Rachel Cantor - Good on Paper

In time, as Shamseh shared her correspondence with a certain Glenda, who didn’t know that “Lola” was a Pakistani in purdah , promised to a man twice her age, Mirabella even came to wish her well. I think I love her, Shamseh said, referring to Glenda, black kohl tears slipping down her cheeks. What’s wrong with me?

Mirabella found Ahmad on the Web. She was surprised to learn that he was no longer at the think tank: he’d become an academic! And here was Hassan, their oldest, about to finish secondary school! Not even her family’s connections could get him into university. But in the U.S., insh’Allah , he could go to college, maybe the university at which Ahmad taught. She would appeal to her brothers: Hassan had to continue his education, how else could he make a name for himself? Ahmad would pay for it — it was his obligation as a father, the least he could do after the shame he’d brought them. The boy was a good Muslim: he wouldn’t be swayed by his father’s perversions.

Her plan: Hassan would go to the U.S. first, then the others. They would stay, Mirabella could visit and eventually stay on herself. Her sons would be of age, no one could make them go back. Maybe she could even send for Shamseh. Would Ahmad help? Would he pay for the boy’s college?

It took Mirabella all night to work up to this request. First, she wrote about the boys — Ahmad’s first news of them in a decade (the youngest was a squash player, the middle favored Ahmad’s father, and so on). She said her brothers had intercepted her letters; Ahmad didn’t believe her, but said he’d do what she asked —if Hassan lived with him during school vacations.

You’re kidding! I said.

Ahmad shook his head.

The bitch is using me, of course. I’ll let her, because my ends justify her means. But she’s desperate — she’ll pursue this plan …

Even if it means breaking your heart all over again, I said.

Well put. I have no way of knowing if a reunion with Hassan is likely or impossible. And this was three days ago!

I’m sure it’ll work out, I said. Why wouldn’t it? I put my arms around my best friend’s neck and kissed his hair, silky like that of a child. He clasped my hands in his cold, dry fingers and kissed them back.

Do you ever think our decisions too costly? he asked.

Don’t you ever think that! I said, moving around so he could see my face. Ever! You are the bravest person I know! You did exactly what you needed to do.

I’m a role model, I know.

Look at me, I said. You are a role model! Your sons would be proud to know you! They will be proud to know you!

Ahmad just shook his head and left the room.

The next afternoon I received another fax from Romei: I attach the next section. You may share with Mr. Benny but I pay him no fee. Please fax the first. Also photo of your little daughter.

Fax the first? I’d just gotten it three days before! Was he mad? He wanted Andi’s photo? How strange was that? But I had permission to work with Benny, so I gathered my King James, Romei’s pages, my Door Number Two: Notes for a New Life notebook, and went to Joe’s, where I bought a half dozen vegan donuts, tithing one to Nate, who bowed.

Before going into the bookstore, I stopped at Benny’s side display. Customers who guessed its organizing principle (talking animals, revisionist gothic) got free stuff, usually a book from the display. Today? Millennial madness.

Marie’s hair was a cornflower blue, to match her corduroy overalls, and braided in two tight braids that stuck out over her shoulders. On her nose she’d penciled blue freckles; from her ears dangled blue-tinted condom earrings — handy in an emergency, I guessed.

He in?

Who? she replied. I controlled the urge to slap her.

Benny.

No, she said, and returned to her word find.

I smiled and walked toward the steps, looking over my shoulder to catch the defeat in her eyes, but she was immersed, scratching her forehead with sky-blue fingernails.

Benny wasn’t in his annex. Too embarrassed to return directly downstairs, I entered the office, thinking to leave him a note, taking care not to trip on the boxes that surrounded his desk. On the walls, photos of Gilgul alumni, many famous now, no longer in need of Benny’s tender mercies. Also a few like me who’d missed the posterity bus.

The desk took up most of the room. Benny had found it in the Garment District — it had a built-in ruler along its front for measuring bolts of cloth, and was covered with invoices and order forms and oversize Hebrew books, their titles stamped in gold on leather bindings. Also a newish-looking copy of Vita Nuova , an industrial stapler and, in the back, an ancient computer with a scrolling screensaver that read, Breathe! Breathe! On top of the keyboard, my email, printed out, with the words Shir haShirim written on top.

Benny was doodling my name?

I was saved the embarrassment of searching for other evidence of interest by the plaintive mewling of a kitten. One of Marla’s brood, hidden by Marla for reasons of her own, and forgotten. For a cat with so much practice, Marla was one lousy mother. I put the donuts down and searched between boxes, in boxes, and finally under Benny’s desk … where amid the dust bunnies and crumpled bits of paper, a decaying cherry pit and something that might have been mouse droppings, I saw a photo propped against the wall, of two fat men laughing, their arms around each other. I reached for it, looked at it in the light.

Topeka.

Benny was wearing the black beret he’d favored during his Santa Claus phase; Romei was holding a book in the air as if it were a trophy. In purple ink in the right-hand corner, an inscription:

To Jellyroll ,

Without you, who knows?

Yours, Romei

I didn’t notice if Marie watched me as I left.

Benny called. Strange, he said. I seem to have a ghost in my annex.

Why didn’t you tell me you knew Romei? I asked. On my way home I’d slammed his millennial madness window with my hand, which earned me jeers from the boom box — bearing boys in Slice of Park.

It was you! Benny said. Donuts are a novel calling card, but you might have left a note.

Why didn’t you tell me you knew Romei?

I published his first English translations in Gilgul —I thought you knew.

Why would he think I knew that?

Why would you think I knew that?

Didn’t I say?

Never mind, I said. For some reason, Benny wasn’t telling me the truth.

Isn’t that why you asked me about him?

Never mind, I said.

Where did you find the photo?

I didn’t answer. It had been so plainly hidden under the desk. And recently: the photo was clean despite the dust bunny convention. I thought about this a moment and hung up. Fuck him.

When the phone rang again, I let it go to voicemail.

We seem to have been cut off, Benny said in his message. Or maybe not. Listen, I published Romei long before he was famous. We can talk about Shir haShirim whenever you want — I’ve put together some commentaries and … Oh, shit, he said, and hung up.

Shir haShirim —it wasn’t a play on my name! I should have known. Shir was song —I knew that: Benny’s name for me was shir chadash , new song. Shir haShirim was the Song of Songs . I’d thought Benny had been doodling my name, when in fact he’d been lying — about what I couldn’t guess.