Flesh and Blood

by Thomas H. Cook

  Farouk smiled quietly. “Not quite, no,” he said.

  Frank stared at him intently. “What?”

  Farouk pulled a single piece of lined white paper from an envelope and unfolded it. “One of my professional services, as you might call it, deals with genealogy.” He smiled shyly. “If I might say so, I have become quite good at it.”

  Frank said nothing.

  “Do you know what I mean by genealogy?” Farouk asked.

  “Tracing families,” Frank said.

  “This is so,” Farouk said. He glanced toward the paper. “I have done some work on the dead woman.”

  “So have I.”

  Farouk looked at Frank quizzically. “Is this your usual practice?”

  “When I’m looking for a lost relative, it is,” Frank told him.

  Farouk smiled appreciatively. “Yes, of course.” He drew a pair of black-rimmed glasses from his pocket and put them on. “You would like to know what I have found?”

  “That her real name was Kovatnik,” Frank said. “And that she was the daughter of a rabbi whose synagogue was on the east side.”

  Farouk looked up from the paper. “This is so, yes.”

  “And that she had two sisters.”

  “Again, this is so,” Farouk said.

  “One of them was pretty. Her name was Gilda.”

  “That she was pretty is not in the papers.”

  “And the other one was named Naomi.”

  “Yes, correct,” Farouk said, surprised. “You found all of this from people?”

  “Yes,” Frank said. “Where did you get your information?”

  “From various records.” Farouk said. He returned his glasses to his jacket pocket and stared evenly at Frank. “A record is a holy relic. To keep it is a primitive rite. To destroy it is a sacrilege. This is the way it works with records. Not only here. Everywhere. When we take a man’s name from the files of the world, we steal his soul away from him, you see?”

  “What else did you find out?” Frank asked.

  “They came from Poland. A little village not far from Warsaw. The year, if you do not know it, was 1927. Gilda was the youngest, six. Naomi was only two years older. Next came the dead woman.”

  “Hannah.”

  “Yes,” Farouk said, his eyes still on the paper. “She was born in October of 1910.”

  Suddenly Frank remembered the calendar. “What day in October?” he asked quickly.

  “The fifteenth,” Farouk answered. “Why?”

  “She had marked it on her calendar.”

  “Marked what?”

  “Her birthday,” Frank said. In his mind he could see her doing it, standing on her bed, facing the wall, a red crayon in her hand.

  Farouk looked up from the paper. “How do you know this?”

  “I saw where they lived,” Frank said. “Nothing had really changed very much. Most of the furniture was gone, but there was a calendar.”

  “I see,” Farouk said. “Where was this place?”

  “At the synagogue.”

  “On Fifth Street,” Farouk said. “Until their father died?”

  “Yes,” Frank said. He leaned forward slightly. “Do you know where they went after that?”

  Farouk smiled. “Yes,” he said. “To a man named Feig. He had a factory on Orchard Street. They lived in the rooms above it.”

  “Yes, I heard that.”

  “Something else,” Farouk said. He looked at Frank quizzically. “Perhaps something of service, something you did not find yourself?”

  “What?”

  “This Feig, he is still alive.”

  “The factory was here,” Farouk said as he pointed to a small playground. “This is where they lived.”

  Through the metal web of the storm fence, Frank could sec a bare stretch of ground dotted with swings and seesaws. There was a metal slide at the far corner, and two small children were climbing up it while their mother watched nervously from below. A few feet away, another group of children were moving up and down the climbing dome, one of them screaming triumphantly from its top.

  “This playground is a part of the project,” Farouk added. He glanced up at the tall brick buildings which towered over them. “If the sisters had had children,” he added bleakly, “they might have been living here.”

  Frank continued to watch the playground. He could remember how Sarah, his daughter, had loved the small playground near their house, how she had climbed higher than anyone else, swung faster, how she had seemed to crave speed, motion, height. In those days he had been sure that she had gotten it from him, and that such needs were good, that they would not betray her.

