A Woman of Intelligence

by Karin Tanabe

  “You might be more surprised than he was,” said Turner. “He knew he was dying, don’t you think? From the way he spoke at the end?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I just didn’t want to see it.” I put my hand next to Turner’s on the floor. “Now you. Why are you here?”

  “Because I’m an idiot who doesn’t give a damn about his career it seems,” he said, standing. “And because I wanted to assuage any doubt I had that Jacob killed Ava.”

  “Are your doubts assuaged?”

  “Yes,” he said, helping me to my feet. “But we shouldn’t be here. The Soviets wiped this place already, but still, we shouldn’t linger. Let’s go.”

  Turner took a folded newspaper and a lighter off Jacob’s nicked-up dining table. We hurried out of the apartment and walked toward the river. “The end of July,” he said as we approached the piers, where a lone Cunard ship bobbed in the water. The commotion, the tearful goodbyes and elated hellos that took place there during the war days were gone. The piers were far less busy; everyone wanted to fly to Europe now. But they weren’t completely abandoned. The Cunard ship still looked proud, and the passengers who were embarking appeared eager to leave behind the dog days of summer in New York.

  “I always feel a certain sadness when August looms. A kind of urgency. If I haven’t done all the things I wanted to do in a summer, I start to panic,” said Turner as we gazed out on the boat.

  “Things like what?”

  “The iconic New York things that you just have to do in summer.”

  “A day at Coney Island, eating ice cream in Central Park, the fireworks, and all that?”

  “And all that,” he said, turning to look at me. “Rowing on the Hudson. Rowing in Eden.”

  I pushed off the railing and studied him. You can anticipate someone’s words, my aunt Hanna had told me. I was not anticipating this. He stood straighter and looked away from me.

  “You know who used to say that?” I said slowly.

  “Who?”

  “Ava Newman used to say that.”

  “I suppose she did,” he said, staring back at me.

  I felt my gut wrench.

  “You know what I think?” I said quietly. “I think you knew Ava Newman far better than you have let on. I think you knew her very, very well.”

  “No, Rina,” he said, taking a step toward me. “You’re letting your mind go in the wrong direction.”

  “I’m letting it go straight where it seems to belong. ‘Don’t you think Turner is one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen?’ She asked me that, you know. Why would she ask me that?”

  “Because she thought we were sleeping together.”

  “I’m going to need you to be decidedly less cryptic, Turner,” I said, suddenly feeling faint in the heat.

  “We’re too close to the vacationers,” said Turner, watching the passengers ascending the ramp. “Let’s go sit over there,” he said, pointing to the edge of an unused dock. “Bad seats, good view,” he quipped as he walked and I followed, my heart feeling like it was going to abandon me for good.

  “What’s that state over there?” he said, pointing.

  “New Jersey.”

  “Ah, then the rumors are true. There is a world outside Manhattan.”

  “Not for me,” I whispered. “Not lately.”

  “Futile-the winds- / To a Heart in port- / Done with the Compass- / Done with the Chart! / Rowing in Eden- / Ah-the Sea,” quoted Turner quietly. “It’s a poem by Emily Dickinson. Part of a poem by Emily Dickinson. The first time I went to Ava’s apartment with her, I recited it because the name of her apartment building is the Eden. She really liked it. I suppose she took to stealing a few lines.”

  A heart in port. Ava had used that phrase, too, had said that my heart in port was at the UN, but I knew that right now, my heart in port was wherever Turner’s was. And suddenly, I wasn’t convinced that Turner’s heart was with me.

  “Let me start at the beginning. Because if I don’t, you might not believe me. And that’s not even an option, okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Earlier this year, in February, I got the feeling that Ava was starting to second-guess what she was doing.”

  “Why?”

