“What do you do for a living, Simone?”
“What? Well, I’m a musician, isn’t it obvious? I play the clarinet. Isn’t it clear what I do? What’s wrong with you?”
I felt really stung. I remembered the way Abraham Hale had described her in his diary: a beautiful young lady, cultured, highly educated, and brought up in a wealthy French family. I also noticed that her accent had grown much fuzzier, as if her exposing of her occupation had lent her a new mask, one completely devoid of her former elegance, charm, and even beauty.
I couldn’t help but asking, “How did you get into this life, Simone? Why didn’t they do anything to help you?”
She cast me a snotty glance above the mug, which she was crushing between her palms as if trying to shatter it.
“When you’re down, everybody wants a piece of you. And I don’t like asking for help. I’m no cripple and can manage my own life, good or bad, whatever. Stop looking at me like that! You don’t have a clue what it feels like to be something and then … Listen, are we going to do this or not? Or would you prefer to sit there and watch?”
“Abraham told me lots of things about you and he kept a diary. I just wanted to talk to you about some of the things he’d written—”
“What kind of diary? Is it about me?”
“Yes, he mentioned you many times. I think he really loved you.”
She became angry.
“Look, this isn’t funny anymore ... Why would someone write about me in his goddamn diary? Can I see it? What does it say about me?”
“Please relax, it’s not exactly a diary, just some notes, and actually I’m not sure that—”
“I want to see them, whatever they are, do you hear me?”
“Okay, next time you come over I’ll show them to you, don’t worry.”
That seemed to calm her down a bit. She stood up, took her nightgown off, and started touching her breasts.
“Are we going to the bedroom or not?”
To be honest, I was petrified. I stood up, gave her all the cash I had on me and my pack of cigarettes, and left. When I closed the door behind me, I heard her laughing.
thirteen
Jack Bertrand’s diary (4)
I FOLLOWED FLEISCHER FOR the whole week. Every day he left his apartment early in the morning and got back late in the evening, spending most of his time at his office in the financial district.
He used to go out for lunch at one p.m. sharp, always at the same place, a small restaurant on East 1st Street, near the Marble Cemetery. A well-built guy in his thirties—always dressed in black, chauffeur, bodyguard, and right-hand man all rolled into one—would do his groceries and laundry. Every Friday, at around eight p.m., he would pick up the lady I’d seen him with at the café and, after dinner, they would spend a couple of hours together in her apartment, not far from his own home, on East 76th Street.
I tried not to think of Simone too much. I had a very vivid image of her sitting in that shabby place, naked, angry, probably a bit drunk, inviting me to sleep with her. Did Abraham Hale have any idea what she had become? Was this one of the reasons he’d committed suicide? If he’d known, why hadn’t he done anything to help her? He wasn’t healthy, but he might have been able to help her get out of that kind of life. I’d solved one mystery only to stumble upon another. Thinking of the whole story, I had the sensation you sometimes have in nightmares: you try to move on, straining your muscles, but can’t make any ground.
One evening, at around ten, someone buzzed the intercom. It was Linda, my colleague. I opened the door and waited for her at the end of the corridor. I was very upset because while I’d been out following Fleischer, all of the notebooks had vanished. I’d left them on the coffee table by the couch, as usual, but when I’d come home, they were nowhere to be found. I was sure that Simone had come over in my absence and took them, which meant that Abraham Hale had given her a key.
“I knew you’d be here,” Linda said, out of breath after climbing the stairs. “Where’s the money, Lebowski? Have you seen that new movie? You should, it’s great.”
I invited her in and headed to the kitchen to make coffee.
“You’re going to get fired, Jack,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “Come to the office tomorrow and talk to Larry. He’s a good guy, you know that. Tell him you’ve been sick or something.”
I poured the coffee and brought the mugs into the living room. The lights were off, except for a small floor lamp in one corner of the room. The atmosphere was somber, like in some noir movie. I opened the window and lit a cigarette.
“He was okay with me taking a few days off,” I said. “I talked to him on the phone about a week ago.”
“He says you never called and you haven’t been returning his calls either.”
“He’s lying.”
She put her mug on the coffee table, walked up to me, placed her hands on my shoulders, and looked me straight in the eye.
“Jack, what’s wrong, baby? Please tell me. You’re scaring the hell out of me. This old lady really cares about you and wants to help you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, Linda. Thanks anyway. I just wanted to—”
I stopped in the middle of the sentence, realizing that I didn’t quite know how to put it. What was it that I wanted, really? I finished my cigarette and stubbed the butt out.
“Linda, I don’t mean to be rude, but I think you should go now,” I said. “I have some work to do.”
“What kind of work? Have you found another job?”
“With all due respect, that’s none of your business.”
“Why are you talking to me like that? I’m just trying to help you.”
“I know. But I’m fine, believe me.”
She went to the door. I’d been mean to her and I immediately felt sorry for that. I asked her, “Please don’t tell anybody you found me here. In this apartment, I mean.”
She opened the door, turned to look at me, and said: “Take care of yourself, Jack. You know how to find me if you need me. If I were you, I’d come to the office tomorrow and speak to Larry. It’s not too late. Bye now. Be good.”
