by Levy, Marc
“He did not dismiss the possibility that someone purposefully let this happen,” Mrs. Williams said carefully.
After thinking for a moment and hastening to pick out some of the lovely zucchini for herself, Mrs. Zeldoff added, “Of course, our two elevator operators had everything to gain. If they’d gotten wind of Mr. Groomlat’s plan two years ago when he ordered the kit, they could have taken drastic measures.”
“As you know, they had every opportunity to do as they pleased,” added Mrs. Williams.
“You’re completely right—who else had access to that jumble of stuff down there?”
“And according to our dear accountant, they put the equipment in a damp place, as if by chance!”
“Mr. Groomlat told you that?” Mrs. Zeldoff gasped. “May the Lord protect us!”
“You didn’t see his e-mail? Would you go and put valuable things in a damp place?”
“Of course not!” exclaimed Mrs. Zeldoff with her hands on her hips. “I’m not an idiot!”
“You’re the only person I’ve told about this,” Mrs. Williams whispered in her neighbor’s ear.
Mrs. Zeldoff perked up, honored by this sign of trust.
“But perhaps it would be more honest to tell our neighbors about it—after all, they have the right to know what happened, don’t you think?” Mrs. Williams added.
This was a real dilemma for Mrs. Zeldoff. She clutched her chin, her eyes darting about the store, wondering what her pastor would tell her to do.
“If you say so . . . ,” she ventured.
“I wouldn’t want people to accuse me of scheming, especially not the Bronsteins,” Mrs. Williams said, adding that she knew from a reliable source that the professor was a left-winger. Didn’t they always side with the help?
With every nasty remark, Mrs. Williams tugged at her marionette’s invisible strings. Mrs. Zeldoff was so easy to manipulate.
“You should buy these radishes, they’re splendid,” Mrs. Williams suggested, giddy with delight.
“We could share the task,” Mrs. Zeldoff suggested, putting a bunch of the flaming-red roots into her basket.
“That’s a very good idea,” Mrs. Williams exclaimed. “I’ll write to the Hayakawas, and you can spread the good word to the others.”
Mrs. Zeldoff had gone home that evening as elated as when someone had told her she had a celestial singing voice one Sunday after her choir performance.
The next morning, she displayed remarkable self-sacrifice and went to knock on Mr. Morrison’s door. He was still in his bathrobe, even though it was past eleven o’clock. That was the least of her problems! He didn’t understand the first thing about anything.
“Why would our elevator operators sabotage the elevator? They need it to do their job—plus, it works very well. Deepak came up here a little while ago and woke me up . . . for good reason,” added the drunken idiot.
“Not the elevator, only the buttons!” she patiently replied.
“What did they do to the buttons? No one touched mine—I just used it yesterday.”
“Not those buttons, the other ones,” Mrs. Zeldoff said with a groan.
“We have other buttons?”
“Yes, in the basement, if I’ve understood correctly.”
“I didn’t know we had buttons in the basement,” he muttered. “What are they for?”
“They’re not for anything—they were in boxes, so that we could use the elevator without the operators someday.”
“What you’re telling me is completely ridiculous. We’re expected to go to the basement to make the elevator run without Deepak or Mr. Rivera? Excuse me, but if that’s the case, then they did a good thing by getting rid of those useless buttons! It’s certainly more practical to call the elevator from the landing. What point is there in going down on foot to send the elevator up? Whoever heard of such a thing?”
Mrs. Zeldoff, on the verge of despair, went to continue her crusade three floors up, using the service stairs once again.
Mrs. Clerc seemed very busy. She didn’t even offer her a cup of tea. (And they say the French have such good manners!) She only half listened to her and seemed to lend little credence to what she was saying. It truly became annoying—almost unbearable, in fact!—when she became rather vulgar.
