Fifteen

On Saturday Sid and Gus insisted on preparing a feast at their house.

“But it’s so long since we’ve seen Nell,” Gus said, when I tried to protest, “and we’ve been dying to meet this Jacob Singer, so you can’t be selfish and keep them to yourself.”

“All right, if you insist,” I said, “but you have already done so much for me. Let me at least provide the food.”

“Nonsense. You know how we love trying new recipes,” Sid said. “And we have just been reading a book about a woman who traveled alone through North Africa, disguised as a male Bedouin. Doesn’t that sound like a simply marvelous thing to do? We were all set to try it when we finished the book, but then we decided we really couldn’t abandon dear old New York and Patchin Place. So we’ve settled for the food. We shall cook couscous and kebabs—although I don’t think we can procure camel’s hump.”

I laughed. “Camel’s hump. Now I’ve heard everything.”

“It is considered a great delicacy among the Bedouin,” Sid said, attempting not to smile. “But you may bring the wine and the grapes, if you insist.”

So when I was finally released from work at six thirty-five on Saturday I wandered among the Italian food shops south of Washington Square and chose a jug of robust red wine, enclosed in a neat raffia basket. I felt very worldly carrying it home. If they could see me now in Ballykillin, I thought with a smile of satisfaction. When I arrived at 9 Patchin Place I found that Sid and Gus had been up to their old tricks—they had transformed their parlor into an Eastern boudoir, with the walls draped in velvet and gauze and the floor strewn with Oriental carpets and large pillows. They had even produced an Oriental water pipe which they insisted we should smoke later.

Nell and Jacob arrived at eight and we had a messy meal, eating with our hands, while perched on cushions.

“Now I know why they always have dogs around in such scenes,” Nell exclaimed, wiping a sticky chin with her napkin. “It is to clean up the food that falls around them. I feel revoltingly primitive.”

“But remarkably free, wouldn’t you say?” Sid asked.

I glanced at Jacob and found that he was watching me. We exchanged a smile.

I looked at the plates, still piled high with food. I ate another grape and felt instantly guilty.

“Doesn’t it worry you sometimes that we can go home to eat like this while those girls at the sweatshops probably go to bed hungry each night?” I looked across at Nell and Jacob.

“I can’t let it worry me,” Nell said. “I do what I can to improve the lot of women. If I didn’t get enough to eat, I wouldn’t have the energy to accomplish what I do. And I see no sense in pretending to be poor.”

“And I only eat such meals as this when decadent friends invite me, Miss Murphy,” Jacob said. “Then I return to starve in my garret.”

“Only because you choose not to make money from your photographs,” Nell said, slapping his hand and laughing. “You know very well that you could be rich and famous and dine at all the best houses in town if you chose. You are a brilliant photographer. You just choose to photograph slums and strikes.”

“You’re right. We Russians don’t know how to live without suffering,” Jacob said, also smiling, and again his gaze strayed across to me. “Miss Murphy understands. She comes from Ireland where suffering is also the way of life.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “We are under the yolk of the English and live in squalor, but we still like to enjoy life. As long as we’ve music and a good swig of liquor, then we’re happy.”

“Is that all it takes to make you happy?” he asked. “Music and a good swig of liquor.”

“I didn’t say me,” I said, blushing at his teasing gaze now. “But we like good friends and good company too, and I’ll say amen to that.”

“When are you going to show us your photographs, Jacob?” Gus asked. “I’ve been dying to see inside a photographer’s studio.”

“You must come tomorrow then,” he said. “All of you. I shall be honored.”

“What fun. We accept,” Sid said. “Now, shall we try the hubble-bubble?” She indicated the water pipe.

“We have to work while our brains are still clear,” Nell said. “It was the reason we came, after all.”

I opened my purse and took out the photos.

“This is the Katherine I was looking for,” I said.

Nell studied it. Jacob came to look over her shoulder. They looked at each other and nodded. “It is the same girl,” Nell said.

I produced the picture of Katherine with Michael at her stirrup. “And this is the man she ran off with. His name is Michael Kelly. I have learned that he was involved with the Eastmans gang. But he too disappeared and the police think he might have been one of the unnamed men who have been killed in recent gang wars.”

“All too probable,” Nell said. “They lead violent lives. What else do you know?”

“Very little. I traced them to a boardinghouse on Division Street. They left that address without paying their rent about the same time that they disappeared.”

Sid came to join us. “If this Katherine is dead, as Molly has told us, then why are you still searching? Shouldn’t she just write to the parents and tell them the sad truth then forget the matter?”

“Nell and I believe, as Molly does, that Katherine would not have taken her own life,” Jacob said, glancing across at Nell for confirmation.