  “It started as an instinct. The third time we met, seeing how I was fond of Jacob, and that he was supportive of me, of the CRC, she expressed her concerns about his health. She thought he’d had a heart attack that he’d hidden from her, and she was worried he’d have another. His superiors wouldn’t let up on him and she didn’t know what to do. She seemed scared and frustrated.” He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “I’ve learned that when a person is scared and frustrated, it means a door is opening, even just the smallest bit.”

  “So you knew they were entangled.”

  “I knew they were something. But I was far more fixated on becoming someone she could trust. Someone she might confide in.”

  “What did you want her to say?” I asked, my anxiety starting to release its chokehold.

  “Turner, I’ve made a very big mistake.”

  “Did she ever?”

  “Not in so many words. The thing is, I liked Ava, much as you liked Ava. I appreciated her energy and her loyalty, and I assumed she was just very misdirected. That she had been guided the wrong way out of love for Jacob. I didn’t know about her father, but now I can see, she was misdirected by love for her father, too.”

  “You told her,” I said, starting to understand. “You told her who you were.”

  He nodded. “I took an incredible gamble, one that would have gotten me fired on the spot, or worse, if Coldwell or anyone else knew. Still, I told her who I was. I told her that there’s been talk of Hoover passing a witness immunity bill later this year. That all a person has to do is give evidence concerning the other members of the conspiracy. I wanted to help her find her way to do that. I told her that the FBI would be able to make accommodations for her now. That she wouldn’t have to wait until the bill was passed.”

  “Is that true? Could you have?”

  “For a woman, and one like her? Yes. It had been done before, and I was confident it would be done again, especially if she really sang for her supper.”

  “But you never told Coldwell.”

  “No. I knew it was an incredibly stupid thing to have done, because she could have just turned on me. Told Jacob. Blown my cover with the CRC, with everyone. She could have easily laughed at me and betrayed me.”

  “But she didn’t.”

  “No. She didn’t,” he said. “Nor did she jump at the chance I offered. I think she was scared of becoming a public figure, which is without a doubt what would have happened. A public trial for Nick Solomon and the rest of them, with Ava held up as an example of how even a smart, rich American woman could have her head turned by the evils of communism.”

  “So instead she just decided to keep going? Go to Russia, keep doing the Soviets’ work?”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” he said, squinting out at the water. “And the complications are why she’s dead. Ava told me that in a moment of desperation she suggested to Jacob that they strike a deal with the FBI to save his life, but that he didn’t react well.”

  “Why would she do that?” I said, incredulous.

  “Old-fashioned love. Rumor has it it can move mountains. But not communist leaders, it seems.”

  “I wish I’d known. I know you couldn’t have told me, but I wish I’d known so I could have just pulled her away and hidden her in a cave.”

  Turner leaned back, nearly closing his eyes. “Ava Newman would never have let you hide her in a cave. And after Jacob refused to save himself, she became fixated on the idea of going to Russia to prove herself, to convince him she’d just had a moment of weakness. From what she told me, Jacob said he was sending her to Moscow to save her from the FBI, but I never bought it. As soon as she told me how emphatic he was, I became emphatic, too, just in the other direction. I was planning on
telling Coldwell that I thought we could extract her, but then she died.”

  “Because Jacob murdered her!”

  “Someone murdered her. Maybe Jacob, maybe someone else was in the apartment already. Either way, Jacob definitely told Moscow that she was considering turning herself in. And that alone is as good as a bullet to the head, or a noose around the neck. Even if he didn’t string up the rope himself, he killed her. He was loyal to Moscow till the end.”

  “Max tried to save her,” I said, thinking back to that terrifying day.

  “And Ava thought she would be saving you by handing you to Max. Or at least she wanted to open a door for you.”

  “Or give me a lifeline,” I said, thinking of my UN telephone.

  He turned his head away from the water, away from the sun reflecting off it. “The thing is, if she was reckless enough to suggest they try to broker a deal with the FBI, maybe she also mentioned me. The person who gave her that idea in the first place.”

  My breath felt shallow, the oxygen sprinting away from me. “Did she?” I whispered.

