THE FOURTH DAY (OR THE THIRD DAY OF PASSOVER)

YOU SHOULD ONLY BE ON ONE SIDE AT A TIME

HARPO, 1933

Harpo crept from the trees to the shrubs. Ayala was sitting on the dock, kicking like a kid in a bathtub. Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks were red, and she looked softer this morning. He stepped lightly onto the dock. To talk only. No funny stuff. He was here to find a love letter, that was all, find it and get rid of it to protect Sam, and Ayala would forget about this other man given time, just like he’d forget about his feelings for Ayala.

Abruptly, Ayala stopped splashing. “Of all the prophets,” she said, “Elijah is my favourite.”

Harpo froze. Had she heard him? She couldn’t have. He hadn’t made a sound. There was that old fear, though, the insecurity that comes from sharing a room with four brothers, that people could read his thoughts. “I’m sorry I broke your house,” he said. Since he’d left the lodge what had he been thinking about? Breakfast: eggs, rogalah, buns. Coffee. Coffee was safe. Harpo sat.

“Elijah doesn’t come from anywhere,” said Ayala, “he appears out of whirlwinds and storm clouds. That’s why he’s always welcome at the lodge. Do you know my favourite story?”

“I don’t—”

“Once he visited an old man and woman,” she said, “and he asked the angel of death to take the cow they loved. The cow died and they were devastated. The angel of death was already on his way, that’s what nobody realized, was already coming for the old man’s wife. One tragedy to protect from a greater one.”

“I understand,” said Harpo, but he didn’t really. He struggled to formulate a question, but then they both heard a sound, a crunching in the driveway, and Ayala froze, fist clenched.

“What did you hear?”

Ayala didn’t answer. Harpo uncurled her fingers and pried away a stone, and he turned it over in his hand. It was quartz, and had a little ribbon of pink winding through it. It was round like Aleck. Rotund. Rotund! And then there was the sound again, a person on the gravel drive, the postman probably, Harpo realized. “That’s right,” he said, rubbing Ayala’s palm. “You watch for the mail.” She’d love Harpo the Postman, he thought vaguely, wondering if he could start trying out bits right here, wondering how he could find himself a uniform. “Wasn’t that the postman? Shouldn’t we run and greet him?”

“Oh no,” said Ayala. “I don’t see him. I see the mail. I come here to compose myself.”

“Like a letter!” said Harpo.

“What?”

“You compose letters. Groucho says, ‘I have to retire to my chambers so I can compose a letter,’ ever since they were the answers in a crossword this one time.” They’d all been answers that day: retire, chambers, compose and ritual too, oddly. Ritual had been four across in the same puzzle, and it occurred to Harpo that Ayala had a ritual when it came to mornings, to getting the mail. That’s why she was out here. She stayed away when the mail was delivered and went to look only when she knew she’d be alone. In the movie, all the girls in the little town would have their own rituals. The sad girl would light a candle on the mail mantle and wish for a love letter to appear. Then Harpo would knock and she’d open the door. Harpo would shrug sadly. He had nothing for her. The girl would cry a few prettily placed tears, lean her head on his shoulder and he’d fiddle with his mailbag.

“Does sitting out here help?” he asked.

“There are ways to charm a day,” said Ayala, “to wring just a little luck out. The morning you came, I was sitting here as the sun came up. Then later, you came to the door. My husband ran upstairs to tell me.”

Harpo looked up. She thought of him as a portent of good luck. But why? But that didn’t make sense. It had been a long time since he’d been good luck for anyone. “This is the Russian man you’re waiting for,” he said. “You’re waiting for a letter from Simon.”

There they were, sparkling in Ayala’s dark eyes, the prettily placed tears. How could he help her too? How could he make her feel better without breaking Sam’s heart? This wasn’t right. You were only ever supposed to be on one side at a time. You were only supposed to have one love of your life. “Is all this because you want to see him again?” he asked.

“I want to know that he doesn’t regret what he did.”

“What?” The morning changed.

“I want to know that he doesn’t regret what he gave me.”

“He gave you something,” Harpo whispered. “What did he give you?”

Ayala didn’t answer. Harpo sat back. The sky was pink, but it wasn’t soothing anymore. It threatened. The clouds loomed. He’d thought Ayala was waiting for a love letter.

