by Ann Charney
She doesn’t get very far. The man who’s been staring at her has taken the dishevelled woman’s place. “Nerina?”
She nods hesitantly. She’s never seen this man before and has no idea how he knows her name.
“I’m Leo Samuels, Helena’s cousin,” he says, extending his hand. “I thought I recognized you from the photograph she showed me of the two of you. The suitcase clinched it.”
“I’m sorry I’m so early. I’ll come back later.”
“Don’t worry about it. I was just on my way out to lunch, but it can wait. Come upstairs, we’ll talk there.”
Leo Samuels turns out to be more affable in person than on the phone. He’s also younger than she expected. For some reason she had pictured him to be Helena’s age, but he looks to be somewhere in his midforties. Ignoring her protests, he takes charge of her bag, carrying it up a long flight of stairs and into a small office.
“Your English is much better than I expected,” he says, after they’ve chatted for a few minutes. “Helena gave me the impression it was pretty rudimentary.”
“I’ve been working hard for the past year to improve it. But I still make mistakes.”
“I’m certain you’ll be able to handle the phones easily. Let me show you around and tell you a little about what we do here.”
Samuels leads her into a large room lined with shelves. “This is the workshop where we build our frames,” he says. There are three long tables in the centre of the room covered with strips of wood and metal, bits of moulding and a variety of tools in different sizes: saw blades, clamps, nail guns and others she can’t identify. “I have a couple of assistants who do most of the framing,” Samuels explains. “You’ll meet them later on. They were here until late last night and took the day off.
“Here is our exhibition space,” he continues, showing her into a long, windowless room, empty except for rows of canvases leaning against the wall. “Leftovers from the last group show, waiting to be picked up,” he explains. “Some artists find it convenient to use my premises as a storage space. I should start charging them, but then they’d probably just abandon their works.”
Finally, he leads her to a room at the end of the corridor. “You’ll be staying here,” he says, opening the door. Inside there are more canvases piled against the walls, a long metal clothes rack bisecting the room, an enormous armoire on which someone has painted an undulating green snake winding its way from top to bottom, a couple of armchairs shedding their stuffing and a blue futon resting on a wooden platform supported by bricks.
“I warned you it was a mess,” Samuels says. “So is the bathroom next door. The boys can give you a hand tomorrow with some of the heavier things you may want to move.”
“I like the snake,” Nerina says, craning her head to take it all in.
“The work of one of your predecessors. Probably ruined a good piece of furniture, unless, of course, she becomes famous.”
Nerina checks out the futon, which looks relatively clean. First thing tomorrow morning she will take it to the laundromat across the street, just to be on the safe side.
“Sure you want to stay here tonight? It’s really pretty grimy.”
Nerina assures him she’ll be fine. It’s been so long since she’s had a place all to herself — Walter was careful to respect her privacy but she was still always aware of his presence. She doesn’t care what the room looks like; just to be alone feels like the rarest of luxuries.
“I suppose you’ve known worse,” he says. No doubt Helena has built up the desperate refugee part of her CV to prime Samuels’ compassion. Nerina is not about to confirm or deny his comment.
Leaving her suitcase behind, she follows him back to the office. The phone rings, and with a tilt of the chin Samuels indicates he wants her to answer.
“Samuels’ Framers,” she responds tentatively. He hasn’t told her what to say when answering the phone.
“Who the hell are you?” a woman’s voice demands.
“The new receptionist.”
“Well, Miss New Receptionist, get Leo on the phone right now. Tell him it’s Meredith Covington. One of his damn frames has just returned from an exhibition in pieces.”
“I’ll check if he’s here, Miss Covington,” Nerina replies, feeling more confident. Rudeness has that effect on her. Turning around to look at Samuels, she sees him shaking his head and crisscrossing his hands in front of him in an unmistakeable show of refusal.
“I’m afraid he’s left for the day.”
“Shit! Make sure he calls me first thing in the morning.”
“You handled that like a pro,” Samuels tells her, beaming with approval. “Helena said you were a quick learner.”
“She’s been very good to me. I owe her a great deal.”
“I have to tell you I was really surprised to hear from her. Until then, she was just someone in my mother’s stories. They had been very close as children. This was before my grandparents left Poland — just in the nick of time, I might say. After the war, my mother traced Helena to Rome and tried to bring her to the States. Helena wasn’t interested and the correspondence lapsed after that, except for the Jewish New Year cards my mother persisted in sending to her. It was her way of reminding Helena of her origins, which apparently she kept to herself once she settled in Italy.”
Nerina can’t recall any conversation with Helena about religion. The only time she came close was when she pointed to San Michele cemetery with its two churches, as they sailed past it in a vaporetto, saying this was where she wanted to be buried. Knowing Helena, it was probably an aesthetic choice, not an expression of a change of faith.
“We didn’t speak of such things,” Nerina says, feeling the need to defend her friend. “But I never had the feeling she was hiding something or pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Why would she? She is very much admired in Venice, you know.”
Leo does not look convinced. “That may be. But I find it interesting that she chose to make a new life for herself in a place where no one knew her, and to adopt her husband’s Italian name, even though the marriage didn’t last very long.”
