by Levy, Marc
Rivera observed Deepak sleeping in the chair. He would gladly have let him rest, but the day had been extremely long and boring.
“Thanks for the book,” he said loudly.
Deepak started and sat up straight.
“You know very well it’s not from me.”
“But you brought it to me.”
“Aren’t you tired of detective novels?”
“No, they’re entertaining.”
“It’s the same thing every time: a crime, an alcoholic cop, an investigation, a love story gone wrong, and, in the end, they always catch the crook.”
“That’s what I like about it. The fun is figuring out who did it before the cop does.”
“I’d like to see a writer who had enough nerve to let the murderer go free without anyone figuring it out.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“In a few days, we’ll be done for, my friend.”
“Then why are you wasting your time training your nephew if it’s a lost cause?”
“Didn’t we have a good laugh when I told you about his blunders?”
“We sure did.”
“This may sound stupid, but in a few years, who will remember us? Who will remember what we did? Have you ever thought about all the jobs that have disappeared? Who remembers the importance of the people who did them? Of their hardworking lives? Take the lamplighters, for instance. Those guys lit up cities for centuries. From dusk until dawn, they went around lighting up the streets with their poles. I wonder how many miles of sidewalk they illuminated. It would have been a record by the end of a career. Then, one day, pffft! Blown out like their lamps, just dust in the night, eventually settling into eternal rest. How many people know they ever existed? But, you know, I think that there are still a lot of elevators like ours in India. When my nephew goes back home and gets into one of them, he’ll have to think of me, and as long as he thinks of me, I’ll still exist. That’s why I’m doing this. To gain a little time before sinking into oblivion.”
Rivera looked at his colleague with a frown.
“While I’ve been reading whodunits, have you by any chance been dipping into poetry?”
Deepak shrugged. Rivera called him over to his bedside.
“Want me to fluff your pillows?”
“Don’t worry about my pillows. Take my uniform from the closet over there. Take it to the dry cleaners and give it to your nephew. Then his training will be complete. Tell him that the man who wore it is named Antonio Rivera, that he held this job for thirty years, and repeat it to him until this name is engraved in his memory.”
“You can count on me.”
“And bring some more chocolate next time.”
Deepak went over to the bed, patted Rivera on the shoulder, took his colleague’s uniform from the closet, and left.
Chloe had just hung up the phone. Her father had called to say he’d be home late. Her cell phone rang again. She saw Julius’s number appear and went back to reading her book.
In the chapter she was on, some friends were picnicking in Tompkins Square Park.
Her mind wandered from her reading. She missed her little apartment in the East Village, and so many other things that went along with it. Shopping at the deli on the corner of 4th Street and Avenue B, her favorite ice-cream stand on 7th Avenue, browsing in the little antiques shop on 10th Street, the fifteen-dollar manicures at the Chinese salon, the used books she would discover at Mast Books on Avenue A, as well as the wine store a few doors down and Goodnight Sonny, her favorite bar. She could have gone back to all those places, except for the wine store, where the doorway was too narrow. It wasn’t just places she missed: changing your neighborhood meant changing your life. When was the last time she had gone out with friends? How many of them had come to see her in the hospital? Lots in the beginning, when she was on the news; ten or so in the following weeks, when the focus had been more on the perpetrators’ backgrounds than the victims’ fates; none after three months. Everything moves fast in New York City.
She could have tried to reconnect with them, but she had decided not to, perhaps because she was too proud.
One floor below, Mrs. Williams was pleased that she could finally plan her dinner party. It was high time for the building to regain its splendor. What good was it to live in a posh neighborhood if you couldn’t use your apartment as you pleased? It was so good that Mr. Groomlat had planned ahead.
“Do you think we should get him a present?” she asked her husband.
“Who? Deepak?” he replied from the living room, where he was reading.
She rolled her eyes and went into the kitchen.
“Do you want to go out?” asked her husband.
“And have to get back by curfew? No, thanks.”
The Clercs were braver and decided to go to the movies.
After having dinner with her parrot, Mrs. Collins took his cage into her bedroom and put it on the nightstand where Mr. Rivera usually put his glasses.
She picked up the novel she had just bought. She wasn’t convinced the nurse was guilty.
Mr. Morrison put a recording of Puccini’s Turandot on the turntable in his living room. When “Nessun Dorma” began playing, he poured himself a glass of Macallan and went to look for Fidelio in his vinyl collection.
Mrs. Zeldoff called around ten to ask him to turn down the volume. Then she went back to bed and watched the rest of a black-and-white movie on TCM.
11
The recording studio was on the sixth floor of an industrial building on 17th Street. Chloe went up in a freight elevator that bore no resemblance to the elevator in her building. The elevator operator just pressed a button, so offering him the night shift wouldn’t solve the problem.
