The Last of the Wise Lovers

by Amnon Jackont

"And there's no danger... I mean, from the Americans. I mean, they're so organized and well-equipped...”

  "That's precisely their problem. They're too big and too well-equipped. We, on the other hand, are a small, sneaky bunch of bastards. In one sense, we're the last ones to preserve something of the true essence of good ol' Israel: to gain the maximum with a minimum of resources, through self-sacrifice and hard work...”

  "And that, the `true essence' and all that, is what Uncle Harry needs for a business that imports spices, perfumes, and medicinal herbs?"

  He thought for a moment, puffing out his cheeks as he formulated an answer. "There are security problems there, too."

  "What kind, for example?"

  "All kinds of problems."

  "Like somebody trying to poison the goods and demand ransom? Or somebody trying to smuggle drugs from South America or slaves from Africa or explosives from Asia in his cases of ginger?"

  He didn't even crack a smile. "Something like that," he said, lapsing again into a long silence.

  We drove into the parking lot and Dad circled around looking for a good place to leave the car for the next few days. He talked about the day he'd be back, Rosh Hashanah, and asked that we take Aunt Ida to Temple with us the day before that, Erev Rosh Hashanah.

  "Harry's Temple," he emphasized. "That will undoubtedly help them make up."

  I reached in to get his flat bag, which was lying on the back seat, but he grabbed it before I could get a hold of it and pulled it toward him. We got out of the car and he locked it, first removing another bag from the trunk, which he let me carry to the "America West" check-in counter. I hung back while he picked up his ticket so as not to embarrass him about his false name - Jenkins, or whatever it was. Then we walked together to the exit gate, and stood there looking at each other, not saying a word.

  Finally he gave me a hearty pat on the back. "We should spend more time together. Maybe when I get back...”

  I felt awkward. I thrust out my arm and we shook hands, and he turned and vanished into the tube that led to the plane.

  I didn't feel like leaving the airport yet. I sat down in one of the chairs and stared outside at the guys who were feeding suitcases into the belly of the plane. A ground hostess lifted a microphone to her lips and announced that this was absolutely the last call for passengers flying to Los Angeles via Phoenix. I wondered whether Dad had arranged a brief rendezvous in Phoenix like the one in Vegas last week. When the microphone went dead, I could hear that dry little cough.

  I jumped up and stood stock still. You're probably thinking that a cough is a pretty common thing, but I recognized this one: a wheezy little hack, as familiar as your mom's car in the driveway or your dog's bark. I looked around. There were two nuns, an older man reading a Wall Street Journal, a little girl chewing on her braid, and a woman - just a regular woman. The old guy didn't seem suitable, but he was the only one I could vaguely consider, even though he seemed completely absorbed in his Wall Street Journal. I stood opposite him wondering what I should do, when I heard the cough again from behind me.

  This time it was farther away, but still close enough. I looked around and around the departure lounge in ever-widening circles, attentive to every sound. The nuns looked at me sympathetically. I had no idea what I would say when I identified the guy with the cough, or what I would do - but it didn't seem important. It would have been enough for me to see him, to catch a glimpse of his figure before he could disappear again.

  But I didn't hear him again.

  *

  On the way into the city, on the train, I suddenly realized who it was I should be suspicious of.

  And what a painful realization - because it was related to a man it would be hard to be suspicious of: Dad.

  What made me suddenly begin to suspect him, just then? Maybe it was what he'd said about our relations with the Americans: `Alliance does not necessarily mean love'; or maybe it was something else. In any case, things began to fall into place: if Dad had discovered that Mom was in love with someone else and was passing classified slides to him, what would be more natural than for him to try and get them away from one another? After all, that's what happens in all those love-spy triangles I see on TV or read about in books.

  And that thought led to another thought. Does he really intend to carry out his threat, or is he just trying to scare her? For instance, that cough I'd heard at Kennedy. Had it been that guy? And if so, had he just happened to be there, or had he set the whole thing up with Dad ahead of time, so that they could plan their next scare tactic - except that then he'd seen me and had had enough sense to keep his distance?

