The City Beautiful

by Aden Polydoros

  There had to be a way to communicate with Yakov. He was still here, still a person, no matter what Meir had said. I needed to at least try.

  As water filled the tub, I stood at the sink and forced myself to confront my reflection.

  “Yakov,” I murmured, closing my eyes. I pressed my forehead against the mirror’s cold surface, poised my fingers over it, feeling as if any moment I’d sink through the pane as though it were a pool of quicksilver. “Yakov, are you here? Can you hear me? Please, show me. Show me how I can make things right. Tell me who did this to you so I can stop them from hurting anyone else.”

  My body moved on its own, twisting away from the mirror as mechanically as clockwork. I stared at the tub, my heart fluttering against my breastbone. The water became bluer, darker, as the tub filled higher. Like the mikveh. Like a sinkhole opening beneath me.

  As the water sloshed against the rim, I regained control of my body. Stepped forward on feet I barely felt. Twisted off the taps.

  Yakov wanted me to do this.

  I eased into the bath, half expecting the bottom to give way beneath my feet, plummeting into an endless void. No. Solid metal. I sat down, keeping my borrowed kittel on because Yakov had died in his clothes.

  Shivering in the frigid water, I focused on its chill the same way I had concentrated on my breathing back at Meir’s cottage—not to bring me back but to further distance myself from my body.

  Maybe Yakov had been dead when he had slipped into the lagoon’s dark water. Maybe his killer had held him under. Was this what he had experienced in his last moments, or did it come after?

  “This is not bathing,” I whispered as I sank against the side of the tub. My kittel billowed up. I brushed the cloth down to release the air bubbles, waiting for my goose bumps to recede. “This is not bathing.”

  The tub was filled with clean water that had been gathered in a cistern or pumped from distant pipes. It didn’t hold enough water to qualify as a mikveh, nor did it contain the right kind of living water. However, it would serve its purpose.

  The water stroked my chin, its chill seizing my lungs in a viselike grip. The ceiling was plain plaster, but it would do. All I had to imagine was the tahara house’s pulley system, a spiderweb of ropes and iron bolts.

  Back. Back. Take me back, Yakov.

  Taking a deep breath, I filled my lungs with as much air as they could hold. A faint, acrid odor laced the air. Not sea brine. Harsh and sour, it brought to mind my first year in Chicago. Frankie showing off the old service revolver he’d traded a filched pocket watch for, practicing on milk bottles and tin cans. His eyes aglow with excitement, a beaming smile on his lips. It was the scent of spent gunpowder. Fireworks?

  I sank under.

  At first, there was only smooth enamel beneath me. I tried holding my breath in, but air bubbles tickled my nostrils, and more escaped my lips. Then a cool night’s breeze brushed across my face.

  My eyes flew open.

  The blackest night. Stars innumerable, cold and white, like the fragments of a shattered sun.

  Underneath me, the tub’s curved bottom had become damp grass, the musk of dirt and stagnant water in my nostrils.

  When I tried to look around me, my body refused to obey. I had a feeling my mouth was open, but I couldn’t close it. I couldn’t even move my eyes.

  There was a sudden explosion, and flames crawled across the sky. Sizzling sparks and smoke trails.

  A shadow passed over my vision. The silhouette of a man. He had no face, only a shifting cloud of smoke where his features should have been.

  His hand brushed over my face. I thought he meant to close my eyes, but instead, his fingers rested upon my throat and lingered there. Stroked the bruise he had surely made.

  “You gave me my true name. My purpose.” His voice left him in a low thrum. Vaguely, it dawned on me that he wasn’t speaking in Yiddish. “You showed me who I was inside. For that, you have my thanks. I’ve pierced it into my skin so I’ll never forget it.”

  Tendrils of smoke wafted from his clothes. He was burning inside.

  The man nudged me onto my side with his boot. The sky tumbled overhead, unspooling into a reflection of fireworks on water and rising white buildings that appeared as distant and inaccessible as the medieval Neamţ Citadel. He gave me another kick, and the weight of my petrified body sent me spilling into the water.

