“Maybe that’s why Simonova trusted you, because you understood.”
“Maybe. God, the stories. She told me she had slept with Che when he visited the Soviet Union, stuff like that,” said Lily. “Was it true? I don’t know. I didn’t care. The stories, the folk music, the endless talk about politics.” Lily got up. “You remember that time I got drunk and got up on the table and sang old Union songs?”
“Do I ever. Something about, what was it, ‘ the vaults are made of marble with a guard at every door,’ and then I forget.”
“ ‘ And the mines are stuffed with silver that the miners sweated for. ’ ” Lily laughed. “You want me to sing some more?”
“No, thanks.”
“Did you know my dad’s last wife was black? Fourth wife. Long after I left home. It validated him, and Virginia, that was her name, was very good to him, self-obsessed bastard that he was. We were raised to love and admire and understand what black people did and had endured. It was important. It was a cause, something to fight, to win.”
“Obama gave you that back?”
“In a way. Those days. Long time.” She looked at me. “Artie, I know you want to look around, so go ahead. I’ll wait here. I’ll sit on Marianna’s sofa one last time.”
A few things were slightly out of place in the apartment, things I hadn’t noticed before. I had a sense that papers on the desk were not where they had been this morning. A drinking glass that had been on the table near the sofa was gone. Even the smell in the room was somehow different.
“I noticed you left a present for her,” I said to Lily, gesturing to the Christmas tree I’d seen earlier. Alongside the gifts for Simonova, was a pile of stuff still unwrapped. “What’s all this?”
“She bought stuff for everyone,” Lily crossed to the tree. “She was planning to wrap them today. She had already written the cards.”
There were liqueur chocolates in a Russian lacquered box for Regina McGee; for Lionel Hutchison there were Russian cigarettes and a fancy lighter. A Russian box had a muscle man on the label and the words “Elixir of Life.” On the card, Simonova had written “To Lionel, who is the elixir of life.”
For Carver Lennox there was a fancy silver samovar. Draped over a chair were green velour Christmas stockings full of Alenka chocolates, addressed to Allison and Thomas Lennox. In the stockings were also crisp hundred-dollar bills, one each.
“Who are these people?”
“Carver Lennox’s kids,” said Lily.
“Simonova knew them? They were important enough to her to give them money?”
“I don’t know,” Lily said.
I picked up one of the chocolate bars.
I’d grown up on Alenka chocolate, from the Red October factory; it never failed to take me back to my childhood, the chocolate bars with the picture of a little girl in a headscarf, a baby babushka, that too-sweet chocolate we thought the best thing on earth.
“Where did she get all this Russian stuff? Brighton Beach?”
“Shop in Washington Heights,” said Lily. “I went with her once.”
“What about you?” I said to Lily. “What did she give you.”
“A necklace her mother gave her,” she said. “And a biography of Robeson, and a nicely bound copy of Das Kapital, a really good edition.”
I looked through the presents again. “There’s something else for you here.” I picked up a small red-foil envelope.
“You open it, Artie. Or let’s take it with us. I want to get out of here.”
“Sure.”
“I want to go get dressed for the party,” Lily said. “I’ve had enough of the past. They’re all dead, my parents, their friends, their ideals. Marianna was my last connection to all that.” Lily pushed her hair back. “She remembered, she knew some of them, she had even heard of my Uncle Lenny. Another world. God. Now she’s dead. They’re all dead.” Lily looked around Simonova’s apartment. “I won’t come back here. I don’t want to be here again.”
I knew I would come back. I knew there was something here that I had missed. I couldn’t stay away.
CHAPTER 22
T he Hutchisons’ dog was barking. In the hallway, as we crossed to Lily’s place, Marie Louise was cowering against the wall.
“What’s wrong?” Lily asked her.
“It’s that dog. I was coming from the elevator, and the dog begins to bark. Lily, please, make the dog stay away.”
“It’s OK,” said Lily. “He’s inside the apartment.”
In basement light, I hadn’t really seen how beautiful Marie Louise was. She wasn’t more than thirty-five. She wore jeans and a white sweater, over one arm was a beige down coat, over her other shoulder a fake Vuitton purse. She was terrified. Again, the dog barked, and she moved in closer to Lily.
“It’s just Ed, the Hutchisons’ old pooch,” said Lily. “He really won’t hurt you. Artie, this is Marie Louise Semake.” When I shook her hand, it was cold with fear. “She works for several people on this floor,” Lily added and asked if she was OK.
“I think so,” she said. “But, Lily, please, tell me, what is the matter with Madame Simonova? I’ve been trying to phone to her for many hours. I was supposed to prepare supper for her today, but there is no answer, and I have no keys. I tried you earlier, but you did not respond.”
“I’m sorry,” said Lily. “I probably missed your call.”
“Something bad has happened? I feel this,” said the woman. “Is she worse?”
“Yes,” said Lily, then, leaning forward, spoke very softly to Marie Louise, who put her hand over her mouth.
Carver Lennox appeared in the hallway, suddenly, as if he had heard our voices. His horn-rim glasses were pushed up on top of his head, and he seemed to be in a hurry.
“Good, you’re here; I can use some help,” he said to her. “Marie, can you help me out?”
The dog barked again. A look of sheer terror crossed Marie Louise’s face.
“You tell me this is just an old dog, Lily, but this black dog that belongs to Mrs. Hutchison. In my country, this is how evil spirits reveal themselves, in this shape, as a black dog.”
“Marie?” Lennox was impatient. “Are you coming? I can’t wait all night.” He held the door open to let her in. She hurried inside as if nothing could be worse than the sound of the dog.
“Bastard,” said Lily when we got inside her apartment.
“Lennox?”
“Yeah,” said Lily when we were back in her apartment. “He treats Marie Louise like a servant. She was a doctor, Artie. In her country she’s a doctor. Here, she cleans up other people’s shit to support her kids-she has two little boys. She puts up with it, but Lennox is a real prick.”
“Not your favorite guy?”
“He’s on the make all the time.”
“Women?”
“Money.”
“A bastard how?”
“He already has a job downtown, but he develops real estate in his spare time.”
“And the others?”
“What others?”
“In the building.”
“They’re OK. And a lot of them are just old, old and wanting something to do, somebody to talk to. You want to meet them all?”
“Yes.”
“Come to the party tonight?”
“The weather’s lousy.” I didn’t want to drive all the way home in the stinking weather. I had once skidded on the FDR and almost gone into the half-frozen river. I told Lily.
“You don’t have to go all the way home,” she said. “You can stay.”
I was pathetic, eager, desperate. I wondered what she’d do if I kissed her. I couldn’t make a bad move, not this time. “I’ll stay, if you’re sure that’s OK.”
“Great. I’ll call Sugar Hill Inn-it’s a nice B amp;B-I’ll fix a room for you there. That way you won’t have to drive downtown later.”
“Because Virgil will be staying with you?”
“It’s not your business now. I’m not asking you to stay here with me because, yeah, I’m sort of involved with Virgil, OK? We’ve been through this. I can’t do this all over again,” said Lily. “I can only think about what’s happened here, Artie. Please. Just help me.”
“I’ll help you.”