I watched her cross the street. She looked up at me for a moment, and then she got into her car and drove away. I had a shower, got dressed, and went to find Fleischer. It was twenty to seven, and I knew I didn’t have much time. If Linda let slip at the office that she’d found me in Hale’s apartment, they’d be coming for me very soon.
I bought a tuna bagel from a bodega by the parking lot and ate it while scanning my surroundings: a J. Crew store; a few people standing in line at an ATM; an expensive-looking restaurant called The Living Room; a guy dressed like the Cookie Monster handing out flyers; a toddler hanging onto his mom’s arm, trying to get her attention; an elderly man wearing a silly fedora, staring straight ahead of him, as if hypnotized by something invisible. On the other side of the street, the upper stories of Fleischer’s tower were flaming in the sunset.
I was just finishing my bagel when I saw Fleischer’s car approaching. I positioned myself by the pedestrian crossing, and when the driver stopped at a red light, I leaned forward, knocked on the window, and yelled loud enough so he could hear me from inside, “Mr. Fleischer, one moment, please!”
The chauffeur cracked the window and asked, “What do you want?”
“I’d like to talk to Mr. Fleischer. Is he in the car?”
I heard a voice from the womb of the limousine: “What’s going on, Walter?”
“Good evening, sir,” I shouted. “I need to talk to you about Simone, Simone Duchamp!”
The traffic lights turned green and a couple of drivers honked. The car moved forward about ten yards, pulled over to the side, and came to a halt. Fleischer got out, waved at me, and I waved back. The car turned right, disappearing into the underground parking, and he walked up to me.
“Did you say Simone Duchamp?” he asked me, carefully searching my face. “Who are you?”
“My name
is Jack Bertrand. We haven’t met before, but I know a lot of things about you.”
How much time had I spent in that shabby apartment imagining what it would be like to talk to him … But now, lost in that endless stream of people flowing down the street, I didn’t have a clue about how I should begin. A man bumped into me and walked off without apologizing. Standing there, staring at Fleischer, I felt my heart broken and my mind empty.
“Are you alright?” he asked. “You don’t look well. Sorry for insisting, but did you mention the name Simone Duchamp?”
Over his shoulder, I saw the chauffeur, Walter, coming toward us, sliding through the crowd like a big cat, his eyes glued to mine. I wondered whether he was carrying a gun.
“Yes,” I said. “I did.”
“What about her?” he asked me. The chauffeur reached us and asked, “Everything okay, sir?”
“It would appear to be,” Fleischer said. “I’m going to have a word with this gentleman, Mr. Jack—”
“Bertrand.”
“—Mr. Jack Bertrand. Well, Mr. Bertrand, shall we? I don’t think this is the best place to talk. There’s a bar around the corner.”
“Sure.”
We walked down the street, and Walter followed at a distance. The bar was a nice place with solid wood floorboards, paneled walls, and a couple of old black-and-white Irish photos. Walter stayed outside and we found a table for two and ordered coffees.
“I’m listening,” he said, pouring some sugar in the tiny cup. “What do you know about Simone Duchamp?”
I couldn’t help but ask, “Do you really care about her?”
He looked at me in surprise.
“What kind of a question is that? Of course I do, that’s why I’m here, talking to you! Mr. Bertrand, look … I’m a busy man. You were the one who approached me. I was kind enough to invite you here and give you the chance to tell me what it is you want from me, even though I don’t know who you are. If you’re just using that name to—”
“I know her,” I said. “She lives in Woodhaven. In case you didn’t know already, she came here from France about ten years ago.”
His jaw dropped an inch. He looked truly shocked.
“You mean she’s alive? She lives here, in New York?”
“Should she be dead?”
He moved his cup of coffee to one side and rested his elbows on the table, leaning toward me.
“Okay, who are you and what do you want from me? Money? Are you trying to blackmail me? Why should I believe you? No offense, but you look like a lunatic. How did you get to meet her?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am or how I met her. You really think that everybody is after your money, don’t you? You and your damn money—”
Making an effort to keep his cool, he interrupted, “You said she lives in Queens. Do you have an address? I’d be willing to pay just to find out where she is, but only if I can verify that you’re not making this up.”
I sipped my coffee and grinned. I suddenly felt powerful and full of confidence. He wore the expression of a man ready to go to any lengths to have what I had in my pocket. All his cool poise had vanished, and I was getting a kick out of making him sweat.
“Like I told you, I know a couple of things about her,” I said, toying with a paper napkin.
“Like what?”
“Well, for example, she’s a hooker.”
His face really contorted when I said that. He mumbled to himself, “What?” Then he repeated aloud, “What?”
“Yes, a prostitute. Surprised? Call her and check it out, if you like. I have her number and her address.”
“Who are you? You look familiar. Have we met before? Have you been following me?”
“I told you it doesn’t matter who I am. Are you going to call the cops or set that pit bull outside on me? Do you want me to give you her address or not?”
“How much do you want for it?”
“Keep your money, asshole!”
