Unfinished Sympathy

by Andy Conway

  “Jazz, yes,” Mitch said, wondering where this was going.

  “Is that what you call it?” He turned the sound over. “Jazz. Hmmm. Mr Mahler less so.”

  James had told him the whole thing. Playing the Buddy Bolden recording in the Mahlers’ suite. Gustav’s disgust. Alma’s panic. Why on earth would the owner of a black nightclub, a pioneer of black music, help such a man?

  “Gustav Mahler is at heart a good man,” Mitch said. “But like many people who’ve worked their way up from the gutter, he has a fear of falling back into it. If he closes his eyes to it he feels safer.”

  “And his ears.”

  “It’s only people like Miss Curtis who can see and hear what’s really happening.”

  “And you,” Marshall said.

  Mitch didn’t know what to say. Was Jim Marshall going to help him because he’d made an impassioned speech defending black music, or would he turn him away because Gustav Mahler had sneered at it?

  The door opened and James Reese Europe stumbled through, surprised, looking from Mitch to his boss and back again.

  “Mitch,” he said. “What is it?”

  Jim Marshall stepped forward. “Mitch needs our help. Take him to the cellar.”

  — 50 —

  THE CELLAR WAS LINED with barrels and had a musty air that the oil heater blasting out warmth couldn’t disguise. The stone floor was covered in a patchwork of rugs, sofas and tables were dotted around, oil lamps casting a pleasant glow, making it look like a low-rent reading room.

  It was a speakeasy: Jim Marshall’s private club, beneath his legitimate club; a room where business could be discussed away from the noise of the nightclub, maybe, or just his own little hideaway, his man cave.

  Marshall explained there was an escape route through the wall, along through the next few buildings, if the police did come. He left them there and went back upstairs.

  “I got your message yesterday,” said James, “but there’s been no sign of those anarchist dudes.”

  “No,” said Mitch. “I made a mistake. It’s not about them at all.”

  “Your note said it was a matter of life and death.”

  “Oh, it’s that, all right.”

  He told James Europe everything that had happened since they’d set off Sunday morning to rescue Alma. Had it only been yesterday? It felt like a lifetime. As he came to the revelation of the governess and her plot, footsteps came down the stairs and Bunny the barman showed Irving Berlin through.

  “Hey,” Izzy said, “look at this. A real speakeasy.” He joined them and took a seat and Mitch thanked him for coming. Izzy waved it away. “I feel kinda guilty about getting you into the whole Eastman Gang thing.”

  “Are we still in trouble with them?”

  “I doubt it,” Izzy said. “They got their fingers burned. And between you and me, Big Jack Zelig is in a little trouble with Kid Twist. A warehouse that was, you might say, an interest, burned down. Fireman killed. He brought the heat down.”

  That made sense, Mitch thought. The Eastman Gang would be more concerned with their own internal divisions. Big Jack Zelig had screwed up. It was already clear from the way Cyclone Louie and Gyp the Blood had talked; the doubt in their minds about kidnapping someone from uptown.

  More steps down the stairs. Gilhooly and Dr Fraenkel walked in.

  “Mr and Mrs Mahler are staying put,” Gilhooly said. “They don’t need to be in on this.”

  Dr Fraenkel laughed. “Mr Gilhooly took us on a trip over half of Manhattan, going round and round in circles, till he was absolutely certain we hadn’t been followed.”

  “We’re safe,” said Gilhooly. “I know a tail when I see one. Unlike some people.”

  Mitch was going to ignore it, laugh it off, but a ball of irritation swelled in his throat. “I hope you’re better at avoiding a tail than you are at being seen when you’re tailing someone. We all looked out of the window at Mann Fang’s and had a good look at you skulking across the street.”

  Gilhooly slumped into a sofa opposite and smirked. “Listen, Mr Mitchell, let’s get one thing straight: I don’t trust you — there’s something of the lie about you. I knew right from the off you weren’t the goods.”

  “I only want to protect Alma and Gustav. Just like you. Can’t we agree on that if nothing else?”

  “Oh, we can agree on that,” Gilhooly sneered. “But when this is settled, I’ll be looking to settle you.”