“I shouldn’t have let him help us,” whispered Ayala. “But the truth is that I couldn’t say no. I had children. And I love Sam. Maybe not as nicely as I should, but I love him all the same.”

“You love both of them.”

“I thought we’re not built for so much love. But Simon always says the heart has two ventricles. We have hidden reserves everywhere. I just need to know that Simon’s safe.” Then their eyes met, and they had another of those moments of tacit understanding (tacit!). The man, the one who’d had a secret affair with Ayala, he’d helped her family get out of Russia.

“I’m sorry,” Harpo whispered.

Ayala stood. “You should be sorry.” She smoothed her skirt, then wiped her eyes. “You broke a hole in the house.”

“I’ll fix it,” said Harpo.

“You’ll fix everything, I know.” She seemed to hesitate, then crouched and kissed him lightly on the top of his head. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”

Ayala was off, jumping off the dock, then disappearing into the woods. In the movie, the pretty girl’s worries would be easy, completely resolved in just over an hour, no, under an hour if you include the chases and musical numbers.

Harpo ran back to the lodgehouse. He had to get that love letter. Was it a love letter? It was important now, not just to read it, then get rid of it, but to figure out what had happened too.

He stomped up the wooden steps. He also needed the envelope, he realized. That would have an address on it. If he got an address, or some kind of last name or identification, then he could write to Simon himself. Then he could tell Ayala that Simon was safe and didn’t regret what he’d done. Then the whole thing would be over. The Kogan family would be saved.

Harpo crept to the little chairs that faced the big registration desk and sat down in one. He reached his hand into the cushions and pulled out a soft grey glove. A treasure. A present, rather. He pressed it against his face, then put it back where he’d found it. He hopped onto the next chair, and there he found a little bear tucked just under the arm. This was definitely Second Present. He must be getting close. He put the bear back and reached into his pocket. All he had was a piece of tie and a rock. He hid them on the other side of the cushion, then sat still and listened for footsteps. Nothing. So he sidled close to registration. The mailman must have come and gone by now. Sam would already have looked through the mail. He’d probably just sort and run.

Harpo leaned against the desk. No mail there. No letters or papers on it, nothing of interest at all. Just a mug. He sniffed at it. Coffee and something sweet and strong, rum probably. He’d seen a maid walking around with that earlier, before the sun had even risen, and she’d been weavy a bit, even then. Everyone was playing at something here. He hoisted himself up and peeked behind the desk. There were loads of drawers back there. And cubbyholes against the back wall. Mail must go over there somewhere. Mail and other things too, Second Letters maybe? Missing Mail?

He crept to the windowed hallway again to check for people. He needed a lookout.

He looked at the photographs framed on the walls. They were of people he didn’t know, standing straight-backed and serious. He tried out the pose, put one hand behind his back and scowled. He should do that in the pictures. He’d have to find a reason. Then he saw a picture of a little boy. He leaned forward and saw that it wasn’t a little boy after all. It was a little girl dressed in a boy’s sailor suit. She was all crouched down, smiling slyly, ready to jump at the camera, unmistakably Blima. In the background was a dreary brick building on a cobblestone street. Harpo touched Blima’s cute little head, put his finger right on the glass.

He heard footsteps, so he ran to the doorway behind the registration desk, and eased himself inside the leathery room. He let the door shut on his foot. Those were the footsteps of a girl trying not to be heard, Ayala tiptoeing nearer. And there she was, a sliver of her framed in his field of vision, stepping behind the desk. Harpo held his breath. He shouldn’t be here. He was suddenly sure of it. He’d made a mistake. This was private.

Ayala eased a drawer open very slowly. She took out a handful of letters and sat down behind the desk. This must be part of the ritual.

Harpo felt a tickle on his back, so he shifted, and Ayala froze. Had she seen him? She’d be really mad. But this was research for a movie, he could say. This was research. He’d write a scene just like this one. He’d write himself in it, though. He’d scoop the poor sad girl into his arms and kiss her all over her face. Although that wasn’t really his role. It was the romantic lead who did that. So he’d lead the romantic lead right to her.