  I sank. Deeper. Deeper. He had put stones in my pockets to weigh me down, but they slipped out as I fell. My body caught on a rope submerged across the lagoon floor.

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t—

  —breathe!

  Powerful arms encircled me, dragging me from the dark lagoon and onto the cold porcelain floor. I twisted my head to the side and retched up water.

  “Damn you, Alter!” Frankie leaned over me, his voice quivering with equal parts anger and relief. “Were you trying to kill yourself?”

  “N-no.” Coughing, I bent over myself. My throat was on fire, my eyes and nose watering furiously. Terror filled me as the liquid dripped onto my hand. Not just water. Blood filled the cup of my palm.

  “Look at you. Your nose.” Frankie swore and pulled the hand towel from its rung. He handed the cloth to me, shaking his head as I pressed it against my bleeding nose.

  “It’s okay.” My shuddering voice didn’t sound convincing even to me. “It’s from holding my breath. It’s happened before when I’ve gone swimming.”

  “No, it’s not okay. You’re not okay, Alter.” He raked his hand through his hair, his every gesture sparking with tension. “I was pounding the door and you wouldn’t answer. And when I opened the door and saw you underwater, I thought you were dead. You know that? I thought you were dead.”

  The anxiety in his voice made me cast my gaze down in shame. “I’m sorry, but I had to.”

  “Had to what?” Frankie demanded. “Try drowning yourself?”

  “No. I needed to see what Yakov saw before it happened. I had to feel exactly what he felt.” I dropped the towel in my lap, shuddering violently. “I saw him, Frankie. Not his face, but—but I know he’s a man. Older. In his late thirties or forties.”

  The stranger hadn’t spoken in Yiddish or English, but I had understood him nonetheless. That could only mean he had been talking in a language I knew, either German or Romanian. But what language had it been? Why couldn’t I remember?

  “Alter, who are you talking about?” Frankie asked.

  It dawned on me that I was smiling, and I couldn’t stop. The expression tugged at my lips, taut and mirthless. “The man who killed him.”

  25

  After I dried myself off and changed into the clean set of clothes Frankie brought me, I joined him in the bedroom. He had traded his elegant evening suit for a breezy white nightshirt, the collar unbuttoned to reveal the smooth muscularity of his chest.

  “I’m glad to see the clothes fit.” He cocked his head and smiled. “You look rather dashing in them, actually. A true gentleman.”

  “Flattered,” I said dryly, as if that would hide my blush. “Thank you for everything. I won’t impose on you any longer.”

  “Alter, you seriously can’t be thinking about searching for that man at this hour?” he exclaimed in disbelief. “You don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “No, I have work in the morning. I need to go home. I’ll take a streetcar.” As I searched my pocket for loose coins, it took me a moment to remember these clothes weren’t mine.

  “My keys. My money. My dad’s watch.” My voice sounded very small to me. “They’re still back there with Meir.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I doubt he has much interest in material things.”

  “No, you don’t understand. My dad gave me that watch. I can’t just—”

  “Alter, calm down.” Frankie laid a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take care of
it, don’t worry. I’ll go over to Meir’s and get it back, even if it means getting into a boxing match with the old bastard. Just spend the night. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s no imposition.”

  I was too exhausted to disagree, much less walk home. “All right. Thank you.”

  Frankie had always envied the luxurious side of life, and his room was as I had imagined it would be. The walls were all heavy wainscoting and damask wallpaper, while the four-poster bed was fitted with fine linen. Fire flickered within the oil lamp’s milk glass shade.

  Frankie took the spare coverlet from the closet shelf and spread it on the floor. As he plumped a pillow, he glanced over at me with a smile. “Remember when you first came to live with us back in the Levee, you thought you could catch syphilis from used bedding?”

  “Because the beds came from a brothel.”

  He chuckled. “You were so innocent. I doubt you’d even kissed a girl yet.”

