That got a mild laugh from Esther, and a chuckle from Solomon. Even Grelich gave a sour grunt of approval.
“Boychick,” said Grelich, “I didn’t know you were a writer.”
“Well, scarcely a
“You’re a writer?” Jakob the waiter asked. He had been listening to the conversation while serving the dishes.
“Well, I do write,” Ritchie said. His recent experiences with real professional writers, who posted messages and comments on his Message Board from time to time, had convinced him that his best policy was to make no public claims for himself, at least not until he had a few professional sales.
“A writer,” Jakob mused, drying his hands on his apron. “I’m in the publishing business myself.”
“You’re a publisher?” Grelich asked.
“No, I’m a translator. From the Rumanian. I have a Rumanian science-fiction writer I translate for.”
“You translate into English?” Grelich asked.
“Of course, English, what else? Urdu?”
Ritchie said, “What is this writer’s name?”
He couldn’t make it out even after several repetitions, so he decided to learn it later, and write it down, see if the name turned out to be of any importance.
“Has he published?” Ritchie asked.
“In English, no. In Rumanian, plenty. It’s only a matter of time before I sell him here.”
“You’re his agent, too?” Ritchie asked.
“I have that honor.”
Ritchie wanted to ask Leiber how good his agent contacts were, and whether he was taking on any new clients. But he couldn’t find a way of slipping it into the conversation. He decided he’d come back to Ratstein’s on his own some other time, go into the matter again, without Solomon and Esther, and, with a little luck, without Grelich. For a beginning writer it was always worthwhile checking out an agent, no matter what else he did.
“Anyhow,” Grelich said, “we’re here to discuss this situation I’ve got, with this goy lodged in my head.”
No one had any ideas about it. They considered Ritchie’s suggestion that they all return to his apartment. But Solomon was tired and had an appointment in the early evening; Grelich had had enough argument for the day, and Esther was looking forward to her late afternoon television.
They all agreed to meet tomorrow evening, first at the East Broadway cafeteria, then, after Ritchie said he’d pick up the tab, at Ratstein’s.
Exhaustion ended the night for both Ritchie and Grelich. Ritchie had a long, dreamless sleep in his own bed.
In the morning, after Ritchie made coffee, they agreed that it was time to go downtown to the MMT sales office and find out what had gone wrong.
Grelich was feeling a little funny about this. His desire to kill himself had abated remarkably. In fact, his suicidal urge had vanished. Replacing it was an unexpected zest for life, the strongest he had ever known.
It was difficult to account for this. Maybe the medical procedure, even though it had not killed him, had driven philosophical despair out of his head. These problems, which had recently driven him to suicide, seemed academic to him now, even puerile. Why kill yourself because you can’t decide whether God exists or not?
Ritchie for his part wanted to own his own headspace uncluttered with Grelich. But he liked Grelich’s friends. Esther looked like she had been a classy lady. Solomon was interesting. Ritchie hadn’t known there were any black Jews. He wanted to find out how this had come about.
And there was Leiber, a possible agent contact.
Of course, Leiber was not a friend of Grelich’s, but Ritchie owed the meeting to his association—or amalgamation? —with Grelich.
Ritchie also had a well-developed sense of fairness. It didn’t seem right for him to bring about the death of the man whose presence had helped him meet Leiber, a man who, if he was a real agent, could change his life.
Despite that, he hated the idea of Grelich being in his head with him. Was he maybe even snooping on Ritchie’s memories?
Grelich was acting correctly, however. He didn’t stop them from going to the MMT office to find out about his aborted death, even though with his superior control of the body—after all, he was the original occupant—he could have prevented the move, could have made them both stay in the apartment all day, or walk in the park, or see a movie.
Instead, they taxied down to 23rd Street.
Grelich, with Ritchie aboard, entered the offices of MMT and told the receptionist that he wanted to see Sven Mayer, the president.
They waited while the receptionist whispered into the phone. Ritchie was expecting they’d be told Mayer wasn’t in, they would have to talk with some flunky who would tell them he knew nothing about this but would get back to him “as soon as possible.”
But no such thing happened. The receptionist told them that Mr. Mayer was in his office, expecting them— last on the left at the end of the corridor.
Mayer was a short, stocky white-haired man. “Come in,” he called when they knocked at the door. “Mr. Grelich! And Mr. Castleman is in there with you?”
“I am,” Ritchie said. “And I demand an explanation.”
“Of course you do,” Mayer said. “Come in, have a seat. Coffee? Something stronger?”
“Coffee, black, no cream,” Grelich said.
Mayer said a few words into the phone. “It’s on its way. Gentlemen, I am so sorry... “
“You didn’t return our calls,” Ritchie said.
“I apologize. Miss Christiansen, our regular receptionist, left early when Nathan didn’t show up at the lab. She didn’t come in today. The one outside is a temp. When I reached Miss Christiansen today by phone, she claimed she didn’t know anything about the situation.”
“Hah!” said Grelich.
Mayer went on, “So far I have been unable to locate Nathan, the lab tech, the one who actually did your operation. Or botched it, I should say.”
“Nathan,” Grelich said darkly.
“He is the one we will have to talk to, the only one likely to have an explanation for how this sorry situation came to pass.”
“But where is this Nathan?” Ritchie asked.
Mayer shrugged. “I phoned his boarding house, he wasn’t there. I talked with his rabbi, whom he gave as his main reference when he applied for this job. His Rabbi, Zvi Cohen, said he hadn’t spoken with Nathan in over a week. I went myself to the handball courts at 92nd and Riverside, at the rabbi’s suggestion. None of the players had seen Nathan in several days.”
“Have you notified the police yet?”
“I shall have to, if he doesn’t show up very soon. I have no other way to trace him.”
Ritchie asked, “What about my own body? The Castleman body?”
“I’m afraid it didn’t survive the transfer,” Mayer said. “As we expected. It has been disposed of according to your instructions.”
Hearing that his body was irrevocably gone gave Ritchie a pang of regret. It hadn’t been a particularly nice body, but it had been his for a long time. And now he had no physical body. Except for Grelich’s body, and Grelich didn’t seem so keen on giving it up any longer.
Back at his apartment, Ritchie decided it was time to find Nathan Cohen, the missing tech who was
