by Joseph Kanon
“I don’t know,” Larry said, still looking out the window. Then he turned back to Nick, his eyes thoughtful. “Maybe I’m jealous. It’s hard to share someone.” He picked up his fork, then put it down again, as if a prop would distract him. “You were so stubborn. Like an animal. You wouldn’t trust anyone. And I thought, I’m not going to let this happen to him. Okay, at first it was for your mother. I never thought about having a kid, not even my own. You were just part of the package. But there you were. You wouldn’t give an inch either.” He paused, a smile. “Just like old Ho. Maybe you were my special training. But then it changed a little. Then a little more. The funny thing was, I wasn’t winning you over-it was the other way around. I loved being your father. All of it-all those things I didn’t expect. Christ, those hockey games.” He looked up. “I thought you were mine. You remember the way people would say we were like each other and you’d give me that look, our little secret? But I loved it when they said that. We are a little, you know. I see myself in you sometimes. I don’t know how that happens. Of course, I don’t see myself farting around London when you could be making something of yourself here. Well, I had to say it. But I know you will.” He looked straight at Nick. “You’re the hardest thing I’ve ever done. So maybe I’m jealous when someone has you so easily. One call and you come.”
“And if you called, I wouldn’t?”
“Well, you like to be the only one. Maybe it’s wrong. I never thought I’d have to share you, but I do. So I’ll learn. Even with him. I thought Walter was a fool-I’m sorry, I did, I can’t pretend. But I don’t want you to think I am too.”
“I don’t think you’re a fool.”
“Well, you will if I go on like this. A little unexpected, isn’t it? Maybe I’m getting old, a little fuzzy. But a stunt like this. Christ, Nick. Wait till Hoover tells you your kid is locked up somewhere.” Larry paused and Nick saw the hint of a question in his eyes. “But it’s all over now.”
“Yes, it’s all over.”
Larry glanced at his watch. “I have to run, I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear. Go see your mother, she’s expecting you. You might skip the body details-you know, after he fell. She’s been- It brings everything back. So maybe just the old jokes. And how you weren’t in jail.” He paused, a glint. “And his wife.”
He got up and started out, Nick following. “I shouldn’t leave her, but I’ll be back Friday. It’s like the shuttle, back and forth to Paris every week. They love face-to-face in Washington these days, I don’t know why. Maybe they don’t trust the phones. Well, they’re right. Remind me to tell you the latest about Nixon and old Edgar. The War of the Roses. To tell you the truth, I don’t mind the planes. No calls. You get to read the papers.” They were on the bright marble steps, traffic honking, the quiet formal rooms behind them like some misplaced dream of London. “By the way, what’s with the hotel? You’ve got a perfectly good room at home sitting there.”
“I’m with a girl.”
“Really?” Larry said, interested. “Serious?”
But Nick ignored it. “We’re only here for one night. To see you. We go to Washington tomorrow.”
“What’s in Washington?”
“Friends.”
“What friends?”
Nick smiled at him, the suspicious parent. “Hers. This must be your car.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s black and important. Big aerial. Isn’t it?”
“Wise guy,” Larry said fondly.
“By the way, did you get a call from Jack Kemper?”
Larry looked at him, suddenly alert. “No, why?”
“He’s with the CIA in London. I used his name. I told the embassy in Prague I was working for him. That’s why they got me out. Not the Bureau. You don’t owe Hoover anything.”
Larry blinked, taking this in. “How do you know he’s with the CIA?”
“You told me. At the Bruces’ party.”
Larry looked at him, then smiled, an insider’s laugh. “Who said my kid couldn’t think on his feet? They’d better watch you.”
“Well, they may. And you. I heard Kemper was upset. That’s why I thought you should know.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Larry said, taking his hand, but Nick leaned over and hugged him. Larry held him for a moment, surprised and pleased. “I’m glad you’re home,” he said, no longer joking, an apology for the lunch.
“Get us out of Vietnam,” Nick said as Larry got into the car.
“I’m trying, believe me,” he said, then rolled up the window and the car slid toward Fifth Avenue.
The photographer was in a rundown building on Delancey Street, near the bridge, two unlit flights up.
