It was 5:20 and Svirsky was now more than half an hour late. Roman had specifically told Svirsky to come to the office at 4:30, after his last patient of the day. But at 4:30 there had been no sign of Svirsky. Roman had been surprised. If he had been in Svirsky’s position, not only would he have been on time, he would have been early. But apparently Svirsky didn’t think this way. Roman waited and tried to sort his files, but he found it nearly impossible to focus and frequently consulted the clock. He himself always tried to be punctual. On the rare occasion when he was detained, he made sure to call and alert his appointment. Svirsky hadn’t called. It infuriated Roman, especially since he was the one doing Svirsky a favour.
Earlier that week Roman had gotten a call from Lyona Ribak, Svirsky’s brother-in-law. At first Roman thought Lyona was calling about the status of his insurance claim, but Lyona didn’t mention the claim. He asked about Roman’s Volvo.
“I was going to put an ad in the paper,” Roman said.
“How does it run?” Lyona asked.
“Very well. It leaks a little oil, but I top it up once a week.”
“Renata’s brother just came here from Leningrad.”
“She must be happy.”
“She can be happy, the problems come down on my head.”
“He needs a car?”
“He has a car. Against my advice he bought a Ford Tempo. Used. A piece of garbage. Some mornings it starts, some mornings it doesn’t start. You could flip a coin. He has two kids, one and seven. The wife is at home with the baby. I found him a job at a scrapyard, but without a car he can’t get to work.”
Roman had been sympathetic. After all, it wasn’t that long since he had been in Svirsky’s shoes. Nobody needed to remind him how little separated him from Svirsky. An outsider might see his office and presume that everything had fallen into place, but Roman knew better. He lived from phone call to phone call. Come the holidays he made the rounds of doctors’ offices, bringing a bottle of cognac or a box of chocolates, doing what he could to ensure that they didn’t forget about him and kept referring their patients. The receptionists weren’t always happy to see him; some ignored him and made him wait. “Hi, Shirley.” “Hi, Wanda.” “Happy Hanukkah, Racquel.” It was no great joy to go simpering around like that, but he was prepared to do it if it paid the overhead, the mortgage and what they charged for Hebrew school. Every now and then, when a big jackpot was announced, he bought a lottery ticket, but he didn’t hold out any hopes of becoming rich. He was a man who had come to a new country in his forties, with few marketable skills, equipped with no English apart from two novelty phrases: “Life is very complicated” and “Keep in touch.” In his more sanguine moments, Roman thought: Anything I’ve attained, I should feel fortunate.
In light of this he’d consented to help Lyona. He assured him that his brother-in-law would get a decent car at a fair price. True, Roman thought, you invited trouble whenever you did business with friends. The Volvo could break down tomorrow and then there would be bad feelings. With a stranger you could wash your hands of the thing, but with a friend you assumed responsibilities. Nevertheless, he agreed to do it. He even refrained from putting the ad in the newspaper. But now, for all his good intentions, he was sitting around like a fool.
Roman considered waiting another ten minutes, until 5:30, before going home. It wasn’t often that he was able to get home so early. Usually, he had appointments until after six. He didn’t get in until seven or later. By then his wife and son would have already eaten dinner. The boy might be doing homework, reading or watching television. Roman would eat alone and maybe spend a few minutes with his son between television shows, before the boy went to sleep. He wanted to stay involved in his son’s life, to be a good father to him. But it was a difficult age; the boy was often moody and irritable and made Roman feel as if he disapproved of him, as if Roman was always putting an emphasis on all the wrong things.
Roman resolved to go. But at that moment he heard the jangling of the bell on his front door. Now, finally, here was this Svirsky, Roman thought. He’d accumulated so much resentment waiting for him that he felt tempted to turn him away and teach him a lesson. Well, that he wouldn’t do, but he would certainly vent his displeasure. The mere thought of venting his displeasure made Roman feel better. He was eager for Svirsky to come through the door and into the inner room where Roman had his file cabinets and his desk.
“In here,” Roman called.
