Dark Eyes

by William Richter

  A surge of adrenaline jolted Wally awake, her eyes now fixed on the woman.

  “Do you recognize her?”

  Wally had shared with Tevin some of her conversation with Dr. Rainer; Wally had come away from their meeting with the sense that Yalena Mayakova was already a part of Wally’s life, at least peripherally, that her Russian mother was someone she would recognize.

  “I don’t know …” Wally said, a little frantically. She couldn’t get a good enough look at the woman’s face. “She looks like she might be around the right age.”

  “So we stop her?”

  Wally’s mind was spinning now. The woman took mail from two different boxes. The mail from box 310 might be hers, or someone else’s.

  “No, not yet,” Wally said. “First we follow.”

  They had already worked out their plan: Wally would get out of the Town Car and pursue on foot while Tevin stayed behind in the Lincoln and followed close by, ready to pick Wally up in case the subject moved to a vehicle or bus. If the pursuit led to a subway stop—the G line stopped two blocks away at Clinton and Washington—then Tevin would hurry to park the car and join Wally on foot.

  The woman in the scarf left the shop and walked out onto Carlton. Wally climbed out of the Town Car as Tevin started the engine.

  “Don’t get too close,” Tevin said. “She might be spooky.”

  Wally nodded and shut the car door behind her, heading immediately toward the corner of Carlton, keeping pace with the woman as she headed north. The woman walked casually, not in any hurry. On the first block, there was a housing development on the left side of the street, a full square block with a handful of eight-story apartment buildings, but the woman passed those by and continued on. The next intersection was at Park Avenue, where the noisy Brooklyn-Queens Expressway passed high overhead. The woman walked under the expressway, crossing Park and continuing to the north.

  Wally noticed that almost no one else was on the sidewalk other than herself and the woman, so she slowed down a bit, wary of revealing her presence. Wally glanced behind her to confirm that Tevin was still in contact and found that he was, driving slowly up Carlton with the Lincoln’s headlights off, pulling into open spaces against the curb whenever he could in order to stay out of sight.

  The woman continued onward until she reached the end of the block, where Carlton ended in a T at Flushing Avenue and the broad fenced-in lot just adjacent to the dark Brooklyn Navy Yard. The woman crossed Flushing Avenue to use the opposite sidewalk, which ran along the high cyclone fence that surrounded the lot, a dense thicket of razor wire at the top. Wally followed from the opposite sidewalk, keeping her distance. Within a hundred yards the woman came upon an entrance in the fence—a driveway with a motorized gate. The woman must have held a remote control unit in her pocket because as she approached, the gate began to open for her, its old motor grinding into action and rolling the gate to one side.

  Wally watched all this from across the street, where she was able to get a good view of the area the woman was entering. The lot contained a village of rusted old Quonset huts—perhaps fifty in all—arranged in a grid with barely enough space in between them for a small vehicle to pass. A few of the huts had lights on inside. Wally watched as the woman headed into the yard and toward the huts. As she moved onto the site, the motorized gate automatically began to roll closed behind her.

  Wally raced across the street and, as she ran, spotted an empty malt liquor bottle in the gutter. Wally bent down to grab the bottle and reached the driveway opening before the gate was fully closed. She set the bottle down lengthwise in the gate’s track, and the mechanism came to an abrupt halt as it bumped up against the obstacle, leaving an opening in the gate wide enough for Wally to squeeze through. Wally stopped and looked west on Flushing, spotting Tevin in the Lincoln and signaling for him to park the car. Tevin found a parking spot and jumped out of the Town Car, joining Wally outside the front gate.

  “She’s in there?” he asked, scoping out the village of metal huts on the other side of the fence. “What is this place, anyway?”

  “Don’t know,” Wally said. “C’mon.” Tevin followed Wally, both of them turning sideways to shimmy through the narrow gap in the gate. They began to walk slowly among the huts, hearing the woman’s footsteps somewhere nearby but unable to tell which direction they were headed.