  “Gentlemen, please,” said Dr Fraenkel. “We have to work together now. Mr Mitchell is the one who can find the girl and rescue her. We have to help him. That’s all.”

  “And how does he know where she is, eh? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “I don’t know where she is,” said Mitch. “Not yet.”

  “And you’re going to use your intuition, are ye?”

  “He is!” said Dr Fraenkel. “You’ll see. Once he takes us to the door, it will be your particular talents we’ll need. All of us. Till then, Mr Mitchell leads the way and we follow.”

  “So the plan is that this human bloodhound will just sniff them out?”

  “Oh, I believe he has the talent,” said Dr Fraenkel. “I’ve known it from the start.”

  “Ye gods. We’re in a gathering of the yogi-bogey bunch.”

  Mitch stared at the pattern on the rug. He would go the extra mile to save Gucki and return her to Alma and Gustav. For all this time he’d shut down his empathic abilities for fear that it would overwhelm him. But now he had to open it out to find Anna in that city. He would open himself to the emotions of the city.

  “I can do it,” said Mitch.

  Dr Fraenkel leaned over and clapped his hand on Mitch’s. “Yes, but at what cost, Mr Mitchell?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It does if it will kill you.”

  “It won’t.” Mitch shook his head and tried to smile it away.

  “I know what you’re going to do,” said Fraenkel. “I know what you’ve been holding back all this time. I wouldn’t wish such a weight on my worst enemy.”

  Izzy and Europe looked at each other, wondering what the hell they’d got themselves into.

  “What the blue bloody blazes is it?” Gilhooly asked.

  “He will toss himself into the ocean,” said Fraenkel. “An ocean of torment. He will be as Ulysses tied to the mast while the sirens called him to his doom. Only there is no one to tie him to safety. He will plunge into that ocean and drown in it. The siren song will drag him to the depths and drive him insane.”

  “For the love of God, would you tell us in plain words?”

  “When this is done, I fear there will be very little left of Mr Mitchell,” said Fraenkel.

  Mitch grimaced and shook his head, waving it away as if it was nonsense. He didn’t know how Fraenkel knew it, but he was right. He’d tried to erect a barricade around himself, to shut out the whole world, just so he could get back to Eleanor. But he was never going back to Eleanor. And if this was what he did with his gift, maybe he didn’t deserve to.

  “I’ve avoided it too long,” Mitch said. “Maybe I’m here to do this one thing. Because I’m the only person in the universe who can do this. Let’s just go now. Let’s do it.”

  They rose from their seats and were about to file up the stone steps to Marshall’s Hotel, but James said, “Not that way.”

  He picked up an oil lamp and led them out through a dark hole in the wall. They stalked through three more cavernous cellar spaces, a laundry, a wine cellar, a furniture store full of chairs stacked up, before taking a flight of steps up to a cellar flap. They came up in an alleyway at the end of the block, the El train roaring above, and stepped out into the bright, cold New York day.

  — 51 —

  GILHOOLY FLAGGED DOWN a carriage and they piled in.

  “Where to?” the driver called.

  They all looked at Mitch.

  It was the funniest joke in the world. An Englishman, an Irishman, a black man, a doctor and
a Jew got into a carriage. Wait till you hear it. You’ll die laughing.

  He had no idea. A nickelodeon somewhere downtown was all he knew. He recalled the blur of nickelodeons as they’d fled from the fire. “The Bowery,” he said. “The Bowery and Canal Street.”

  The driver whipped his horses and the coach rumbled off.

  “Once we get there, we need a plan,” said Gilhooly.

  “I’ll stay with Mr Mitchell,” Dr Fraenkel said. “Keep him stable.”

  “I’ll take up the rear, ten paces behind. If anyone gives us any trouble, I’ll tickle their catastrophe.” Gilhooly patted his side. “Anyone else armed?”

  “Not me,” said Izzy. “Hate the things.”

  James Europe shook his head.

  “That’s good. Too many shooters and it can all go to the blazes. Mine should be enough when we come to it.”

  “I deplore the taking of life,” Dr Fraenkel said.

