East of Suez Read online

  After sorting through the closet, the drawers, and the filing cabinet, I sat down again and leaned back just to see if the usual squeak could be anticipated. I was testing the continuity of my memory. The fact that I even remembered was a testimonial to what remained of my pia mater. The phone rang.

  “Cooperman,” I said.

  “Benny, it’s me. I thought I’d find you at the office.”

  “Hi, Anna! Yeah, I’ve been cleaning up some of the mess. How long have I been away from here?”

  “It’s been a long time. You know this is September. The season of ‘mists and mellow fruitfulness’ is upon us. What are you really up to?”

  “Just trying to get to know the guy who used to work here.”

  “Good idea. Like Danton said, it’s worth the effort.”

  “Who’s Danton? You didn’t tell me about him. Are you trying to let me down gently?”

  “He’s long gone. No threat. You’re not getting depressed again, are you?” I’d had a bout or two of that since graduating from the rehab hospital. It was normal, they said.

  “No, Anna, I’m thinking happy, constructive thoughts. I’m so healthy I’m already thinking of breaking for lunch. Are you available?”

  “Nope. I’ve got a class. But I’ll see you after five or so.”

  “I’ll give you a progress report when I see you.”

  After I hung up the phone the room seemed more silent than when I first came through the door. It made me wonder about people who are always on the phone to one another every day. Does it take the place of a relationship? I don’t know.

  Looking around the room, I tried to figure out how many cardboard boxes I’d need to clean the place out. I could store the files in Pa’s basement until I could legally dispose of them. The furniture could go to the junk dealer on Queenston Road whose name I couldn’t remember.

  I should mention the fact that while I was never a hotshot at remembering names, since my time in hospital names are the hardest things to recall. As soon as I tried to reach for a name in my mind, it flitted like a sparrow out of sight. This didn’t happen only with obscure names, it happened with those I knew best. The list included my brother and even Anna. The rule seemed to work this way: most of ancient history was available to me, courtesy of James Palmer and Miss Lauder, my high school history teachers, but contemporary names seemed to rest intact until I reached out to grab one of them. My memory was a fishbowl and proper nouns swam about avoiding my fingers with skill and cunning. As soon as the moment passed, when I no longer needed the word, it slipped quietly back into its place and I could say it to myself. Of course, by that time, the occasion had passed and I stood stupidly with a no-longer-needed name in my mouth.

  I looked at the cardboard carton with my collection of phone-bugging equipment in it. I could make a gift of the whole works to Savas or Staziak at Niagara Regional Police. The last time I looked those guys were using tin cans and string to keep in touch with each other. I remember one of them saying that the only time they listened in on a conversation was when it was my quarter in the phone.

  While I was looking at the cardboard box, I suddenly realized how ancient my own bits and pieces of technology were. I could even see a metal box with space for ten B batteries to be installed. Nowadays, electronic equipment runs on things far more sophisticated than B batteries. The only word I could think of was “transistor,” and that was probably long out of date. Who could I give this junk to? Maybe my brother’s girls might know what to do with it. Damn it! What the hell!

  I wondered why the question hit me so hard. What was the point? Then I understood. This was my life I was dismantling. This was who I was. I felt like a schoolboy pulling apart a robin’s nest. No wonder I wasn’t enjoying it.

  TWO

  A MONTH LATER, the office looked the same. I had moved a few things around, but the plain fact is: I wasn’t getting anywhere. An ancient file would hold me for hours as I tried to recall the details of an old case. Every scrap of paper had a claim on my time. As a result, I was standing in the center of a circle of halffilled cardboard boxes. I picked up a file, studied the face in a photograph, sighed, and took another sip of cold coffee.

  Don’t get me wrong: I didn’t spend all my time in that depressing old office. I’d been to the courthouse, watched a few short trials. I’d visited old friends, even had drinks with Savas and Staziak. I went to the movies. I visited my aunt in a nursing home who was far worse off than I was. I tried to find a place along St Andrew Street where they made a choppedegg sandwich like they used to make them at the defunct Diana Sweets. I went for walks around Grantham, trying to remember the streets. I even went to see if I could find the tunnel under the old canal that once saved my life. I kept busy, all right, but in the mornings I most often wound up in the office staring at the litter.

