Voice of our Shadow Read online

  He is a calm and pleasant man, but his letters always betray a bit of the ace reporter hot for an exclusive scoop. For some reason he often talks in them about things like who's died or who's been arrested. These gory tidbits are inevitably prefaced by phrases like "I don't know if you remember . . ." or "Remember the girl who had all her teeth knocked out by her boyfriend? Judy Shea? Well . . ." and then his zinger follows – she eloped with a convict or put her child in a mailbox.

  This one was no different.

  Joe, I was going to tell you about this a long time ago, but you know me and how I forget to get around to things. Anyway, our old friend Bobby Hanley is dead.

  I heard the whole thing, interestingly enough, on the radio. It was the first time I'd heard about him in years. I knew he'd been caught robbing a store a few years back and that they sent him off to prison for it. I guess he got out, because this time the dumbbell tried to kidnap some local girl. The police got wind of it and came. There was a big gun battle right up on Ashford Avenue by the hospital, if you can imagine that.

  It happened last June, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it then. Not that it's the kind of news anyone wants to hear. It certainly is the end of something though, isn't it?

  The letter went on, but I put it down. Bobby Hanley was dead. He had been dead for six months. Six months ago he was in a shootout, and I . . . I was a million miles away about to meet the Tates. Ross and my mother, Bobby Hanley, and now Paul. Dead.

  "Where do you want to eat dinner?"

  "I don't care. How about the Brioni?"

  "Fine."

  The Vienna winter had come, announcing its arrival with thirty straight hours of sleety rain and fog that painted everything dark and coldly smooth.

  I kept the windshield wipers on full tilt and drove slowly through slick streets. Neither of us said anything. I was eager to be in a warmly lit place, eating good food, safe for a while from everything out there.

  Three or four blocks before the restaurant I turned down a small side street. It was narrow; the buildings on either side were so high that a mountainous clump of fog hung down the length of it, trapped like a tired, lost cloud.

  We were halfway through it when I hit the child. No forewarning. A soft, heartbreaking thud and a high scream only a child's voice could have made. In slow motion a small formless thing in a shiny yellow child's raincoat glided up and over the hood of the car. India screamed. Before it reached the windshield, the raincoat slid over the side of the hood and disappeared. India wept into her hands, and I put my head on the steering wheel, trying impossibly to fill my lungs with air.

  "Get out, Joe! Get out and see if it's all right, for god-sake!"

  I did what I was told, but what did it have to do with me? Joseph Lennox hit a child? A yellow raincoat, a small hand crabbed in pain, another death?

  It lay face down on the black street, all limbs and pointed hood splayed out, looking like an enormous starfish.

  It made no sound, and without thinking, I reached down and gently turned it over. The hand fell off. I hardly noticed because I'd seen the face. The wood was split through one of the eyes, but the head remained whole. Whoever had carved it had done it quickly, indifferently. The kind of doll you often see for sale in stores, advertised wistfully as "primitive art." Pinned to the raincoat was a little note. It had been done in thick black kindergarten crayon. Play with Little Boy, Joey.

  The waiter came and went three times before we were able to order. When the food came, neither of us made a move toward it. It looked magnificent – vanillen Rostbraten mit Bratkartoffeln. I think I ate one tomato from my salad and drank three straight Viertels of red wine.

  "Joe, even before this happened I was thinking about what we should do. I came to a conclusion, and I want you to hear me out before you say anything.

  "We both see that Paul isn't going to leave us alone. I don't know how much it will accomplish, but I think the best thing you could do now is go away for a while. I'll tell you why. Everything has happened so fast that I haven't been able to think straight for one minute. Either I'm scared or I'm turned on, or else I'm lonely for one of you, and I don't even know which one. Maybe if you go away for a month or two, Paul will come and talk to me. I know, I know, it's dangerous. It scares the hell out of me, but it has to happen sooner or later, or else we'll both go crazy, won't we? You and I can't begin to figure out our relationship until he lets us alone and stops these grisly stunts of his. I haven't told you, but he's done a few things to me when I was alone; they were the worst.