“Madame Williams doit bien se faire chier pour avoir des idées aussi tordues! Mrs. Williams must really be . . . ’ow do you say . . . bored shitless to come up with such twisted ideas. Deepak is incapable of doing such a sing. I do not know anyone as obsessively clean as ’ee is. ’Ee spends his time polishing everything in ze building—I am afraid even to lean against ze inside of ze elevator.”
“Maybe he’s not the one, but Mr. Rivera, at night—”
“Okay, eet is very nice to come and tell me all zis, and your theory is captivating, but I ’ave work to do.”
“Will you talk to your husband about it?” begged Mrs. Zeldoff.
“I certainly will—I am sure ’ee will be as fascinated as I am. Tell your ’usband ’ello for me,” she said, dismissing her.
The nerve! The way she practically kicked her out! Mrs. Zeldoff was not the kind of woman to be treated this way. She marched toward the service door.
“You do not want to use ze front door? Ze elevator is working during ze day,” Mrs. Clerc said with surprise.
“A little exercise will do me good,” her miffed neighbor replied.
And with some apprehensiveness, she climbed to the ninth floor. Chloe was getting ready to go out and wondered who could be ringing at the service door. This time, to reach the latch, she engaged in some dangerous acrobatics, carefully raising herself up on one arm with her shoulder pressed against the wall.
“Stupid, unfounded, and ludicrous” was the response from Mrs. Zeldoff’s young neighbor. Eight flights on foot only to be greeted this way! As if Deepak were a saint! Vaunting his integrity after what he had done was certainly the icing on the cake. And Chloe didn’t stop there.
“What you’re doing is repulsive. Spreading a rumor always has consequences, so show me some proof or stop your gossiping.”
Mrs. Williams was right, Mrs. Zeldoff had concluded. Real left-wing radicals! Being in a wheelchair was no excuse for such rudeness.
Since this impertinent young woman had attacked her integrity, she would call good old Mr. Groomlat and ask him to open an investigation.
She completed her mission before noon, and went home having accomplished her assignment.
Deepak got to work early. He expected to be welcomed as a savior, but all morning long, he received nothing but scornful expressions and disapproving looks. Mrs. Clerc barely said hello to him, and Mr. Williams left the building without saying goodbye. Mr. Zeldoff scowled at him and let out a hostile grunt. A little later, his wife rolled her eyes angrily. When Mr. Morrison called for the elevator in midafternoon (he was going out for breakfast) and Deepak asked him why everyone was being so cold, he answered evasively: “Let’s talk about it later.”
Talk about what? What had gotten into them? Was Mr. Groomlat playing another trick by exaggerating his demands? Had he been let go after all? He could have cashed his check, taken a well-earned retirement, and left them in a fine mess. One year’s salary wouldn’t bankrupt them: Mrs. Zeldoff wore the equivalent amount in jewelry around her neck; Mrs. Clerc’s weekly visits to the hairdresser equaled a week of his pay; every night, Mr. Morrison blew as much money as Deepak earned in a day; and the Williamses were regular gala hoppers, spending the equivalent of a month of Deepak’s salary on one marvelous evening just so they could show off in front of the right people. They were all arrogant, ungrateful cheapskates, except for the Bronsteins, who were always very respectful, and Mrs. Collins, who had lost her fortune and her arrogance with it. By noon, Deepak still hadn’t calmed down. Lali was right—he was a sucker. If he were a mean bastard like the concierge at 16 5th Avenue, they would all be eating out of his hand. Maybe he should go see the accountant and tell him that, after thinking it o
ver, he had decided to stick with the original plan. They could just pay him his due and get by without him.
At three p.m., Deepak was still brooding behind his desk. He had sent the dog walker packing after the Clercs’ golden retriever had come back from the park in a wretched state. “Who’s going to clean the marble in the lobby?” he had shouted at him. The dog walker had left dumbfounded.
Next, the liquor store delivered a case of wine for Mr. Morrison. Who was going to put the bottles away in the sideboard in his living room? Then the florist showed up with a bouquet for Mrs. Williams that was so sumptuous it wouldn’t fit into the elevator without scattering petals all over the place. Who was going to sweep up?
