Rosenfeld spat upon the ground. I didn’t react, though I suppose he wanted me to. He was a decent man and would not strike me first, but I didn’t give him the pleasure of hitting him. I merely took a photograph of the crowd that had gathered, Jews and Italians who worked in factories and wanted more for themselves and their families, basic rights at the very least. Rosenfeld’s father had worked with mine in the second factory where we’d found employment, and Rosenfeld and I had spent a portion of our boyhood together. We had once been friends, when such things were possible for me. I didn’t react when he shoved his hand in front of my camera’s lens. “Well at least you know what this man thinks,” he said. And yes, I knew. He despised me.
I kept the photograph of his hand and have it still. The lines of his palm are like a map to a country I cannot name. I kept the broken watch as well, stored in my pocket after Moses’s death. Soon after my run-in with Rosenfeld, I happened to pass a watchmaker’s shop on Houston Street. The sign proclaimed the shopowner could repair any timepiece. If stumped he would present a customer with a new gold watch at no cost whatsoever. The proposition sounded fishy, but I could hardly afford to have the watch fixed, so I went in to see what he could do. The watchmaker was working when I entered. He was an elderly fellow, and a sign informed me that his name was Harold Kelly. It was likely clear to him that I was a young man with a chip on my shoulder. I cared little about my appearance and wore a frayed blue jacket, baggy trousers, boots, a black cap with a brim. I kept my hair clipped to my scalp, as a convict newly released from prison might have. I suppose I looked ragged in every way, lanky and dark, headed for trouble. I had spent so much time photographing criminals, I may have taken on some of their airs. I assume Kelly thought I wasn’t a customer worth the bother. He ignored me until I placed the watch on his counter. He glanced at it, and as soon as he did, he stopped working so he could peer over his glasses at me.
“Yours?”
“Inherited,” I told him. I suppose that’s the way I thought of the watch, not as a stolen object but as a reward I deserved. From the skeptical look on the watchmaker’s face I could tell he thought it was much too good for the likes of me.
He picked it up, turned it over in his hand, and read the inscription. “ ‘To my dear son.’ ”
“I have a father,” I said, embarrassed by the sort of son I’d become, for I was dear to no one. I thought of Isaac spitting on the ground so he could let me know what he thought of me. The day after I’d stolen the watch I’d gone to sit beside him under a long table, where we did piecework, stitching pockets onto women’s shirts. We were only boys, but boys who knew too much of the world. When I opened my hand to reveal my take, his eyes had widened. “The owner’s son,” I’d whispered, not needing to say more. “Good,” Isaac had whispered back. “It’s what he deserves.”
The watchmaker removed his glasses and used an eyepiece to examine the watch further. “Made in London.” He showed me a hallmark I hadn’t noticed before, a leopard’s head. “That marks the city of origin.” Then beneath that mark, a crown with the number 22. “Pure gold. Excellent quality. Your father gave this to you? He must be quite wealthy.”
“You don’t need wealth to appreciate something beautiful.” I now feared this fellow Kelly might call the police on me, and therefore manage to keep the watch for himself. Over the years I had grown attached to it, as men grow attached to their miseries and their burdens.
The repairman took a tiny set of tweezers and opened the back of the watch, then went deeper into the cogs, fishing around. He came upon a cog that was stuck in place, which he removed and cleaned, then reinserted. Immediately the works began again. The sudden sound startled me, and I took a step away from the counter. Kelly nodded, fully understanding my reaction. “It’s alive,” he said. “A watch is like a man. You have to know how to approach it, and each one is unique. This one, for instance, has its own fingerprint.” Kelly tapped upon the back with just the right amount of pressure. A small circular panel slipped up to reveal a single blue stone. “Sapphire,” he informed me. “Your father truly does appreciate beauty. And of course there is your name in print for all eternity,” he said with a mocking tone.
A hidden inscription had been revealed, there below the stone.
“To Harry Block, on the occasion of his eleventh birthday.”
“It’s a fine watch, Harry.” The watchmaker smirked as he congratulated me. He had already guessed that wasn’t my name. In truth, I startled at the sound of it. “If you ever want to sell this watch, I’m an interested party. Or any other watch your father presents to you. Just bring it here and I’ll give you a fair price.”
I paid the fee for the repair with all the money I had at the time, and slipped the watch inside my pocket. Walking down Houston Street I remembered that Harry Block had told me his age, the same as mine, as if that had mattered and had somehow made us colleagues. He’d only had the watch for a brief time before I’d relieved him of it. At that point I had already been in possession of the timepiece for so long perhaps it did belong to me.
All the same, I began to look for the original owner. I did so without thinking, since finding people came easily to me. It was what I’d been trained for, and searching for the lost had become part of my soul. I couldn’t let things go, even when I should. I did as Hochman had always instructed, looked into my subject’s past. He insisted to the press that he used numerology and herbs to divine a man’s future and his dreams, but he told me that a man always revealed his own inner story in his actions and expressions. A man’s past deeds foretold his future, and allowed anyone with half a brain to divine the path he would take.