  “I don’t know. I never got the chance to ask. But Jacob’s apartment used to be stuffed like an olive. Books everywhere, papers everywhere. Ava once told me he kept things in a safe, but that he wasn’t very safe about the safe. But a few weeks ago, you told me that his place was monastic.”

  I nodded.

  “And when you were at Columbia? Did he also live that way? Bare walls and all?”

  “No. It was a mess. But in an appealing way. An intellectual’s stuffed olive.”

  I pictured Jacob’s Amsterdam Avenue apartment, a tiny efficiency with a fire escape as a balcony but no shortage of character. “There were always towers of books, piles of school papers, bottles of cheap wine, and bags of bread crumbs for the pigeons.” Jacob had changed so little; why hadn’t it occurred to me that there was something not right about half-full shelves?

  Turner read my expression. “I never saw his last apartment in that state, which means it had to have been nearly cleaned out, even before he died. In this game, that’s never a good sign. I started to worry about my cover, and whether Jacob had kept information about me in the apartment that is now sitting in Russian hands. And of course, as you saw today, if there was a safe, it’s long gone. All that remained were some old clothes and some books—including this.”

  He opened the newspaper and handed me a green leather volume. The Sorrows of Young Werther.

  “I saw this on his shelf when I was in his apartment with him,” I said, turning it around in my hands. “I think I gave it to him.”

  “I think he’s giving it back.”

  I ran my fingers against the gold lettering and Turner gestured for me to open it.

  On the inside cover, it was inscribed from me to Jacob, dated January 1940. The inscription had been crossed out, one blue diagonal mark through it. Underneath it, in Jacob’s small print, was written, “Es tut mir Leid.”

  “Do you know what this means?” I said to Turner.

  “I don’t.”

  “It’s usually translated as ‘I’m sorry.’ But it’s more than that. Es tut mir Leid. Word for word it means ‘It hurts me.’”

  “I’m sure it did hurt him to kill Ava,” said Turner, looking at the carefully printed blue ink. “I’m sure he loved her, just not enough.”

  We sat in silence for a moment as I tried to push the image of Ava’s shock, of her last moments, out of my mind.

  “One last translation between polyglots,” Turner said, closing the book and resting his hand on it.

  “I think he meant it for you as much as he did for me,” I noted quietly.

  We both watched as a man and a woman tumbled up the ramp of the ship, the last passengers to board. They were laughing and out of breath and seemed just delighted to be leaving New York.

  I looked out at the water that was murky and warm but always found a way to dazzle me, especially in summer.

  “Turner,” I said. A hundred yards ahead of us, the ship crew was pulling the walkway up to the deck, preparing to depart. “What if we just ran away?” I nodded toward the boat. “Just ran away from it all. Just got on a boat to France.”

  “Are you sure that boat’s going to France? It could be going to someplace really crummy. But even then…” Turner’s gravelly voice trailed off. “I won’t pretend I haven’t thought about it. Very often.”

  “Turner, I—”

  “I’m moving to Washington on Friday,” he said, interrupting me.

  I waited for his eyes to meet mine, every nerve in my body screaming.

  “You’re what?” I whispered.

  He finally looked at me.

  “I’m moving. My whole family is moving. The Bureau has enough information to shut down the CRC for good, which means I’ve done my duty. And more than that, I told them enough of what I just told you to worry that my cover’s been blown. Not just with the CRC, but with the KGB. That could mean … I don’t know exactly. It definitely doesn’t mean anything good.”

  “If it means nothing good, shouldn’t you go a lot farther than Washington? Shouldn’t you be going to Fiji?”

  “Let’s start with Washington. Then maybe one day, Fiji.” He put his hand on top of mine. “Meet me there?” he asked, smiling.

  I nodded yes, but I was crying. I would not be meeting Turner by Chelsea Piers or Central Park again. We would not be boarding a boat together to France or Fiji or any wonderful place. That’s what he was telling me. That in all likelihood, I would never see him again.

