The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel

by Lorna Graham

  Eve sank down onto the chair and ran her hands along the armrests. From this vantage point, she spied a deep shelf in the far corner that held dozens of framed photographs. She walked over and studied them. There were shots of Klieg at various times in his life, receiving awards or bowing with models at the end of a show. There were pictures of what looked like Klieg’s family back in Germany at weddings and Christmases. And there were several shots of Klieg with a pale sylph of a woman with short, dark hair, cut like Audrey Hepburn’s in Roman Holiday. Eve stared hard at her for several moments.

  She scanned the other pictures for more shots of the woman. There was one photo so far back she couldn’t properly see it. She reached in and carefully brought it out without knocking over any of the others. It was a black-and-white of Klieg and the girl in front of the café Deux Magots, which was hung with bunting. The girl wore a simple but elegant geometric print dress with a sweetheart neckline and full skirt. Around them stood several other young men, most with slightly longer hair than Klieg’s. Some in ties, others in turtlenecks. Most with cigarettes. She heard a noise.

  Klieg, in slacks and a sweater, strode into the room and Eve turned to face him. They’d always shaken hands when they met but this time he gripped her lightly by the shoulders and leaned down for a dry kiss on each cheek. “Here she is, the heroine.”

  Eve blushed slightly. “I hope you don’t mind I came in here. It’s just such a wonderful room.”

  “Not at all. Now tell me, your stitches. Do they give you much pain?”

  “I barely feel them.”

  “And this is your crime-fighting partner, I presume?” Klieg said, looking at the dog.

  “Yes.” Eve instructed Highball to sit and was relieved when, with great earnestness, she managed it on the first try.

  “Liebe,” said Klieg, patting the dog lightly on the head. “So much valor in such a small package.”

  “She’s a fighter, all right,” said Eve.

  “Ready to eat?” Klieg asked. “I’ve had Marie lay a table in front of the fire.”

  “Yes, but first, could you tell me about some of these pictures?” Eve held up the photograph she’d been staring at. “This woman in the middle, she’s in so many of them.…”

  “Ah. Yes.” He paused and cleared his throat. “This is Louisa. On Bastille Day.” He smiled sadly, then blinked once or twice and said, “There is something about you that reminds me so much of her.”

  “I suppose we do look alike.”

  “Yes, but it’s something else. A spirit, perhaps. There is an expression you wear when you are listening intently, and this especially makes me think of her.” Eve felt a tingle as if a feather had passed across her neck. They stood side by side, looking at the photograph. In the quiet of the library, Eve could hear Klieg’s soft, regular breathing. “The first time you and I met, at the gala, it took my breath away. It almost hurt.”

  Eve remembered his confused, haunted expression. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps I did not want you to think I was expressing untoward interest in a lady as young as yourself.”

  “Hmm.” Eve found this rather sweet. She wondered how long he’d been alone. “When did she die?”

  “It was 1987. She was just forty-five.”

  Eve noticed there were no children among the photographs. “Did you two ever have kids?”

  “No,” said Klieg. “We wanted to but could not.”

  “I’m sorry.” The naked pain in his tone made Eve want to change the subject. “I was wondering,” she said a few moments later, “if Donald might be in here somewhere?”

  Klieg tapped his finger on the young man to Louisa’s left. Eve leaned in, and felt goose bumps rise on her flesh.

  He looked right into the camera with dark, shrewd eyes under a gray beret and over a long, delicate pipe. His face was thin yet not feminine and a short, well-trimmed beard distinguished him from the clean-shaven crowd. But Eve went back to his eyes. They didn’t twinkle or beckon but pierced like the eyes of a man who’d taken one step back from the human condition and saw it more clearly than everyone else. Or at least thought he did.

  “Incredible,” she said, under her breath. Klieg went on to point out the others: René LaForge, Lars Andersen, Ian Bellingham. All destined for fame, for world-class success. All except Donald, who didn’t possess the talent.

  Klieg held his hand out for the picture and cleared his throat. “I don’t want to be rude but we really should go in.”

  The table boasted a small crown of lamb, roasted potatoes, salad, and three place settings.

  “Let’s eat while it’s hot,” said Klieg. He did the honors, carving the lamb beautifully and even placing one pink chop on a small china plate on the floor for Highball. The dog picked it up delicately and trotted off behind a curtain, presumably in case her impromptu benefactor changed his mind.

  Eve accepted a plate full of food, just her third home-cooked meal in New York. “I don’t know where to start,” she said, and stabbed a potato with a fork. The crisp skin gave way to a soft, flaky interior.

  “Marie is wonderful at this traditional European cooking. Almost as good as Louisa was.”

  Eve touched her napkin to the side of her mouth. “What else did Louisa enjoy?”

  “She did wonderful embroidery. She trained birds. And when she was young, she wrote poetry.”

  “I wish I could have met her,” said Eve. Klieg nodded and took a sip of wine. Eve thought about the picture. “So she and Donald knew each other, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Were they friends?”

  Klieg split open a roll and began to butter it. “Not particularly. They liked each other well enough, but …” Eve wanted more details but just then the far door opened. “At last,” said Klieg, looking relieved and irritated at once when Günter walked in.