Nerina can sympathize with Helena’s desire to wipe the slate clean. She herself doesn’t go out of her way to tell people she was born in Sarajevo. She doesn’t even like to hear about prewar Sarajevo, where Catholics, Jews, Muslims and Greek Orthodox supposedly lived amicably side by side. It didn’t prevent them, after all, from killing one another once the fighting started. Just because you’re born in some unlucky place doesn’t mean you have to carry it with you for the rest of your life.
She can’t explain any of this to Samuels, but there’s no need. The conversation is over as far as he’s concerned. “Here is a set of keys to the place,” he says, handing her an envelope with her name on it. “Be sure to lock both the upper and lower locks when you go out. There’s a small fridge in the workroom and a microwave for heating things up. I’ve got to go make a home visit to a client — if I don’t make it back I’ll see you in the morning.”
Nerina panics at the thought of handling the shop on her own, but the hours pass quickly and uneventfully. A few phone calls, a couple of people dropping in looking for Leo, and Leo himself calling to pick up his messages. If this is a sample of what’s to come, the job should be a breeze.
In one of the quieter moments, she finds a piece of stationery with Leo’s letterhead in his desk and writes to Helena to tell her how well things are working out. “I’ll never forget what you did for me,” she adds at the end. Writing Helena’s address on the envelope, she pictures the narrow canal running alongside Helena’s street and her dusty flat high above the water. Vivid though these images are in Nerina’s mind, they seem to belong to another life. For the first time in a long while, she is where she wants to be.
Near the end of the afternoon, Nerina calls Marco to tell him about the change of plans. She owes him that much, at least.
“Where are you?” she asks, the noise behind him making it alm
ost impossible to hear him.
“In a bar, having a drink with friends. Come and join us, we’ll get something to eat after. My treat.”
“What about Sarah?” She’s in no mood to play the little sister.
“In a meeting. Won’t be home till much later.”
“I don’t know.” Sneaking around while the girlfriend works doesn’t appeal to her either.
“Come on. You don’t want to spend your first night in New York alone.”
He’s right. And she still has to explain about moving out. “Ok. Tell me where you are and how to get there. I’ll leave right away.”
XIV
Big city
NERINA is amazed at how easy it is to find her way around in the city. Navigating the numbered grid of Manhattan is child’s play after the twisting streets and alleys of Venice. The tempo of the streets is different as well. Each time she pauses to gaze at a gleaming tower ahead of her, she finds herself pummelled by pedestrians impatient to get past her.
She has no trouble finding the bar, but hesitates at the entrance, confused by the darkness and noise that greet her. Marco has spotted her, however, and waves his arms to attract her attention.
“What happened to the others?” she asks, although she’s not altogether surprised to find him alone. Marco has never liked mixing his friends.
“They had to leave. You know Americans, always on the go.”
As he helps her off with her coat, she feels his fingers trace a path down her spine. This too is predictable. “Don’t do that,” she says, pushing his hand away. “I’m not in the mood for your games.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks, with a look of concern that might convince people who know him less well than Nerina. “Aren’t you happy to see me? We hardly had time to say two words to each other last night.”
“Whose fault is that?” Nerina blurts out, regretting the words immediately. She had wanted to see how long it would take Marco to get around to explaining the surprise he’d sprung on her last night.
“Help!” he gasps, wrapping his hands around his neck and pretending to strangle himself. “Another jealous woman. What did I do to deserve this?”
Nerina laughs. She’s not really mad at Marco, just a little annoyed to find herself caught up in one of his twisted plots. She should have known better. Marco has never made a secret of his habit of using his friends in his schemes. It was her mistake to think she was exempt.
“What will you have?” Marco asks, as a waitress comes to take her order.
“I’m starving. Can we order some food first, and then decide on the drinks? I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.”
“In that case, let’s get out of here,” he says, getting to his feet. “There’s a Korean restaurant half a block north of here. The food is pretty good and it’s much quieter.”
The restaurant he’s chosen is half empty and the panels of cloth enclosing their table create an illusion of total privacy. Nerina has never had Korean food and she lets Marco choose for her. By the time the first dish arrives — bits of squid amidst strangelooking vegetables — she is so hungry that she grabs a forkful and stuffs it into her mouth. The shock of the spices hitting her tongue makes her eyes water and burns her throat.
“Drink,” Marco orders, pushing a mug of liquid towards her.
“What is it?” she asks, once she can speak again.
“Barley tea. It cools the system.”
They wait for the next course. “About Sarah,” Marco begins, but fails to complete the sentence.
Nerina watches him fiddle with his chopsticks, enjoying his discomfort for a moment. “You were saying, about Sarah …”
“Right. It’s complicated. She’s a really great person, but she’s not like us. I couldn’t tell her the truth. As long as she thinks you’re my sister, everything will be all right.”
Nerina wonders which truth exactly he’s alluding to, but decides not to pursue it. “What’s she like?” she asks, trying to sound neutral.
“Nice looking and very smart. She’s with a big firm of chartered accountants that specializes in forensic work. Investigating fraud cases, insider trading, that kind of thing. Works crazy hours. We really only see each other on weekends.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It’s not like that,” he protests. “I’m really trying not to screw this up.”