  Farouk blew a wide, tumbling cloud of smoke through the fence. “There was no playground then,” he said, “no place for a picnic, a walk, nothing.” He turned and jabbed the cigarette and ivory holder toward the adjoining streets. “Only the streets, the tenements, the factories.” He shrugged. “Such it was, at that time.”

  “Is it different now?”

  “For some,” Farouk said with a slight shrug. He turned and pointed down Orchard Street. “Come, let us talk to this Mr. Feig.”

  They moved north, away from the projects, and as they entered Orchard Street, the crowds seemed to engulf them. On all sides thick herds of people jogged one another mercilessly as they struggled to make their way up and down the street. Wooden display stands spilled out from the small stores, and people stood in tight knots as they picked through the goods. Above them, crude hand-lettered signs advertised in English and Hebrew. There were butcher shops and shoe stores, electronics outlets and haberdasheries, and by the time Frank had jostled his way to the entrance of the retirement home, he had come to think that he could have bought almost anything at some point along the way.

  There was a small glass enclosure at the front of the building and Frank followed along as Farouk stepped up to it and nodded to the nurse who sat at a desk behind it.

  “I am looking for a Mr. Sol Feig,” he told her.

  “Are you a relative?” the woman asked.

  “No,” Farouk said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a laminated card. “I am from the Social Security Administration,” he added, “and it is possible that Mr. Feig would be eligible for certain additional benefits. It is a matter that needs to be discussed with him as soon as it is possible to do this.”

  The woman looked at the card, then glanced at the small round clock behind her. “Well, you got here just in time,” she said. She handed Farouk back the card. “Visiting hours just started.” She looked at Frank. “Will you be seeing Mr. Feig, too?”

  “Yes, he will,” Farouk answered quickly. “Mr. Clemons is my associate in this matter.”

  The nurse nodded peremptorily. “Room three oh six,” she said.

  Sol Feig sat in a wheelchair, his face turned toward the small window at the back of the room. His body was curled forward slightly, as if he were reaching for something, and a rounded hump could be seen rising beneath his plain white dressing gown.

  “Mr. Feig?” Farouk said as he stepped up to him.

  Feig turned slightly, twisting painfully toward them. A gentle palsy rocked his head and shook his two thin hands.

  “I am Farouk, and this is my associate, Mr. Clemons.”

  Feig’s small brown eyes darted to Frank, narrowed slightly, then returned to Farouk. “Feig,” he whispered gruffly. He blinked rapidly as he labored to straighten himself. “I am Sol Feig. What do you want with me?”

  “We would like to speak with you,” Farouk added. He nodded toward Frank. “Mr. Clemons will explain,” he said, as he stepped back slightly.

  “We’re trying to find out a few things about a woman you once knew,” Frank began. “We think you might be able to help us track a few things down.”

  Feig stared at Frank suspiciously. “Woman?” he snapped.

  “Her name was Hannah,” Frank told him, “Hannah Kovatnik.”

  Suddenly Feig’s lips curled downward. �
��Hannah,” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “Hannah,” the old man said again, his voice suddenly sharper, more vehement.

  Frank knelt down beside the chair. “We understand she worked for you. At your factory here on Orchard Street.”

  Feig’s eyes narrowed into two small, unspeakably hateful slits. “Sie war eine Hure,” he snarled.

  Frank leaned toward him. “What was that?”

  Farouk touched Frank’s arm. “Never mind,” he said quickly. Then he turned back to Feig. “Was wissen Sie von dieser Frau?” he asked sharply.

  Feig glared at him bitterly. “Everything,” he hissed angrily, “I know everything about her.” He spat on the floor. “Ihr Hen was schwarz.”

  Farouk’s dark eyes bored into the old man. “Warum sagen Sie das?”

  “My love,” Feig said, again in a low whisper, his voice suddenly breaking over the words. “My dear love.”

  “What do you mean?” Farouk demanded.

  The old man said nothing. He seemed to withdraw into a dark cavern deep within him.

