“Hold on,” she said, distracted, looking something up in the dictionary. Nick walked over to the window and looked across the street to where the hansom cabs were idling in the afternoon sun.
“Serebro,” Molly said, running her finger down a page. “Yes. Come look.” But Nick was still eyeing the street, watching the taxis pull up under the 59th Street awning. She brought the book over to him, pointing to the word.
“Silver,” he said. “By him or about him?”
“By him. The signature.”
He glanced at the photograph. A report, exactly like the others, same format, so not original, typed by someone in Moscow. From cables? By Nina, perhaps, his father’s friend, Silver’s admirer. “Yes, but we have to know what it says. Didn’t any of your friends go into the translating business?”
“No, only dirty pictures.” She hesitated. “You could ask your father. He’d know someone.”
“You could ask Jeff,” he answered back. “Want the phone?”
“Look, let’s think about this. What would reports say? Not necessarily who they are, just what they’re passing on. I mean, the reports still might not identify them. You’d have to know who the code names referred to.”
“Great. No, we need the context. I mean, if it’s a trade report, it’s someone in Commerce. Like that.”
“But how would we know exactly who in Commerce? Are you listening to me? What are you looking at?”
“It’s a pickup zone,” Nick said, still watching out the window. “So why is that car just sitting there? The doorman acts like he doesn’t even see it.”
“Maybe it’s waiting.”
“I don’t think so. Two guys. Feels like old home week to me.”
“Let me see,” Molly said, getting up, accidentally knocking the photographs to the floor. “Shit.” She bent down, collecting them.
“One of them’s on the corner, so they’ve got both entrances covered.”
“Don’t get paranoid,” Molly said, still crouched down, sorting the pictures. “I’ll bet it’s a divorce. This isn’t Prague, remember?”
Nick said nothing. The man below lit a cigarette.
“Well, bless me for a fool,” Molly said. “Nick, look.”
“What?”
“I thought they were all alike, but look. At the end.” Nick came over. “It’s a list.”
He took the photograph. “But of what?”
“Code names and addresses. Five of them. See. That’s NW at the end.”
“Washington.”
“There’s Otto. Come on, we can translate this. The street names’ll be in English.”
“What were the letters for Silver?”
She glanced down the list. “He’s not here.”
But someone can lead me to him. “Never mind. Let’s do the others.” He grinned at her. “How’d you get so smart anyway?”
“Bronxville High,” she said. “Look at Richie.”
The maid opened the door, someone new, a thin black woman wearing a housedress and comfortable bedroom slippers.
“She’s in there, feeling sorry for herself. See if you can get her to eat something.”
His mother was sitting on the long couch, staring out across the park. The room was almost dark.
“There you are,” she said, holding out her arms. “I was getting worried.”
He leaned down and kissed her, smelling the gin on her breath. “Want a light?” he said, reaching for the lamp.
“No, leave it. It’s nice like this. Anyway, I look terrible.” Her face in fact was blotchy, like a blur sitting on top the sharp edges of her perfect suit and its gleaming brass buttons. “I’m having a cocktail.” She glanced up. “Just one. You?” He shook his head. “I don’t know why. I don’t really like them.” She took a sip from the wide-mouthed glass. “Did you see Larry?”
He took a seat beside the couch, unnerved by her voice-dreamy, the way it had been the day after his father left.
“He said you were in jail.”
“No,” Nick said. “The police just asked me some questions. I’m all right.”
She turned her eyes back to the window. “What did he look like?”
“The same. Thinner. Not as much hair.”
“Waves,” she said absently. “It’s hard to imagine-” Nick waited.
“Was he happy?” But she caught the absurdity of it herself. “Before the end, I mean.” She reached for a cigarette.
“No. Not happy. I think he just made the best of it. While he could.”
“Isn’t it terrible? I don’t think I could stand it if he’d been happy. Isn’t it terrible. To feel that.”
“He asked about you.”
“Did he?” she said, her voice almost eager, and then she was crying, her face scrunched like a child’s. “I’m sorry,” she said, running a finger under her eyes. “I don’t know why I mind so much. I didn’t expect to. You’d think-” She took out a handkerchief and wiped her face. “I must look like hell. I’ve been doing this all day. Silly, isn’t it? It’s just that I keep thinking-” Nick looked at her curiously. All these years without a word. She blew her nose. “What did he say?”
“He wondered if you’d ever want to see him again.”
“If I’d ever want to see him again,” she repeated dully, staring at the handkerchief. “I won’t now, will I? He’s really gone, not just away somewhere.” She paused. “I’ve never been a widow before. All of a sudden, you’re alone.” She tried to smile, airy. “Nobody to go dancing with. Hear the songs. He was a good dancer, did you know?”
“No.”
“We used to have fun. I’d get all dressed up, he liked that, and-” She stopped again, catching his look. “Don’t worry. It’s just that it all comes back. All the fun.” Her eyes went back to the window, fixed somewhere in the fading light. A silence. “See him again,” she said slowly. “I wanted to see him every day. Every single day.”
I hope you die, she’d said.
“I never knew you felt that way. I mean, after-”
“Didn’t you? No, nobody did. Maybe I didn’t myself. I thought it would stop,” she said to herself, still staring out the window. “How do you stop? I was in love with him,” she said simply. The rest of it doesn’t matter, you know. Not any of it. I was in love with him.“ Her voice was dreamy again. ”People don’t say that anymore, do they? ‘In love.’ “
Nick looked at her, remembering his awkwardness on the train.
“But then, we were all like that. Drugged with it. That was our drug. All those songs. It’s what everybody wanted, to fall in love. Maybe it was the war, I don’t know. But I did. Just like in the songs. He would just walk into the room.” She paused. “Just walk into the room. That’s all. And I’d be-” She stopped and looked at him. “Am I embarrassing you? Children never think their parents feel anything.” Her face softened. “But you’re not a child anymore. You look so much like him. The same eyes.”
“He never stopped loving you either.” A kindness, but wasn’t it true? He remembered the look on his father’s face when he asked about her.
“Did he say that?” Her eyes moist again.
Nick nodded, not quite a lie.
“No, you never stop. I don’t think I realized it until I heard.” She turned back to the window. “I thought he — took it with him. Everything. The way he took the fun. And then I heard and it all came back. He was there all the time. Nobody else. I didn’t know.” She started crying again, shuddering, shaking her head. “Nobody told me I’d miss him. Nobody told me. Then you’re alone.” She turned her head, a thin wail, no louder than a sigh.
Nick looked at her, dismayed. “You’re not alone.”
She reached over and put her hand on his arm. “I know, honey, I didn’t mean it that way.” She sniffled,
