She is zipping up her knee-high boots when the phone rings. Ten-thirty on Friday morning. Who else but Michael? His daily phone call. His daily declaration of love, or need. It is good to have a routine. The only problem is that, by the time you get used to it, something inevitably happens to break it. She picks up the phone on its third ring. He should be impressed. He knows she is bending rules for him.
“Michael, I’m on my way out, can you call me later?”
No response. His phone must be acting up again. He must be out of Germany now. The connection is never a problem from there.
“Michael? Your cell’s not connecting. I can’t hear you.”
He must be calling from Southern Europe. Portugal, maybe Spain, if he is lucky. Michael chuckled when Microsoft announced the downsizing of their Madrid office. “Those hotblooded Spanish will rock you with their fiestas and siestas. But are they Web-ready? Do they care? They’ll be the last civilization to hook up. Why should they, when they actually prefer their world to the virtual one?”
“Michael, it’s useless. I’m hanging up.”
Then she hears it. The perfect silence. No static. No distance on the connection. This call could be coming from down the block. It is not Michael. It is not Michael on the other end.
“Who is this?” Dropping her bag, she throws a quick glance at the dead irises dried up in the Evian bottle.
“Damian?” Part of her is hoping. Of course it cannot be Damian. He would not be calling her. Not like this anyway.
“I’m going to hang up if you don’t speak.”
She is about to take the receiver off her ear when the voice stops her. A male voice. Shaky and unnaturally low, with a distinct Korean accent.
“Don’t.” It is not clear if he just has a feeble voice or is talking in a whisper.
“Who is this? Who are you?” She speaks slowly, strangely calm, as though she has been expecting him.
“I call to tell you… No more. Stop. No more talk with people. No police.” His English is just barely comprehensible. But he won’t speak in Korean. Maybe he is afraid that she will recognize his voice if he speaks with fluency. Maybe he is calling from somewhere not private. She tries anyway and asks in Korean, “Stop what? What’re you talking about?”
“Your parents dead. No more. Stop now.” He insists on his broken English. Barely a whisper. She won’t recognize his voice even if she hears it again.
“What do you mean? Who are you?”
“No. Nothing. They do not kill your parents. So stop.”
He is about to hang up. She can sense it. She cannot let him get away. He is the only clue she’s got.
“Wait! Who’s they? What did they have to do with my parents’ death?”
“Your parents dead. Nothing change. They watch you.”
He is gone. She can tell even before she hears the click.
Stop poking around, unless she wants to get hurt.
Is it a warning, or a threat?
Who is watching her?
Who are they?
Who is he?
She is slumped on the kitchen floor staring at the phone when it rings again. She snatches the receiver almost instantly. Has he changed his mind? Is there something he forgot to say?
“Wow, what’s with you?”
It is Michael. The real Michael this time.
“Babe, what’s going on? You been waiting for my call or something? Suzy, are you there? Suzy, hello?”
Her heart is beating too fast. She shuts her eyes and counts to three.
“Suzy, what’s the matter? You sick or something?” He is not used to a sick mistress. He sounds uncertain suddenly.
“Hi, I… I’m just a bit out of sorts.”
“Shit, I thought I’d have to jet over, scoop you in my arms, and lick your wounds!”
“Michael, I’m a bit scared.” She cannot help it. Sometimes the truth is easier with someone for whom it won’t matter much.
“Christ, Suzy, what’s going on with you?” He sounds more alert now. He is not used to vulnerable Suzy. He is not sure how to respond.
“Nothing at all. I think it’s my period.” She quickly change her mind. It is not fair to dump it on Michael. It is too late for them to be anything but what they are. It is really not his fault.
“Christ, sometimes you fucking surprise me.” He breaks into nervous laughter. He is relieved.
“I think I better go lie down.”
“You do that. But I’m gonna call and check up on you.”
“Don’t. I’m gonna sleep for a while.” She does not want any more calls this morning.
“You need anything? Should I get Sandy to send you a doctor or something?”
Suzy laughs at his suggestion. How absurd, a doctor making a house call to her East Village flat? Michael. He will try anything. He will make anything happen. Anything. Of course, why hasn’t she thought of it before?
“There is something, actually.”
“Just name it.” Michael is trying to hide his surprise. Suzy has never asked for anything. She has never had a request for him.
“I need to find out about my citizenship status. And that of my parents. I need to know on what grounds those citizenships were issued, if they were issued. I need them fairly soon.”
“Done. Sandy will call you in five minutes and take down the info. I’ll tell her to send you a doctor also. What else?” He is a good businessman. Gets the job done. No questions asked.
“Nothing else.”
“Sure?”
Suzy is suddenly so grateful that she wants to cry. She must have been alone for too long. She is not used to getting help.
“Michael?”
“What?”
“Thank you.”
“Shut up and go get some sleep. And for God’s sake, don’t act so fucking polite.”
From her seat at the window, she can see the bustle on 32nd Street. The same bone-marrow-soup restaurant, just downstairs from the accountant’s office. Several tables are occupied already although it is barely noon, not quite lunchtime. Whereas Americans crave eggs and bacon on bleary mornings, Koreans go straight for a steaming bowl of bone soup topped with freshly chopped scallions. They swear that it magically heals the unsettled stomach, the best cure in the world for hangovers. Koreans are known as the Italians of the East. They drink hard and eat to their heart’s content. Indeed, the faces bending over the clay bowls appear quite pale, as though they have not yet recovered from the night’s triple rounds of soju and karaoke. Some of them sneak glances at Suzy sitting alone, hiding behind the Korea Daily, which she bought from the dispenser upon entering the restaurant. The sudden flash of Korean letters confuses her for a second. She glares at the print without making sense of it. She stares instead at the row of restaurants across the street. The second-floor windows are plastered with neon signs for hair salons, acupuncturists, even a twenty-four-hour steam bath. The third and fourth floors continue up the same way, cluttered with shops that only Koreans frequent. It is a way of cramming the immigrant life into one tiny block. One could stroll back and forth along this quarter-mile stretch and find anything, from bridal gowns to Xerox toners. Nothing is missing. No craving is hard to fill. It’s all here, right on 32nd Street.
The accountant was useless. Mr. Bae was his name. A smallish man with a shocking amount of grease in his neatly parted hair. He barely looked up when Suzy entered. Although she introduced herself three times, he continued to ignore her. Even his assistant seemed embarrassed by such an outrageously rude reception. When Suzy started to ask him about her parents’ file, he cut her off in the middle, “First, your sister specifically asked me not to engage in any talks with you. Second, your sister has terminated her business with me as of last week, so I’m no longer working on her case, which naturally includes your parents’ file. Third, I told you once that you’ll regret giving up your inheritance rights, but, just like your sister, you thought my advice wasn’t worth a dime. Fourth, as you can see, I’m a busy man, with more than enough work to do for my clients, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop wasting my time.” Then he turned back to the stack of files on his desk, leaving Suzy standing there tongue-tied. His hostility seemed unreasonable and clearly immutable. So Suzy walked out, feeling wounded, as though she had just been scolded by someone dear, and it wasn’t until she reached downstairs that she remembered bone-marrow soup and felt suddenly hopeful.