“You Nick, man?” he said, opening the door a crack. Long hair, a face corrugated with old acne scars. When Nick nodded, the door opened into a huge empty space with exposed pipes, littered with tripods, light cables, and back screens. The living quarters seemed to be a camp bed and a trestle table overflowing with Chinese takeout cartons. A young girl in a flimsy short dress sat on a stool, smoking a joint. “Molly’s in there,” he said, nodding toward a bare red bulb hanging over an enclosed space. “Your prints are still drying. What the fuck are they, anyway? I mean, they’re in fucking Russian.”
What had Molly told him? “ Samizdat,” Nick said.
“Samitz who?”
“Underground manuscripts. They have to smuggle them out. You know, like Solzhenitsyn.”
“Far out.”
“Want a hit?” the girl said dreamily, holding out the joint.
Nick shook his head.
“I’m not going to get in any trouble or anything, right?” the photographer said.
“No, nothing like that. I appreciate your help.”‘
“Hey, no problem. Old Molly. Samizyet,” he said, shaking his head.
“What kind of photography do you do?” Nick said, to make conversation.
“Fashion,” he said, grinning. The girl giggled.
Molly came out, stuffing an envelope into her bag. “Hey, thanks, Richie.” She went over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You do great work.”
“Fucking A. You got them all? Don’t leave nothing in there.”
“All here,” she said, patting the bag. “I’ll see you, okay?”
“Yeah. Say hi to your mom.”
As they were leaving, the girl with the joint began lifting the dress over her head, her body as thin as a child’s.
“The people you know,” Nick said when they hit the street, bright after the dark stairs.
“Richie? We went to high school together.” She laughed to herself. “In the glee club.”
They stopped at a bookstore on Fifth Avenue to buy a Russian-English dictionary.
“What’s the point?” Nick said. “We can’t translate this. It’d take months.”
“No, but we might get some idea what it is. What were you going to do, get one of the girls at the UN? Would you mind taking a look at these? Just a few espionage documents I happened to pick up. By the way, do you have a safe-deposit box or something? For the negatives.”
“No. I’ll put them somewhere at home. I have to see my mother anyway.”
“Alone?”
Nick nodded.
“A little too early to take me home to Mom, huh?”
“A little too early for Mom. She’s got other things on her mind.”
“Okay. Maybe I’ll run up to Bronxville and see mine. Since we’re being so good.”
“But you’ll be back tonight?”
“Hmm.” She looked at him. “I’m not that good. Besides, I always wanted to stay at the Plaza. How rich are you, anyway?”
He smiled. “Rich.”
“And Catholic. You are Catholic, aren’t you?”
“Baptized, anyway.”
“She’ll die. She’ll just die.”
The photographs, in impenetrable Cyrillic, seemed to be a series of reports, not a simple list.
“See how the
y’re dated up here? Like memos.”
“This is impossible, Molly. Even if we figure out the letters, we still have to translate the Russian.”
“Well, the numbers help. We can figure out the dates,” she said eagerly. “And see the words in block capitals? They all have them. It’s a format, if we can figure it out. They sign off that way too.”
But the dates, once deciphered, were all recent, none of them reaching back to his father’s time.
“They’re the active ones, that’s why,” Molly said. “These are the reports they’re getting now. I’ll bet the caps are names. Look, this one’s Otto. So who’s Otto?”
“A code name,” Nick said, then sighed. “We have to know the context, Molly. Look at the dates-they’re not consistent. It’s a selection. Maybe they’re the incriminating ones. Each one nails somebody, if you understand it.”
“Hold on,” she said, distracted, looking something up in the dictionary. Nick walked over to the window and looked across the street to where the hansom cabs were idling in the afternoon sun.
“Serebro,” Molly said, running her finger down a page. “Yes. Come look.” But Nick was still eyeing the street, watching the taxis pull up under the 59th Street awning. She brought the book over to him, pointing to the word.
“Silver,” he said. “By him or about him?”
“By him. The signature.”
He glanced at the photograph. A report, exactly like the others, same format, so not original, typed by someone in Moscow. From cables? By Nina, perhaps, his father’s friend, Silver’s admirer. “Yes, but we have to know what it says. Didn’t any of your friends go into the translating business?”