  I leaned back against the old boathouse, trying very hard not to show that my heart was breaking, the pieces multiplying with every breath.

  “Honestly, Katharina…”

  “Yes,” I whispered, tears falling on my lips.

  “I’m overwhelmed. You overwhelm me. And I’m going to miss you very much.”

  “Not as much as I will,” I said, opening my eyes.

  “I think you’re wrong about that.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Turner. You came into my life at a time when I desperately needed something.” Something I still needed. “This is, this has been, one of the most important stories of my life.”

  “A story?”

  “I can’t think of a better word.”

  “You always have the right word. The right thing to say. It’s something I’ve come to rely on. I like story.”

  “Then you are my favorite story.”

  “If I can’t take you to Washington, do you think I can take that with me?” he said, nodding at the Empire State Building. “We really do have the best buildings.”

  I nodded. “Just look at it for a while and stitch it into your memory.”

  “Good advice,” he said, holding my hand even tighter.

  “Where was I before all this started, Turner? I don’t even remember. Brushing my teeth with gin.”

  “Did you really brush your teeth with gin?” He turned away from the Empire State Building and back toward me.

  “Only once. There was a water main outage.”

  Turner started laughing before leaning over to wipe my tears.

  “Katharina Edgeworth, thank you for overlapping your world with mine for a little while. Whatever this story was, it added life to my life. And I loved it,” he said quietly. “In my mind, there’s now a separate map of New York. Rina’s New York. And it will always stay apart from the rest.”

  I nodded, not yet trusting myself to speak again.

  “You may not have the most exciting existence at present, Katharina, Rina, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be an exciting person. Don’t let your circumstances extinguish you. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I repeated. “Okay.”

  An hour later, I walked away from Turner Wells, leaving my heart lying at the edge of the Hudson.

  CHAPTER 40

  “Hello, Sam,” I said into the phone the next morning. I was in the kitchen, before the boys were up, alternately crying and making breakfa
st. Tom was, of course, already at work.

  “Announcing Amelia Edgeworth.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I said, nearly dropping the phone.

  “I’m sorry. She’s already in the elevator.”

  Right then, I heard a ding.

  “Rina! I’m not waking you, am I?” said Amelia, walking into the apartment.

  I went to meet her. “Hello, Amelia. You’re not, clearly, but the boys are still asleep.”

  She ignored me and walked into the living room. I followed her like a little duck.

  She sat, asked for a drink, then examined it and me as I handed her orange juice.

  “Rina, you look a wreck.”

  “Allergies,” I said flatly.

  “What is one allergic to in summer? Joy?”

  “Perhaps,” I mumbled.

  “Look, Katharina,” she said, grimacing as she took a sip of juice. “I shan’t beat around the bush. You look extremely bad. Is it all those late nights out with the hobos?”

  “None of those lately,” I said dryly.

  She put her glass on the side table. “If you’re wondering why I came here unannounced, which I know you are, it’s because my son called me yesterday. He mentioned that you’re drinking again. And that your behavior has been … hard to predict. That you’ve been crying. Sobbing, actually. That you’re unhappy, thus he’s unhappy. And I hate when Tom Edgeworth is unhappy. Families are like a pyramid. If the husband is unhappy, everyone is unhappy.”

  “He has not expressed this unhappiness to me,” I lied. The truth was, I had paid very little attention to Tom in the last eighteen hours.

  “Sure, he hasn’t.” She walked to the bar, took the vodka, and added a pour to her drink. She took a sip, smiling contentedly. “Rina,” she said, turning back to me. “This little breakdown of yours. Tell me, are you trying to be more memorable?”

  “I don’t think I know what you mean,” I said, smelling the alcohol from six feet away.

  “Perhaps that’s not the right word,” she said, sitting back down. She flexed and pointed her thin, elegant feet. Everything was thin and elegant about the Edgeworths, even their toes.