  I don't remember much about that subway ride, just an awful headache and a burning in my ears. When I got to the library, I spent a couple of extra minutes in the first floor washroom drinking some water from the fountain and washing my face.

  There was good news and bad news waiting for me in the Catalog Room. The good news was that Ms. Yardley hadn't come to work because some pipe had burst in her apartment. The bad news was that Mr. K., the man I wanted to talk to more than anyone else in the world that day, hadn't come either. He was sick.

  There was a new atmosphere in the Catalog Room. The regular customers moved around, talked, even breathed freer. For the first time in her life, Mrs. Kahn went out to lunch; she came back all enthusiastic about some salad bar near Penn Station. The guard permitted himself to puff out his cheeks and whistle Summertime. He even greeted Miss Doherty with a cheery, "Hello."

  But Miss Doherty was not in a very cheery mood. She looked back at the guard dismally, shot a quick glance over at my station, and continued on to the Reading Room.

  Nothing else happened except for a long stretch of boredom, which again proved that intelligent readers know how to find books all by themselves. My mind wandered. Was there somebody snooping around our house at this very moment? What stupid mistake was Mom going to make next? Where was Dad? Was there something else I could have done, but hadn't? I wandered around the Catalog Room lost in thought, starting whenever somebody coughed or cleared his throat. None of these noises sounded like that cough, but they made me jumpy, anyway. Mr. K.'s absence also bothered me. In retrospect, I was sorry I hadn't taken the slide back from him and destroyed it. I felt I wouldn't be calm until it was back in my possession. I went upstairs. Mr. K.'s office was closed. Hesitantly, I turned the handle. The door was locked. The square of window opposite gleamed dully through the frosted glass. I hoped that my slide wouldn't be blown out the window by the wind. My heart heavy, I went back to the Catalog Room and helped two kids find a book of Spanish poetry. Then I went to the bathroom. Purposely I went to the third floor bathroom - the one the administrators used - in order to pass Mr. K.'s office again. Again I tried the door, which was still locked. After spending five minutes in the bathroom, I went by Mr. K.'s office a third time. This time, there was something amiss.

  You remember the square of window that sort of shone through the frosted glass in the door? Well, it was still there, still the same pale grey, still the same square shape, but with dull waves that could only mean one thing: someone was inside.

  Naturally I thought of Mr. K., who must have come in in the meantime - what cause would I have had to think otherwise? I tapped lightly on the door. There was no response. That wasn't particularly unusual, either. I assumed he was busy with something, or else taking a cat nap to fight the pain. I knocked again. The dull waves became a shadow, which moved quickly from one side to the other. The lock made a soft, well-oiled click.

  "Mr. K.?" I said. "Mr. K."

  There was no longer any movement in front of the glass. I tried the door knob. The door didn't open. I assumed he hadn't recognized my voice. Again I knocked on the door. "Mr. K., it's Ronny. I've got to talk to you."

  He didn't answer.

  It was a little insulting, if you consider how open I'd been with him during our previous conversation. I was willing to try something else. "If you can't open the door, it's al
l right. I'd just like my envelope back. You can slide it under the door."

  When I think back on it now, it seems I just couldn't accept the possibility that he might ignore me; at the time, though, I thought up a variety of excuses: what if he had fainted - or worse. "Mr. K.," I called out, "are you all right?"

  He didn't answer.

  "Do you need help? Should I call for someone?"

  There still was no answer, but something moved inside. The lock clicked again, and the door knob turned. The door opened a crack.

  I pushed it open. Whoever was on the other side was pushed to the corner of the room, so that I had to go inside, close the door behind me, turn all the way around, and adjust my eyes to the dim light before I could see who was standing opposite me. Miss Doherty.

  She didn't look as sheepish as I would have expected of someone caught in an office not his own.

  "Hi," she said drily.

  "Hi," I answered.