I discovered which factories Block’s family owned and made a list that I carried with me. I stood outside each one, including the loft where my father and Isaac Rosenfeld’s father had worked years ago. For several years Block disappeared. I found out later he had gone to Harvard College, then to law school. When he moved back into his family’s house after his residence in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I was still around. Sometimes I stationed myself across from his family’s home. In the half-light I gazed through the tall arched windows. It was a brownstone mansion on Sixty-second Street, built by the architects Hunt and Hunt with beautiful cornice pieces and elaborate stone carvings. Surely, it could not compare to Mrs. Vanderbilt’s block-long monstrosity of red bricks and limestone, built in 1882 across from the Plaza Hotel, inspired by a chateau in the Loire Valley. All the same, the Block mansion was grand enough. I felt even more like a criminal when I lurked there. I felt trouble course through me. I had photographed some gang members in the Tombs prison before their hangings, moments before they crossed from the courthouse to their incarceration and death over a connecting bridge that prisoners called the Bridge of Sighs. I’d wondered if these men had always known they would murder and rob and that their fates would lead them to ruin. As for me, I had no idea what I was capable of. Was the future set, or could a man change his destiny and make his own decisions as to what came next? Perhaps it was as Hochman had once said to me, that a man had many lives. Each day we chose the path we would take by our own actions.
And yet I did not feel that way whenever I turned onto Sixty-second Street. I felt pulled there by something far beyond my control.
I was jumpy and unpredictable as I stationed myself outside the mansion, like the arrested men I photographed. They often hung their heads and would not look full face into the camera. It was difficult to get a decent portrait of a criminal. Surely the same could have been said of me had my photograph ever been taken, not that it ever had been. I did not wish to be anyone’s subject, or to expose what the lens might reveal.
I took to the shadows when I was positioned outside the Blocks’ mansion, and in doing so became a shadow of myself. I became acquainted with the people who lived in the house by merely observing them. The scullery maids and the liveryman I knew by name. There was a maid called Agnes, and another called Sarah. Several workingmen who were in charge of the upkeep of the mansion cleared the grounds, among them a fellow they called Stick, who seemed to be their boss and who occasionally threw me a look. I slinked down the street at such times, but soon enough I was back, reckless in my need to stalk the family. I knew the schedules of the well-dressed women, Block’s grandmother and mother, and an attractive younger woman with a serious expression who went in and out with her friends, all wearing large, extravagant feathered hats and silk cloaks. She was the girl I’d frightened long ago, the one with the rabbit coat. My timing was always off, and I never caught a glimpse of Block himself. Then at last I saw him headed for the doorway, Harry Block, the boy who’d handed over his watch without a fight, now a gentleman of means and responsibilities. He exited a carriage, wearing a fur-collared coat and a silk bowler. He thanked the liveryman, whom I knew to be named Marcus, clapping him on the back good-naturedly before he took the steps two at a time. Block was handsome and well mannered, at ease in the world, as rich men often were. My rage was white-hot. I felt it in my blood. It was as if the day when my father stepped off the dock had happened only hours before. Hochman had been right, the past was what we carried with us, threaded to the future, and we decided whether to keep it close or let it go. Fate was both what we were given and what we made for ourselves.
I hadn’t given up the hatred I carried.
I took to following Block, and soon enough knew his routine. Once I leapt unnoticed and caught onto the rear of his carriage. I hung on as it made its way down Broadway, only inches away from him. My heart pounded as the wooden wheels hit ruts in the street, but my hands clenched the brass railings. I stepped off before the carriage stopped, leaving to ensure I didn’t assault him. He oversaw the factories that belonged to his father, and also had a legal practice in which he served as the attorney for many other factory owners. He was on the boards of several charities, well known for his fund-raising abilities.
I positioned myself outside his family’s mansion on the night an event was held to celebrate the new library that was being built in the Beaux Arts style between Fortieth and Forty-second Street. The building would stand in the place where there had been a man-made four-acre lake with water from the Croton Reservoir, surrounded by a twenty-five-foot Egyptian-style wall. Now a new, larger reservoir had been built in Westchester County, and the library would be considered a true wonder of the city, elegant, enormous, a free education for the people of New York. The party was to raise funds, but it was a gathering outside the usual social hierarchy, for it was unlikely that these donors would ever be invited into the parlor of the Astors, who had given the bulk of the funds. These were Jews, after all, wealthy, but still separate.
I slipped inside by assuring the doorman—whom I recognized as an elderly fellow called Barker—that I’d been sent by the Tribune to take photographs of the event. I had my camera with me, and I showed my press pass, which didn’t mean much but seemed to satisfy the servant. I felt a thief simply walking over the plush carpeting. It was blue and red, a grand Chinese tapestry, and the floors of the entranceway were polished slabs of black and white marble. Another servant of some sort, one who must have been hired for the evening, for I failed to recognize him, led me past a telephone room fashioned of golden oak into the great hall, where there was a hanging Tiffany lamp of enormous proportions that cast a warm glow. The woodwork gleamed, and there were angels carved into the wooden cornices. The family was gathered here, including the father, my own father’s old employer. The senior Mr. Block seemed to have some illness, as he was unable to leave his chair. I took my time in setting up my camera. I was not the only photographer. The family had hired a society fellow I knew, Jack Hailey, who had access to Manhattan’s elite, and acted as if he wasn’t a lowly newsman. He was annoyed by my presence and told me in no uncertain terms he planned to sell photographs to the papers so I shouldn’t bother trying to sell mine.
“Fuck you, Hailey,” I said. “Kiss their asses if you want. I’ll do as I please.”
The young woman who was Harry’s sister happened to overhear. She was tall and refined with a solemn demeanor. She gazed at me, concerned, then turned to whisper something in her brother’s ear. He patted her arm in a comforting but somewhat condescending manner. Harry’s sister had turned out to be attractive though she hadn’t been a pretty girl. When she wasn’t surrounded by her silly friends, her expression was thoughtful, her eyes bright with intelligence. I’d seen her turn down glasses of champagne, and I noticed she kept to herself. Her personality seemed rather serious, and I imagined that she would have chosen to walk away from the festivities and have a moment to herself, preferring to sit on a park bench under an elm tree, for instance, watching the dark filter through the branches like any common woman. But she wore so many diamonds she would have been robbed in an instant.