But it wasn’t Svirsky who came through the door. When he saw who it was, Roman cursed both himself and Svirsky. He should have left earlier, he knew it. He had tried to do someone a good turn and now, inevitably, he was being punished.
“We were passing by and thought we’d stop in to see if you were busy,” Kopman said.
With him was his partner, Gruber, the Israeli. Gruber followed after Kopman and then stepped aside to make room for an attractive young woman. She had straight brown hair down to her shoulders, and wore pink lipstick and pale, whitish eye makeup. She was tall for a woman; in heels she was level with Kopman. She was also slim, but in a tight blouse and short skirt everything she had was exhibited to maximum effect.
Since he rarely had occasion to meet with more than one person at a time, Roman had only two chairs on the opposite side of his desk.
“It looks like we caught you at a good time,” Kopman said, before sitting in one of the chairs.
“I was waiting for someone. He’s late. I was about to leave.”
“Good then,” Kopman said. “We’ll only be a minute.”
Kopman motioned for the woman to sit in the second vacant chair. He spoke to her in English.
“Sit, Felicia, dear.”
The woman did as she was told and sat almost directly across from Roman. She gazed at the wall, at a spot vaguely above Roman’s right shoulder. There he had his framed diploma from the Board of Directors of Masseurs, a recent school picture of his son, and an arts and crafts project the boy had done years ago in summer camp—a pattern of nails strung with green yarn that spelled out the Hebrew word Shalom.
“Well,” Kopman said, “we just wanted to know if you’d given more thought to our proposition.”
Roman looked from Kopman to Gruber, who stood behind him, and made no effort to mask his feelings about their proposition. He didn’t like either of them. Gruber was antsy and unhealthy. He was obese and careless about his personal appearance. He had a thick growth of stubble, and his kinky hair bulged like stuffing from the baseball cap that he’d neglected to remove. Kopman, Roman’s wife had known as a girl in Rezekne. They had been in the same class. After he graduated from high school, his family left for Israel. All kinds of stories circulated about what he’d gotten himself involved in over there. Roman’s wife hadn’t even heard that he’d come to Toronto until he’d shown up unexpectedly at Roman’s office.
The first time, just the two of them had come, Kopman and Gruber. They’d arrived in the evening while Roman was with a patient. When the door rang, Roman had stepped into the waiting room to investigate, since he’d had no more patients scheduled and wasn’t expecting anyone. Kopman had introduced himself, mentioned his old acquaintance with Roman’s wife and said that he was there with a business proposition. What proposition? Why arrive unannounced? Kopman didn’t explain. Roman hadn’t liked the look of the two of them from the beginning, and he’d had a hard time concentrating on finishing the session with his patient. When the patient left, Roman had had no choice but to allow Kopman and Gruber to outline their proposition.
Their proposition amounted to this: they were pimps and they wanted to make him into a pimp too.
There was good money to be made in massage parlours, Kopman said; all they needed was someone with a valid masseur’s licence. Other than supplying his licence, Roman wouldn’t have to do anything. They would take care of everything. They would set up the business and manage it. Once a month Roman would receive a cheque with a percentage of the profits. He wouldn’t have to so much as lift a fi
nger. If the first parlour proved successful, they could expand.
“And if the police come?” Roman asked.
“If the police come we try to arrive at an arrangement,” Kopman said.
“And if they don’t accept your arrangement?”
“Then they will just close the place down,” Kopman said.
“And report me and revoke my licence,” Roman said.
“You might get a warning, that’s all,” Kopman said. “You know how many places like this there are in the city?”
“Enough,” Roman said.
“So why shouldn’t you benefit also? Do you deserve any less? I’m sure it wasn’t easy to write the exams and get the licence,” Kopman said. “If it was easy, I wouldn’t be here. I’d do it myself.”
Roman had told them that he wasn’t interested. They had suggested that he reconsider.
“Why rush to refuse?” Kopman asked. “There’s real money to be made. Take some time. Think about it. It’s a good opportunity.”
