impatient blond counterpart in need of a diet doctor, and an older man slouching in the line. I hadn’t ever thought about how different people were. And any one of them could be a danger for me.
Safely back behind the doors of my apartment building, I checked my mailbox and, along with my movie periodical, found an envelope with my name but no return address. Setting my shopping down in the small lobby, I opened the envelope, handling the sheet inside by the edges. I’d seen CSI shows. I no longer cared if people thought I was crazy.
Betray your country and you’ll get 20 years of federal hospitality.
I stared at it. I couldn’t believe it. I read it again. After a while, I squashed it back in the envelope, gathered up my shopping and went up to my apartment. The envelope quivered in my hand until I dropped it on the table. One of my shopping bags fell over on the table, spilling the contents and a glass jar rolled over the edge. I gulped as my floor was covered in a large red star of tomato and olive pasta sauce and glittering shards.
I left the chaos, closed the drapes, changed into my pyjamas and retreated to my bed, pulling the comforter over my head. I lay there, shaking, frightened into my soul.
Thumping at my apartment door jolted me awake. Instantly. Somebody rattling the handle. They’d come for me.
‘Karen?’ A voice shouted.
Conrad! I ran to the door and looked through the spyhole. It was him. I gulped with relief, unlocked the door and pulled it open.
‘What’s happened? Why are you in your pyjamas at two in the afternoon?’
I told him about the restaurant line and the letter. As he fetched it from the kitchen, I heard him mutter, ‘Bastards’. Despite my earlier doubts about him, it was annoying to admit he’d been proved right on all counts.
‘Are you up to going out?’ he said. ‘I need to meet up with somebody, so we could eat at the same time.’
By the time I’d showered, and dressed in tee and jeans, Conrad had cleared up the mess on my kitchen floor and made me a cup of tea.
‘Before we go anywhere,’ I said, standing in the living room ‘I have something else to tell you.’ I studied the print on the opposite wall of old New York in 1837 – the Governor-General’s loyal address on Victoria coming to the throne – my father’s favourite. ‘Maybe I should have mentioned it sooner, but I have a problem of my own.’ I told him about the encounter with Junior Hartenwyck, getting thrown out the Conservancy Corps, being placed on the national watch list, everything.
‘Why didn’t you tell me anything of this before?’
‘I was too embarrassed, okay?’ I dared him to say anything.
He looked angry as all hell. He rubbed the first two fingers of his right hand on the hairline at his temple. ‘That explains why they knew you and reacted so quickly when I contacted you.’
XII
He didn’t go an inch beyond meticulously polite and only spoke to me when absolutely necessary during our journey. We took the subway to the Bouwerie and walked west into a side street off Kenmare Street to a bar oozing Italian nostalgia. Green and red horizontal stripes circling the whole dining room, photos of famous Italian Americans, prints of old Venezia with gondolas and extravagant buildings. To complete the kitsch, out came an Italian poppa, apron round his waist, black curled-up moustache, big grin.
‘Conrado!’ He kissed Conrad on both cheeks and pumped his hand. Jeez, it was like something out of a bad movie.
‘Gianni, can I introduce my friend, Carina?’
Carina ? I glanced at Conrad, but he didn’t say any more.
Above his wide and brilliant smile, Gianni’s eyes scanned me like a photocopier reader.
‘Please, come up and see Mamma – she’ll be thrilled to see you!’
Laughing and talking, Gianni led the way upstairs. ‘Ciao, Mamma,’ he said, as we entered the first room on the right. He shut the door behind us. If Mamma existed, she wasn’t in this room.
Safely back behind the doors of my apartment building, I checked my mailbox and, along with my movie periodical, found an envelope with my name but no return address. Setting my shopping down in the small lobby, I opened the envelope, handling the sheet inside by the edges. I’d seen CSI shows. I no longer cared if people thought I was crazy.
Betray your country and you’ll get 20 years of federal hospitality.
I stared at it. I couldn’t believe it. I read it again. After a while, I squashed it back in the envelope, gathered up my shopping and went up to my apartment. The envelope quivered in my hand until I dropped it on the table. One of my shopping bags fell over on the table, spilling the contents and a glass jar rolled over the edge. I gulped as my floor was covered in a large red star of tomato and olive pasta sauce and glittering shards.
I left the chaos, closed the drapes, changed into my pyjamas and retreated to my bed, pulling the comforter over my head. I lay there, shaking, frightened into my soul.
Thumping at my apartment door jolted me awake. Instantly. Somebody rattling the handle. They’d come for me.
‘Karen?’ A voice shouted.
Conrad! I ran to the door and looked through the spyhole. It was him. I gulped with relief, unlocked the door and pulled it open.
‘What’s happened? Why are you in your pyjamas at two in the afternoon?’
I told him about the restaurant line and the letter. As he fetched it from the kitchen, I heard him mutter, ‘Bastards’. Despite my earlier doubts about him, it was annoying to admit he’d been proved right on all counts.
‘Are you up to going out?’ he said. ‘I need to meet up with somebody, so we could eat at the same time.’
By the time I’d showered, and dressed in tee and jeans, Conrad had cleared up the mess on my kitchen floor and made me a cup of tea.
‘Before we go anywhere,’ I said, standing in the living room ‘I have something else to tell you.’ I studied the print on the opposite wall of old New York in 1837 – the Governor-General’s loyal address on Victoria coming to the throne – my father’s favourite. ‘Maybe I should have mentioned it sooner, but I have a problem of my own.’ I told him about the encounter with Junior Hartenwyck, getting thrown out the Conservancy Corps, being placed on the national watch list, everything.
‘Why didn’t you tell me anything of this before?’
‘I was too embarrassed, okay?’ I dared him to say anything.
He looked angry as all hell. He rubbed the first two fingers of his right hand on the hairline at his temple. ‘That explains why they knew you and reacted so quickly when I contacted you.’
XII
He didn’t go an inch beyond meticulously polite and only spoke to me when absolutely necessary during our journey. We took the subway to the Bouwerie and walked west into a side street off Kenmare Street to a bar oozing Italian nostalgia. Green and red horizontal stripes circling the whole dining room, photos of famous Italian Americans, prints of old Venezia with gondolas and extravagant buildings. To complete the kitsch, out came an Italian poppa, apron round his waist, black curled-up moustache, big grin.
‘Conrado!’ He kissed Conrad on both cheeks and pumped his hand. Jeez, it was like something out of a bad movie.
‘Gianni, can I introduce my friend, Carina?’
Carina ? I glanced at Conrad, but he didn’t say any more.
Above his wide and brilliant smile, Gianni’s eyes scanned me like a photocopier reader.
‘Please, come up and see Mamma – she’ll be thrilled to see you!’
Laughing and talking, Gianni led the way upstairs. ‘Ciao, Mamma,’ he said, as we entered the first room on the right. He shut the door behind us. If Mamma existed, she wasn’t in this room.
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