“Fucking Germans. Everything’s such a goddamn secret. No one tells me a goddamn thing. They think all Americans are out to fleece them, which I might just do so fucking gladly.”
Suzy smiles, comforted by Michael’s familiar grunt. Suddenly everything seems a bit simpler, easier.
“I swear, babe, the minute they come begging, I’m outta here. The bag’s all packed. The chauffeur’s getting antsy.”
“Then where to?”
“Why, you miss me?”
Typical. He ducks the question again. He never shares his itinerary beforehand. He lets her know where he is each time, but never before getting there.
“Does it matter?” She does miss him, but she won’t say.
“Babe, you have no idea.”
She is beginning to miss him more. It is all in her body. She must still be dreamy. “So what did Sandy have to say?” She changes the subject.
“Not good, I’m afraid.” He is hesitant.
“She didn’t find out?” A pang of disappointment. But it is hardly surprising. The INS, not the easiest place to crack.
“Believe me, she tried. Actually, it was some INS stringer who did. But the damnedest thing. It’s all blank. Nothing comes up.” Michael sounds unconvinced. “Yeah, you’re a citizen all right. So were your parents, and your sister. But that’s all there is. No past record of green cards or even visas. The guy said that it could be a case of special pardon or amnesty, or even NIW, which means National Interest Waiver, but that’s usually for only serious professionals like scientists or academics—you know, the sort of gigs considered to be of ‘national interest,’ which I assume wasn’t your parents’ case. But that still doesn’t explain why the file draws a blank. Whatever it is, it’s all classified. Suzy, take my word, leave it alone.”
That Park guy, he had it coming to him… He had friends in all sorts of places… I knew I didn’t want to mess with him. I’d seen what happens to guys who stand up to him.
“Babe, you okay?”
No one is as sharp as Michael. He can estimate any situation to its nth degree and react accordingly. A born businessman. A gift. So entirely different from Damian.
“Hey, forget it. It’s all in the past, useless.”
But the past is all she has.
“Thanks anyway. I appreciate this.”
“Christ, you sound like you don’t even fucking know me.”
When she puts the phone down, her first instinct is to grab her notepad to look up Kim Yong Su’s phone number. But then she remembers that he did not have a phone number, only a pager, which never picked up. Besides, he is probably not at home right now. There was something in his testimony about working part-time on weekends. Moonlighting as a watchman at a fruit-and-vegetable store. The Hunts Point Market closes on weekends, and he needs the extra cash. She can feel the sudden aches coursing through her body. She puts her coat on, although she cannot remember where Kim claimed that he works on weekends. The Bronx, she vaguely recalls, near Yankee Stadium. That doesn’t tell her much. There could be at least twenty Korean markets around there. Korean store-owners generally tend to know each other, especially if they compete in the same neighborhood. Maybe one of them would direct her to him. It would be crazy to roam the streets of the Bronx in this rain, in her state, when she is shivering even here in the warmth of her apartment.
Once outside, she immediately realizes that she has the wrong shoes on. The rain is mixed with something resembling hail. Pelting ice drops. The pavement is a mess, wet and slippery. Hardly anyone on the street, a rare thing on St. Marks Place. Gone are the usual brunch crowds who flock to the East Village on weekends. Some have skipped town altogether for an early Thanksgiving break. Some are holed up in their railroad flats with movies and takeout. Just two more blocks to the Astor Place subway stop. It is then that she remembers she meant to get a bottle of cold medicine. Benadryl, Sudafed, even echinacea, any of them will do.
So, instead of walking straight, she turns north on Second Avenue. There is a Korean market on the east side of the avenue. They sell fruits mostly, but, like all other Korean stores, they also carry almost everything, from candies to cashew nuts to condoms. The prematurely balding man behind the cash register always tries to speak Korean to her, but she never engages. She is not good at small talk, especially not with a stranger from whom she buys fruit almost daily. The storefront reveals a colorful display of clementines, cantaloupes, plums, strawberries, even cherries. New York is the Garden of Eden. Even in such November rain, most tropical fruits are all here, right on Second Avenue. She shuts her umbrella and picks up a few clementines before going inside, where the cashier stands grinning at her. He must have seen her entering in the surveillance mirror on the ceiling.
“An-nyung-ha-sae-yo,” he greets, as if daring her to answer in Korean.
“Cold medicine, please, anything you think good is fine,” Suzy says in English, hoping to discourage him.
“Anything?” he responds in Korean. He is extra-friendly today. Or he is bored, not many customers this afternoon.
“Anything,” she repeats in English. Now that she is inside, she can feel cold sweat running down her back. The sure sign of a fever.
“This good?” He grins, handing her a bottle of echinacea. Of course, the East Village’s first choice. No one believes in synthetic drugs anymore. She is about to take out her wallet when she notices that the man is still grinning.
“Boyfriend?” As he leans forward, the bald spot on his head catches the ray of the lightbulb.
“Excuse me?” The man’s a real pain, she thinks.
“That guy out there, he your boyfriend?” He points his index finger toward the door. Suzy turns, catching a glimpse of someone dashing off.
The clementines tumble to the floor as Suzy runs outside. She looks frantically in both directions, and spots the man under a black umbrella, walking briskly. From the back, he appears to be dragging his right foot slightly, or maybe the ground is so slippery that he is having difficulty running. Even as he crosses First Avenue to head toward Avenue A, he never looks back. Suzy keeps up at a ten-pace distance, knowing that he will have to stop soon. Ninth Street comes to a dead end at Avenue A, where Tompkins Square Park takes up three blocks in both directions. When he reaches the park, he halts for a few seconds, as if he cannot decide which way to continue. He can either make a ninety-degree turn onto Avenue A or go straight into the park, which is empty except for a few homeless men who’ve made puddly shelters on benches barely shielded under tentlike coverings.
He quickly enters the tiny fenced-in area between a dog run and a basketball court. He may have decided to give up the charade. He may be planning his next move. From behind, the man is nothing but a collage of a black umbrella and a black raincoat. For a second, she wonders if she is following the right man after all. Maybe the real guy disappeared in a different direction. Maybe he ducked into a cab that had been waiting. Maybe he dodged into the diner next door and watched her follow another man. Anything is possible, as she circles the park for the fourth time, waiting for the guy to make his move.
Suzy is now wondering if she should catch up to him after all. It does not look like he will do anything other than amble through the park. She must be trailing the wrong man. Maybe he’s just one of those aimless people who like to meander in parks on rainy Saturdays. As she is contemplating what to do next, he suddenly takes the St. Marks Place exit back at Avenue A. He’s decided to leave, obviously, for reasons she cannot tell. He trots along, back toward Second Avenue. The rain is fiercer. She is getting drenched. The umbrella is definitely not strong enough; its spokes keep flipping in whichever direction the wind blows. Already a few of the spines have broken loose, one of them dangling before her eyes at a precarious angle. She might just as well throw it out and take the rain as it comes. Now, suddenly, there are more people on the street. A crowd sweeps past her, which must’ve poured out of the monstrous Sony Cineplex nearby, or the New Village Theater, where a certain British troupe has been recycling the same sellout number for the past five years. But do shows run this early? Is this the matinee crowd? Then she realizes that it is suddenly impossible to tell which black umbrella belongs to the man. In a mere second, he seems to have gone missing amidst the dancing umbrellas before her eyes. All the strength in her body gives at once, and she is not sure where to turn, what comes next. She knows only how bitterly cold she is suddenly, how wet her clothes are. She is no longer holding the umbrella. What did she do with it? Did it fly off with the wind? She has begun looking around frantically, when something bright and yellow flashes right under her eyes.