  "Another thing is, if you do go away, we'll be able to think more clearly about what we want from each other and whether or not we really want to try and make this relationship work for us. I think I do, and you said you do too, but who knows now? The whole thing is distorted. Every day is so full of tornadoes; I can't see straight anymore. Can you?

  "If you're gone for a couple of months, maybe when you come back Paul will have decided to go away. Or maybe we won't even want our relationship anymore . . . I don't know."

  I put my hands on my knees and looked down at my feet. Why did I wear such solemn shoes? One look at my feet told the world I was forever on my way to Sunday school. Who else wore black shoes every day of the year? I didn't even have a pair of scruffy sneakers in my closet at home; only another pair of black oxfords that were this pair's twin brother.

  "Okay, India."

  "Okay what?"

  I looked at her and tried to hold down the tremor in my voice. "Okay-I-think-you're-right. I knew it was the only thing to do, too, but I've been afraid to recommend it. I was scared you'd think I was a coward. But there isn't anything I can do here, is there? Isn't it obvious? He despises me, and whatever I try to do is going to be futile." I was squeezing my hands together so hard it hurt. "I'd do anything for you, India. I'm scared to death now, but I would stay and help you fight forever if I thought it would do any good."

  She nodded, and I could see she was crying. I left a few minutes later without having touched her goodbye.

  PART THREE

  1

  The flight from Vienna to New York takes nine hours. As the plane took off I felt a profound rush of relief. I was free! Paul and India and death and anxiety – I was leaving it all behind.

  That relief lasted all of about five minutes. What followed was guilt and a paralyzing disappointment with myself. What the hell was I doing running away? How could I leave India alone in the darkness? I knew then how great a coward I really was, because I didn't want to stay. If anything, I wanted to be in New York in an hour. A hundred thousand miles away from Vienna and the Tates. I knew it and hated myself for the joy that had slyly bloomed inside me when I knew I'd made it – I had escaped.

  I watched the movie, ate all the meals and snacks; twenty minutes before we landed, I went to the toilet and threw up.

  I called India from the airport, but there was no answer. I called again from the city bus terminal; the connection was so clear it sounded as if she were in the next room.

  "India? It's Joe. Listen, I'm going to come back."

  "Joe? Where are you?"

  "New York."

  "Don't be goofy. I'm fine, so don't worry. I've got the phone number there, and I'll call you if I need you."

  "Yes, but will you?"

  "Yes, Mr. Jet Lag, I will."

  "You won't, India, I know you."

  "Joe, please don't be a horse's ass. This call is costing you a fortune and it's not necessary. It's adorable you called and are concerned, but I'm fine. Okay? I'll write, and I'll really call if I need you. Be good and eat some cheesecake for me. Ciao, pulcino." She hung up.

  I smiled at her orneriness and her guts and my freedom. I couldn't help it. She'd ordered me to stay.

  India hung on to a co-op studio apartment in the city on Seventy-second Street that had belonged to her mother. She had given me the key to it before I left. I went over and dropped off my bags. It was musty and dirty; but tired as I was, I gave t
he place a good scrubdown. It was night before I'd finished, and I barely had enough energy to stagger to the corner restaurant for a sandwich and a cup of coffee.

  I sat at the counter and listened to the people speak English. I was so used to hearing German this language sounded bright and crisp as a new dollar bill.

  I knew I should call my father and tell him I was in town, but I put it off so I could be by myself for a few days. I went to the bookstores and ate pastrami sandwiches and took in a few movies. I walked the streets like some rube from Patricia, Texas, gaping at the people and colors and life that floated in the air like an invasion of kites. Because I hadn't been there for so long I couldn't get enough of it. The weather was sour and cold, but that didn't stop me one bit. At times my head was so full of New York I actually forgot Vienna for a while, but then a sound or the way a woman touched her hair reminded me of India or Paul or something I knew back there.