“How come?” She’s never known Marco to be concerned about how his behaviour affected others, especially the women in his life.
“I like her. I like living with her. And she can do a lot to help me get started. I don’t plan on being a messenger for very long.”
She feels a surge of affection, hearing the note of defiance in Marco’s voice. “Nothing wrong with that,” she says, patting his hand. “People like us need all the help we can get.”
Marco gives her a grateful smile. “I knew you’d understand. Who knows, maybe Sarah will have some ideas for you as well. I can’t wait for you to meet her. I know you’ll like each other.”
It’s time to put an end to Marco’s fantasy. “I’m sure we will, but I’m not meeting her as your sister.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice rising with impatience. “I’ve already told her you were my sister.”
“It’s simple,” Nerina calmly replies. “She didn’t see me last night, right? The next time we meet, you can introduce me as a friend from your university days back home. Tell her you ran into me by accident.”
“That’s crazy. How can I do that when you’re staying with us?”
She recognizes the peevish look that comes over him when one of his schemes goes awry. “That’s just it — I’m not staying with you. Not any longer. I moved out this afternoon.” She enjoys the effect of her surprise as she informs him of her arrangement with Samuels.
“That’s great for you, but how am I to explain to Sarah the sudden disappearance of my sister?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she says, turning her attention to the platters of uncooked meat and vegetables being set before them. “Are we supposed to eat this stuff raw?”
“I’ll be your chef tonight,” Marco says, clicking his chopsticks together in the air like castanets. She’s forgotten how quickly he gets over disappointments. In a few minutes, strips of beef and vegetables are sizzling on the surface of the charcoal grill set in the middle of the table.
“By the way, you’ll never guess where I delivered a package last week,” he says, placing the first cooked morsels on her plate. “To the Ohstroms, the people you worked for in Venice. I can tell you they live as well here as they do in Venice.”
“You’re sure no one recognized you?” The thought of Marco near the Ohstroms fills her with uneasiness, while also reminding her of their failure to answer her letters.
“They weren’t home. A housekeeper signed for the package. Anyway, why would they recognize me? You made sure I only came to the house when they were away. Remember? I still think we should have kept that piece of jewellery, you know. Rich people are always well insured, and you and I could have used the money.”
“I thought you’re turning over a new leaf for Sarah,” Nerina reminds him.
“I’m just saying, these people are filthy rich. You should see the art they have in that house. It’s like a goddamn museum.”
“Don’t get any crazy ideas,” she warns, noting his lingering resentment about the brooch she forced him to return. “You want to get us both deported?”
“Relax. If you’re not going to be my sister any longer, you can’t tell me what to do.”
She knows he’s kidding, but with Marco it’s hard to tell. She hopes his desire to hold on to Sarah will keep him in line.
After dinner, they walk down 3rd Avenue towards her new place. “Sarah sounds like a wonderful person,” Nerina says, just to make sure his mind stays on safe ground. “You’re lucky to have someone like her looking out for you.”
“Yeah, she’s great,” he sa
ys, in an absentminded way.
What does seem to interest him at the moment becomes apparent when they reach the door of her building, and he makes a stab at getting himself invited upstairs.
“Come on Nerina, it’s been a long time. And after all these months of being stuck in the sticks with a gay husband, don’t you miss sex?”
“You’re offering me a pity fuck, is that it?”
“Don’t play tough with me. It doesn’t suit you. You know I’m the best, not to mention the only, friend you have here.”
He’s right, but it doesn’t soften her heart. “Go home,” she says, pushing him away. “Sarah is probably waiting for you. You don’t want to make her suspicious, do you?”
“Ok. If that’s the way you want it. I’ll see you around.”
She forgets about Marco once she’s upstairs. Looking around the crowded little room that is to be her new home, maybe for months to come, she tries to imagine her life unfolding here. The only familiar object is her suitcase, which once belonged to her mother. She remembers falling asleep with her head on its hard surface during the flight from Sarajevo in her parents’ car.
As soon as she can spare the money, she will replace it with a new one.
XV
Meeting Edward
IT’S late summer, two and a half months since Nerina moved into the room at the back of Samuels’ Framers. She hasn’t done much to it since then, seeing the space as a temporary refuge not worth the bother of making more comfortable. It’s not as if she spends much time in the room, except when she’s asleep. And if Meredith Covington has her way, she’ll be seeing even less of it.
Meredith is the woman whose irate phone call gave Nerina her first taste of what her job as Leo’s receptionist might entail. Since then, Nerina has learned that Meredith is one of the few women painters whose large canvases fetch some of the highest prices in the current art market. She is also a daily presence in Leo’s place — a convenient pit stop at the midpoint of her morning walks.
On the days when Leo is late in arriving, Nerina is obligated to step in, fetching Meredith her coffee and serving as an audience for her complaints. It doesn’t matter that Nerina knows none of the people who are the source of Meredith’s irritation on any given morning, or that Meredith’s fragmented, staccato delivery makes it difficult for Nerina to understand her.