She nodded. “I only met her on a few occasions but I came to admire her. She had zest and fire. She was not going to let her current circumstances browbeat her.”

“Then I think we owe it to her to find out how she met her end,” Jacob said, “and who better to find out the truth than you, Nell? You know every back alley of this city.”

Gus put a hand on my shoulder. “Oh dear, Molly. You should never have met these people. Now you’ve found someone to encourage your wild schemes.”

“I don’t know that I agree with this one,” I said. “I can’t see how we can find out more than we know right now. The young woman pulled from the river is already buried in a pauper’s grave. And it would be impossible to find out if she went into the river willingly or was pushed.”

“Not impossible,” Jacob said, leaning closer. “If we know where the body was fished from the river and about how long it had been in the water, then we should be able to guess where she was thrown in. And if she was thrown in, then someone might have seen it happen.”

I looked at him with admiration. “And I thought I was supposed to be the investigator. You are far more suited to it than I, Mr. Singer.”

“Why so formal?” Gus said. “This is Greenwich Village. In this house we are on a first-name basis—no need for the restrictions of polite society. So it is Molly and Jacob and Nell. Is that clear?”

Jacob glanced across at me and smiled again. “If you permit then, Molly?”

“I shall be charmed, Jacob. And you too, Nell?” I included her hastily, just in case she thought I had any designs on her young man.

“Absolutely. I have never been one for the conventions of polite society, which is why I have been such a trial to my parents. Twenty-eight years old and still unmarried. What is more, I told them that I see marriage as a legal method of condemning women to a life of subservience. But don’t let me start on that topic—let us get back to our foul play, which is more interesting than my lack of nuptial bliss. How do you propose we tackle this, Molly?”

“I can ask the police if any records were taken of where the body was fished from the water and what kind of state it was in. I suppose they recorded what she was wearing, although if she wore any jewelry which might identify her, it will be in some policeman’s pocket by now.”

Nell laughed. “I can tell you have had experience with our delightful police force since your arrival here.”

“Including three different occasions in jail,” I said. “But I do have a—” I was about to say friend. I corrected myself “—a person I can contact who is a police captain.”

“Splendid,” Nell said. “So you will find what details the police have on this woman. I will attempt to find out everything I can on Katherine’s life here—where she worked, whether she had a confrontation with her boss there . . .”

I caught her gaze. “You don’t think—” I began “—she might have made a nuisance of herself at the sweatshop?”

“Some of the sweatshop owners are in cahoots with the gangs,” Jacob said. “In the past when there have been walkout attempts, the shop owners have hired starkes—strong-arm men—to intimidate the strikers. If they had an employee who was likely to create too much trouble, the simplest thing would be to pay a gang to get rid of her.”

“Holy Mother of God.” I put my hand to my throat. “That had never even crossed my mind. Are they that ruthless, do you think?”

“Definitely,” Jacob said. “Profit means everything. Anyone who stands in the way of profit must be eliminated.”

“In that case, finding out what happened to Katherine is all part of the same fight,” I said. I didn’t add that I was now taking over Katherine’s role. I might soon be seen as a nuisance who should be eliminated.

Jacob looked from Nell to me. “Now that I think about it and have heard the circumstances of her disappearance, my advice to you is to let this lie,” he said quietly. “I have seen much tragedy in my life. You can’t bring this Katherine back to life. Do not risk your own lives for something that can’t be undone.”

“Who’s talking about risking lives?” Nell demanded. “A few carefully phrased questions in the right quarter, that’s all we’re talking about. My first task will be to find out where she worked, and then to ask some discreet questions about that particular shop owner and his foremen.”

“You will never be able to prove anything,” Jacob said. “And the deeper you delve, the greater the risk you take.”

Nell patted his arm. “You are such a fussbudget, Jacob. Molly and I are intelligent, sensible women.”

“I worry because I have met too many people who do not play by the rules,” he said.

“Enough of such gloomy talk. Not allowed in this house,” Sid said firmly. “I shall now produce the hubble-bubble and we will transport ourselves into a Bedouin black tent. And since you are the only male here, Jacob, you may be the sheik!”

We concentrated our energy on the water pipe with hilarious results, and the next morning, after our Sunday ritual of coffee and pastries at Fleishman’s Vienna Bakery on Broadway, we headed for the Lower East Side. I realized that I had become accustomed to it, as Sid and Gus pointed out sights that they found strange and exotic. “Flavors of the Levantine, Gus dear. Does this not make you want to travel there after all? We could take in the Holy Land and Egypt and then on to Morocco and the Bedouins.”

“Think of the dirt, though,” Gus said, picking up her skirts to avoid the rotting fruit, horse manure, and other debris that cluttered the street. “The smell of this is bad enough. I do not think I have the stomach for Oriental alleyways.”