  “Which way did she go?” Tevin asked.

  “I lost her.” Wally shrugged, frustrated.

  Wally and Tevin began to move crossways through the huts, checking down each lane as they went, hoping to spot the woman. At the third lane they finally spotted her—she had stopped in front of a hut down toward the far end and was pulling out her noisy key chain. She unlocked two heavy bolts and swung the metal door open, its rusty hinges squeaking loudly. She reached inside the doorway and turned on an inside light, which spilled out of the hut and illuminated her for a moment.

  Before entering her space, the woman paused and looked down the lane in the direction of Wally and Tevin, as if sensing that she was not alone, but Wally and Tevin ducked behind a corner just in time to avoid being seen. The woman entered the hut and closed the door behind her. Wally and Tevin could hear the woman locking the door behind her, both heavy bolts sliding into place with a secure ka-chunk.

  Tevin turned to Wally with a questioning look. “The light from inside the hut … it showed her face.”

  “I saw,” Wally said, “but we’re too far away….”

  “Okay.” Tevin shrugged. “Then let’s go see her up close.”

  Wally nodded and the two of them moved down the quiet lane, tense with anticipation. As they walked, they noticed that many of the huts had interesting items arranged outside them: sculptures, engine parts, paint-splattered benches.

  “I think they’re art studios or something,” Tevin said. “They’re using this old place like some kind of artist’s colony.”

  They finally reached the door to the woman’s hut and Wally reached out, knocking twice. Tevin took two or three steps backward and stopped halfway across the lane; he wanted to be close enough to support Wally but not so close as to spook the woman in any way.

  “Who is it?” came a woman’s voice from inside the hut.

  Wally hesitated. “It’s Wallis,” she said, loudly so her voice would reach through the door. “Wally.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s Valentina,” Wally said after a pause. “I’m looking for Yalena.”

  “Valentina?” came the woman’s voice.

  The two heavy bolts of the door were unlocked from inside. The door creaked partially open to reveal the woman, looking hesitant and wary. Her rainbow scarf was gone now, revealing her to be about forty years old with long dark hair just beginning to go gray, and a somewhat plain face but arresting green eyes, which were now peering through the narrow opening in the doorway. The woman cast a glance over Wally’s shoulder to where Tevin stood—he took another half step backward and looked away, determined not to be perceived as a threat that would cause the woman to retreat.

  “Who are you again?” the woman asked Wally.

  “I’m Wallis,” Wally said, her voice suddenly tremulous. It was clear by the confused, emotionless look on the woman’s face that she had no idea who Wally was. The woman was obviously not her mother, and Wally felt this latest disappointment deeply. How many more of these letdowns would she need to endure?

  “My name is Wallis,” she said. “You collected the mail from Box 310 … at the postal shop?”

  The woman’s brow furrowed as she reassessed the situation. “Wait …” she said, “so you followed me? From the boxes? Who do you think you are? I want you to leave now or I’ll call the—”

  “Please,” Wally said as the woman began to close her door, and the genuine distress in her voice gave the woman pause. “I just need to speak with her.”

  “Wallis, is it?” the woman began, keeping her voice calm and even. “Wallis, this is really none of your business, b
ut I check the mail at Box 310 for an old friend of mine—”

  “Yalena?” Wally offered. “Or … no, she uses a different name now.”

  “No, dear, it’s a gentleman,” she said, softening, but then she stopped herself. “It really doesn’t matter. He’s had the box for just a few years. I’ll tell you what, if you want to leave a note, I’ll pass it along, but I really think there’s been some sort of mistake.”

  The woman waited for a response, but Wally seemed more at a loss now than ever. Tevin stepped forward and placed a supportive hand on her shoulder.

  “You should leave the note, Wally,” he said gently. “Maybe there’s still some sort of connection.”

  Wally just nodded. The woman disappeared for a moment, her door swinging open just enough to reveal the artist’s studio inside, with several worktables stacked with various types of white paper—some vellum, some rice paper—plus large rolls of wire and some gleaming steel cutting tools. Hanging everywhere from the ceiling was the woman’s artwork: strange, ethereal shapes constructed of white paper pulled over thin wire frames, like oddly shaped kites.

