Century: “Hold those horses, McCoy.”
The phone rang again. Slava would really have to change the ringtone. He peered at the display — same number. Watching Beau recede down the hallway, he snatched the receiver.
“Allo?” a hoarse voice said in Russian. “Allo?”
“Yes?” Slava answered obediently.
“You are being called by Israel Abramson,” the caller announced. “Allo? You are very difficult to hear.” A throat was cleared on the other end. “Excuse me.” Then, with a mix of apology and disappointment: “You are busy?”
“Busy?” Slava said. “No. I’m sorry, who is this?”
“I heard about the letter you wrote for your grandfather,” Israel said. “It’s very good.”
Slava was stunned into silence. It couldn’t be. “I didn’t write any letters for my grandfather,” he said quickly.
“Take it easy, young gun,” Israel said. “Your secret’s safe with me. By the way, Israel’s not my real name. I took it when we came here, to show my support. It was Iosif before, but you know who else had that name.”
Slava didn’t say anything, his mind scrambling. Did Century keep phone records?
“Stalin!” Israel said. “You don’t know history? That butcher. In 1952, my cousin was working at the Second Children’s Hospital—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Slava said. “Israel… I’m sorry — what’s your patronymic?”
“Good manners still, that’s nice,” he said. “Arkadievich. Israel Arkadievich.”
“You… you…” Slava said.
“You want me to get to the point,” Israel said. “I understand completely. I want you to write a letter for me also. You wrote a pretty good letter for your grandfather. You need to pinch a couple of things here and there, but otherwise. I do some writing myself, I understand these things.”
“Maybe you should write it yourself,” Slava said. “Just to make sure you get everything right.”
“Oh, don’t be a schoolgirl.”
“I don’t want to talk about this at work,” Slava said. “How did you get my phone number?”
“The ghetto inmate himself gave it to me.”
“I have to call you back,” Slava said, and hung up.
He heard Arianna’s fingers rapping the divider. In the past week, they had taken to passing notes around it. Slava would hear a tap, and there would be a folded square of paper between two fingers reaching around the edge of the wall.
A: True or False: Leonardo da Vinci had six fingers on his left hand.
S: False.
A: True or False: I am not wearing underwear.
S: True.
A: True or False: I’ll stay late if you fuck me in the office.
S: Where?
A: On the couch in Beau’s office. Revenge.
Now her piece of paper said:
A: Everything all right?
S: 100 percent. Just going to make a call.
A: Mmmmkay.
Slava began to pound digits. He kept misdialing. If he had Grandfather’s calculating acumen, if Arianna had not interfered, probably he wouldn’t have dialed from his desk phone. Probably he would have gone into the library and called from his cell phone. Later, he would wonder about this moment.
“Yes,” Grandfather said wearily.
“I just had a really incredible phone conversation,” Slava barked in Russian into the phone.
“Who is this?” Grandfather slurred.
“Oh, come off it,” Slava said. “Do you understand what can happen if someone finds out?”
“Please don’t yell at me.”
“I’m not yelling, I’m whispering loudly.”
“I was proud of my grandson, what can I tell you.”
“Don’t give me that. Who is he, anyway? You need him for something?”
“I need him for something? He can barely walk.”
“You are not acquainted with the law here,” Slava said. “But they take this shit seriously.”
“You listen to me,” Grandfather said, his voice stiffening. “Your grandmother died not a week ago. You remember that, or you’re already on with your life? Because here, we still remember—”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with what I’m saying!”
“Here, we’re still mourning,” he went on. “And your philosophical questions… Your grandmother is in a coffin. There’s your philosophy, Einstein. So I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Who is he?”
“Who?”
“Israel. Iosif. Whatever his name is.”
“He’s from Minsk, too. We grew up together. We go to Dr. Korolenko together. I’ve got the gout, and he’s got knee stuff or whatever.”
“You don’t have gout.”
“Just don’t worry about it. He couldn’t come on Sunday, so he called to say his condolences. I thought you were a writer. So here’s another story.”
“You want to make a family tradition of going to prison?” Slava yelled. Immediately, he regretted it. Grandfather didn’t know that he knew.
The old man coughed painfully. He was so fragile, and Slava insisted on committing attacks. Then he said lightly, “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“I have to go,” Slava said as angrily as he could, and hung up.
His heart smashed in his chest. He made himself inhale and exhale. He was overreacting. Century didn’t keep phone records — why would it? He would tell Israel no, a misunderstanding, his fabulist grandfather, the usual schemes. Israel would grumble, and then it would be over. He couldn’t do it. Could he? Did Century keep phone records?
Sweat on his forehead, Slava opened his Web browser. In response to “Holocaust restitution claims,” he got a long list of newspaper stories about recent developments in the restitution program. Some group was getting together to advocate for an expansion of eligibility. Not what he needed. “Holocaust restitution claims,” he retyped, and then added, “fraud.” He had an alibi, if he ended up pinioned in some defendant box. He could have been researching an article, or a comedy item for “The Hoot.” Holocaust restitution-claim fraud: yuks.
He got a promising link. Professor Andrew Morton, Stanford Law School, “a leading authority on Holocaust restitution agreements, appeals, and abuses.” An alliterationist, to add. It was just after nine a.m. in California. He waited to hear what Arianna was doing. She was busy on a call, so he rose and stole off toward the fact-checkers’ library. Out of view in a dim corner, it had been left unrenovated during the makeover. As he was scouring the nooks for Century personnel, he remembered that he had left the search screen up on his desktop and, racing back to his desk, nearly toppled Arianna. “What’s with you?” she said, screwing up her face. “Tell you later,” he said.
“Professor Morton’s office,” a peppy, young voice said when he finally dialed. It had a proprietary air, its owner charged with guarding the oft-stormed gates of Andrew Morton’s life.
Slava made himself stop pacing and sit down in a torn armchair. “Professor Morton, please,” he said.
“And who may I say is calling?” the sun beamed protectively on the other end of the line.
“Peter Devicki,” Slava said. “From Century magazine,” he added meaningfully.
“Oh,” she said. Those magic words always parted the doors. “Just a second. It’s Century magazine,” she announced to the professor, as if she’d gotten Slava to call. He mumbled something and they giggled.