  She pointed at the table. "You said that something here belongs to you."

  Next to the globe-light and the books lay a pile of documents, receipts, bills, pictures, and envelopes. I took one step in the direction of the desk, but then I remembered that the slide spelled trouble, lots of trouble, and that I therefore couldn't admit any connection to it. I stopped.

  "Go right ahead," she said.

  I could have asked her what exactly she was doing there, but she exuded such confidence that it didn't even occur to me. I thought back to the day I'd seen her in the stacks. I wondered what she was intending to take with her this time, and whether she would stash it, too, in her underwear. I looked at the bottom half of her body, which was encased in a rather tight pair of white jeans. Instantly my mouth went dry, and my heart started pounding. I think I probably blushed, too.

  She interpreted my reaction differently. "If you're thinking of making a stink about this, you ought to know that I have the full right to be doing what I'm doing."

  I didn't respond.

  She waited a moment. Then she strode confidently back to the desk and took up where she had left off: dividing the large pile of papers into two smaller piles. The light from the window made her hair shine, and emphasized her cheekbones. I wondered whether older women really were more attractive than seventeen-year-old girls, or whether I was warped. After a minute or two she stopped what she was doing and looked up at me quizzically. All I could manage to say was, "He'll sense that someone was snooping around here."

  She looked at the wad of prescriptions in her hand and said, "You said that you knew him."

  I nodded.

  "And you really think he'll sense something?"

  "He looks absent-minded, but he's sensitive and intelligent."

  She put the papers down and sank into Mr. K.'s chair. I also sat down, in a chair opposite. The desk between us wasn't very large, and we were so close I could see the flecks in her irises. But what really impressed me was her face, which spoke without saying a word in a play of muscular twitches and changing expressions. A million thoughts raced through my head all at once: what did she want to say, to what extent was she one of the "bad guys", and how come it didn't matter to her that there were crows' feet in the corners of her eyes, while Mom went into a frenzy of despair every time she noticed the barest wrinkle.

  "Exactly how close are you?" she asked quietly.

  I was afraid I'd gotten both Mr. K. and myself in trouble. I nodded my head vaguely.

  She didn't give up. "For example, did you ever go out with him?"

  I recalled the night he'd run away from me, on 42nd Street.

  "No," I answered, and I thought: I wish we had had a chance to go out...

  "What exactly do you know about him?"

  I could have explained that I really didn't know very much at all, perhaps less than she did, but I preferred to say, "I won't help you get him in trouble."

  "What makes you think I want to get him into trouble?"

  "You can't have broken in here in order to help him."

  "Actually, that's precisely what I've done."

  She sounded like she actually meant it.

  "Aw, come on," I said. "I saw you get your computer stuck on purpose that day you asked me for help, and now this...” I pointed at the stacks of papers.

  She didn't bat an eye. "Somehow, I get the impression that not everything's on the up and up with you, either, Ronny."

  "How do you know my name?"

  "You know my name, too."

  "I filled out your forms for you."

  "And I asked."

  "Why?"

  She was taken aback for a second, but regained her composure immediately. "Because I thought you might be able to help me understand a few things...”

  "Why should I help you when I can't even figure out who you are, when I've caught you poking around in his office?"

  "What I'm doing is not meant to do him any harm. Quite the contrary: it's for his own good."

  "How?"

  "I can't explain that to you. Not now."

  "What can you explain to me?"

  She hesitated momentarily, then impatiently exhaled a gust of breath. Her eyes hardened.

  "Forget the business about helping him, ok?" She stood up. "I'm going to stay here another two or three minutes. If you want - go call whoever you want. And if not, just forget you ever saw me here."

  I got up, too. It was all such a weight on me. She was just one link in a chain of things I didn't understand, and, as usual, there was nothing I could do, because anything I did would bring harm to at least one of the people I cared about.

  "I won't tell anyone." I looked for the last time at the piles of papers and wondered whether she had put the envelope with the slide in it into the pile she intended to take with her. I felt defeated. On the way to the door I caught her glance. It was surprisingly warm and sympathetic. That made me feel a bit better.