  The woman returned with a sketch pad and a charcoal pencil, which she handed to Wally. Wally kept the charcoal poised over the paper for a moment, unable to decide what to write. Then she scratched several sentences and signed the bottom with her name and telephone number. She tore the page out of the pad and folded it, scrawling To whoever … on the outside, then handed the pad and the note back to the woman.

  “Thanks,” said Wally in a hollow, desolate voice. “I’m sorry that I bothered you.”

  “Oh … no, I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more,” said the woman as she took back the pad and note. She sounded genuinely sympathetic, and her eyes were filled with pity. “I really hope things work out for you.”

  Wally nodded blankly and turned away, Tevin joining her as she retreated back down the empty lane.

  “I’m really sorry,” Tevin said.

  Wally nodded. They had almost reached the end of the lane when they heard the woman’s voice behind them.

  “Wait,” she said. Wally and Tevin turned back around to find her still standing in her open doorway, Wally’s note unfolded in front of her, a dawning awareness in her expression. “Are you really her daughter?”

  “Yes,” Wally said urgently. She hurried back down the lane to face the woman again, who was now looking troubled and conflicted.

  “When was the last time you saw her?” the woman asked.

  “Never,” Wally said.

  “Oh.” The woman was taken aback, the wheels of her mind spinning as she tried to decide the right thing to do. “The thing is … it actually is a woman who I collect the mail for, not a man. I’m sorry. I was being protective, I guess. I really don’t know her very well. We met by chance around the time we were both starting our leases here—”

  “Here?” asked Tevin, who stood back over Wally’s shoulder. “She has one of these huts?”

  “Yes,” the woman answered hesitantly. “Like I said, we barely knew each other, but she was nice, and since she wasn’t around very much I started picking up her mail for her. There’s no mail service here, so most of us use that same postal shop.”

  “Which hut is hers?” Wally asked, her heartbeat quickening again.

  The woman hesitated, torn between obligation and instinct. Should she help, and how much? She faced Wally, looking into her eyes in an attempt to reckon the truth of her story.

  “You really are her daughter, right?” the woman asked. “You wouldn’t lie to me about that?”

  “No,” Wally answered. “I mean, yes. I’m just trying to connect with her.”

  Wally stammered a little in her excitement, struggling for words, but the woman seemed satisfied.

  “One row over,” she said. “The number on the door is 27, about halfway down the driveway. I already dropped off her mail, through the slot. I haven’t seen her in person in a few weeks, but I know she still comes around.”

  “Thank you so much,” Wally said. “It will be okay, I promise.” Wally turned to go but the woman held her up for a moment, holding out the note she had written just moments before.

  “Give this to her yourself,” she said, and Wally answered with a smile as she took the note.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Wally and Tevin made their way through the colony of huts, finally arriving at the one marked 27. By this point, Wally’s heart was truly racing. She dropped down to the floor and peered under the door of the unit. There was only a very faint light in the room, but it was enough illumination to reveal a small stack of mail that had clearly been shoved under the door and collected there, perhaps several weeks’ worth.

  “Who knows when she’ll be here,” said Wally. She checked every possible hiding place in the vicinity of the door but found no hidden keys. She and Tevin walked the perimeter of the hut, finding several large windows cut into its corrugated metal skin, but they were covered with steel grates, which made it nearly impossible to break in. They returned to the front door, where they both sat down, needing a breather.

  “I can barely even stand this,” Wally said. “I’m so close.”

  “All we need to do is wait,” he said. “As long as it takes.” He looked at Wally and saw she was shivering a little. He took off his bomber’s jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Wally wanted to object, but she looked in Tevin’s eyes and saw that the gesture was important to him.

