He was startled by the ring of the phone. The last time it had rung this late, it had been to announce Grandmother’s last trip to Maimonides. It rang several times before he picked up.
“Mr. Gelmonn?” arrived nasally from the other end. “I hef hea — Vyacheslav Gelman? Slava Gelman? Sam Gelman?”
“Who?” Slava said. No one used his full name. Sam Gelman? He had used that name for a year in junior high school.
“Vee-ya-chess-love Gelman,” the nose continued to prod. “Terrific and unusual name. Is the number correct?”
“No, it’s me,” Slava said. He tried to chase the fatigue from his eyes. “Who’s calling?”
“My name is Otto Barber. From the Conference on Material Claims Against Germany.”
Slava’s blood froze.
“Mr. Gelman?”
“Yes?”
“Your assistance would be most valuable.”
“I don’t understand,” Slava said.
“Mr. Gelman, it has been to us a report,” Otto Barber went on conspiratorially. “Regarding some of the letters that have arrived for the restitution. So I am hoping to speak with you.”
Slava walked over to his futon and made himself lie down, as if to enforce casualness. “I don’t understand,” he repeated.
“I will explain all, naturally,” Otto Barber said.
“How did you reach me?” Slava said, stalling. He wasn’t going to write any more! He was the smoker who quits the day before he finds out he has cancer.
“Ze White Pages? Ze Yellow Pages? It is a listed number, excuse me.”
Was it? “You’re calling very late,” Slava said, then wondered if he was giving himself away, too defensive. He had never thought about the phone. On the street, he turned around every time he was in Brooklyn. Foolishness — what, they were going to swoop down on him with sirens? It’s never what you think.
“That is absolutely without manners, I agree,” Otto said. “You have to please forgive me. I am like the rodent in the wheel here — meeting number one, meeting number two… We have meetings to plan meetings. It is quite unbelievable, actually: It is ten P.M., and have I been eating my dinner? No!” He giggled.
Slava didn’t answer.
“Mr. Gelman, the letters are false!” Otto barreled on. “Can you believe this? Do you know anything about it, please?”
“Why would I know anything about it?” Slava insisted.
“Shame!” Otto bellowed, and giggled again. “I had my fingers crossed, I am telling you! Mr. Gelman, I would like to meet with you to discuss this subject. What you can tell us can be very valuable.”
“What I can tell you?” Slava said.
“I would not dream of requesting you to come visit us at the Conference here — though it’s a nice building and the coffee is free, yes! But maybe you and I drink something stronger together? If so, I’m buying! You are doing me the favor, Mr. Gelman, so I can come to you.”
“I don’t know what I can tell you,” Slava repeated. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“To do with it?” Otto shouted. “Oh my goodness, what laughter. You are a joker like me, Mr. Gelman. Together, we will get along. No, Mr. Gelman—to do with it? What, you wrote the false ones? Ha-ha-ha. No, Mr. Gelman, I want your… consulting. You are a complete American. You live on the Upper East Side, you work at Century magazine — though I find it quite boring, excuse me, our secret! — and yet you can understand the Russian person’s thinking. Why does someone do this, how does someone do this. Because I am not trained for this kind of — sleuthing, I learned this word recently. I am, quite frankly — how do you say it — out of my level.”
Slava’s mind raced. If he turned Otto down, that would only increase suspicion. But why? Slava had every right to wish not to get involved. He had decided to separate from his neighborhood, so this was exactly the kind of entanglement he meant to stay away from. However, Otto knew a frightening number of things about him — how? No, Slava had to agree to a meeting. Under the guise of giving advice, he could ferret out what the German knew. Also, he needed to burn every piece of hard-copy evidence, retrieve the faxes from Grandfather’s house, delete the files from his computer…
It had finally happened. Even as, all these weeks, he simultaneously dreaded and brushed away the possibility — why did he have to be caught? he didn’t — Slava didn’t feel surprise at the news on the other end of the line. It was relief of a kind: It had finally happened, the worst was in, and now he could get down to dealing with it. He had to start by meeting Otto. Certainly, he wasn’t going to allow Otto to visit him at home; no, he wasn’t as easy as that. But it would seem strange if Slava volunteered to go to the Conference — an overaccommodation. Fine, they would meet in a bar. Slava would nurse a beer and Otto would keep drinking until he started to become careless with his words. That was the way.
“When do you want to meet?” Slava said. “I can meet tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Otto said. “Thanks God it’s Friday, am I right? No, take the weekend, Mr. Gelman. We are not solving a murder here, ha-ha. This can keep — is that the expression? Is Monday available for you? Monday evening. I am finishing here at six P.M., even if they try to keep me with chains. That’s the finishing hour at Century, isn’t it?”
How did he know these things? Slava cursed himself for being too eager. “Seven?” he said weakly. It would be light out still, that felt safer somehow. Slava gave Otto the name of a bar in the neighborhood. If the man wanted advice so much, yes, he could come to Slava. The pub was neither a dive nor fashionable; it was invisible in the way Slava wanted.
“That is so convenient,” Otto exclaimed. “I live in the neighborhood! The Yorkville area has a fantastic German history. I am almost like home!” He mentioned a bakery that prepared strudel and a butcher’s that had been selling wurst since the 1920s. “I would not say, if we agree to be honest, the Upper East Side is a neighborhood for a thinking person. It is the Florida of New York, no? The recent graduates of the colleges, they are drinking themselves to blindness and everyone else is slowly waiting to die, even if they are forty years old! If the small German connection was not present, I would not live there.”
Slava was still processing the news that he and Otto lived in the same neighborhood. Had Otto seen him on the street? Had they eaten at the same restaurant? Had Otto watched him from across a bar? Slava had never thought to look around him in Manhattan, only Brooklyn. They were neighbors.
“Akh, Mr. Gelman, you really have to forgive me. It’s ten o’clock and I am chewing your ear with this nonsense. We will talk about everything — about war, and maybe also a little bit about writing — when we meet. I look forward to it! Do you forgive me for calling so late?”
He really wanted an answer. Slava heard himself forgiving the German. The German erupted into a new series of exclamations. Only then did he bid Slava goodbye.
14
SATURDAY, AUGUST 26, 2006