  I bought her a number of presents, but the one I liked best was an antique rosewood box. When I brought it home I put it on the dresser and wondered if I would ever give it to her.

  I got in touch with my father, and we set up a lunch date. He wanted me to come up to the country to see their new apartment, but I wiggled out of it by saying I'd come to the States to camp out in the New York Public Library and had to work my schedule around their hours. I could say that sort of thing to him and get away with it because he loved the fact I was a writer; anything having to do with "the trade" was okay by him.

  The real reason for my avoiding the visit was that I disliked his new wife, who was irritatingly garrulous and suspicious of me. My father thought she was great, and they seemed to have created a really happy life together, but whenever I had appeared on the scene in the past, it had thrown things out of kilter for all of us.

  He liked pubs, so we met in front of O'Neal's on Seventy-second Street and Columbus. He caught me by surprise because he was dressed very nattily in an English raincoat that made him look like an old James Bond. He had also grown a whopping gray mustache that only added to his flash. I loved him for this new image; when we greeted each other with a bear hug, he was the one who let go first.

  He was beaming and full of pep and said his new life was going great guns. He's such an honest person that I knew none of it was pretense or showing off. Good things were happening to this man who for so long had his share of the bad. What I adored about him was how he kept shaking his head at all his new good fortune. If ever there was a person who counted his blessings, it was my father.

  We sat in a corner and ate jumbo hamburgers. He asked me about Vienna and my work. I told him a few lies that made it sound as if I had the world on a string. By the time coffee was served, he'd brought out a bunch of recent photographs of his family and, handing them to me one by one, made little comments on each.

  His wife's two children by a previous marriage had grown and were both on the brink of adolescence. My stepmother had begun to lose the nice figure she'd brought to their marriage, but at the same time, she looked both more relaxed and more sure of herself than when I'd last seen her.

  There were pictures in front of their new apartment building, in the jazzy new living room, of a trip they'd all taken together to New York. In that one they stood in front of Radio City Music Hall looking shy and secretly frightened of what they'd gotten themselves into by coming.

  My father handed them to me gently, almost as if the pictures were the actual people. When he spoke his voice was amused, but love had hollowed out a corner in it; it was plain he cared very much for these people.

  I smiled at each and tried to listen carefully to his explanations, but after I've seen ten or fifteen of them, snapshots of people I am not intimately involved with make my eyes swim.

  "This one, Joe, is of that birthday party we had back in October. Remember, I was telling you about it?"

  I glanced at the picture and reared away from it as if it were on fire.

  "What is this? Where'd you get it?"

  "What, son? What's the matter?"

  "This picture – what's going on in it?"

  "It's Beverly's birthday. I told you."

  Three people stood holding hands, facing the camera. They wore normal clothes, but each wore a black top hat – just like Paul Tate's.

  "Jesus Christ, get it away from me! Take it away!"

  People were staring, but none of them as intently as my father, the poor guy. I hadn't seen him for many months, and then this had to happen. I couldn't help it. I'd thought Vienna was behind me and that for the time being I was safe. But what is safety? Physical? Mental?

  When we were out on the street again, I tried feebly to make up a story about working too hard and needing a rest, but he didn't swallow it. He wanted me to come home with him, but I wouldn't.

  "Then what can I do for you, Joe?"

  "Nothing, Pop. Don't worry about me."

  "Joe, you promised me when Ross died that you'd come to me if you were ever in bad shape and needed help. I think you're breaking your promise."

  "Look, Pop, I'll call you, okay?" I touched his arm and started to move away. I knew I was going to start crying and I'd be damned if I'd let him see it.

  "When? When will you call? Joe?"

  "Soon, Pop! In a few days!" I hurried to the corner of Seventy-second Street. Once there, I turned back toward him and, sticking my arm up as high as it would go, waved. As if one of us were on a ship, sailing away from the other forever.

