My Darling Detective

by Howard Norman

  Back at home, Martha said, “We missed Detective Levy Detects. But it was worth it. Some lecture you gave, Jacob. Like Esther Hamelin said, it didn’t have a whole lot to do with libraries—unusual for a degree candidate in library science—but you gave us a few quite memorable phrases.” Nice to fall into bed laughing.

  Questioning Robert Emil

  Part Two

  The second interrogation of Robert Emil took place at 4 p.m. on November 3, 1978. Martha, feeling clumsy and uncomfortable, with an achy back to boot, sat in a chair in the viewing room; Detective Hodgdon and I stood. Detective Tides was in with Emil.

  Of late, Martha had found the right distinction, and now referred to Robert Emil as my “biological father,” and certainly this was in deference to the fact that my whole life I’d thought of Bernard Rigolet as my father. “You can’t really blame Nora for that,” Martha had said to me one night in bed. “Bernard was the love of her life. Truly he was. But he was gone so early in the marriage. Every bad part of her story built from that. Looking through the glass at Robert Emil, I can easily see it’s awful for you, thinking of him with Nora. Thinking of him as your father. Thinking of what was gouged into the back of the card catalogue. All of it, all of it, all of it. But Nora’s only human—you have to forgive her. There were maybe, uh, natural persuasions at work. That’s sort of from a Thomas Hardy novel, but you get what I mean.”

  “Yes, you mean that Nora wanted to screw someone.”

  “Oh, that language, Jacob, is not out of Thomas Hardy. You want our daughter to hear that?”

  For his second interrogation, Robert Emil wore a suit and tie and black shoes, recently shined. He was clean-shaven, his hair neatly combed. Clearly he’d attempted respectability. But Detective Tides took this on, first thing. “Ex-officer Emil,” he said, “what corpse did you filch that suit off of, someone washed up by Deep Water Terminus or what? And what do I smell? Perfume?” Detective Tides leaned close to Emil and loudly inhaled, backed away, and said, “Oh, a dab behind each ear, huh? You smear some behind your knees too? A little rendezvous with a deckhand off the wharf or what? Maybe a French deckhand. Oh, Lord, don’t tell me—not Canadian? Your perfume opens up so many options. Oh, well, that’s not the treachery we brought you in on, is it? That’s your secret life. What you did in April of 1945 isn’t a secret, now, is it? Not any longer. Not with all the new forensics we have.”

  Tides set a briefcase down on the table. He snapped it open and took out a copy of Detective Emil Detects. It was festooned with bookmarks. With dramatic flair Tides squared the book front and center on the table. He sat across from Robert Emil.

  “Now, ex-officer Emil,” Tides said, “while your vast readership might consider this tome a work of fiction, you should understand that I consider it a confession. There are incidents, there are details of two murders, that were not available to the public. So on the docket today, my friend, is how can an esteemed author such as yourself have known about certain things? I have done my research, and you never requested the files on Max Berall and Mrs. Yablon.”

  “You ever consider that I have ESP”—Robert Emil pointed at the side of his head—“like that fellow Uri Geller? He’s Canadian, you know.”

  “That charlatan—he’s Israeli,” Tides said. “His spoons were pre-bent. You got fooled by that jerk? Jesus, Emil, really? Know what the real test would’ve been? To take a spoon that’s already bent and have Geller bend it back straight.”

  “Well, he lived in Canada awhile, then.”

  “You just can’t take it he’s an Israeli Jew.”

  “You should check your facts again, Detective. I think Uri Geller’s Canadian.”

  “Maybe Geller personally told you about the murders in 1945.”

  “Yeah, maybe he did.”

  Detective Tides was clearly irritated with himself for allowing Emil to sidetrack him, so he opened the book and said, “This, on page one ninety-six, third paragraph: ‘Surveying the scene, Detective Emil thought, “Maybe these Jewish people belonging to Baron de Hirsch Synagogue, on Oxford Street, are too cheap to pay their electric bill on time, maybe they think they’re above paying a simple electric bill like anyone else has to, and here they are a very wealthy synagogue, rumor had it their Torah scroll was from Prague and cost ten thousand dollars.” Anyway, the light at the back entrance was out. And when Detective Emil looked through the window, he saw the lights were out in the hallway too. “Cheap sons of bitches,” he thought. “How much can an electric bill be, anyway?” ’”

  “My oh my, ex-officer Emil, such an eye for detail. Tolstoy’s turning in his grave out of sheer envy. Jesus, how’d you craft such a paragraph? To the fifteen people who bought your book, you must be Nobel Prize material.”