  I moved on, trying to outwit depression, lifting boxes from the floor to the desk and from the desk to a chair. It was like trying to hide my unwanted string beans under my mashed potatoes. It didn’t work. I told myself that the depression had nothing to do with my recent stay in Rose of Sharon Rehab Hospital. Tidying and cleaning up have always hit me this way. This was nothing special.

  One afternoon, just as I was about to open another cardboard box of aging equipment, there was a knock on my door.

  Hadn’t Anna said that she had a department meeting? I only half remembered. Having disposed of Anna as a possibility, I realized the mystery remained. “Come in!” I shouted, somewhat louder than necessary. I repeated the invitation and then wedged my back into the chair behind my desk and waited for the door to open, which, in due course, of course, it did.

  It was one of the Pressburger girls; I couldn’t tell which one. I tried to maintain my curiosity and indicated a chair with the hand not gripping the edge of my desk.

  “Benny?” she began. “Do you remember me?”

  “You’re one of the Pressburger clan, aren’t you?”

  “Yes! I’m Victoria. Vicky. Remember? You remember my sisters, Jane and Lizzy?”

  “I remember all of you. One or another of you was always winning prizes. I used to wonder whether you were triplets.”

  “No, just very close together. I’m the one in the middle. We longed to be in the same class, but the school wouldn’t do it. It’s not supposed to be good for kids’ development—their emotional development, I mean.”

  I thought I understood why she clarified that for me. Victoria Pressburger was an attractive, busty woman in her late thirties, and, judging by her obvious edginess, I could see she hadn’t quite come to grips with the idea of calling on a private investigator, even when the investigator was a former school friend. She was tall, with neatly cut black hair which she wore in a straight cascade down to her shoulders. There was a lot of straight hair about just then. I wondered whether they ironed it. She was dressed in a dark blue business suit with a white blouse and was wearing two pieces of jewelry, a pin and a bracelet, both made of jade. The effect was peculiar: a cross between the All-American Girl and the Orient. As I indicated the chair a second time, she smoothed her skirt, seating herself in front of my desk.

  “It’s been a hundred years, Benny!” she said, showing fine, even teeth. “Well, maybe only seventy-five.”

  “At least. What have you been up to? I heard you discovered Asia.”

  “Let’s see. I’ve been a bit of a vagabond since you saw me last, Benny. I’ve lived all over the place. A year in London, two in Paris, another in Mombasa. Another two in Germany. I worked in Singapore for a Canadian bank. I got married and had a family in Hong Kong. Jake ran scuba-diving trips to the reefs in the Andaman Sea, off the west side of the Malay Peninsula …” Her use of the past tense put me on my guard. Nobody calls on a private investigator with good news. I was thinking, “You poor kid!” as I tuned in on her again.

  “Did I tell you? That was in Takot, Miranam. Ever heard of Miranam? It’s between Singapore and Bangkok. That’s where we’ve been living for the
last six years. I’ve only been back home for a few weeks. Our business grew to be a big operation for those parts. Too big. The government horned in and nationalized the business. They took over everything, wiped us out, but somehow wanted Jake to go on running it for them. That ended badly. I was lucky to get out of there with my life. I sent the kids off on the first available flight. My husband, in all probability, was murdered there. But I don’t know. I’m going crazy, not being sure. I need to know, Benny.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “I couldn’t find out one way or the other. The authorities, you see. It was terrible. Every way I tried to get information, I hit a brick wall. I could write a book about the art of unhelpful bureaucracy. I couldn’t get away myself for days.”

  I was glad she’d tipped me off with her past tense along the way. I tried to find the right words. They were where I’d left them, on the tip of my tongue. “You poor kid. You’ve been through the wringer.”

  “I guess I have. And now, Benny, things are looking dark again because I can’t get help. I can’t go back there.”