“No, only dirty pictures.” She hesitated. “You could ask your father. He’d know someone.”
“You could ask Jeff,” he answered back. “Want the phone?”
“Look, let’s think about this. What would reports say? Not necessarily who they are, just what they’re passing on. I mean, the reports still might not identify them. You’d have to know who the code names referred to.”
“Great. No, we need the context. I mean, if it’s a trade report, it’s someone in Commerce. Like that.”
“But how would we know exactly who in Commerce? Are you listening to me? What are you looking at?”
“It’s a pickup zone,” Nick said, still watching out the window. “So why is that car just sitting there? The doorman acts like he doesn’t even see it.”
“Maybe it’s waiting.”
“I don’t think so. Two guys. Feels like old home week to me.”
“Let me see,” Molly said, getting up, accidentally knocking the photographs to the floor. “Shit.” She bent down, collecting them.
“One of them’s on the corner, so they’ve got both entrances covered.”
“Don’t get paranoid,” Molly said, still crouched down, sorting the pictures. “I’ll bet it’s a divorce. This isn’t Prague, remember?”
Nick said nothing. The man below lit a cigarette.
“Well, bless me for a fool,” Molly said. “Nick, look.”
“What?”
“I thought they were all alike, but look. At the end.” Nick came over. “It’s a list.”
He took the photograph. “But of what?”
“Code names and addresses. Five of them. See. That’s NW at the end.”
“Washington.”
“There’s Otto. Come on, we can translate this. The street names’ll be in English.”
“What were the letters for Silver?”
She glanced down the list. “He’s not here.”
But someone can lead me to him. “Never mind. Let’s do the others.” He grinned at her. “How’d you get so smart anyway?”
“Bronxville High,” she said. “Look at Richie.”
The maid opened the door, someone new, a thin black woman wearing a housedress and comfortable bedroom slippers.
“She’s in there, feeling sorry for herself. See if you can get her to eat something.”
His mother was sitting on the long couch, staring out across the park. The room was almost dark.
“There you are,” she said, holding out her arms. “I was getting worried.”
He leaned down and kissed her, smelling the gin on her breath. “Want a light?” he said, reaching for the lamp.
“No, leave it. It’s nice like this. Anyway, I look terrible.” Her face in fact was blotchy, like a blur sitting on top the sharp edges of her perfect suit and its gleaming brass buttons. “I’m having a cocktail.” She glanced up. “Just one. You?” He shook his head. “I don’t know why. I don’t really like them.” She took a sip from the wide-mouthed glass. “Did you see Larry?”
He took a seat beside the couch, unnerved by her voice-dreamy, the way it had been the day after his father left.
“He said you were in jail.”
“No,” Nick said. “The police just asked me some questions. I’m all right.”
She turned her eyes back to the window. “What did he look like?”
“The same. Thinner. Not as much hair.”
“Waves,” she said absently. “It’s hard to imagine-” Nick waited.
“Was he happy?” But she caught the absurdity of it herself. “Before the end, I mean.” She reached for a cigarette.
“No. Not happy. I think he just made the best of it. While he could.”
“Isn’t it terrible? I don’t think I could stand it if he’d been happy. Isn’t it terrible. To feel that.”
“He asked about you.”
“Did he?” she said, her voice almost eager, and then she was crying, her face scrunched like a child’s. “I’m sorry,” she said, running a finger under her eyes. “I don’t know why I mind so much. I didn’t expect to. You’d think-” She took out a handkerchief and wiped her face. “I must look like hell. I’ve been doing this all day. Silly, isn’t it? It’s just that I keep thinking-” Nick looked at her curiously. All these years without a word. She blew her nose. “What did he say?”
“He wondered if you’d ever want to see him again.”
“If I’d ever want to see him again,” she repeated dully, staring at the handkerchief. “I won’t now, will I? He’s really gone, not just away somewhere.” She paused. “I’ve never been a widow before. All of a sudden, you’re alone.” She tried to smile, airy. “Nobody to go dancing with. Hear the songs. He was a good dancer, did you know?”
“No.”