  She said: "Ronny." I turned around. "Thanks," she smiled, and suddenly, without warning, shook my hand and closed the door.

  On the way to the Catalog Room I started to hate myself. I sensed that my attraction to her had interfered with my sense of judgment, that it was the real reason I hadn't grabbed the slide from her and gotten her away from Mr. K.'s papers. It wouldn't have hurt so much if I hadn't have realized that the romantic circumstances for my failing the test of loyalty to Mr. K. and my family were so like the circumstances of a similar failure of someone I knew: Mom.

  *

  When I got home, I again found an empty house. That is: Aunt Ida was home, but she had already become part of the living room furniture. And Mom had left one of her usual notes. ("Ronny my love, I'll be back late, there's some dinner on the stove and fruit on the table. I picked up a gorgeous shirt for you at a surprise sale at Conway's, maybe that'll improve your mood.")

  The `dinner on the stove' was some dried up stuff from a can. Only after poking around in the garbage to find the empty tin could I discern what it was: Heinz's bean and rice mixture. I sat down to eat. All of a sudden, Aunt Ida showed up. I offered her some. She twisted her face in disgust.

  "He's a spy, Ronny," she said without warning, "I'm telling you."

  "Who?" I asked, wiping the sides of the pot with some bread.

  "You know who." She winked. "That good-for-nothing. Do you think if he weren't a spy he'd have a job?"

  It was clear she was talking about Dad, who, at the moment, was the most problematic element of my life: plotting and threatening on one hand, but still worthy of a lot of love and esteem for all the difficult days he spent working, and for all that Mom put him through.

  "You don't know what you're saying, Aunt Ida," I said and went off to my room. Once there I plopped down on the bed, slid one shoe off, and immediately fell fast asleep.

  I woke up in the middle of the night. The house was quiet. I glanced at the clock: 3:00. Nevertheless, I had the sensation that something had happened just a minute before I'd awakened: noise, maybe some movement. I got up to check. Th
e hall was dark. So was Mom's room. In the living room - as usual - the blue light of the television danced before Aunt Ida's closed eyes. I turned it off. The only light left was that coming from below, from the garage.

  Then I remembered the sound that had woken me: the slamming of the garage door into the ceiling. The sound of steps echoed on the other side of the wall. I waited in the hall, pressed against the wall beside our huge Warhol poster. It was Mom. She stopped at the head of the stairs and sighed in fatigue, then shook off her high heels and went toward the kitchen.

  I moved forward carefully, still shrouded in the half-darkness of the hall. She lit the gas under the kettle, rinsed a mug in the sink, and looked dreamily out of the window. When the water had boiled, she made herself coffee and sat down at the table. Then she opened her bag and took out a white pill bottle, an envelope, her reading glasses (which she only wears when no one can see her), and her notebook.

  Outside, a car drove slowly past. I expected her to jump up and go to the window, but she just sat there, staring intently at the bottle of pills. Then she opened the envelope and peered inside. Her face was tense as she checked its contents, and she blinked several times - something she usually tries very hard not to do.

  Suddenly she got up and walked straight toward me. At first, I wanted to run away, but I controlled myself, and instead slunk into the niche where we hang our coats and umbrellas. I heard her go into the bathroom, and then I heard the hamper squeak. A moment later she was back. I peered out at her from between the coats. Her hands were empty, and there was a look of almost-joy on her face. She sat down at the kitchen table and pulled the notebook toward her.

  She wrote a page, then tore it out, folded it, put it in her purse, and went to her bedroom. I didn't move, in case she remembered she hadn't turned off the light. And that's exactly what happened. She came back and turned off the light. I waited until I heard the rustle of her sheets, and then I came out of hiding.

  It would have been risky to turn on the light. I fumbled around in the dark. The notebook was on the table, where she had left it. I waited a bit longer, just to be sure, and then I took it with me to the bathroom.