled the business card as if he was a bouncer checking ID.

  “Did you go to school to do this?” Igor asked.

  “Those are the books?” Apollo said, pointing to the boxes on the table. He didn’t wait for her to answer—he just wanted to clear some space between himself and Igor. Keep it moving, Igor.

  “He enjoyed reading,” Mrs. Grabowski said as Apollo opened the flaps of the first box. “But his eyes became worse with age.”

  Igor didn’t like being ignored. He raised his voice. “You heard of Bauman’s?” he demanded.

  His mother looked at him. “Please don’t be foolish,” she said.

  Apollo didn’t even have to peek inside the box to be sure this one was worthless. The scent of mildew—water damage—rose into the air like a specter. He moved on to the next box, but the same smell greeted him.

  “Bauman’s Rare Books,” Igor said. “They have already made an offer for my father’s collection.”

  The old woman turned now and slapped her son’s arm. She spoke in their native tongue, and as Apollo moved on to the third box, he felt himself shrinking. He’d come all the way out here for what would no doubt turn out to be six boxes of stained, curled, and torn books.

  He did this instead of going straight to the dinner with Emma. One of her oldest friends, Nichelle, was visiting town and made reservations for them at Bouley. Just say that name with the proper French accent to guess how much the meal would cost. And here he was in Ridgewood, listening to a Ukrainian family bicker in Ukrainian. Or were they speaking Russian? He had traveled all this way so this twit Igor could try and tell him that Bauman’s Rare Books made an offer on Mr. Grabowski’s collection of sour-smelling paperbacks. He had come all this way to have his authority and experience questioned by a man who assumed superiority as a kind of birthright. But a good book man never turns down the chance at some rare find.

  Especially not a book man with a child on the way.

  Igor took out his cellphone, and as he tapped at the screen, he spoke in English again. “I’ve got the direct line for the Baumans,” he said.

  Apollo reached the sixth box. Hardcovers this time, and a quick sniff suggested mildew hadn’t been introduced to the batch. This time he reached in and checked the books.

  “Which Bauman?” Apollo asked. “David or Natalie?”

  A few works of nonfiction about Vietnam. Some of these books even had their book jackets. If he hadn’t been on his way to dinner, he might’ve offered twenty bucks for the box just so he could sift through it all at home.

  Mrs. Grabowski swung at her son again. “I told you not to lie!” she shouted.

  She hit his cellphone this time, and it soared out of his hand, into the den, skittering across the hardwood floor and under the couch.

  “Mama!” He ran for the device, and Apollo’s card fluttered to the floor.

  The old woman turned back to Apollo. “Do you like to buy these books?”

  “Well,” Apollo said, looking into the sixth box again. How to be nice about this? “It’s obvious your husband got a lot of enjoyment out of them.”

  She dropped her head, trembling with desperation. When she did, he came across a book that made him stiffen. A novel called Fields of Fire by James Webb. No discoloration to the book jacket, and the book itself showed no fading to the board edges, no rubbing, and when he turned to the copyright page, he saw it was a true first edition. Nothing like the Crowley postcard of course, but he had a regular customer in Virginia, a history hound, who might pay two hundred and fifty for this book.

  Apollo scanned the house again. Old clothes in garbage bags, a decaying sectional couch. The kitchen, visible from the dining room, looked like a graveyard for pots and appliances. Apollo doubted Mrs. Grabowski’s ex-husband had left her anything worth a damn. She’d even said this hou
se was only a rental. She’d inherited a messy house that she had to clear quickly, and her only help was feckless Igor.

  And yet she’d retained dignity, hadn’t she? She’d refused to go along with her son’s stupid plan. Even as much as she no doubt needed money, any money, she hadn’t been willing to lie to Apollo to get it. He imagined her working some job during the day, then coming out to Ridgewood each evening to sweep up after her dead, no doubt equally feckless husband. Though she was Ukrainian, she reminded him of his mother. Someone who worked like hell and still didn’t get all the good luck she deserved. If he paid her what this book was actually worth, it would be a kindness. Even half its value, even a hundred bucks, might make a difference: a week’s worth of groceries, a month’s Con Ed bill.

  From the other room, Igor shouted, “You better not have cracked the screen, Mama!”