“We used to have fun. I’d get all dressed up, he liked that, and-” She stopped again, catching his look. “Don’t worry. It’s just that it all comes back. All the fun.” Her eyes went back to the window, fixed somewhere in the fading light. A silence. “See him again,” she said slowly. “I wanted to see him every day. Every single day.”
I hope you die, she’d said.
“I never knew you felt that way. I mean, after-”
“Didn’t you? No, nobody did. Maybe I didn’t myself. I thought it would stop,” she said to herself, still staring out the window. “How do you stop? I was in love with him,” she said simply. The rest of it doesn’t matter, you know. Not any of it. I was in love with him.“ Her voice was dreamy again. ”People don’t say that anymore, do they? ‘In love.’ “
Nick looked at her, remembering his awkwardness on the train.
“But then, we were all like that. Drugged with it. That was our drug. All those songs. It’s what everybody wanted, to fall in love. Maybe it was the war, I don’t know. But I did. Just like in the songs. He would just walk into the room.” She paused. “Just walk into the room. That’s all. And I’d be-” She stopped and looked at him. “Am I embarrassing you? Children never think their parents feel anything.” Her face softened. “But you’re not a child anymore. You look so much like him. The same eyes.”
“He never stopped loving you either.” A kindness, but wasn’t it true? He remembered the look on his father’s face when he asked about her.
“Did he say that?” Her eyes moist ag
ain.
Nick nodded, not quite a lie.
“No, you never stop. I don’t think I realized it until I heard.” She turned back to the window. “I thought he — took it with him. Everything. The way he took the fun. And then I heard and it all came back. He was there all the time. Nobody else. I didn’t know.” She started crying again, shuddering, shaking her head. “Nobody told me I’d miss him. Nobody told me. Then you’re alone.” She turned her head, a thin wail, no louder than a sigh.
Nick looked at her, dismayed. “You’re not alone.”
She reached over and put her hand on his arm. “I know, honey, I didn’t mean it that way.” She sniffled, visibly pulling herself back. “What would I have done without you? It’s different, that’s all.”
“I mean you have Larry.”
“I never loved Larry,” she said flatly, putting out her cigarette. “I never loved anyone but your father. Not for a day. Didn’t you know that?”
No, I didn’t, Nick wanted to say. “But you married him.”
“Yes. I don’t know why. I suppose to make him stop asking me. Maybe I thought it would be safer-better for you. Who knows why we do things? Maybe I thought it would be a way to forget.” Her hand was still at the ashtray, rubbing the cigarette out. “I was wrong about that. In a way it made it worse, all the pretending. Anyway, I did. Not very fair to him, I suppose, but it’s what he wanted.”
“He’s crazy about you.”
“Larry?” She looked up at him. “Larry was never faithful to me in his life. Not that I cared. Well, at first. Then it was a relief, really. I never had to worry about him. Larry always took care of himself.” She paused. “Now I am embarrassing you.”
“How did you know?” Nick said, disbelieving. Where had he been while their lives were going on?
“Oh, darling, people are always helpful. Telling you things. For your own good. I suppose they thought I’d mind. Divorce him, which is always interesting. But, you see, I didn’t care. I mean, he never flaunted it, there was no reason not to go on as we were. He was always very fond of you.” She shrugged, ironic. “A model husband. It’s just the way he is. So why should I mind?”
“You don’t really mean that.”
“No, not really,” she said quietly. “But that’s the way it worked out. I don’t know what he expected, marrying me. I often wondered. I think he wanted it because he wanted it. The idea of it. But after a while it didn’t matter. You get used to everything, even the looks. ”Poor Livia.“ That’s the only part that used to bother me, the way they’d look at you. As if you didn’t know. Tim was the worst. Those eyes. Like he was praying for you.” She touched Nick’s arm. “You ought to go see him, by the way. He’s had a stroke now. They were giving him speech therapy. Funny, isn’t it, to think of Tim tongue-tied. Funny how life works out. One day you’re-” She broke off. “And the next day you’re a widow. And it’s all gone.” She turned to Nick. “I’m glad you saw him. No matter what. You were everything to him. Was it all right, when you saw him? The way it was? I remember when you were little, that look he’d get on his face-” She reached for the handkerchief. “He couldn’t get enough of you.”