But when Chloe appeared at four in a more pitiful state than the Clercs’ dog, Deepak became himself again.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she replied calmly. “The elevator at the subway station was broken again, so I had to get off at the next station, and it’s ten blocks from here. Using your arms, it’s quite a hike . . . so to speak. I’m wiped out.”
“Why didn’t you take the bus?” he asked as he pushed her toward the elevator.
“Because it takes forever to lower the ramp, and people get impatient. Plus, the buses are packed at this time of day, so I always end up stuck in front of the door, near the driver. At every stop, people bump into me getting on and off. And in a wheelchair, the sudden stops give you terrible nausea. The subway elevators, when they exist, are unpredictable. Most of the time, nice people help me get upstairs, but that didn’t happen today. Okay, I’ve complained enough, we should be celebrating that you’re staying.”
“How do you know?” Deepak asked between the fifth and sixth floors. “I only found out around ten a.m., and you were still at home—I brought you down around noon.”
Deepak opened the gate, moved out of the way so Chloe could pass, and went back down without getting any answer.
On the way, he stopped at the second floor and rang Mr. Groomlat’s bell.
The accountant was waiting for him behind his desk. He handed him his contract. Deepak stuck it in his pocket.
“Aren’t you going to read it?”
“I trust you, and since everyone is giving me the cold shoulder today, I certainly understand that my demands weren’t very popular.”
“Sit down a moment,” said the accountant. Deepak remained standing.
“As you like. Since you trust me, I’m going to return the favor. They still don’t know about your demands. I just told them I rehired you. Don’t worry, I have the authority to act in the interest of the co-op. I’m sure they’ll be relieved not to have to pay the additional charges I had requested. Nevertheless, I’d prefer that our little agreement remains between us. By the time you leave, it’ll be water under the bridge. By the way, why eighteen months? You could’ve rounded up to two years,” Groomlat asked.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Deepak replied as he left.
When his shift was over, Deepak visited Mr. Rivera in the hospital. Mrs. Collins hadn’t sent a book with him this time, since she had brought one over herself in the middle of the afternoon. She was also the only person who still greeted Deepak normally. The residents’ behavior continued to bother him.
Mr. Rivera, who had seen him so cheerful the day before, was worried to find him in such a gloomy mood now.
“You seem very troubled.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on. They’ve never been so horrible—well, never all at once. It’s like they’re holding something against me.”
“Like what? The fact that you swallowed your pride and agreed to keep working there? That would be a messed-up state of affairs.”
“So why are they all being so rude to me?”
“If you want my opinion, they must have been glad to be done with us and see their expenses decrease. They’re disappointed, that’s all. Did you tell them about your nephew?”
“Not yet—I’ll do it on Monday. I’m meeting a guy from the union tomorrow for coffee.”
“On Saturday? I’m impressed.”
“I’d rather make my case outside their office. What I’m asking him to do isn’t very legal.”
“You really think of everything.”
“Only what’s necessary.”
“They’re just worried about the night shift. When they find out it’s been taken care of, everything will go back to normal.”
“Even Mr. Morrison wasn’t acting like himself,” Deepak fretted.
“I’ve never seen him when he wasn’t soused. Maybe he indulged too much the night before. We should just be grateful things worked out this way—it’s a real lifesaver.”
Deepak left his colleague at nine. In the subway on his way home, he asked himself whether this lifesaver had a name.
When he got home, he found Lali at the table with Sanji and was sure, as he took off his jacket, that the room had fallen silent the moment he’d arrived.
“I waited for you today,” Deepak said as he sat down.
“I finished up later than expected,” Sanji replied nonchalantly.
“You could’ve let me know.”
Lali flew to her nephew’s rescue.
“Sanji was in a meeting with important people.”
“So I’m not important? You start Monday,” he continued.
