Pavel stepped into the house and scraped his shoes against the frayed doormat. He took a look around, his mouth gaping, as if he was standing in a cathedral or a vast cave.
“This place. Incredible.”
She knew exactly how he felt. There couldn’t be many houses still like this on the Upper East Side. Hallways and staircases lined with mahogany; heavy, brass-handled doors as old as the house itself. Most of these places had been swept through by interior decorators in the ’80s and ’90s. All that dark, old stuff torn out and walls and even floors knocked through to make them feel like warehouses. Sol’s was certainly the only old-fashioned brownstone Natalie had ever set foot in. But there was so much space for one person; too much even when you factored in each day’s visitors. There were rooms he used solely for storage and other, sparsely decorated rooms he didn’t use at all.
When she began making plans to study at NYU, Natalie pictured herself living in a place like this. Not even a whole house, just an apartment, but one which looked exactly the same. She envisioned autumn leaves falling in the street outside. Walking down the stoop in a matching hat, gloves and scarf. A brisk morning trip to the Met to spend a moment looking at the Caillebotte painting of Paris in the rain. Good grief, it was all so much bullshit; a fantasy cobbled together from TV shows and fashion spreads. Yet still, a part of her held on to it, because in this house she saw that it was still possible, that New York could still be the place she imagined it might be. She held on to the hope that Sol would one day ask her to move in.
At the top of the house was a roof terrace with mossy furniture and fading pots of dry earth and dead twigs. Natalie and Sol had spent some time up there over the summer. Even though it was only a few storeys up, the view was magnificent. Rooftops and water towers. In the south, beyond the park’s green wedge, the skyscrapers of Midtown. She hadn’t gone up there in over a month. Not that you could see Lower Manhattan from there, but the skyline still had a hazy, smoky quality, and just sitting beneath a wide open sky was suddenly oppressive.
Sol once told her that he’d passed this house many times as a boy. His father had customers who lived nearby, a well-to-do doctor and his wife, who wouldn’t dream of sending even a servant down to Houston Street to collect. Each Friday, before Shabbat, his father would drive up to make the delivery, and during school breaks he would take Sol with him.
“And these streets,” Sol said. “They seemed so much wider, so much cleaner than ours. On our street, there were crates and wagons and even horses – people still had horses in those days – which meant horse-crap everywhere. But we’d come down this street, on our way to Doctor Lowe’s, and I remember thinking, couldn’t have been any older than ten, but I remember looking at these houses and thinking, ‘One day I’m gonna live in one of these.’”
She understood completely, and Pavel, like everyone else who saw the house, was impressed.
“I think you could fit my whole apartment in just one room,” he said.
From the study they heard Sol stirring, his backside squeaking against the chair’s leather as he peered out into the hallway.
“Who is that? Angie? Do we have visitors?”
“It’s Natalie, Mr Conrad. And yes. Just a friend of mine. You can meet him in a moment.”
What had she done? A mistake to invite Pavel here. At least before now he hadn’t known the address. He could keep phoning, but that didn’t mean anyone had to answer. They could even change the number if they had to. But now he was inside the house, and Sol was only a few rooms away. What had she done?
Pavel stared in through the study’s open door.
“I want to speak with him.”
“And you will. In a moment.”
They went to the kitchen, where Natalie made them both coffee and went once more over the ground rules. If he’s upset, we leave. If he’s confused, we leave. If he knows nothing, we leave. Don’t shout at him. Don’t make fun of him. Don’t talk down to him, as if he was a child. Pavel leaned against the work surface and drummed his fingertips against the cupboard door beneath. She tried to read his expression. Almost a smile. He looked impatient, but not bored. She was trying to delay the meeting, and he must have known it, but he no longer seemed to mind.
“Your English is excellent,” she said. If they could talk a while it might give her time to think.
“I learned from movies,” said Pavel. “They started showing American movies on television when I was a boy. Not on any official channels. This was before the end of Communism. Sometimes, a man would dub them. Just one man, doing all the voices, even the women. And sometimes they wouldn’t be dubbed, so you had to work out what everyone was saying. I watched Robocop and Die Hard and I think there was one called Planes and Trains. There is a fat man and a man with grey hair and they are on a journey and everything goes wrong. It is very funny.”
Natalie laughed, placing her hand over her mouth as if to hide her smile. If he was a con artist then charm was bound to be one of his tools. Fall for that, and you’ll fall for anything. She couldn’t look him in the eye. Each time she did she felt something waking up inside her.
“We should go in,” she said.
Get this over with. Like wax strips. Like sticking plasters. Brief pain, and then it’s finished, done.
She took him through to Sol’s study and turned down the music. Sol stirred and shifted in his chair till he was sitting straight.
“Mr Conrad, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. His name is Pavel. He’s from Russia.”