  “By the way,” Robert Emil said, “my suit was purchased at Gavelli’s on Prince Street. I believe the word is ‘haberdashery.’ I believe I was fitted by a Hebrew tailor.”

  “What an act of generosity on your part, then,” Tides said. “But let’s get back to the lightbulb out in the alley. On page one ninety-six you’re writing about the murder of a respectable citizen—that’s your own term, ‘respectable citizen,’ named Max Brill—pretty close to Berall, don’t you think? Your hero detective ends up solving this case, and he becomes—I can hardly read this out loud without puking, skipping ahead here to page two hundred fifteen—‘an honorary member of Baron de Hirsch Synagogue.’

  “But what’s additionally interesting to me in this two-hundred-thirty-six-page self-published confession of yours, ex-officer Emil, is the last paragraph: ‘When he’d found the body of Max Brill and gave it a professional once-over before calling it in, he saw the number tattooed on Brill’s forearm: 140456. Detective Emil jotted down the number in his notebook, tore out the page, and fitted it behind the driver’s license in Brill’s wallet. He didn’t quite know why he had secreted it away like that. It was some instinct born of years of experience. Something told him to do it.’

  “Now, the thing is, me and Detectives Hodgdon and Crauchet, we did considerable research, as I’ve mentioned. It’s all in the file over there on the chair. And guess what we discovered? We discovered from the original investigation file that in his wallet—you left his wallet in Max Berall’s pocket, didn’t even think to make it look like a robbery—in his wallet was a folded-up piece of paper, and on this piece of paper was written the number 140456. God in heaven, do miracles never cease? But while you have your murder victim, Max Brill, a survivor of a concentration camp—of course your book takes place in 1948, not 1945, so sure, maybe a few survivors could have made it to Halifax by that time. But guess fucking what, Emil? Our research shows that Max Berall had a brother, Simon Berall, lives now in the country of Israel. And guess what? Simon Berall did survive Auschwitz concentration camp, and guess what number is on his forearm? So that is how Max Berall kept his brother close, see? Back in 1945, when Max didn’t know if his brother had survived or not, that’s how Max kept him close. He kept that number in his wallet.

  “Said information about Mr. Simon Berall was not formerly available even in Max Berall’s very detailed police file—forensics, photographs, autopsy included.

  “You, you slimebag, are going to prison for writing that piece-of-shit so-called novel full of self-incriminating facts. So thank you for making life interesting for us. I speak here also for Detectives Crauchet and Hodgdon, of course.”

  My biological father, Robert Emil, could only half whisper, “A novel won’t hold up in court. I’ve made some inquiries. A novel won’t hold up at trial.”

  Detective Tides slammed Detective Emil Detects against the head of Robert Emil, who reeled backward to the floor. Tides then turned to the viewing window, held up the book, and said, “Should I get him to autograph this?”

  Letter from Bernard Rigolet

  The evening following the second interrogation of Robert Emil, Martha had no appetite to speak of and went to bed at seven. “I’m fine, Jacob,” she said. “It’s ju
st from carrying this extra weight—you know that my last checkup was perfect. Nothing to worry about. But I was at my desk at six this morning—you saw the paperwork today, right?”

  “I’ll whip you up an omelet if you wake up hungry, okay?”

  “With what in it? Just in case.”

  “Goat cheese, mushrooms, just how you like it.”

  “I love you. I’m going to read a little Margaret Atwood. Want to read something in bed with me?”

  “I’m going to reheat some lamb stew and listen to the radio in the kitchen. You relax.”

  “Arts and Crafts the day after tomorrow—don’t forget. Do you want to write it on the wall calendar?”

  “Good idea.”

  She shut the bedroom door halfway and turned on the lamp on her side of the bed. I decided against the radio for a while and took out the box of letters. Nora had kept them in chronological order, and now I picked up the next one. I think I wanted to return to Bernard’s letters, at least in part, because I felt somehow I’d betrayed him by paying any attention at all to Robert Emil. I couldn’t quite pinpoint my own reasoning here, but it felt like I needed Bernard as a kind of antidote to Emil—something like that. A therapist might’ve figured that out, but I didn’t go to one. I didn’t need one; I had Martha to talk with.