  She looked over her shoulder at her son, on his knees, pawing for the device under the couch. He looked like a toddler scrambling for his toy. Mrs. Grabowski visibly deflated. Apollo felt his sympathies flare across his face like a rash.

  But quickly Apollo reminded himself why he’d come out to Ridgewood tonight: because it had been six years since the D’Agostino haul and nothing worth even as much as the Webb novel had come his way since then. Because Emma’s job at the library had been reduced from full time to part time. Because Apollo Kagwa and Emma Valentine were expecting their first child in two weeks.

  When Mrs. Grabowski looked back, Apollo held two hardcovers out to her. “I missed these when I first looked,” he said.

  She peeked at the covers and mouthed the titles to herself. “They’re valuable?” she asked. She watched his face closely.

  “A little,” he finally said.

  If he’d tried to buy only one book, Mrs. Grabowski would’ve felt sure it was valuable, but the second book—a ratty copy of an unremarkable thriller—acted as a kind of camouflage for Fields of Fire. Apollo learned this trick from the old dealers long ago. He hated doing all this, and so he decided, deep in the well of his mind, that he was doing it for his unborn child. It’s for the kid, he told himself. The words soothed his conscience, like applying aloe to a light burn.

  “I’ll give you fifty dollars,” Apollo said softly.

  “Each?” Mrs. Grabowski asked, her voice rising.

  Apollo went to his wallet. “For both,” he said.

  He waited until she nodded and took the cash.

  Igor returned from the other room, his phone gripped tight in one hand. “You’re proud of yourself?” he asked. “Cheating an old widow?”

  Mrs. Grabowski folded the bills into her fist, then hit Igor with her closed hand. “Don’t talk like that! This is more money than your father gave me in years.”

  Igor ignored the attack and her words. “You know it’s true,” he said, grinning at Apollo. “And I know it’s true.”

  Apollo tucked both books under his arm. Mrs. Grabowski walked him back toward the front door, Igor trailing behind them.

  Apollo crossed the threshold and walked down to the sidewalk. He turned back to find Igor in the doorway. Behind him Mrs. Grabowski counted the money in her hand. Apollo couldn’t tell if she looked satisfied or suspicious.

  “It’s business,” Apollo said. “I’m just doing business here.”

  “The devil likes to hide behind a cross,” Igor said, then shut the front door.

  ENTERING BOULEY RESTAURANT felt like stepping inside a gingerbread house. Outside he’d been on Duane Street, a tony block in Manhattan but still just downtown NYC. The exterior of the building, an understated apricot, and a simple wooden door with glass panels suggested Nichelle had picked a pleasant enough place. But when he opened the door and stepped into the foyer, he found himself surrounded by apples. Shelves had been built into the wall, running as high as the ceiling; rows of fresh red apples and their scent enveloped him. The door to Duane Street shut behind him, and Apollo felt as if he’d stumbled into a small cottage off an overgrown path in a dark wood. He stayed there in the perfume of the apple room inhaling the scent. If he’d brought the stain of his interaction with Mrs. Grabowski downtown with him, then this room made him feel cleansed.

  Another door led from the foyer into a waiting room, a long narrow hall with padded chairs and tiny tables. Six small chandeliers hung from the wooden rafters but offered little light. The curtains covering the windows looked as lush as bridal gowns. The waiting room sat shrouded in an elegant gloom like the little parlor of a storied mansion.

  Immediately, instinctively, Apollo checked to see if he was wearing sneakers or shoes. He shifted his messenger bag so it hung behind him. A few people were waiting to be seated, but Emma and Nichelle weren’t among them. There was a dark wooden station, and behind it the maître d’—a tall man in a tailored blue suit—gazed down into a screen that lit his sharp face strangely. When he looked up to greet Apollo, the man’s eyes were lost in a shadow. Since his mouth stayed shrouded in darkness too, it was impossible to see his lips. He looked more ghoulish than gallant.

  “Forty regular?”

  Not what Apollo expected. He set his bag down and presented his empty hands. If they were turning him away, this had to be the strangest rejection he’d ever heard.

  “Nichelle Murray?” Apollo replied.

  The maître d’ nodded quickly and stepped away from his station, then retreated to a door behind him. Apollo looked at the guests in the waiting room—mere silhouettes in leather chairs. In a moment the maître d’ reappeared with a sport coat. He helped Apollo slip it on.