  “We won’t need it. But if we come up against some stab-in-the-back Italiano, just showing him this will make him scuttle off. No need to pull the trigger. And I don’t want any bullets flying round when there’s a child involved.”

  “Very well,” said Fraenkel.

  “I’ll need two men on the opposite sidewalk, one south-west, one north-west.”

  Izzy and James nodded.

  “You’ll keep your position. Watch ahead and behind for any danger. If you see anything, whistle.”

  The coach rumbled on. Mitch closed his eyes, a fighter waiting to go to the ring. In a little while, he would subject himself to the full force of all that Manhattan had to throw at him. He didn’t need to see any of it now. He listened to Gilhooly reeling off his plan.

  “My guess is we won’t see any trouble till we reach the location. If we find it. That’s when we have to storm the place. We don’t know the lay of the place, so we’ll be going in blind. But I say we rush it and kick up as much of a hullabaloo as we can. Noise and confusion. Screaming and hollering. When it comes to it, Dr Fraenkel, you go grab the girl. Nothing else. We only know of two people we need to take out. This Miss Costello and her pasta-munching beau. I’ll go for the man, you take out the woman.”

  “Why me?” Izzy asked.

  “Because I can’t have him manhandling a white woman, even though she’s only a wop.”

  Mitch frowned but didn’t open his eyes. He hoped James was balling a fist and sticking it in Gilhooly’s face.

  But James Europe’s urbane voice came, dripping with sarcasm. “And what would you have me do, Mr Gilhooly, sir?”

  “If there’s any other ice-cream sellers, you can help me take them.”

  “You sure it’s okay with you if I hit a white man?”

  “Any good with your fists, piano boy?”

  “I’ve had to sock a few bullies in my time. People who thought they could run their mouth off at me with no comeback.”

  Gilhooly cackled. “Good to hear. Just make sure they don’t knock your glasses off. Now, once the doctor has the girl, we retreat. If the numbers aren’t in our favour, I’ll pull this beauty out, then we’ll see the Guinea cowards scatter. But I won’t pull it out while the girl is there. Are we all clear now?”

  “Very clear,” said Dr Fraenkel.

  “As crystal,” said Izzy.

  “Yes sir,” said James.

  “What do you want me to do?” Mitch asked, eyes still closed.

  “From what the doctor here says, you won’t be able to do anything. But we’ll try and remember to scrape you off the floor on our way out.” Gilhooly chuckled, but no one else laughed.

  Mitch felt their sympathetic gazes on him and wondered if this was the last kindness anyone would show him.

  This carriage was taking him to the guillotine. It rocked and swayed so violently his stomach lurched and he felt their arms reach out to stabilise themselves, as if the coach were a boat about to capsize. The cruel sea would take him soon. He would not be the conductor on the prow, waving his baton at the waves. He would be the man overboard, dragged into the deep, breathing in the torrent.

  The carriage shuddered to a halt.

  “We’re here,” said Gilhooly.

  Mitch felt an elbow dig into his side. He opened his eyes and stepped out into the blinding white light of the Bowery.

  — 52 —

  THIS WAS WHAT THEY’D called the Five Points. Not a five ways crossroads as he’d always thought it was, but a neighbourhood that formed one great misshapen block between five points on the map. The worst place in New York. They stood at one of those points. What a history of debauchery, violence, suffering was here, waiting to flood his soul.

  They stood on the corner, four men staring at a fifth, waiting for him to do something, and the stinking tide of scum eddied around them.

  Gilhooly, James Reese Europe, Dr Fraenkel and Irving Berlin pulled in close around him, forming a protective circle. All around they were jostled by the wretched, hungry, desolate detritus of the Earth raging on this shore, battering the rocks.

  This was the moment. Mitch had to peel off the layers of his heart and plunge into those waves.

  But he couldn’t. Like a swimmer on the top board who freezes, can’t dive, paralysed by fear — he couldn’t do it, couldn’t open himself to that. The layers of armour he’d wrapped around himself to keep them out, to keep Alma out, and Gustav, and his music that might drown him, that had pulled him into this place and this time with its riptide. He couldn’t surrender himself to it.

