Liat: only later did I discover the meaning of her name.
Liat: You are mine.
I woke shortly after seven. Beside me, the bed was empty. I showered, dressed, and went downstairs. The apartment was quiet. When I entered the kitchen, a middle-aged man was preparing the day’s food, and in the restaurant a woman in her sixties was serving coffee and bagels to a short line of customers. Where Epstein and I had sat the night before, an elderly couple now shared a copy of the Forward.
‘Where is Liat?’ I asked the woman behind the counter.
She shrugged, then fumbled in her apron and produced a note. It was not from Liat, but from Epstein. It read:
Progress being made.
Please stay another night.
E
I left the restaurant. One of Epstein’s young men sat at a table outside, drinking mint tea. He didn’t glance at me when I appeared, nor did he try to follow. I had coffee at a bakery on Houston, and thought of Liat. I wondered where she was, and I thought that I knew.
I believed that she was telling Epstein of my wounds.
I spent the rest of the morning drifting, browsing in bookstores and what few record stores remained in the city – Other Music at 4th and Broadway, Academy Records on West 18th Street – before meeting Angel and Louis for lunch at the Brickyard in Hell’s Kitchen.
‘You look different,’ said Angel.
‘Do I?’
‘Yeah, like the cat that got the cream, except maybe a cat that thinks the cream might have been spiked. This woman you were staying with, Liat, what did she look like, exactly?’
‘Old,’ I said.
‘Really?’
‘And gray.’
‘You don’t say? I bet she was a heavy-set woman too.’
‘Very.’
‘I knew it. So she bore no resemblance to that slim, dark-haired piece of work who was pouring the wine last night?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘That’s very reassuring. Then I guess we’re not celebrating the end of the longest dry spell since the Dust Bowl?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘we’re not celebrating anything. You ordering the chicken wings?’
‘Yep.’
‘Try not to choke on a bone. I’m not sure I could find it in my heart to save you.’
Louis’s mouth twitched. It might have been a smile.
‘For a man who just got laid by one of the Chosen People, you don’t look too happy,’ he said.
‘That’s a large assumption.’
‘You saying I’m wrong?’
‘I’m not saying anything.’
‘Okay, man, be coy.’
‘Is telling you that it’s none of your damn business either way being coy?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Fine. Then I’m being coy.’
‘Well, either you didn’t get laid, or you did get laid and it was no good, because you still don’t look completely happy.’
He was right. I couldn’t have explained why, even if I’d wanted to, except that I had learned nothing of Liat beyond the scent of her body, the curve of her spine, and the taste of her, while I felt that she had looked deep into me. It was nothing to do with her silence: even as she came her eyes were wide, and her fingers touched my oldest, deepest wounds while her eyes sought the scars on my soul, and I sensed her memorizing those too so that she might tell others of what she had discovered.
‘It was a strange night, that’s all,’ I said.
‘Good sex is wasted on you,’ said Angel, with feeling. ‘You’re a lost cause.’