  “I’m sorry, Vicky,” I said lamely. She smiled at my first use of her name.

  “About four and a half weeks ago, I got word that the kids, Moira and Teddy, were safe with good friends in Mombasa. They’re ten and eight. I phoned and they were put on the next plane home.”

  “Mombasa? Where is that? New Guinea? Australia? Africa?”

  She nodded, smiling, showing her good manners. “Africa. Kenya, on the east coast. They were safe there while I began to sort out this tangled mess.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, Benny—”

  “Oh! Before you do, Vicky, I should tell you that I’m no longer in the business. I’m not a private investigator any more. I’ve retired. That doesn’t mean I’m not interested in your problems. I am. But I just wanted you to know where I’m at.”

  “I see.”

  “So while I’m willing to listen and give you the best side of a sympathetic ear, I … I can’t offer you much practical help. Advice? Sure. But you see, I came up to the office today to try to finish packing up.”

  She looked around her at the mess and confusion for the first time. “I see.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s a matter of timing. I’ve been sick. I was in hospital for … for a long time. I can’t remember names of people or places any more. I can’t read. I’m a mess. I can’t be much help to myself these days, let alone try to help others.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t keep saying that! I’m sorry, Vicky, but that’s the way it is.”

  She took a deep breath. She couldn’t be controlling her temper; what had I done to merit that? I had simply told her where I stood. Hell, she’s the one who’d climbed the stairs!

  “I’m sorry, Benny. It’s not your fault. But I’ve come so far and I guess I’m worn out with worry and despair.”

  “There are other people in this line of work, Vicky. Even here, in town. Toronto’s phone book is full of private investigators.”

  “I know, I know. It’s just that since it all started here, and you were part of it …”

  “Me! In what way was I involved?”

  “Well, you introduced me to Jake in the first place.”

  “Wait a minute. Who are we talking about? Jake who?”

  “You can’t have forgotten!”

  “Vicky, there are just a handful of things I haven’t forgotten. Jake who? Tell me.”

  “Jake Grange. You remember Jake! You introduced us. He was on the football team. You were a few years ahead of us but you knew him. So I asked you if you’d make the introduction and break the ice for me. You don’t remember? I’ve never forgotten a moment of it. You made the introduction, very natural, very casual, and we walked over to the Di to have milkshakes. I can’t believe you don’t remember!”

  “Look, Vicky, a lot has happened to me this last year like I said. I have a fractured memory. I remembered you and your sisters all right, but it might take me a minute or two to remember Jake Grange. Let’s see, there was Emil Eurynuk, Ted Lanskey, Jocko Thomas, Pete Neuman, Steve Oneschuck—”

  “And Jake Grange! He was on the line, but he didn’t have the build for it. He was tall, with the shoulders you expect to see on a quarterback.”

  “Yes, I begin to get something like a picture. He had a brother who was a friend of my brother.”

  “That’s right! That was Ernie. He was in the school plays and went into business in Niagara Falls next to the funeral home.”

  “Yeah, the ghost of a face is coming through the mist. He took the last year of Tech and then went on with a bunch of the football players to do the last year of high school in the academic stream so he could go on to university.”

  “The University of Toronto, where he played for the Varsity Blues.”

  “He was a six-footer at sixteen or seventeen. Sure, I remember him now!”

  For a minute or so we grinned at one another, like this was some sort of class reunion. I could feel the stretch in my cheeks as I looked at her smiling back at me. We almost hugged, but there was the desk between us. It was a happy moment. Then I remembered what she’d told me: Jake was dead. Killed somewhere in Africa, or was it Asia? I had already forgotten the name of the country.

  The smile slipped sadly from my face. I got up, came around the desk, and perched on the corner. “When did he die?” I asked, taking her hand. It was cold, like Mimi’s in the opera.

  “I’m not sure, exactly. Maybe in the spring. I couldn’t get confirmation of anything. It took weeks and weeks trying to find out. By that time I was back in Grantham.”