  “Hello, Uncle,” he said. Then he glanced at Eve. “And hello to you as well.” The way he omitted her name made Eve wonder if he even remembered it.

  Klieg filled Günter’s plate and the young man began to eat in focused silence. He cut his meat into piece after piece of the same size. He chewed each the exact same number of times, and followed up with precisely one piece of potato and one sip of red wine. He kept his elbows at his sides and dabbed at his mouth regularly with his napkin. Except for his concerted lack of sociability, Eve thought, he was the model dinner companion.

  Klieg spoke up again. “Günter, for heaven’s sake, you remember Eve. What’s more, she is in all the newspapers. Did you not read the articles I left out for you?”

  Günter only nodded. His lack of interest wasn’t exactly surprising. Eve had harbored a hope that her celebrity might arouse the interest of the opposite sex, but Donald had quashed this by offering that, sadly, most men liked heroes well enough but they didn’t necessarily want to date one. Perhaps it was just as well. After Alex and the depressing evening with Oliver, Eve thought she would just as happily shelve the whole idea of a boyfriend for the time being.

  “Günter, here is another interesting fact about our new friend. She is a ghostwriter.”

  Eve almost choked on her wine. Her mind reeled as she tapped her napkin to her chin. Had he found out about Donald and their stories? How could he know such a thing? Then she realized that her imagination had gone haywire; Klieg was simply using the word incorrectly.

  “Actually,” she said, “a ghostwriter is someone who writes a book that is credited to another person. What I write is television news scripts that other people read.”

  “Perhaps you would explain to my nephew what that involves exactly,” said Klieg. “He asked me before you arrived but I found I could not enlighten him.”

  Günter made a face that indicated he certainly had not asked this question but wasn’t going to make a scene. Eve described a typical day at Smell the Coffee, from research to interviewing to preparing intros, wondering if she’d ever have another one of those days again. She kept it
brief for Günter’s sake and was rewarded with another one of his glorious nods.

  “And you?” Eve asked. “How is your lab work going?”

  “As well as can be expected,” said Günter.

  They ate in silence for a few moments, Klieg clearly growing embarrassed. “Günter is here to contribute to an important new group, but he is reluctant to embrace the opportunity and become part of the team. Do they do things differently than his colleagues at home?” Klieg shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps. But is this not the point of coming?”

  “I told you I prefer not to discuss it, Uncle.”

  “He is finding it difficult to make friends over here,” said Klieg to Eve, ignoring his nephew’s directive. “And it is strange to me because his sensitivity to animals is unparalleled. Even as a boy, rabbits and field mice would follow him in the meadow behind his father’s house.” The way Klieg talked about his nephew right in front of him was embarrassing, but Eve couldn’t bring herself to shush him in his own home. In any case, the designer swept on. “And the meadow is where he usually was. I used to try to interest him in my world, thinking one day he might take over my business. He is far and away the brightest of all his cousins. But every time I showed him how to sketch or drape, he grew so restless I would have to send him outside to burn off some energy. He would rather climb a tree or run up a hill than hang a bolt of beautiful fabric on a mannequin.”

  Eve had to smile at his incomprehension, as if most boys would choose silk over sports. “Not everyone’s cut out to do what you do,” she said. She meant only to get Klieg off his nephew’s back but too late she realized that to Günter she might well sound obsequious. She looked at him but it seemed as though he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention.

  “True,” said Klieg. “But each generation hopes that, if necessary, the next will finish its story. Now that I don’t work, Günter could have kept the business going, for both of us.”

  “Weren’t you working that day in your atelier?”

  “That was simply dabbling, to keep my muscles loose and my mind sharp. To ward off the Alzheimer’s. My company … well, that’s all but dead.”

  Eve put down her fork and took a sip of wine. She wanted to follow up on what Klieg had said a moment before. “Doesn’t each generation finish its own story?” she asked.

  “Well.” He looked thoughtful. “Sometimes the dreams of our youth—dreams of good work and self-discovery—are interrupted. These dreams are among the most powerful motivators in life. They are the things that keep us going when the real world crashes in, and because of this, they become, what’s the word? Indelible?” Eve nodded and he continued. “If they are thwarted, a part of us spends the rest of our lives trying to get back on that first course. To recapture the hope that tantalized us when we were most impressionable. If we fail to do so, it can cause great anguish.” He coughed and took a sip of water. “And so we hope that those who come after us may set things right, pick up where we left off. To continue our story and complete our destiny.”

  “Interrupted how?” asked Eve.

  “By making mistakes. By losing faith. Being untrue to ourselves. Any number of things—”

  Suddenly, one of the curtains moved and Günter jumped, almost spilling his wine. Eve giggled and tried to turn it into a cough when he looked at her sharply. It was only Highball, done with her bone and on patrol for another handout.

  “Ein Hund,” said Günter. Highball made a beeline for this new target. Günter pushed his chair away from the table and gave her a tender caress under the chin. “Guter Hund.” He lowered himself onto the floor, where he sat, cross-legged, and hand-fed her every remaining piece of meat off his plate while the dog gazed at him adoringly.