  I didn't see them until I had already opened the door to my building. It was after midnight. The black man had pushed the woman into a corner of the entryway. He was slamming her head against the metal mailboxes.

  "What the hell's going on? Hey!"

  He turned; I could barely make out that the sides of his mouth were shiny-slick with blood.

  "Fuck off, man!" He held her by the neck while he spat this at me over his shoulder.

  "Oh, help me!"

  He shoved her away and came at me. Without thinking, I kicked him as hard as I could in the crotch, an old trick I had learned from Bobby Hanley. The man gasped and fell to his knees, both hands clamped between his legs. I didn't know what to do then, but the woman did. Stumbling for the second, inner door, she flung it open with a bang. I followed, and it whomped shut behind us, locking. The elevator was there, we were in it before the man even looked up.

  Her hand was shaking so badly she was barely able to press 7, the floor below mine. When the car started to move, she bent over and threw up. She kept retching even when there was nothing left. She tried to turn to the wall, but she started coughing and choking; I was afraid she couldn't breathe. I went over and slapped her hard on the back.

  The doors slid open, and I helped her out of the elevator. We stood in the hall while she took quick, heavy breaths. I asked her for the number of her apartment. She handed me her purse and started down the hall. She stopped in front of a door, pointing. She started retching again, and without thinking, I took hold of her shoulders.

  Her name was Karen Mack. The man had been waiting for her in the hallway and had punched her in the face the first thing. Then he tried to kiss her, and she bit him.

  It came out gradually. I made her lie down on a bright-blue couch and wiped her face with a wet washcloth I'd been careful to soak in warm water. She didn't need any more shocks. The only liquor in the place was an unopened bottle of Japanese plum brandy. I opened it and made both of us take big, disgusting swigs. She didn't want me to call the police, but when I said I should go, she begged me to stay. She wouldn't let go of my arm.

  The apartment must have cost a fortune, because among other things, it had a large balcony that looked out over hundreds of rooftops; it reminded me of Paris.

  When I'd patted her hand enough and reassured her I'd stick around, she asked me to turn out the lights and sit next to her. The moon was full and lit the room with its own smooth blue light.

  I sat on the thick carpet next to the couch and looked out at
the winter night. I felt good and strong. Later, when she touched my shoulder and thanked me again in a low, sleepy voice, I felt like thanking her. For the first time in weeks I felt valuable again. A human being who had for once stepped out of his own selfishness to help another.

  I woke up the next morning on the floor, but a heavy wool blanket was over me and one of the soft pillows from the couch was under my head. I looked toward the balcony; she was out there. She'd put on a robe and fixed her hair.

  "Hello?"

  She turned and smiled lopsidedly. One side of her mouth was swollen and purple, and I saw she'd been holding an ice pack to it.

  "You're up." She came in and slid the glass door shut behind her. Although the balloon lip distorted her face, it appeared she had one of those incredible Irish-white complexions that go so well with deep green eyes, which she also happened to have. Big eyes. Great eyes. Her nose was small and nondescript, but strawberry-blond hair framed her narrow face and made it a wonderful one, in spite of the smudge-purple lip.

  She took the ice pack away, and her tongue snuck out to give the spot a lick. She winced when she touched it. "How many rounds does it look like I boxed?"

  "How are you? Are you all right?"

  "Yes, thanks to you I'm all right. After you live in New York for a while, you stop thinkin' there are any heroes left, you know what I mean? You proved me wrong. What would you like for breakfast? And would you please tell me your proper name so I don't keep callin' you 'you.' "

  "Joseph Lennox. Joe, if you like."

  "No, I like Joseph more, if you don't mind. I've never liked nicknames much. What can I give you for breakfast, Mr. Joseph?"

  "Anything. Anything's fine."

  "Well, from the looks of my icebox, anythin' can be a cantaloupe, or fresh waffles and Canadian bacon, coffee . . ."