Emily and Jonah crept into Moshe’s office, then Jonah eased the door shut behind them.
“We just need trench coats,” said Emily.
“I was thinking that,” Jonah said seriously. He unlocked the filing cabinet.
Emily knelt and thumbed through the dusty files. She looked through the Ks first, for Kogan, but didn’t find anything. “Are they alphabetical?”
“Some might be chronological. I haven’t totally figured out the record keeping.”
Emily found a file marked Ayala. In it were registration forms for Doran Kogan, sheet after sheet of room bookings, starting in 1933. She’d known he was a frequent visitor. But then she ran out of forms. They just ended. And she hadn’t found any registrations for his parents. She lifted the papers. “I found Doran’s forms. They’re in a file marked ‘Ayala.’”
“I’m convinced there’s a logic to all this,” said Jonah.
“I can’t find his parents though.”
“Check P for parents.”
Emily flipped through all the P folders. “Nothing.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Jonah. “This wasn’t a summer camp. Kids didn’t come by themselves.”
There was a sound outside. Jonah stood, and peeked out the door.
Emily reached back into the Ayala folder to see if she’d missed anything, and found something smaller, hidden at the very bottom. She pulled it out. It was a postcard, two postcards. She pried them apart. They had cute greetings written in childish letters, signed with love from Doran. She flipped over the cards. The first showed the Marx Brothers, all the boys in the midst of some frenetic movement. She and Grandma Ayala used to watch all the Marx Brothers movies; it was their ritual, an indelible part of visiting the lodge. Grandma Ayala used to talk about them too, Harpo in particular. Harpo was a good man, that’s what she’d always said, he was a good father. She’d been wistful when she said it, every single time. He’d gotten married late, by the standards then, had adopted four children and had loved them more than anything. The next postcard showed Harpo alone, out of costume. Without the coat and fright wig, he looked strange. He looked like he could be just any normal person. He was staring into the camera, strangely serene, clutching at the strings of his harp. He did look like he could be a good father, and, incongruously, he wore Grandma Ayala’s wistful expression, had the exact same earnest, watery-eyed stare. Emily slipped the postcards into her jacket pocket.
“Do you know anything about Doran’s family?” Emily asked, finding her grandmother in the dining room. “Where did he come from?”
“That was a long time ago,” said Blima. “A lot of years have passed.”
“Who were his parents?”
“You never met them.”
“Did they ever come to the lodge?”
“Doran was a guest of the family. We did that sometimes, took on guests for the children. It wasn’t unusual way back then.”
Emily sighed. Blima handed her the extra plate, the one she’d set that morning for Jonah. “Put that back, lovie,” she said. “Your cousin needs to serve.”
“Oh,” said Emily. “That’s not for him,” because a lie in kindness could still be considered a mitzvah, and she really wanted Jonah to sit beside her at dinner. “It’s for someone else.”
“Not another one of your Auntie’s boyfriends,” said Blima. “I didn’t even hear the phone ring.”
“One is for Elijah. But you said ghosts were okay, so I put an extra one out for Harpo Marx.”
Blima stopped. “Harpo,” she said. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” She had those postcards that she was unaccountably reluctant to show. Plus, she’d been thinking about Harpo since she got back here.
“You like the Marx Brothers?” asked Blima.
“Harpo was my favourite. He was a good man. And a good father. Well, that’s what Grandma Ayala always said.”
“That’s right.” Blima’s eyes flashed like lightning on the lake. “He was a man you could really love.”
“Grandma Ayala used to say that too.”
Blima didn’t respond. Silence seemed to be coursing toward her somehow, like she was a black hole at the centre of the room. Then suddenly, she looked up again. “Harpo came to the lodge, you know.”
“He came here?”
“Oh sure.” Blima straightened, on the move, again the normal chattery grandmother with a story on hand, Emily was sure. “He nearly drowned once.” And there it was. “He got stuck at the little floating dock and it was dark out. He yelled and yelled. I’d followed him outside, so that’s how I knew.”
“You actually heard his voice?”
“He wasn’t really a mute. He just played one in the movies.”
“What did he say?”
“What do you think he said? He said, ‘help.’”
“Does that mean that Grandma Ayala met him too?”
“Sure she knew him.”
Knew him.
“I knew him too,” said Blima. “He protected me from anti-Semites in the woods, angry men from the townships.”
“I want to know more about him,” Emily said, suddenly knowing exactly what to do. She’d include Harpo in her thesis too. He’d influenced everyone—writers, artists, moviemakers, lodge guests who might have met him. She could track his family, the people he’d known, find a way to measure changes in their lives. “What years was he here?” She’d interview everyone, track down more names from her list.
“Your grandfather would know which years.”
“Papa Moshe knew him too?”
“Oh sure,” said Blima. “They were the best of friends.”
“Why did nobody tell me this?” Harpo Marx came to the lodge. He’d interacted with her family. They were part of his history. They might even be in the books. She’d never seen mention before, but, then again, she hadn’t known to look.
Emily ran to her room, threw her car keys in her purse, then rushed outside to her car. The Kingston public library had books about him. She even knew exactly where to find them, if they hadn’t reorganized too much.