Ayala bent over the letters again, and Harpo let out a very quiet breath. She was sorting with slow fingers. He slipped into the office completely and leaned his head against the shut door. No letter had come for Ayala. No letter had come for Susan today either, no love letter, anyway. He should know because he hadn’t written one. Suddenly, Harpo thought of Susan on their last date, sitting on his rug, looking at him sadly with those big eyes. They’d had a hell of a time together, but things had just turned sour—she’d gotten close, and Harpo had lashed out, teased her. He’d been rough. Then she’d said, “You’re not going to marry me, are you,” her voice catching, “you’re not the marrying type.” Then he’d looked around, and that’s when he’d seen his apartment for what it must be to her: a bachelor pad. He saw himself for what he was: not ready. He was a bachelor, a cad, really, a bad idea for any good girl, and Susan was definitely a good girl. And he loved her. He’d love her forever if he thought that she would have him still.

Harpo peeked through the door. Ayala was gone. He’d missed the end of the ritual.

The whole morning, he’d thought about Susan only. He’d sat with a beautiful woman and hadn’t pictured her without clothes, hadn’t even imagined undressing her once. He’d passed many beautiful women wearing bathing suits on the beach too, he must have, but he hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t noticed. That had to mean something.

Harpo walked to the room of doors, his mangled window, and crept inside. He touched the funny wooden cart in the middle of the room, then noticed the upright piano. He played a middle C and it creaked through the room. It was out of tune. The room was eerie. The hole in the wall made sounds echo off all the cluttered surfaces.

Harpo thought of something. He jumped up, checked inside the piano bench. Nothing. He checked the sofas and chairs, the bookshelves, the card tables. Then he flipped through some of the books. Nothing. No presents. Not even a card. Something wasn’t right. There were so many great hiding places in this room, so why hadn’t Blima hidden anything in here at all? There had been presents in every other room in the whole lodgehouse. He’d even found a broken pencil hidden in a drawer in his room. Harpo sat down again and just then he saw little Blima herself, standing in the doorway, balancing on the wooden partition. “I hope that you’re enjoying your stay, Mr. Harpo,” she said.

He turned and played a bass note. It twanged as if from a honky-tonk piano. “Come here, monkey,” he said. Blima touched the tip of her toe inside the room. Testing the waters.

Harpo made a face, his favourite one, the Gookie like Mr. Gookie the cigar man from the tenements, that crazy look he got when he was concentrating on rolling a cigar, puffed up cheeks, crossed eyes. When he had a daughter, that’s what he’d do to cheer her up. Blima laughed the cutest laugh he’d ever heard, like a little xylophone. She crept into the room and swayed a little, right at his feet.

“You know what would make my stay better?” he said. “If you played Finding Stuff with me.”

“Okay.” Blima took Harpo’s hand, and tried to tug him up off the bench. “I found some love letters in a guest room this morning. I take those and hide them. It’s a mitzvah, and I can probably keep them anyway because nobody wires for those. I have a whole collection. We can look at those if you want. I can show you my collection.” She pulled on Harpo’s arm.

“I hid some things for you, you know.”

“For Second Present?”

“You got it,” said Harpo. “What about this room? I thought we could start right here.”

“Did you hide them in here?”

“Well,” said Harpo, “no. I guess I didn’t.”

“Good,” said Blima. “Because we don’t play in here.” She leaned all her weight forward, tilted over completely, kept standing by Harpo’s hand alone.

“Can’t we play Second Present?”

“Never in this room,” she grunted. “I told you. It’s off limits. There’s a hole. It’s dangerous in here.”

At that, Harpo stood, and Blima marched forward one laborious step.

“Don’t you worry about the hole,” he said. “I’ll fix it tonight. But let’s not leave so fast. There’s a song I want to teach you on the upright.”

“You’re not allowed to play music before dinner,” said Blima, grunting, tugging harder. “Everybody knows that. It’s like you’re not allowed to wear white after Labour Day or let the maid touch anything cold.”

“The song is called ‘Love Me and the World is Mine,’” said Harpo.

“We have to get out of here.” Blima let go of Harpo’s hand, panting. She motioned for him to kneel, and he did. “There was a ghost in here this morning,” she whispered, hand cupped around his ear.

“A ghost?”

“That’s because this room is haunted. There’s a man whose soul is in here. If you see a lot of blue smoke, then that’s what it is, it’s the soul of a man who was mean and gave people needles. Also, he pinched. When he was alive, he liked to look inside people’s faces and ears, so that’s how his ghost tries to get in now. If you don’t cover your mouth when you sneeze, then that’s it, you’re done for.”

“Ghosts are like smoke?”

“Of course,” she said. “They’re not like people. You can’t feel them. That’s how you know the difference.”