  April 16, 1945

  Dearest beloved Nora,

  For two drear cold rainy days now we’ve been holed up about fifteen kilometers from the city of Leipzig. Rumor is we’ll push on to Leipzig soon. We’ve got this guy with us, Corporal Oppen, and he’s quite the historian. He gives us little lectures about the places Allied forces are laying to ruin. Like Dresden and like other places. He’s trying to give us some appreciation of the architecture, the museums, and such, all before the Nazis, and he’s very knowledgeable and when the boys actually let him get to talking, you can learn a lot. For instance, up ahead of us at Leipzig. There’s all sorts of interesting buildings and museums. Also, it’s where the Nazis destroyed the city’s statue to Felix Mendelssohn, the classical composer you like a lot, Nora. Corporal Oppen made especially sure we knew that the Huns also destroyed the Leipzig Synagogue, a Moorish Revival building that he says was absolutely beautiful. Anyway, that’s where we’re heading.

  Last night Robert Capa had a group of us in stitches. He was regaling us with stories about all sorts of famous people he’s met, some of whom I’d heard of and some I hadn’t, but either/or, it didn’t matter, they were excellent stories. Who he really goes after most hilariously and cuttingly, in my opinion at least, is his great old comrade Ernest Hemingway. Five of us crammed into a tent, and Capa tells us, like he’s describing a normal day, that he witnessed the surrender of General von Schlieben, who was the commander of Cherbourg, an important Allied victory, just so you know, Nora. Arrogant son of a bitch, this von Schlieben, is what Capa called him. See what I mean about learning about history in all sorts of ways? Let me see if I can get this right—oh, yes, Capa said that von Schlieben was so arrogant that he didn’t allow his picture to be taken by the tedious American press. So Capa says to him, “I’m bored taking picture after picture of defeated German officers,” and that’s when von Schlieben got very nasty and Capa got a photograph of him in all his anger and all his humiliation and his piss-pants pissed-offedness—oops, there I go again with my army language.

  But back to Ernest Hemingway. Capa had so many good stories about Hemingway, but the truth is, Nora, finally I couldn’t tell if Robert actually liked Hemingway or mostly just admired him or maybe it was six of one, half dozen of the other. He didn’t admire Hemingway’s showing off and acting like he was an enlisted man, though Hemingway was not afraid of contact, Capa said. He just liked to lie a little about his exploits, as Capa put it: “He’s a brave man at heart with a big imagination, him being such a great writer, a big imagination especially toward himself. But to listen to him it was as if he’d liberated Paris on his own, and then thousands of American troops followed in after. When really he mainly liberated the Ritz Hotel in Paris, is how I like to say it.” If I had to pick one Hemingway story to remember, it wasn’t about bravery under horrible shellings, or how he was a hero in this or that skirmish, or anything really to do with the front lines at all. The one I most enjoyed was the story about an accident Hemingway got into. I can’t remember all the details, but basically what happened was that sometime in May of 1944, Hemingway met up with Capa in London and they had some high old times and had some big parties. And after one of those big parties, Hemingway was riding back to his hotel in a friend’s car, and the friend was drunk and there were no lights due to the blackouts, and the car slammed into a water tank and Hemingway was thrown forward into the windshield, as Capa told it to us. Robert showed us the photograph he took of Hemingway, where Hemingway’s in a hospital bed with his head all in bandages. Then Capa said, “But you should see the picture I took of him where my paramour Pinky was secretly lifting Hem’s hospital gown and his bare ass was sending nurses screaming down the hallway.” Please remember, Nora, that’s Robert Capa’s language, not mine.

  Sergeant Binder, who has been fighting for two straight years, says once you’ve seen what he’s seen, you might as well give up on sleep for the rest of your life, not because you won’t get tired, but because you’ll be afraid to close your eyes for what your dreams will contain. Had I heard that before getting to Germany, I might not’ve believed him, but now I’m beginning to. I feel very privately romantic toward you, my darling, but just cannot write romantic, not just now. Please understand. Those feelings get shoved aside by all the death here, all the marching, all the world being shelled to kingdom come, except two-three minutes when they come back and I can actually feel your hands, your shoulders, your back pressed to mine, and see you so clearly it’s as if you just stepped out of a jeep right here in Leipzig. But God forbid that, Nora, God forbid you should ever see what I’m seeing. And yet I don’t know how not to be a hypocrite in a way, because here I’m describing things as clearly as I can, and yet I hope you never see such things!