Sol looked up and smiled. He went to ease himself out of his chair, but Pavel leaned over, offering him his hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said, flashing Natalie a sideways glance. “I am a very big fan of your work.”
“Oh, yes?” said Sol. He turned to Natalie, eyes wide, and in a stage whisper he said, “He’s handsome, don’t you think?”
Natalie blushed. She knew Pavel was looking at her but she wouldn’t look back.
“And you’re from Russia?” Sol asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Pavel’s grandfather was a composer,” said Natalie, gesturing to Pavel that he should take up the footstool, while she rested on the windowsill, her back against the cool glass.
“Is that so?” said Sol.
“Yes, sir,” said Pavel. “You may have heard of him.”
Sol nodded, shook his head, and nodded again.
“What was his… what… his name? What was his name?”
“Sergey Grekov.”
“Say again?”
“Grekov. Sergey Grekov.”
“No, I… I don’t know. Natalie?”
The same voice he used whenever he was helpless. I spilled a drink. I dropped something on the floor. I wet myself. Natalie? She had to stop this.
“It’s alright, Mr Conrad. This was all a very long time ago.”
“I… I don’t recall…” he said, his voice reduced to an almost inaudible croak.
“He wrote a ballet,” said Pavel. “Geroy Nashego Vremeni. A Hero of Our Time. There is a novel…”
Sol lowered his chin till it was touching his chest and he shook his head.
“I don’t…” he said. “It doesn’t…”
“That’s okay, Mr Conrad,” said Natalie, turning his music back up. “We’ll leave you in peace. Call me if you need anything.”
They left the study, Pavel glancing back at the open door as they walked along the hall. In the kitchen he began pacing back and forth, his hands restless at his sides. What had he hoped for? What was it he wanted? If she could only summon up the nerve to ask him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I did warn you.”
“I want to speak with him again. I want to ask him if he went to Russia.”
“And I’m telling you he didn’t. When was your grandfather’s ballet performed?”
“April 1938. At the Kirov. It’s called the Mariinsky now.”
“Okay. 1938. Well, that year he spent four months in hospital. A sanatorium down in Florida. I don’t recall the exact dates, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have been well enough to travel…”
“How do you know this?”
“He told me the story a thousand times,” she said. “And it came up at his hearing.”
She felt something click into place, an almost physical sensation. The hearing. Sol’s testimony. She got up with a start, the feet of her chair scraping noisily against the kitchen floor.
“What is it?” Pavel asked.
She was already out of the kitchen and half way down the hall. Pavel followed, past the study and into Sol’s library. Her mind raced. The hearing. Ronald Bernard.
“What are you doing?”
She didn’t answer him, but began searching every bookcase, shelf and alcove. He asked again.
“His teacher at Juilliard,” she said. “He was a composer. Ronald Bernard. I think he visited Russia. I can’t remember the details. But there was something mentioned at a hearing, like a court case, years later…”
There was, or had been, a biography of Ronald Bernard somewhere in this room. She’d read it not long after she began working for Sol. She knew of their relationship. Everyone now knew. It was no longer referred to as a “friendship” or “companionship”. They were lovers. By reading this book she’d thought perhaps she might get to know Sol a little better, and – to a certain extent – she had.
She scanned each corner of the library, but found nothing. Maybe someone had borrowed it or Sol had given it away. When had she last seen it? She couldn’t remember. And why was she even looking for it in the first place? She could end this now. Tell Pavel she couldn’t find the book, that it was only a fancy, a half-baked idea she’d had. Sorry I couldn’t help you. Goodnight and good luck. But she wouldn’t. Now that he was here, now that it seemed they might have found some truth beneath time’s clutter, she needed to know more.
They went to the study, where Sol was still listening to his music. Pavel waited in the doorway while Natalie logged in to the computer. Sol leaned to one side so that he could see the screen.
“Say. What’re you doing there?”
“Just checking your emails. It won’t take very long.”
The modem coughed and spluttered and squealed its way online.
“Damn thing makes a hell of a racket.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I’ll only be five minutes. I promise.”
It was running slowly. Everything took an age to load. A short biography of Bernard on some music student’s personal website and a few paragraphs on Wikipedia. Neither mentioned the events of 1938.
“Well?” Pavel said.
“Nothing. We need to get a copy of that book.”
“A bookshop?”
“It’s out of print.”
Pavel sighed, his shoulders slumped. If she told him she’d done everything she could, he would have to believe her, and maybe he would go and that would be the end of it. He looked so defeated.
“But I know where we’ll find one,” she said.
Pavel’s expression brightened and he beamed at her and Natalie gasped, almost a nervous laugh. This is happening, she thought, and for a moment she felt as if she might levitate out of her chair and keep going until she was touching the ceiling. Something is happening.