“Did you go see the union people?” Lali asked as she placed the dish on the table.
“It’ll happen tomorrow,” Deepak replied, scooping a helping of food onto his wife’s plate.
“Do you work every day?” Sanji asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“What do they do when you go on vacation?”
“We get a replacement,” Deepak said. “But he’s only available on weekends and in August. Mr. Rivera has Saturdays off, and I have Sundays; we switched this time so I could meet with the union tomorrow. In the summer, we each take two weeks at different times. That way there’s always someone to replace us, either during the day or at night.”
“And this replacement wasn’t available?”
“If he were, we would have solved this problem a long time ago. But if you’ve changed your mind, go ahead and tell me. Things can’t get much worse!”
“What’s wrong?” Lali asked in a worried voice.
“What could possibly be wrong? Luck is on our side—the equipment that should have ended my career was miraculously damaged. And tomorrow I’ll lie to my oldest friends by claiming my nephew by marriage is an experienced elevator operator from Mumbai, although I still have no idea what he does for a living. I’m just wondering if when I shave tomorrow morning, I’ll still recognize myself in the mirror.”
Just before midnight, Deepak put on his pajamas, slipped into bed, and turned off his bedside lamp. Lali turned hers back on.
“Do you want to tell me what’s bothering you or would you prefer that I spend all night worrying about it by myself?”
“Why did you go see Miss Chloe?” Deepak said.
“Some traditions never die. For an old Indian man like you, two women talking must be up to something.”
“This old Indian man gave up his career to marry an old Indian woman like you! Anyway, I know you, and when you overreact, it’s because you have something on your conscience.”
“And what exactly am I feeling so guilty about? I’m dying to know.”
“There’s not an ounce of humidity in my storeroom. Do you think I’d leave my uniform there if it were damp? So what do you think it was that corroded their equipment?”
“I’m a specialist in electronics now, I suppose?”
“No, but isn’t that your nephew’s area?”
“How silly of me, it’s a conspiracy! Your wife, your nephew, your protégée on the ninth floor—everyone’s in league to commit sabotage with the single purpose of saving your job and your absurd aspirations. Oh, I almost forgot poor Mr. Rivera, who sent me a map of the basement by carrier pigeon to show me the loca
tion of some equipment I wouldn’t recognize even if I were looking for it. And then I must have left in the middle of the night while you were sleeping, crept into the basement, and peed on it!”
“Don’t be ridiculous—I didn’t accuse you of anything.”
“And I’m supposed to be the one with something on my conscience! You should hear yourself,” Lali fumed.
“You always have an answer for everything, but I can’t help but think that something funny is going on here. And if I come under the least bit of suspicion, I know someone who will jump at the chance to make me pay.”
14
Lali and Sanji were at the breakfast table. Deepak came out of his room wearing wide white pants and a matching polo shirt. Sanji had never seen him looking so chic.
“I thought you were going to have coffee with your colleagues from the union?” Lali asked in surprise.
“My athletic background always impresses them. Plus, I’m going to go throw a few balls in the park when I’m done.”
“You should go with your uncle—he has a veritable fan club there,” Lali suggested to her nephew.
“I’d love to see him play,” Sanji replied, looking at his cell phone, “but I have an unexpected business lunch.”
“On Saturday?” Deepak exclaimed.
“You have a work meeting, so why shouldn’t he?” Lali interjected.
“If I said it was going to rain, your aunt would rush to tell me that it wasn’t your fault.”
“You can go another time,” she added, ignoring her husband’s comment. “Try not to work tomorrow—I’d like for us to spend a little time together.”
Sanji promised and went to get ready.
“And what about you—are you coming to see me play?” Deepak asked his wife coyly.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, just like every weekend since we met. I’ll see you on the field around noon.”
At noon, Sanji met Sam at Claudette’s. The restaurant was near his office, and Sam loved their brunch menu.
“What’s so urgent?” Sanji asked as he sat down.