  As the evening grew later, several other tenants of the colony closed up their units and left for the night. On their way to the main gate, they cast wary glances at Wally and Tevin, who remained loyally at the door of hut number 27. The air was getting much colder, and it seemed like just a question of time before the two of them would have to give up for the night. It was almost eight o’clock when the door of the hut directly across the lane creaked open, and a man in his late forties exited, getting ready to lock his door behind him with a clangy set of keys that hung on his belt. He wore canvas carpenter’s overalls splashed with a rainbow variety of paint colors and a worn chambray shirt under a ratty old fisherman’s sweater. His salt-and-pepper hair was longish and a bit unkempt, but his beard was well trimmed and he had the deep and perceptive eyes of a practiced observer.

  Before he locked his door, the man noticed Wally and Tevin sitting against the opposite hut, watching him. He studied Wally’s face for a moment.

  “Ah,” he said casually. “So you’re the daughter? Wally, right?”

  For a moment Wally and Tevin stared blankly at the man—his words had caught them off guard—but then they clambered to their feet and faced him. As she spoke to him, it took all of Wally’s self-control to match the man’s casualness.

  “Yeah, hi,” she said. “Mom mentioned you, but I can’t remember your name. I’m sorry. …”

  The man waved off her apology. “Please. Forget it. I’m Phil. How’s your mom? I haven’t seen her this week. I miss hearing her music.”

  “Mom is fine,” Wally replied. “Just busy, I guess.”

  Phil nodded his understanding. “C’mon in,” he said, motioning for her to follow. “Let me show you something.”

  Phil opened the door to his hut and turned on the overhead lights, six large fixtures hanging from the ceiling that provided a soft, even light for the room. Tevin and Wally—still taken aback over this sudden development—followed him inside to find a well-supplied painter’s studio with a full-size easel at the center. Tackboard had been attached to the sloping walls of the hut, and hundreds of charcoal sketches filled every spare space of it, newer sketches pinned right on top of older ones. Phil scanned the walls, racking his brain, then finally moved to one section of the wall and peeled away a few sketches. There, a few layers deep, he found two or three rough pencil sketches of a young girl, perhaps eight or nine years old, staring straight at the viewer with her deep, dark eyes. Wally.

  “See?” said Phil. “I knew it was you right off. You have beautiful, myste
rious eyes, Wally. An artist’s dream.”

  “Uh, thanks. So, wait …” Wally’s mind raced. “Phil. Did we ever—”

  “Meet? Oh, no. Your ma brought in some snapshots and I used those.”

  “Oh.”

  “So you’re meeting your mother here?”

  “Yeah,” Wally said casually. “She got held up, so we’re just hanging. Oh, I’m sorry … Phil, this is my friend Tevin.”

  “Hey, Tevin,” said Phil, and the two men shook hands. “Well, shit, you shoulda just knocked. No reason to sit out in the cold …” Phil pulled open a drawer in his paint cart and fished through hundreds of random items before finding the key chain he was looking for—a miniature Statue of Liberty with just two keys attached. Phil exited his hut with Wally and Tevin close behind. He stepped across to the door of hut 27 and used the two keys on the chain to unlock both bolts and then pushed the door open in front of him. Phil reached inside the hut to hit a light switch, and a set of hanging ceiling lights similar to those in his studio came on, illuminating the space.

  “I gotta run out,” Phil said, stepping aside from the doorway so that Wally and Tevin could enter, “but it was good to finally meet you, Wally, and you as well, Tevin.”

  “Thanks so much,” Wally said, muting her excitement as she shook his hand.

  Wally closed the door behind Phil and faced the room. It was very different from Phil’s hut or the one belonging to the sculptor woman: instead of a crowded and unkempt artist’s space, hut 27 was very spartan, dominated by a single major item: a baby grand piano stood at the center of the room, a deeply polished black with Steinway & Sons written in gold lettering on its face board. Wally regarded the piano for a moment, then slowly stepped to the instrument and sat on its bench. She carefully, almost shyly raised the fall board to reveal the keys. Wally played a scale. The piano was perfectly in tune.