  He waved Apollo forward, a menu under one arm, led him through the waiting room and past the other customers. The dining room’s vaulted ceilings had been laid with eighteen-karat gold leaf sheets, and on top of that a twelve-karat white gold varnish, so the ceiling seemed as supple as suede. The floors were Burgundy stone, overlaid by Persian rugs. If the foyer felt like a woodland cottage and the waiting area a haunted parlor, the dining room became an ancient castle’s great hall. This only added to the fantastical atmosphere of the restaurant. Apollo felt as if he was trekking through realms rather than rooms. If there had been men in full armor posted as sentries, it wouldn’t have surprised him. And in fact, when the maître d’ reached the right table, there was a queen waiting there. Emma Valentine, too pregnant to stand. Apollo leaned close and kissed her.

  Nichelle rose from her seat and hugged Apollo. “Here he is then,” she said. “Father of the bride.”

  Emma grinned, she rocked forward in her seat. “You’re a mess, Nichelle.”

  Nichelle still hadn’t let go of Apollo, clinging to his left arm, and he realized it was because Nichelle was drunk. Zooted. An open bottle of white wine stood on the table, half done. Another bottle of Perrier stood before Emma’s plate, two-thirds down. Three small plates of appetizers were laid out: oysters, mushrooms, and a third thing he couldn’t recognize. The tablecloth looked as mussed as a slept-in bed.

  “Am I that late?” Apollo asked.

  “We got here early,” Emma told him.

  Nichelle pointed at Emma. “Best way to get seated fast is bring a woman who’s nine months pregnant.”

  “Thirty-eight weeks!” Emma said.

  Nichelle waved one hand dismissively. “That math doesn’t mean anything to normal people. You are nine months pregnant.”

  Apollo sat across from Nichelle and next to Emma. Even before he’d settled into the chair, a waiter came to the table and poured some of the wine into his glass, topped Nichelle’s glass off, then refilled Emma’s cup of sparkling water. He didn’t ask if they wanted another bottle of wine, merely raised the empty one slightly, and Nichelle pointed at him.

  Apollo set the messenger bag between the legs of his and Emma’s chairs. She’d set herself down at an angle so her belly wouldn’t bump the table and she could stretch her legs out. She looked down at the bag quickly, then up at Apollo.

  “Ridgewood,” Apollo said. “Nothing great.”

  Emma pa
tted his leg. “Good to try.”

  Thirty-eight weeks pregnant, and she looked like a hummingbird that had swallowed an emu egg. And yet she moved in this body with a kind of exhausted authority. She seemed to take some pleasure in being, temporarily, larger. When the waiter arrived with the new bottle of white wine, she had her legs extended, feet out, and ankles crossed. Any other time in her life, even an earlier stage of the pregnancy, she would’ve tucked her feet in to accommodate the waiter. But not now. Let the world accommodate her a little. Her feet stayed stuck out, and the waiter went around them.

  The waiter poured another round for Nichelle, then topped Apollo off though he’d only taken two sips. The diners at the other tables gave off a distinctly different air from theirs. The median age of these customers was billionaire. Even the busboys in this place were white.

  “How is Los Angeles treating you?” Apollo said. “Does that town ever change?”

  “Time goes slower when you’re happy,” Nichelle said. “And I’m happy there.”

  Emma stabbed at an empty oyster on the table, then moved on to forage the last mushroom from another plate. “She writes for The Witching Hour,” she said, pride playing in her voice like a musical note.

  “Hey, we watch that show,” Apollo said. He pulled at the wine and felt himself relaxing into the seat, the conversation.

  “Why do you think we started?” Emma asked, leaning into his arm. “Got to support my girl!”

  “Long way from Boones Mill,” Apollo said, raising his glass.

  Nichelle looked to Emma, raised her glass. “For both of us.”

  After a sip she pooched her lips toward Emma’s belly. “But I hear you two are going to the planet of ‘natural childbirth’ next. I’m sorry, but that’s too far for me.”

  These natural childbirth conversations weren’t ever meant for Apollo, even if he was in the room, at the table. When they’d told Lillian about the plan, she’d practically short-circuited from fear. “Concern” is what Lillian called it. And so on with most of the women in Emma’s life. Only her older sister, Kim, supported the plan, but she had good reason: Kim Valentine was their midwife.