James Baldwin - Stained Glass

“Hello, who is there?” Dr. Levental’s voice was distorted by the intercom, though he sounded as crisp as ever.

“It’s Alexi Grigoriovich,” I replied, and continued on in Russian. “I was wondering if you have time for an early-morning visit?”

There was a pause, and then the intercom shut off. After a few moments, the door buzzed, and I pushed my way into the chilly entrance hall.

Dr. Levental was waiting for me in the threshold of his office, one hand on the doorknob, the other on the frame. By appearances, he could have been my father in another life. Ascetic and sharp-featured, his eyes were black and steely, his face weathered with age. “My goodness, Alexi, it’s been months and months. You look terrible! What has happened to you?”

Before I’d left the clubhouse, I’d put on decent clothes and even brought a hat to cover my head out of respect for the doctor’s Orthodoxy, but there were some things clothes couldn’t hide. My suit was looser on my frame, face gaunt, eyes sunken. “It has been a difficult time, doctor. Alecheim Shalom . It is good to see you well.”

“And peace be unto you, Alexi. But I doubt you are visiting me for peace.” We kissed cheeks before he drew me inside, turning into the house. “Come, close the door. Oy, why do you have a cat?”

“Therapy animal.”

He teched. “Is it properly housetrained?”

“Of course. She’s a perfect gentlewoman.”

Dr. Levental – he was never ‘Yuzef’ – was as devout as he was opportunistic, and he balanced his faith, his extracurricular interests, and his otherwise legal profession exceedingly well. The interior of the office was somehow both ostentatious, in that old New York apartment way, and monastic because of its large expanses of empty space. Like me, he kept floor to ceiling shelves that were full of books. Medical, historical, mythological books. It was a sight that revived the deep-bodied, hollow longing I’d felt since losing my apartment.

The front desk was still unoccupied at this time of the morning. The practice officially opened at ten, and his sons were engrossed in their studies upstairs while their father set up for the day. The surgery was large, and smelled of old paper and the accumulated musk and smoke of a hundred years of life.

Dr. Levental waved me to an ornate wood and green crushed velvet chair. “What has happened to you, Alexi? I’ve heard nothing but bad news from Brighton Beach for years now.”

“This and that.” I set Binah on the floor and squatted on the edge of the seat, hands laced between my knees, back stiff. The conversation paused while the doctor watched Binah for a moment. She went under my chair and curled into a ball to sleep, which appeared to satisfy him.

“Mariya and Vassily Lovenko are both dead,” I said. “That is the worst of it.”

Dr. Levental’s features, typically still and patrician, creased with sudden grief. “Yes… I had heard that. I am so very sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral, but I want nothing to do with Yaroshenko. Nothing I hear about him is good.”

“I understand well enough,” I said. “I left.”

“You left the Brotherhood?” Dr. Levental gave me a quizzical look. “I’m surprised I am not seeing you laid out in the morgue today instead of in my office.”

“I did, a little over a month ago. It’s a long story.”

“Indeed. We can talk, but let me take a look at you while I do. I don’t like this yellowish color in your skin.”

Dr. Levental went to go and get his tools. Stethoscope, depressor. He wouldn’t let me go without an actual exam. I resigned myself to being poked and prodded, and shucked my jacket off in anticipation of being asked. He returned to me, and clicked his tongue as he fit a blood pressure cuff and got to work.

“You know, it all started so innocently enough back in the day,” he said. “The unions, maybe some protection for the businesses, some jewelry and gemstones changing hands… but now, it seems to me like it’s horror after horror. Drugs, murder, organs. Ay yai-yai . That is nothing you want a part of, Alexi. The organs of children, even. Can you believe it?”

“Children?” Intuition tingled in the pit of my belly, and the parasite stirred warningly. “When did you hear about this? Recently?”

He made an affirmative sound, pumping the cuff as he scrutinized the dial. “I heard from someone I know at Lenox Hospital that this scoundrel, Moris Falkovich, was providing children’s organs and bodies. I don’t know if you ever knew him… he was shunned for grave robbing, of all things. And all that mess he did with plastic surgery in the 80s? Good grief. But I still talk to people who know him, as I do… I have heard that he has been getting a name for himself as a pediatric transplant surgeon in recent times. A miracle-worker, they call him.”

The cuff grew tight enough to be uncomfortable, and I could feel my pulse beating in the crook of my elbow before it depressurized with a squeal. “How so?”

“I don’t know, not exactly. My friend at Lenox says that his clinic has been booking the theaters out for a few years now, but suddenly, very rich people from Arabia, from Europe and even from Israel are bringing children here for their surgery.” Doctor Levental lifted his eyes to meet mine for a moment. “My friend says that these children walk out of the hospital as if the person was never sick!”

My stomach turned. My jaw worked, and I finally sat back, pushed by the gravity of what he’d just told me.

“I don’t know what happened to the community, but I’ve been hearing that even Rabbis are involved in this business of organs. They always say: ‘The person gave this willingly, the donor is related’. But people don’t donate organs that often, Alexi. And children? Not a chance. Is that that useful to you?”

“It might be.” I had to be careful with the doctor. If anything was too useful, the price went up – though it generally remained fair. Dr. Levental charged as much as the information was worth, no more and no less. “But I came to trade for a more specific request. I need information on Celso Manelli.”

“Manelli! Oy gevalt , Alexi. You don’t ask for much now, do you?” Dr. Levental laughed, and hung his stethoscope around his neck. “Why are you looking into the Manellis if you’ve left Yaroshenko?”

I leaned forward so that he could reach my back. “He killed Mariya and contributed to Vassily’s death. I need to settle the debt.”

The doctor’s steady hand paused for a moment, the head of the stethoscope pressed against just beneath my scapula, and then he continued to move it around. “Well, that’s a good reason. But I can already see where this is going, Alexi. You of all people should know that there is no point to taking revenge. The Highest has many agents through which He will act.”

“Maybe I am that agent. There were two murderers: one died from an unfortunate broken window accident. Celso is still alive.”

The doctor grumbled something under his breath, and moved to the front of my chest. “I can find people who know what you want to know, but you had better dig two graves. Celso is a powerful man. Young and stupid, but protected by men who are older and smarter. Sorcerers, even. Can you believe it?”

Not that I knew anything about that . “So I hear. But the fact remains. Mariya and Vassily didn’t deserve what happened to them.”

“And neither did you.” Dr. Levental smiled, and I couldn’t read his expression. His voice, though, was blue and bittersweet. “Would you still want Manelli dead if he had harmed a stranger’s sister?”

“He’s filth,” I said. “I wouldn’t think twice.”

“But in the past, you would have delayed if there was paying business to be had from him? If someone had ordered you?”