Getting into the recording booth turned out to be not so easy. There were two sets of doors opening in opposite directions, and the passageway between them proved to be too narrow. The sound engineer had to carry her to the chair in front of the microphone. To avoid repeating this complicated and awkward maneuver, she decided not to go out for lunch, and just ate where she was. The room was too small for two, so the sound engineer thoughtfully suggested that he eat on the other side of the glass, leaving the microphones on so they could talk.
“That was good work this morning,” he said, taking a bite of his sandwich.
The microphone amplified the sounds of his chewing.
“This is too funny!” she said, laughing. He suddenly understood and turned down the volume.
“I have a cousin who’s in a wheelchair,” he said.
“Oh.”
“Motorcycle accident.”
Chloe always wondered what drove some people to tell her these kinds of stories. As if having a handicapped relative would somehow create a bond between them. One day, when she was going to meet Julius outside his classroom, one of his students had told her it was cool that she was in a wheelchair. “I don’t even notice a difference,” he added. “If there’s no difference, why bring it up?” she replied. Over time, she had gotten used to it. She realized that people didn’t mean any harm; they were acting that way to mask their discomfort and dissociate themselves from the injustice that they were whole and she was not.
“It’s great that you know the words by heart,” the sound engineer continued. “But maybe you should just read it. When I close my eyes, I feel like I’m at the theater, but it’s a book, you know. You have to take your time, just like a reader does.”
“Do you read a lot?”
“I nod off on page one, but I’ve recorded a lot of books. Anyway, it’s just my opinion, so it’s no big deal. I’ll clear away the trash, and we’ll get started again.”
He didn’t have the gift of subtlety, but he was nice and he meant well.
On his way back from lunch, Mr. Groomlat asked Deepak to stop by and see him when he had a moment. Deepak had no illusions as to the topic of the conversation, and he thought it best to get it over with.
“Things are quiet right
now,” he said, following him into his office.
Groomlat asked him to have a seat, but Deepak preferred to face the firing squad standing up.
“I couldn’t do anything about it,” Groomlat lamented. “You have to understand how difficult it’s been for our residents since your colleague’s unfortunate accident.”
If he was hoping to establish a sense of solidarity between them by saying “our” residents, implying that they were both in the same boat, the accountant was way off base, Deepak thought.
“It doesn’t bother me, I leave at the end of the day, but, for them, it’s another story. I did all I could, but think of poor Miss Bronstein who’s trapped at home as soon as your day is over. This situation just can’t continue, and I haven’t heard anything from your union. So they decided to automate the elevator.”
“Was it unanimous?” asked Deepak, forgetting his usual restraint.
“Not the Hayakawas, of course, they’re in California, and Mrs. Collins was a no-show. But the decision was made by an overwhelming majority,” Groomlat noted regretfully.
“How much longer do I have?”
“Oh, come on, you’re acting like it’s a terminal illness. It’s the exact opposite. You’ll enjoy a well-earned retirement. A new life awaits you. I got you a fair shake. One year’s salary! That sweetens the deal, right?”
“And what did you get for Mr. Rivera?”
“Six months, which is basically the same thing, because insurance will cover his salary while he’s in the hospital.”
“Not if you let him go!”
Groomlat seemed to be thinking.
“True. Well, six months isn’t bad.”
“He’s been here for thirty years.”
“That’s the best I could do—you should have seen the looks on their faces when I asked them to pay additional fees to cover your retirement package.”
“You didn’t answer my question. When will the new elevator be installed?”
“Fortunately, the elevator repair people are available on Thursday. The work will only take two days. That gives you the whole week. I’d like you to help them—they may need your expertise. Come and see me Friday, and I’ll give you your check. It’ll be a nice windfall for you.”
Deepak said goodbye. He went down to the storeroom with a furious urge to destroy the two boxes that were going to turn his life upside down, but it was only a passing desire, and he went back to his place behind the counter in the lobby.
When Mrs. Clerc came back from the hairdresser’s, she didn’t ask Deepak for his opinion of her hairdo the way she usually did. The squeak of the gate and the hum of the motor were the only sounds as they ascended to the seventh floor.
When she went out to do the shopping, Mrs. Williams complained that her housekeeper had sciatica and couldn’t come to work. When she returned, Deepak carried her groceries into the kitchen. She almost told him that she was having a dinner party the following week, but caught herself in time and kept her mouth shut, relieved she’d avoided a faux pas.
Chloe left the recording studio at four p.m. The afternoon felt like spring, but she decided to take a cab home. Sitting in the hot recording booth for six hours had worn her out.
When she entered the building, Deepak hurried over to take the handles of her wheelchair.
“No arguments—you look like something the cat dragged in.”
“You don’t look much better.”
“I’ve been visiting Mr. Rivera every evening, so I haven’t been getting much sleep.”
With her, no pretense was possible. So, for the second time that day, Deepak broke one of the sacrosanct rules of his profession.
“I know you voted against it, and I’m sure your father did the best he could, so don’t worry about me.”
“Do you know what Lazarus said to Jesus?”
“No.”
“‘Get up and walk!’ Not worrying about what’s happening to you would be just as much of a miracle.”