  “Where are the kids now?”

  “We’ve been staying with my mother, here in town. The kids are doing wonderfully. You wouldn’t believe it. Jake would be so proud of them.”

  “And you’re staying with them, at your mother’s?”

  “Yes. That’s right. She doesn’t have much room, but we manage.”

  “And her name is still …?”

  “No, she remarried after Dad died. It’s under Dr Riley Adams in the phone book.”

  I tried to think of the next question, but the thought was trampled by the overriding realization that I was asking out of idle curiosity. I was no longer in the business, so why was I gathering the available facts in a neat bundle? I took a breath to try to clear the clutter in my brain. “Vicky, isn’t there somebody you can turn to at a time like this? I’m not very useful to anybody nowadays. I forget things, you see. I repeat myself and I’m not much good with facts.” I knew she’d bite her lip and she did.

  “You were my last hope, Benny. I got the runaround from three Toronto agencies. One didn’t know where Miranam is!”

  “Yeah. It’s the other name for Burma, isn’t it?” I took a chance. If I struck out, I was off the case with honor, no hard feelings. If I got it right, I could only blame my big mouth.

  “Burma’s new name is Myanmar. I’m talking about Miranam, Benny.”

  “It’s Asia, right?”

  “Right! See, I knew you were the man for the job!”

  I took another deep breath. “What is it exactly you want me to do, Vicky?”

  “I have to know whether he’s alive or dead. I need a date, a death certificate. I want to know if he had a proper burial and all the things that the kids will want to know when they’re old enough to ask me. I need the official papers if there are any.”

  “In a civilized country, that shouldn’t take very long. Is that all you want?”

  “Miranam will pass a lot of tests for being civilized. It was building marble temples while we were building log cabins. Civilization isn’t something that’s either present or absent. It’s like marble cake: civilization and barbarism are all tangled and mixed together.”

  “What else needs doing?”

  “Jake had a small suitcase. A briefcase, really. He always carried it with him. It had all of our personal papers in it: birth certificates, ma
rriage license, health cards, everything but our passports, plus other personal things.”

  “Such as negotiable bonds, rubies, diamonds, emeralds? Come on, Vicky, you have to give me the facts!”

  You heard me say it. I heard myself say it. But I still couldn’t believe it. I was talking like I had already taken Vicky’s little problem from her fair shoulders and hoisted it onto mine. Send for a shrink! I shouldn’t be allowed out without a keeper.

  Vicky’s eyes had narrowed. I’d have given a million to know what was going on inside her head at that moment. “Benny, your job is to discover what happened to Jake, and then find the suitcase. Get it back to me. Believe me, I know what I’m doing. What’s inside is none of your affair.” She was showing a metallic side of herself that was new to me.

  “Look, Vicky, none of this is any of my business. And when I carry a suitcase across an international border, I want to know that I’m clean, that I’m not going to be separated from my liberty for a stretch in some fetid foreign dungeon. Thank you and good afternoon. Unless you want to talk old times. I’m still up for that. I’m always glad to see old friends. Give my love to your sisters. I always thought that you three were very smart and attractive, but, of course, I never mentioned it. Goodbye, Vicky, and good luck.” She made no attempt to take the hand I was holding out over my pad of foolscap.

  “Oh, Benny! Always playing games. Never could get a straight answer out of you. This suitcase won’t go bang! You’ve been reading too many dime novels about that part of the world. Life isn’t like that.”

  “Vicky, they haven’t published a dime novel in sixty or seventy years. I’m surprised you even know the term. What about ‘made-for-TV movies’? Try again.”

  “How did you get to be so cynical and jaded? I pity you, Benny Cooperman!”

  “Same to you with lemon! Now, either you tell me what’s going on or clear the hall. I’m packing up this office, remember? I’m taking my shingle down, Vicky. I’m not in the mood for silly tricks, and, apart from that, I’m not in the business.”

  “I know. I heard you. You sound like that English comedian with the dead parrot. Does this condition you have make you repeat yourself?”