  “Do you know her sisters?” Farouk asked quickly.

  The old man’s eyes drifted toward the window. He did not answer.

  “Was wissen Sie, Herr Feig?” Farouk asked.

  The old man’s eyes swept toward the window. “Ich weiss nichts.”

  “Was wissen Sie?” Farouk demanded sharply.

  Feig shook his head resolutely, his lips curling down in a scowl. “No more,” he snarled. “No more.”

  “No,” Farouk said with a sudden fierce determination. His body stiffened, and Frank could see a galvanizing passion leap into his eyes. “Ich will die Wahrheit wissen,” he said urgently.

  The old man did not speak.

  “The truth,” Farouk demanded.

  Suddenly the old man’s face twisted brutally. “Ich muss mit anderen Menschen leben,” he cried. He wrenched his head to the left, his eyes staring brokenly at Frank. “Ich habe mit Scham gelebt,” he said tremulously.

  Frank stared helplessly at Farouk.

  Farouk glared intently at the old man. “Die Wahrheit,” he said.

  The old man’s face grew stony. “Fragen Sie Gott,” he said.

  Farouk stepped back slowly, as if giving up. Then he turned and walked into the corridor.

  “What was it?” Frank asked as he quickly joined him there.

  Farouk stepped over to the elevator and pushed the down button. His face trembled slightly. “Nothing of use,” he said, his voice clearly shaken.

  “Did he know Hannah?”

  “He knew her, yes,” Farouk said. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

  “Well, what did he say?” Frank demanded.

  “He said that he lived in shame,” Farouk told him.

  “But what did he say about Hannah?”

  “He called her his dead love,” Farouk answered wonderingly. “And he called her a whore.”

  “A whore?”

  “A whore, yes,” Farouk repeated. The elevator door opened and the two of them walked in.

  “He said she was a whore,” Farouk began again, his voice barely audible above the purr of the elevator, “and that her heart was black.”

  14

  Frank paid the vendor, then tucked the magazine under his arm and headed down 49th Street toward his office. Farouk walked beside him, his eyes surveying the immense rust-colored skeleton of the building which was going up across the street.

  “Your rent, Frank,” he said. “It will be going up when this is finished.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Frank said.

  Farouk’s eyes continued to scan the naked maze of steel girders. “The old man,” he said. “Feig. He looked like a spider.” He turned to Frank. “When the old are thin, they always look like spiders.”

  “The old man who showed me where Hannah had lived,” Frank said. “He talked about a scandal.”

  Farouk’s eyes shifted over to him. “Scandal?”

  “Yes,” Frank said. “But he didn’t go into it.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t press him hard enough,” Farouk said.

  “I’m not sure it would have done any good.”

  “Perhaps not,” Farouk admitted with a slight shrug.

  Frank reached up and absently fingered the pages of the magazine. “She worked for Feig. At least we know that. And she lived above him, in his building.”

  “And she betrayed him, as well,” Farouk said quickly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She joined a union,” Farouk explained. “She helped to lead a strike against him. It’s possible that to Feig, this was betrayal.”

  “Yes.”

  Farouk nodded firmly. Then his eyes once again scanned the massive steel building. “That could cause a great deal of bitterness,” he said, thoughtfully. “But it wasn’t bitterness Feig talked about.” He looked at Frank. “It was shame.” He considered it for a moment. “He said, ‘Ich habe mit Scham gelebt.’ This means ‘I have lived in shame.’”

  Frank said nothing.

  “Then he said, ‘Ich muss mit anderen Menschen leben,’” Farouk added.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, ‘I have to live with other people.’”

  Frank looked at him. “That sounds like Hannah.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It sounds like something from one of her speeches,” Frank told him. “The kind she made during the strike.”

  “Against Feig?”

  “Against him and the others.”

  Farouk’s eyebrows lowered slightly. “Do you think he was quoting the dead woman? Could this be possible?”

  “I don’t know.”

  For a little while they walked on silently. Then Farouk glanced at the magazine which Frank had tucked under his arm. “You are interested in interior design?” he asked.