In the days that followed, Roman had repeated the conversation to his brother-in-law and to a few select friends. All had been of the opinion that he should explore further. They’d heard of such enterprises. It was no lie, people made money. Besides, what was so horrible about a massage parlour? If Roman decided to go ahead with it, nobody would condemn him.
Despite what they said, Roman had misgivings. Kopman was right, passing the exam hadn’t been easy. He had devoted himself to it for more than a year. After a day of warehouse work, he had come home to study. In all his life he had never worked so hard. All the while he had been sustained by dreams of opening his own practice, being his own boss, providing for his family in a dignified way. He lived that year in a state of perpetual anxiety. He was tyrannized by the fear that he would fail the exam and be consigned forever to a life of warehouse labour. No matter how long and gruelling the hours of study, they paled against the wretched prospect of failure. When he received the letter informing him that he had passed, he was jubilant. He felt that he had accomplished something monumental. He would work in a clean office, almost like a doctor, and his son wouldn’t have to be ashamed of him.
He’d spent seven years building a good reputation. He had devoted clients who ascribed to him their miraculous recoveries. An old man who couldn’t get out of bed, now walked to buy his groceries. An accountant who couldn’t tie his shoes, now played tennis. An arthritic grandmother who couldn’t turn a doorknob, now planted roses and baked cookies. He’d dealt honestly with people. He’d never cheated anyone. Whatever he did was within the law, or, if it exceeded, it wasn’t in any odious way. He did what everybody did to stay in business. If somebody had a benefits plan that covered massage, he’d provide a document attesting to treatment and then split the proceeds. If somebody got into a car accident, he would diagnose an injury to assist with the insurance claim. It was because of this that Lyona Ribak, for instance, stood to collect $2,400. There was nothing contemptible about it. Benefits money, if left unused, disappeared; and each year, the insurance companies, renowned crooks, made billions in profits.
But to become involved with people like Kopman and Gruber and to risk his reputation for a brothel was something entirely different. The worst kind of trouble could happen in such a place. There could be drugs, fights, even murder. If anything happened, he could be implicated, sent to prison. He imagined the scandal and the humiliation. How could he face his wife and son? And even if nothing happened, what if his son discovered that he’d become a partner in a brothel? How would he explain such a sordid thing? More money? This was no explanation. They weren’t starving. Without a massage parlour, he and his wife had jobs and were doing okay.
He would rather struggle and live modestly than gamble and lead that kind of life. He’d already experienced that kind of life. His father had lived that way. When they settled in Riga after the evacuation, his father had traded on the black market. He had speculated in gold, gemstones, textiles and heirlooms. Officially, his job was as fire marshal at a theatre, but he was there only during performances, a few evenings a week. The rest of the time he was free to pursue deals. They were a family of five: Roman, his parents and his two sisters. His mother stayed home and looked after the house. The situation after the war was grim, sections of the city were rubble and there were shortages of everything. His father bore a heavy burden. He was a small, austere man, frugal in his affections, but Roman revered him. Roman was twelve, thirteen, fourteen, at the time, the same age as his own son now. He hadn’t known every detail, but he’d known enough about how his father made his living. Once, his father had woken him in the middle of the night, taken him into the cellar and showed him where he had hidden a box containing gold coins and banknotes. In case something happens, his father had said.
Roman understood that if the authorities ever caught him, his father would be severely punished. Almost certainly he would be sent far away, where anything could befall him. He worried also about the people with whom his father associated and the harm they might do him. Nights when his father was late coming home, Roman didn’t sleep. He snuck outside and stood in the shadowy passageway that led from their building’s courtyard to Red Army Street. There he stood and peered into the night until he saw his father’s familiar form walking resolutely home. The sight always made him dumb with relief, gratitude and love. Though when his father saw him, he became furious and berated him for lurking about and drawing attention. But no matter how many times his father berated him, Roman couldn’t help it. He couldn’t sleep or keep still. He had to go out to the street, because every second of not-knowing was unbearable. And once he saw his father, the abuse didn’t matter, because his father was home.
Roman did not want to subject his son to that kind of life.