  “Come on,” said Gilhooly. “What are we waiting for?”

  The girl. She was out there. Little Anna. A frightened child that wanted her mother. Little Gucki. Could he open himself only to her and somehow not to the rest of it, the hopes and dreams, resentments and hates of thousands and thousands of people between him and the girl, and all the people who had stepped on this land throughout time, everything they had ever felt, an ocean he would drink, between him and the girl?

  He took in a deep breath and cast off a layer.

  The first thing he was aware of was a rush of anxiety from Dr Fraenkel. And there at the heart of it was his secret love for Alma. A deep, keen, desperate need for her that burned in his heart. Leave your husband and I will worship you for the rest of my days, it said. A song that sung in his heart. A simple, insistent jingle, set against the entire symphonies Mahler had written for her.

  Mitch directed his concentration away, shutting out the doctor, and let his armour fall.

  The girl. Her chubby little face. Little Anna. The endearing light from her brown eyes. Gucki.

  He cast out his emotional net, a signal on a stormy sea, hoping to meet its other.

  He opened his heart.

  The ocean rushed in.

  A dam-burst of screams.

  He was drowning on the Bowery, drowning in a sea of filth, the emotions that poured from the mouths of every man, woman and child in that wretched hovel, a tide of detritus that sloshed and swayed between rising skyscrapers.

  Centuries of oppression, outrage, anger. Native genocide. Clearances. Murders. Marauding gangs of New York.

  He was like Gustav in his dream, his vision, his nightmare, conducting the crash of waves from the prow of the Flatiron. A sorcerer’s apprentice, blindfold, waving his arms at the maelstrom of souls drowning beneath him, till he slipped from the prow of the building and fell into the abyss with a great scream of horns.

  — 53 —

  DEATH.

  We are fallen to the bottom of the world, the deep, dark pit of the earth.

  Death.

  No light no hope here fallen despair. Matta ne hatta. Not I have.

  Death.

  Abandon all hope ye who enter here.

  Death.

  Arbeit macht frei. Fallen to the pit of Hell. Can there not be some light from above, some hope even in this stinking pit, to crawl on a mountain of bones and ash out of this place of

  Death.

  Holocaust then and now and to come, and ever shall
be, for all time. No, crawl up and out into the light. Stunned by the last great hammer blow, how the mighty are fallen, I will survive, I shake my fist at the Gods and crawl to the light, no, walking along the Bowery, a million before me crawl to the light, get me up out of this

  Death.

  The old African Burial Ground lay here. By the rivers of Babylon, there we wept, wash my soul in the waters of a new world, looking up at the moon through prison bars, sweet mistress moon, crawling up out of our graves to the sweet dawn light, the sweet resurrection of life.

  The doctor’s hand at his elbow.

  A song of hope on the air, sweet breath of life love calling siren song keening on the wind. Love, sweet love. Follow it.

  Gilhooly behind.

  The girl out there calling to her mother, sweet lullaby of love.

  James and Izzy fanning out to the other side of the street.

  All around, their hopes and dreams and wants and desires, swimming through them, so many, such multitude. Love even here.

  That young man in a thin overcoat, bent over a box camera.

  Go to her father and ask for her hand. Be a man. But what man am I to land a girl like her? What man is Harry Arshawsky to them? They look down on us though we are the same blood. The sweetest face in the world, she has. Let me photograph nothing else but her face for the rest of my life, sweet Sarah Strauss. Ach, what does it matter she is Austrian and I Russian? Are we not both Jews? In this New World, can’t we cross those borders that parted us in the old world? Her sweet smile makes me glow all over, radiates like the sun. If I could photograph that glow. If only. That love, that sweet, sweet love. Let me picture that love, Sarah Strauss, and I might die happy.

  One foot before the other, walking on the sea bed. The girl, her song lost on the wind.

  A beautiful woman turning to him on a grey boulevard, smiling from under a picture hat. Marry me, my love, my life. She smiled from under a picture hat and black veil. Beckoning him. Come to me. I am waiting. Come to me through oceans of time. Violins rising and swelling in threnody.