  “And I suppose you kissed plenty of girls by then?” I snapped, annoyed by the tone of his voice.

  “Actually, I hadn’t.” He glanced back. “Haven’t, I should say. At all. Ever.”

  “But, Frankie, you’re so...” I searched for a word. Handsome. Well-dressed. Bright. Intense. “You.”

  “What about you?” he asked as I sat on the edge of the bed. “Is there a pretty girl at shul you have your eyes on?”

  I thought about giving him Raizel’s name, but something about the darkness made it easy to speak the truth. “No, there’s no one.”

  “So, you’ve never kissed a girl?”

  “Never,” I admitted as Frankie folded the coverlet into a makeshift mattress.

  “What about a boy?”

  His question struck me like a slap in the face. “What? Did you just ask—”

  “It’s not anything unusual,” he said nonchalantly, still turned away, as though all of society’s customs and expectations ceased to exist the moment we lost sight of each other’s face. “It happens all the time at yeshivas and boarding schools. Harmless fun, really.”

  I bit my lower lip, emboldened by the darkness. “Once. Right before we left Romania.”

  “It was Mircea, wasn’t it?” he murmured.

  I took a deep breath. “Yes.”

  Frankie didn’t answer. He kept his back to me, his palm flat against the folded coverlet. I thought I must repulse him. The idea left me sick with fear.

  “But it was just a foolish dare,” I added quickly, before he could respond. “Innocent fun like you said. And Mircea was a wretched kisser. He did it with his eyes closed. On the first try, he missed my mouth completely.”

  That was a lie. I had been the one to miss.

  “How did it make you feel?” Frankie asked, turning to face me.

  “It was merely a foolish dare,” I repeated, too ashamed to give voice to the joy and desire. I kept my gaze on the floor. “It didn’t actually mean anything. As you said, it’s just something boys do, and then they grow out of it.”

  “But how did it make you feel?”

  “Alive,” I whispered as he came to my side. I rose to my feet to meet him.

  Frankie stood with his back to the oil lamp, eclipsing its glow. I couldn’t see his face, and I didn’t think he could see mine. I could have been anyone. These words could be someone else’s, even Yakov’s. Except the desire shredding me up inside was so painful, it could only be a part of my heart and soul.

  Twenty, thirty, forty years. Fifty even. Fifty years more of ducking my head, nervous glances at other men, the guilt, the fear. If I had to live like this for another half century, no, another year, another day, another minute—it would kill me. Or I would.

  “You make me feel alive, Alter. You always have.” Frankie placed his hand on my cheek, tracing the curve of my cheekbone.

  I leaned into him, my hands finding their perfect place on his lower back.

  “Take your time.” His voice was husky with desire. “I don’t want you to feel rushed. We can just hold hands or hold each other. We could talk about something, anything. I won’t kiss you unless you want—”

  I pressed my mouth against his, silencing him midsentence. He leaned into my kiss. Through his thin nightshirt, he was all heat and hard muscle. His hot tongue parted my lips, and all I could think about was how he felt inside my mouth, the weight of his hands upon my back, the crisp scent of his cologne.

  This was wrong.

  So why did it feel so right?

  I groaned as he traced his lips down my neck, teasing and sensual in his slowness. He kissed the rapid pulse in the hollow of my throat and paused there for a moment, as though to savor the proof that I was alive. I ought to have stepped away, but my body played rebellion, insolently rubbing against him.

  “Wait,” I panted. “We shouldn’t do this. It’s a sin.”

  “Sins are measured in the pain you cause others.”

  “But Leviticus.”

  “But David and Jonathan.” Frankie’s breath coaxed up the fine down on the nape of my neck as he nuzzled my throat. “If something brings us mutual pleasure and harms no one, it’s a virtue.”

  As his lips found mine again, the tension drained from my muscles. I had wanted this for so long, I wouldn’t let fear sully the moment. I needed this.

