Patrick Flanery - I Am No One

When I spoke into the intercom Susan said nothing, but the door buzzed and I pushed my way back into that familiar old entrance, the tile floor a little grubby, the lobby sharp with the scent of aluminum mailboxes. Susan’s dog, yapping from behind the door at the top of the building, reminded me of the dog we once owned together, that Westie we had named Lotte Lenya because she looked like the actress, dour face, mouth that was all teeth, a dog who dragged her heels every time we tried to bring her home from Riverside Park.

Seeing Susan’s face again, and the little dark eyes of that very white dog looking up at me, I felt such a strong sense of hominess that I embraced my ex-wife without thinking and began to cry in her arms. Despite her anger the day before, she was, apart from our daughter, the only person I felt I could trust, since my mother is no longer as accessible as she was in the past. How comforting it would be to return to the life we once shared, to live again in this apartment, to make Riverside Park and this stretch of Broadway my territory again, after my years of exile. But then, as I stepped into my old apartment, moving down the hall to the living room, I was shocked to find Peter sitting on the couch. Seeing him there, so comfortable and sleek, I thought, ‘this is like a Jew walking into a place of supposed safety only to find a member of the Gestapo lying in wait, welcomed by the hosts.’

Peter smiled, the same smile I had seen on his parents and one that, on occasion in the months since my return from Oxford, I had seen on Meredith as well. It was a smile with no heat.

‘I’ve spoken with my lawyers, Jeremy. They’ve made a referral, and the other firm, you know, they can do it all at our place, this evening or tomorrow, although I think the sooner the better, don’t you?’

‘Do what exactly?’

‘Go over the facts of the case as you’ve laid them out, look at the evidence, the files you’ve received and all your bank records if you have them. Maybe you could print them out and bring them, and then we can start to think about how to deal with the authorities, if that becomes necessary, I mean, if the lawyers think there’s anything that has to be addressed. Can I ask, has anyone else seen the files you’ve received?’

‘The doormen at my building.’

‘You showed the doormen your files?’

‘They saw the boxes I received. Which contained the files.’

‘But not the files themselves?’

‘No, not the files per se.’

‘So you’re the only person who has actually looked at the files, the papers I mean, with the words and numbers printed on them.’

‘Yes, that’s correct. They’re, you know, they’re very private.’

I thought he was concerned that other people might have discovered what was happening, but then, looking just off to one side, he asked, ‘And you’re certain the files are not, just maybe, something you sent yourself?’

‘Why would I do such a thing?’

‘I don’t know, and forgive me if this seems rude, but are you certain these files don’t contain, I don’t know, scrap paper, or even blank pages?’

‘Absolutely certain. And the record of phone calls made and received is not something I could have produced myself.’

‘You could have noted down every time you made a call, who you were calling, the duration, the times. You could be one of those people who never deletes his browsing history and then printed it all out.’

‘But I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I’m not obsessive compulsive, Peter, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Susan can attest to that.’

‘It’s true. Jeremy’s too chaotic to be OC,’ Susan laughed, though there was no delight in it. ‘But he was always a very good liar. Why do you think he had to leave Columbia? Flexibility with the truth. Hazardous for a historian.’

‘Enough, Susan. I’m not making this up and I resent the suggestion that I might be.’

‘Why do you think you feel so defensive about this, Jeremy?’ Peter asked.

‘Listen, I could get in a taxi right now, go home, get the boxes, and bring them back, if that will convince you.’

‘Is it important to you that we be convinced of your sanity?’

‘Yes, of course it is. What kind of idiot are you?’

Peter paused. ‘There’s no need to be insulting. We’re just trying to help you.’

‘I’m not being insulting. I’m frustrated. You’re frustrating me because you’re casting doubt on what I’m saying. Why are you even here, Peter?’

‘I was in the neighborhood and stopped by to see how Susan is doing. She was upset after your visit yesterday.’

Susan shuffled across the living room and stared out the window. I found myself no longer able to read the language of her movements as I once could, the way a certain posture might convey assent, or a tilt of the head backwards and to the left would betray disapproval. ‘We were all upset, Peter. Not just me.’

As always in that apartment I was conscious of the sound of traffic from the Henry Hudson Parkway and the click of the radiators that were so impossible to control that on some frigid winter days we’d have to open the windows just to regulate the temperature, and the dog, this new dog who was so like Lotte she could have been a clone, had given up on the three humans and stretched out her front legs, resting her white chin on them as those dark eyes, twitching beneath her brows, glanced from Susan to Peter as if she knew one or the other of them would eventually take her out for a walk. Why Peter? I wondered, why should the dog look at Peter with such familiarity?

‘I know who’s doing it.’

‘Who’s doing what?’

‘The person sending the files. It’s your friend, Michael Ramsey.’

Peter snorted. ‘If you think that then you really must be crazy, Jeremy. Michael is a paper-pusher. He’s like the most boring IT nerd.’

‘You don’t know where he works.’

‘He works for a bank. I can’t remember off the top of my head.’

‘He works for the NSA.’

‘You know this for a fact?’

‘It’s the only logical explanation. He’s been standing outside my building on Houston watching me at night. Yesterday he sent me a box of photographs, images of me in Oxford and London and New York, pictures of Fadia and my son, and the doorman took a picture of Ramsey delivering the box. So I know for a fact it’s him who’s doing it. And if he’s not doing it, then he’s the messenger for someone else, but I don’t think that’s likely. Last night he stood out on Houston waiting for me to see him. He wants me to know but he’s also being careful, because the NSA, or whoever it is, they’re watching too. He can’t email me. He sure as hell can’t phone me. But he can stand out on the street and send me printouts of files and let me know what’s happening. He knows there’s no reason I should be watched in this way. He knows and he’s trying to help me, Peter.’

Perhaps Peter shook his head, but he gave me the kind of look I associate with the condescendingly sane person who sees madness everywhere while remaining convinced they themselves must always remain of sound mind.

‘And you’re certain the photographs you received yesterday aren’t simply your own collection of photographs from the past decade? Maybe something you shipped separately, from Britain.’

‘The box wasn’t shipped, Peter! Like the others it was delivered by hand , no postage. In any case, I don’t own a camera. I haven’t owned a camera since Susan and I split. She was always the photographer.’

‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘Jeremy had a terrible eye.’

‘Besides which I’m in the pictures I received, and when I’m not, they’ve been taken in places where I have not been present on the dates they were taken. Don’t you see? Why are you both staring at me like that?’