  We haven’t got any mail for two months, that’s how it is. But I know you’ve sent letters and I know they are full of familiar things. Once we push past Leipzig, we may get the news that we can go home. That’s on everyone’s mind. That’s what we all are thinking but most of us don’t dare talk about it. Maybe shipboard to Halifax I’ll get to read your letters. Maybe just before boarding ship, possibly from England, your letters will catch up with me. Mine are inadequate to the task past basic description, but you know how I feel. You know how deeply I love and miss you. They’re collecting letters now—off this one goes. I will close my eyes and picture you opening it in our kitchen.

  Love,

  Your Bernie

  Homage to Forest Potsholme

  Two policewoman friends of Martha’s, Officer Katrine Oaks and Officer Edwina Ovid, organized a baby shower, November 11, at our house. It was a potluck, and I stayed long enough to see delicious food arriving on plates and platters and bowls, but was exiled for the evening, as well I should have been. I was so happy for Martha. In our bedroom before the guests arrived, she spun around in her maternity dress and said, “It’s like wearing a colorful pup tent. Jacob, be honest, do you even want to take this dress off me later? It’s okay if you say you don’t. I know you love me.”

  “I’ll leave the house,” I said. “Then I’ll climb in the bedroom window and take it off you while the policewomen are in the kitchen.”

  “That’s a good enough answer for now,” she said. Then the doorbell rang.

  The Halifax Free Library was open until 9 p.m., so after stopping for a bowl of goulash at Halloran’s, I went to the library, thinking that I would jot down notes for my final essay in library science. This essay meant a lot, because it was supposed to be philosophical. Actually, the assignment brought students back to their original application for the program, in that it asked for a “view of why you want a life in library science.” No pun intended, but t
his final essay was designed to help us bookend our experiences in the program.

  Sitting in a carrel in the biography section, I thought about how I’d come to any knowledge of myself via this curriculum, the lectures, the seminars, the discussions, the appointments with Mrs. Margolin, the conversations with Jinx Faltenbourg. My conclusion was that the most rewarding aspect of my studies, my life in library science to date, was in imagining my mother during all those years working in the library. It was as if her professional life had given me a model for my own, simple as that. I had no deeper theories here.

  I couldn’t know if I would stick with library science. Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn’t. It wasn’t a field of millionaires, that was for certain. Martha and I had already calculated probable budgets, though we understood that with the arrival of Nora Elizabeth, we would have to revise those calculations. I knew I’d be relying on Martha’s practicality in so many things. She had already made arrangements for a small part of her salary to be set aside for a college fund, eighteen years in advance.

  Why even get married? Because we could no longer imagine not being married to each other. “That was what we agreed on, and we’ll feel stronger and stronger about that as we travel through time together” is how Martha put it. Right after she said that, she said, “Of course, I’ve been reading John Keats again. So I get such stalwartly romantic thoughts.”

  Back to the essay. I tried to find a person in history to identify with, some early figure associated with libraries. (History of Libraries was the course I did best in.) That’s when I remembered the name Forest Potsholme, who became a cloistered monk in England in the 1600s, and who was quite the philosopher when it came to libraries. I remembered something he wrote that, when I’d come across it in a monograph, made so much sense: “When feeling alone, I think in séances; this gives me back people’s lives whom I would otherwise have lost, and I feel less alone. When thinking harshly on the human condition, as I so often do, my antidote is to think gently on libraries, for if human beings are capable of preserving the history of our knowledge in the form of books, then there may still be hope.” I adopted this philosophy of Forest Potsholme’s as the sponsoring ethic of my essay, and wrote until closing time. In fact, I titled the essay “Homage to Forest Potsholme.” Leaping ahead in time here, the essay received the grade of B. Apparently I was fated to be a B student. Martha said, “Not as good as an A, not as bad as a C. Since you have no choice in the matter, really, how else to look at it?”