  Klieg gave Eve a look that said, “It is an endless mystery that we are related” and “Thank you for providing this distraction,” all at once. She smiled and gladly accepted seconds.

  • • •

  Over the next few days, Eve lay low. Fear of unemployment sapped her energy. She stayed home, drapes drawn, curled up on the bed with Highball. She also reread a good bit of Dawn Powell, though her worries kept pulling her mind off the words.

  She hoped someone from Smell the Coffee would call, but the phone remained stubbornly silent. Just what was going on?

  • • •

  The buzzer rang. Finally, the tamales she’d ordered for lunch. “Be right down,” said Eve into the intercom.

  “Let me in,” said Vadis.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ll tell you when I’m up there.”

  “I’ll come down.”

  “No! We need to talk in private.”

  “Hang on.” Eve pulled on her coat and boots.

  “That’s the famous Vadis?” asked Donald.

  “Yes.”

  “Why not invite her up?”

  Eve, who had just been picking up her purse, stopped mid-motion. “Yeah, right.”

  “My dear, you underestimate me.”

  She put the purse down. “You’d be good?”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  “No matter what she says?”

  “No matter what she says.”

  “Well …” Eve really didn’t feel like going out. She looked around at the apartment. It wasn’t spotless but it was definitely suitable for company.

  “Unless she tries to bully you, that is. I can’t have my girl treated with disrespect—”

  Eve picked up her purse and left.

  • • •

  “What are you doing down here? Let’s go upstairs.” Vadis practically tried to barge past her.

  “I wish you’d called,” said Eve, blocking her path. “It’s really not a good time.”

  “Yeah, well, stuff is happening and we have decisions to make. So I don’t care if your place is a mess or your pipes sprang a leak or whatever. Let’s go.”

  “I could really use a drink,” said Eve. “How about the White Horse? Nobody’ll be there now.”

  “What the fuck is it?” asked Vadis, looking at her with utter bewilderment. “You’re hiding an escaped felon up there? Or, I know—you’ve got a sweatshop in your living room. Dozens of little immigrant kids, making all your cute little clothes. What the hell is going on?”

  “Please. Let’s go.” Eve made her way down the stoop to the sidewalk. Vadis didn’t move. They looked at each other for a long moment. Finally, Vadis huffed in exasperation and stalked down the stairs.

  The middle room at the White Horse was empty and they took the table under the painting of Dylan Thomas. Eve ordered a hamburger and, with a pang of guilt, realized the tamale man was going to find no one home.

  “I’ve got some exciting stuff to tell you about,” said Vadis.

  “Ah,” said Eve, reaching for her bourbon and hot water.

  “I couldn’t get the big books like Vanity Fair or Newsweek, because they’re waiting to see where this goes. But I did get New York and Time Out.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Eve.

  “And that’s not even the best part. I think we might be able to get you on Dateline. Not by yourself, but as part of a story they’re doing on citizens who fight crime.” Eve took a deep sip of her drink. “Well?” prodded Vadis. “Great, right?”

  “Great,” agreed Eve. “You’re a terrific publicist.”

  “Why do I get the feeling there’s a ‘but’ coming?”

  “I can’t do any interviews right now.”

  “Right now is all there is.”

  “I can’t believe it’s that dire.”

  “Look, it’s been five days since anyone’s seen your face. That’s a good thing; you’ve piqued their curiosity. The papers have kept you on their covers, scrounging around to create stories with no new information. That’s fine, but pretty soon they’ll need something fresh. Meanwhile, the magazines go to press soon, and if you don’t hit it, a whole cycle goes by and then, bam. Everyone’s forgotten about you. So it’s now or never.”

&nb
sp; Eve put her elbows on the table and rubbed her temples. She couldn’t believe she was going to have to say what she was going to have to say.

  “I really appreciate everything you’ve done, but I can’t do it.”

  “Why not?” said Vadis, leaning back abruptly and crossing her arms over her chest.

  “I’m trying to keep my job. If I blab to the press, I’ll be fired for sure.”

  “Don’t you think you’ll be fired anyway?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. I gave my word to Mark that I’d keep quiet.”

  “Why? What does he care?”

  “The whole department got into trouble because of me. Anything I do could just make things worse.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Who cares about them? You’ve got to start thinking about yourself. Trust me, Mark does not have your best interests at heart. He just wants to make his own life easier.”

  Vadis had a point. At this juncture, as painful as it was to admit, it was safe to say that Mark did not care about her. He was angry; he didn’t trust her; he’d already told her to find another job.

  Vadis, detecting Eve’s weakening, pounced. “How do you think this town works, anyway? You think anyone here actually cares about anyone else? No one has time. When you’re sprinting for the gold, you don’t stop to give CPR to the runner who’s having a coronary. I thought you’d figured that out by now. Let Mark eat your dust.”

  Eve shook her head. “I can’t break my promise. If I do, I might get the writers in even more trouble and I couldn’t live with that.”

  “What about your promise to me?”

  “What?”

  “ ‘One day I’ll be the one helping you,’ you intoned so righteously.”

  “Oh,” said Eve, not quite meeting her friend’s eye. “I know. I know what I said. But please don’t ask this.”