I took a pen from my pocket, scrolled through the contacts on my new cellphone, and wrote her number down on a napkin along with her address. As I handed it to him, his eyes continued to bore into mine.
“I don’t need your money. I came across your story and found out about your past because of a man who died a couple of weeks ago. His body is still in the morgue, there’s nobody to claim it. He probably killed himself with an overdose. He died lonely, miserable, and brokenhearted. But you don’t care, do you? If you did, you’d have done something to help him, you son of a bitch!”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about! I’m talking about that man, Abraham Hale, whose life you destroyed!”
My whole body was shivering, as if I were freezing cold. I stood up and walked out, almost bumping into Walter, who was waiting by the entrance. As I was leaving, I caught sight of Fleischer’s reflection in the café’s window. He was just sitting there staring into space, his elbows leaning on the table, his chin resting on his clasped hands. He was shocked, as if he’d seen a ghost.
As far as I can remember, I ended up wandering aimlessly for the rest of that evening. I walked the streets, took the subway from the station on East 77th Street, got out at Times Square, and headed for the Lower East Side. I sat on a bench and chain-smoked, while looking at the cars moving on the bridge in the distance like toys on tracks.
I replayed the conversation with Fleischer in my mind and realized that I’d been stupid. I’d fantasized about avenging Abraham Hale, but instead I’d wound up giving his greatest enemy Simone’s phone number and address. His surprise seemed genuine, which meant that they hadn’t kept in touch and he hadn’t know she was in the country. She probably had strong reasons for avoiding him. Had she wanted to track him down, it would have been a piece of cake. After all, it hadn’t been difficult for me. He was a dangerous man, as Abraham Hale’s notebooks suggested. But if she was afraid of him, why had she come to New York? She could have chosen anywhere else in the world. If she hadn’t come here for those two men, what other reason could she have had for moving here all the way from France? I was angry with myself: I’d had a great opportunity to get some answers, but I’d wasted it.
I didn’t feel up to going back to Jackson Heights or to my place. Since I’d run out of cigarettes, I went looking for a store, heading in the opposite direction, toward Midtown, and I stopped at a twenty-four-hour bodega. I bought two packs of smokes and ate a sandwich. By then it was almost midnight.
Suddenly, I felt that Simone might be in danger. What if Fleischer would call her or go to her place? She was just a middle-aged prostitute, one tiny speck in the immensity of the city’s underside. To cover up her disappearance would have been easy for a guy like him.
At the same time, the police hadn’t concluded their investigation and it was reasonable to presume that Fleischer might have been involved, directly or indirectly, in Hale’s death. If Fleischer were guilty, he’d have done everything in his power to maintain the cover-up. Hale and Simone had been the only eyewitnesses to what Fleischer had done in France back in the seventies. He’d done something bad, that much was clear. I didn’t know precisely what, but it must have been something evil. Now Hale was dead, under strange circumstances, and it dawned on me that Simone could be Fleischer’s next target, now that he knew she was alive and could talk.
Before heading for Woodhaven, I tried calling her a couple of times, but her cellphone was switched off. Finally, I hailed a cab and went to her place. I paid over forty dollars, almost all the cash I had on me, and wondered how I’d get home later. I couldn’t remember where I’d left the car: maybe in Jackson Heights, or else I might have left it in a parking lot near Fleischer’s apartment on the Upper East Side.
Standing in front of the building, I realized that I couldn’t remember her apartment number either. I thought of calling her again, but my phone was dead; I’d forgotten to charge it.
I pressed a call button at random and I heard the sleepy v
oice of an elderly woman. I apologized, introduced myself, and told her that I was looking for Ms. Simone Duchamp.
“I don’t know anybody called Simon,” she said.
“Not Simon, Simone, with an e at the end, like in French. It’s a lady’s name. She lives on the first floor.”
“Oh, you mean Maggie. Pretty, chestnut hair?”
It occurred to me that Simone probably used a different name while on the job, so I said, “Yes, that’s her. Simone was her nickname at school, and—”
“Is she expecting you, sweetheart?”
“Of course, she invited me.”
“Alright, come on in.”
She buzzed me in and I walked inside. The smell of food still lingered, as if it had seeped into the walls. I groped my way up the stairs in the dark. A door on the second floor opened, flooding the place with light. The same voice I’d heard on the intercom asked me, “Find it, mister?” I looked up toward the landing overhead and saw an old lady wearing a white dressing gown leaning over the bannister.
“Yes, thanks,” I said. The light went out and the woman vanished. Using my Zippo, I found the yellow door and rang the bell. After a while, I heard her footfalls and she shouted from behind the door, “Who’s there?”
I felt relieved knowing that nothing had happened to her. I told her it was me and she opened the door.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asked, but stepped aside to let me in. “You should have called me before coming here. What time is it?”
“It’s late. Feeling any better? You had a cold the last time I saw you.”
“Did you come here in the middle of the night to ask me how I feel?”
She was stark naked, except for a pair of slippers, and her hair was mussed. But in a strange way, she looked more natural and appealing without the makeup and the cheap lingerie.
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “I tried calling you, but your cellphone was off, and then mine went dead. You okay? Did Fleischer try to get in touch with you?”
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