  “My client mentioned that someone had done a story on Hannah’s apartment,” Frank told him. “About how it’s decorated. You know, pictures and all. I thought I’d take a look at it.”

  “Yes, that’s good,” Farouk said. “I will also look.”

  Once inside his office, Frank turned on the desk lamp and opened the magazine to the article on Hannah’s apartment.

  Farouk stood over him, staring intently at the pictures.

  “So that is the dead woman,” he said as he gazed at the first photograph. It showed Hannah in her study, sitting at her desk, looking pensively at a few fashion sketches. Her hair was pulled tight around the sides of her head and gathered in a bun. She was wearing a dark red blouse that looked as if it were made of velvet. It had a high lacy collar, and seemed a bit too formal for the picture, as if Hannah had decided to dress herself up for the photo session, and in doing so had gone just a bit too far.

  “A handsome woman,” Farouk said as he looked at her.

  Frank remembered her face as it had appeared in the union newspaper, then as he had actually seen it for the first time, white with bluish lips. He turned the page.

  The next picture showed the study itself, then the single wall of pictures and awards, all neatly framed and carefully arranged.

  “From the look of it,” Frank said, “the killer didn’t go in here. At least he didn’t kill her in here.”

  Again he turned the page, this time to a large color photograph of Hannah’s living room. It looked larger in the photograph, but the subdued elegance was the same. There was the lovely brocade sofa, the polished antique furniture and lush blue carpet, the vases of freshly cut flowers and large glass coffee table.

  “This woman lived well,” Farouk said quietly as he stared at the photograph.

  “Yes,” Frank said. For a moment, his eyes held to the picture. Then he turned to the next page.

  There was a photograph of Hannah’s bathroom, complete with marble fixtures and terra-cotta walls. The accompanying caption gave the dimensions of the room and commented upon its inventive use of so limited a space.

&nb
sp; Frank turned the page again, but there were no more pictures of Hannah’s apartment, so he flipped back to the beginning again, his eyes lingering on Hannah’s quietly contemplative face.

  “Was she raped?” Farouk asked.

  “No.”

  “And nothing stolen?”

  Frank shook his head. “All her jewelry was there,” he said, “and she had a lot of it.” He looked up at Farouk. “And she didn’t have a safe.”

  “What do the police think?”

  “That it was probably a psycho,” Frank said.

  “Because of the hand.”

  “Yes.”

  Farouk leaned toward the pictures in the magazine. “Where was the body?”

  Frank took out the police photo of Hannah sprawled across the living room floor and dropped it onto the open magazine.

  Farouk did not flinch as he stared at the photograph. His eyes seemed almost to caress Hannah’s contorted body.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Frank’s eyes shifted from the stark cruelty of the police photo to the magazine’s idealized living room with its soft blue carpet and polished furniture. The two pictures had been shot from almost exactly the same spot in the room, and showed the marble coffee table, the ornately flowered sofa, and then the wall behind it. Slowly, Frank’s eyes followed a straight line out from the carpet, then back toward the sofa and up the wall to the neatly arranged collection of photographs.

  “Alone,” he said after a moment. “In all these pictures. She’s always alone.” He looked up at Farouk. “It’s as if no one knew her.”

  Farouk straightened himself. “Perhaps the photographer knew her,” he said. “Perhaps they talked while he took the pictures.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “At such a time,” Farouk added, “she might have said something about the past.”

  Frank nodded. “He might have gotten to know her a little. We should talk to him, that’s for sure.”

  “And her killer,” Farouk said. “Do you think he knew her?”

  Frank shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Farouk looked at him intently. “So now, you are looking for her killer?” he asked.

  For an instant, a swirl of images passed through Frank’s mind. He saw Hannah’s face at various stages in her life, saw the rooms she’d lived in, the streets she’d walked, heard the words that had come from her pen and her mouth, saw the raised hand in the cold winter air, then the same hand, scarred and mutilated, under the hard light of the morgue.