To Kopman he said, “I thought about it. I talked to people. But I haven’t changed my opinion. It’s not for me. I’m not interested.”
“It really is a shame you feel that way,” Kopman said. “Personally, I think you have the wrong idea about what we are suggesting.”
“What wrong idea? I understand everything perfectly well.”
“Have you ever visited such a place?”
“What the hell for?” Roman said.
“Some of the places are dirty. Maybe you think we would be running a dirty place?”
“Kopman,” Roman said, “I don’t care what kind of place you plan to run.”
“The place will be nice,” Gruber said in English. “We would only make a nice place.”
“This is why we brought Felicia,” Kopman said. “So that you could see for yourself the kind of girl we would hire.”
At the mention of her name, Felicia glanced opaquely from Kopman to Roman.
“Stand up, Felicia, dear,” Kopman said. “Let Roman take a look at you.”
Obediently, Felicia pushed her chair back and rose. She didn’t make any lewd poses or change the expression on her face. She stood with her hands at her sides and rested her weight slightly on one hip.
“You see what a beautiful girl,” Kopman said. “Guess how old.”
“What are you doing, Kopman?” Roman said.
“Twenty-three,” Kopman said. “She isn’t just some whore off the street. She’s very intelligent. You can talk to her. Ask her where she’s from.”
“It makes no difference to me where she’s from,” Roman said.
“She’s Czech. From Prague,” Kopman said. “Where are you from, Felicia?”
Speaking in a bored, faraway voice, the girl said, “I’m from Prague.”
Kopman raised his eyebrows and smiled triumphantly, as if he had proved a disputed point.
“She’s also educated,” Kopman said. “She has a medical background. In Czechoslovakia she studied to be a nurse. She knows massage. She’s not a professional like you, of course, but she’s very good.”
“Fine. Is that all? Are you finished?” Roman said.
“You don’t believe me?” Kopman asked. “Take
her into the other room. Tell her what you like. She’ll do anything you say.”
“Kopman,” Roman said, “what’s wrong with you? You grew up with my wife. You went to school together.”
“Yes? So? She was a good student. She helped me with my homework. What does one thing have to do with the other?”
“Get out of my office. Get out,” Roman said.
“Don’t be rash,” Kopman said.
Roman turned his attention to the girl. She looked like a normal girl. She was no different from anyone you saw on the street. He wondered how she had become like this. How had she gotten mixed up with scum like Kopman and Gruber?
“Young lady,” Roman said.
She lowered her eyes and looked at him, slightly confused, as if uncertain that he had addressed her.
“Young lady,” Roman said. “I read in the newspaper that there are not enough nurses. You studied to be a nurse. Go away from these guys. Hospitals are looking for nurses. Go be a nurse.”
A hard, unpleasant look crossed the girl’s face.
“Fuck you,” she said.
With that, they left.
What a miserable day, Roman thought as he drove home. It was already six o’clock. After Kopman, Gruber and the girl had left, he’d taken several minutes to compose himself. He was plagued by a bad feeling, like he had been soiled. He also found it hard to banish the image of the girl’s cruel face. He’d meant only to be kind, and her viciousness had taken him completely by surprise. He felt her insult keenly, like a slap.
He steered the Volvo up Bathurst, to Finch, turned on Torresdale, and into his subdivision. Six o’clock and not a word from that bastard Svirsky, Roman thought. A miserable day.
Roman parked the car in the driveway and climbed the cement steps of his porch. When he unlocked the front door, he sensed something odd. It took him a moment to register what it was. He saw a pair of strange boots in the entryway, worn and scuffed. Then he heard his wife’s voice coming from the kitchen, speaking politely, even formally. After this he heard a man’s voice, thanking her, declining something, in a muted, timid way. Roman didn’t call out to announce his arrival but went up to the kitchen, where he saw a man seated at the table, his back to him. The man was still wearing his jacket. Seated across from him was Roman’s wife. A teapot, cups, fruits and biscuits were on the table. Beyond the kitchen, in the living room, the television was on, and his son was lying on the sofa.
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