Deepak gave her a confused look as he slid open the gate.
“Isn’t it Jesus who said that to Lazarus?”
She smiled, and resisted the urge to tell him that the matter wasn’t settled yet. If Deepak were to suspect what she was plotting, he would do whatever he could to stop her.
In the middle of a meeting after a full day of appointments, Sanji said goodbye to Sam without any explanation and scurried across the park. He quickly glanced at the park bench and hurried on his way. He was late. What on earth had possessed him to get mixed up in this nonsense? But since he preferred to look on the bright side, he told himself that trading this uncomfortable suit for an elevator operator’s uniform would be something to laugh about later. If he had children one day, this would be a funny story to tell them, and perhaps it would even teach them a lesson. He was also amused by the idea of going back to Mumbai and taking one of those old elevators the palace was so proud of and showing his uncles that he could operate it himself, all thanks to their sister’s husband. The irony was irresistible.
As he approached 12 5th Avenue, Sanji thought of the real reason he’d agreed to do his uncle this favor and wondered if he could have found something a little more subtle. How would Chloe react if she figured out that he had agreed to this crazy idea to be close to her? Would it scare her off?
The dry cleaners had dropped off Mr. Rivera’s uniform, and it was hanging in Deepak’s locker. He felt guilty about breaking a promise to his colleague. How would he explain the presence of a stranger wearing Mr. Rivera’s uniform to the owners, since the elevator would soon be modernized? It would have been more prudent to end this foolishness, but Deepak wanted to have a little fun, and Lali was so happy thinking she’d saved their future that he didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. He would free them from the illusion when he went home Thursday night, after the installers had started their work.
Sanji showed up in the lobby half an hour late. Deepak would have commented on this, but he didn’t want to push things too far. He brought him down to the basement and gave him a lecture on the mechanics of the elevator. The fuse box; the belt, which had to be checked now and then to make sure it was taut enough; and the oiling of the tracks. He covered it all, until Sanji reminded him that his job wasn’t to maintain the elevator.
“What about your general knowledge? If a fuse blew, you’d feel lucky to know how to replace it.”
“I don’t know if ‘lucky’ is the right word, especially if I’m stuck between two floors.”
“That’s why you must always have this phone on you. By the way, Miss Chloe can’t reach the call button on the landing, so when she needs our services, she calls this phone and lets it ring one time. You don’t have to answer, just go to the ninth floor.”
“The young woman on the ninth floor,” he repeated slowly.
“You met her when you came to see me. You even got her a cab, remember? Well, speak of the devil,” Deepak said as his cell phone began to vibrate.
“Go up without me. I’ll stay here and observe this wonderful device in action so I can improve my understanding.”
“Good idea,” said Deepak, relieved not to have to take him along.
Deepak went up to the lobby and got into the elevator. He was surprised that his phone was still vibrating. He was going as fast as he could! He was even more surprised when he got up to the ninth floor and didn’t see Chloe on the landing.
She must have called him by mistake. But just in case, before going back down, Deepak put his ear up to her door. He heard a call for help.
He took out the key ring hanging from his belt and entered the apartment.
“In the kitchen!” she moaned.
He rushed down the hallway and found Chloe on the floor with her wheelchair on top of her.
“Don’t move!” he said, righting the wheelchair.
He picked Chloe up and carried her to the sofa in the living room.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I don’t think so. I lea
ned over to get a cup from the shelf, but I couldn’t reach it, so I grabbed the knob of one of the cabinets. I forgot to put the brake on, and my wheelchair slid back—by the time I realized what was happening, it was too late.”
“I’ll call a doctor.”
“No need, I may have some bruises, but that’ll teach me not to do acrobatics.”
“Let me at least check that the wheelchair is all right. Goodness, you really scared me!”
A few moments later, he came back, pushing the wheelchair.
“Everything’s in working order, I even checked the brake,” he said in a soothing voice. “Do you want me to stay with you?”
“That’s very nice of you, but I’m fine. Everyone trips over their own feet sometimes.”
“You always have a good sense of humor.”
He knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t so much making a joke as protecting her pride.
“If I could do it,” she continued, “I would pay your salary myself so you would never leave.”
“Come now, you know very well that’s not the issue.”
“How will I manage without you?”
“During the last four years, you’ve only needed my help twice.”
“Five times!”
“You gave me a lot more trouble when you were a teenager.”
“Did I really give you a hard time?”
“No . . . but you were no angel. Should I help you back into the wheelchair before I leave?”
“I can do it myself. They say if you fall off the horse, you just have to get right back on.”
Deepak said goodbye and left. She didn’t hear the usual squeak from the front door as it closed. She called to him from the living room.
“I’m fine!”
This time, she heard the squeak.
“It took you a while. I thought the elevator had broken down.”
“Did you see any sparks on the fuse box? No? Then everything’s fine. Let’s get moving. A few round trips, and we’ll see if you remember yesterday’s lesson. Then I’ll send you home, I have to leave a little early tonight.”