  26

  I floated up from a dreamless sleep to find myself in a strange room. I couldn’t breathe! Lurching up and hacking violently, I curled over myself. I lifted my hands to my throat, expecting to encounter a tight cord. Instead, my fingertips stroked sweaty skin. My pulse fluttered against my thumb.

  Panting, I reached across the bed and grasped a fistful of sheet. Alone. I was alone. Yakov didn’t wait for me under the blanket, dripping with mud and lagoon water. Once my racing heart calmed, I turned my head to confirm it.

  I released a shaky breath, recalling where I was. Of course the room was unfamiliar. I had spent the night at Frankie’s.

  I looked over the side of the bed. The pile of blankets on the floor was disheveled. Frankie must still toss and turn at night. Some things never changed. Except, in many ways, it felt as though everything had changed. We would never be able to go back from that.

  I didn’t know if I wanted to. I felt so confused. It was as though he had thrown the world out of orbit all with a single kiss, sent gravity head over heels, and along with it, the rules that I thought governed us.

  Sunlight poured through the wide window. My body felt stiff and cold, and my legs ached from running through the woods. The bedside clock was frozen at half past three. It dawned on me that the color of the sunlight was wrong. It was much too late.

  A jolt of horror rippled through me. I had work today.

  I’d kept my pants and drawers on while I slept. Scrambling out of bed, I searched the floor for the rest of the clothes I’d borrowed. I didn’t bother to tuck in my shirttail or find suspenders. I stuffed one of Frankie’s silk neckties in my pocket to knot on the way. After fifteen seconds of hunting for socks in the armoire, I decided to forgo them entirely.

  After retrieving my shoes from the mudroom, I let myself out through the front door. Halfway down the street, I ran into Frankie, who carried a basket of pastries against his chest. A smile spread across his face.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asked.

  “Fine, thank you,” I said hastily. “Sorry, but I’m late. I need to go to work.”

  “What about finding an exorcist?”

  “I have work.” I stepped past him, then hesitated and looked back. “Frankie, last night—it was just, uh, it was the dybbuk.”

  He didn’t answer. His smile was gone now.

  I hated this. I hated how afraid I felt, how terrified. Not just of our kiss, but the possibility of inevitably taking things a step further. It wasn’t just Leviticus
—the secondhand clothes I owned were mixed of wool and flax, and if I searched through the verses, I was certain I’d find a dozen other infractions I was guilty of. It was also the hard labor and jail time, punishments that were even more brutal here than back in Romania. It was the shame in my mother’s eyes if she ever found out about who I was, and the disgust. I’d never be a part of the family again.

  But I wanted to kiss him again so much. No. Just holding his hand, just having him smile at me, would be enough. And yet...

  “It wasn’t anything serious,” I said, wishing desperately I could believe my own words. Saying them was like chewing on broken glass.

  “Of course. It was just a kiss.” His lips rose again, in a smile as hard and sharp as a sickle. “Harmless fun, like I said.”

  “Right.”

  “You should go to work, Alter.” He brushed past me.

  “I’ll see you later.” I lifted my hand in a wave, but he didn’t look back.

  I continued on my way, ignoring the ache in my heart. I wished I’d told him the truth about how I felt.

  I decided to cut straight through the Levee on foot until I reached the river’s northern bend. At the wharf, workers flashed their tin lunch buckets and grumbled for cigarettes. I pressed a hand over my growling stomach. If only I’d taken one of Frankie’s pastries after all. I searched my pockets, praying for a forgotten nickel. Nothing.

  After crossing the river, I hopped aboard a streetcar in passing, clinging onto the rear bars for several blocks, until it slowed at a corner.

  By the time I reached the newspaper office, I was sick with dread and panic. Without the familiar weight of my father’s watch in my pocket, I felt unmoored. I glanced at the clock on my way in and sighed in relief. Just five minutes past schedule. We could work with that.

  “You’re late,” Mr. Weiss growled from his desk as I took my place at the Linotype machine.

  “I’m sorry, sir. My bicycle’s tire was flat.”