Jacob’s atelier was in a loft on Rivington Street, which was in the more prosperous side of the Jewish quarter. Here the houses were built of solid red brick, trimmed with white brick around the windows, and there was a lively trade going on in the many stores that lined the street. I was about to ask how they could be allowed to open on Sundays when I realized that Saturday was the Jewish Sabbath and Sunday only another ordinary day. I found myself wondering if Jacob observed Jewish rituals and went to worship at a temple.

He came down to greet us and escorted us up the stairs, past doors from which came the smells of fat frying and the sounds of a violin being played and up to the top floor. His studio was stark but neat, with a kitchen sink and scrubbed pine table at one side, a bed behind a screen, and the rest of the space taken over with photographic equipment and photographs he had taken.

“I am so glad you could come too, Miss Murphy,” he said after he had greeted Gus and Sid. He was dressed in a Russian worker’s garb, a high-buttoned black tunic that suited him well. His black curly hair was freshly washed and slicked down in an attempt to tame the curls.

“We must be outside Greenwich Village, since I have reverted to being Miss Murphy, or have I in some way offended you?” I said, and was rewarded by his blush.

“You must forgive me. I was raised to a strict code of behavior. My parents lived by every rule society ever invented.”

“Your parents are still in Russia?” I asked, expecting to hear that they were dead.

“No, they are here. I managed to bring them to the New World soon after I arrived here. They live a street away on Delancey and think me a bad son and a terrible sinner because I do not choose to live with them. That an unmarried son should branch out on his own is unthinkable. Why, he might even entertain unchaperoned young women and then who would want their daughters to marry him?”

We laughed together at this absurdity. Living with Sid and Gus had made me forget that the rest of the world still adhered to strict rules of conduct.

“So will you allow the matchmaker to select your wife, like a good Jewish son?” Sid asked.

“I could throw the same question back at you, Miss Goldfarb.”

“Touché. But one only has to look at me to know the answer. You still choose to live in a traditional area and wear a beard.”

“Then to answer your question—I still adhere to the basics of my religion, but only when it does not conflict with reason and the twentieth century. I attend the occasional seder with my family, but see no reason to observe dietary restrictions which were created for a desert lifestyle. My parents think I am lost beyond hope. And you, Miss Murphy—are you still a good Catholic girl?”

“I never was. When I was a small child I used to slip out during the middle of mass to raid the priest’s blackberry bushes. There was always too much emphasis on the fires of hell for my liking. I think my God would be more forgiving and have a better sense of humor.”

“Then we worship the same deity,” Jacob said. “Forgiving and humorous. The world would be a better place if such was the tenet of life.”

Gus had already started to wander around the room. “These photographs are magnificent, Jacob. Nell was right. You do have a great talent.”

“I’m merely a novice, Miss Walcott. Still learning my trade.”

“But you’ve captured the life of the city perfectly,” Gus said. “Come and look at this, Sid and Molly.” She held up a large print of some scruffy children, playing among lines of drying laundry on a rooftop. There were scenes in crowded streets, and ominous back alleys.

“Why,” I exclaimed, “this is the alley that the Eastmans frequent—and, if I’m not mistaken, those are members of the gang, lurking in that doorway. How did you manage to take their pictures, Jacob?”

“I am amazed that you are so familiar with gang members,” Jacob said. “You do lead a dangerous life, Miss Murphy.”

“My visit there was accidental, but you must have lingered long enough to set up your exposure.”

“I was there with Nell. She was writing one of her exposure articles on the worst slums in the city. This was one of the sites she chose.”

“She is remarkably fearless,” I said.

“I would rather say foolhardy,” Jacob answered. “Sometimes her lack of regard for her own safety worries me.”

“And so you go on assignments with her to take pictures, but also to act as her protector,” I said.

He gave me a long hard look. “You are remarkably perceptive, Miss Murphy.”

“Molly.”

He inclined his head. “Molly.”

We drank more coffee then Sid got to her feet. “I’m afraid we have taken up too much of your time, Jacob. I am delighted to have made your acquaintance and look forward to inviting you to our future soirees.”

“And I will be delighted to accept, Miss Goldfarb.” Jacob gave that curiously foreign bow. He escorted us to the door and down the stairs.

“We should hail a cab as soon as you see one, Gus dear,” Sid said. “Or we may be late for lunch with the Wassermans.”

Jacob touched my sleeve lightly. “Are you also expected at the Wassermans, Miss Murphy?”

“No, I’m not, and when will you get it into your head that my name is Molly?”

“In that case, maybe you would allow me to escort you home.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m quite comfortable on these streets and it’s broad daylight,” I said and watched his face fall. “But if you’ve a mind for a walk on such a fine breezy day, then I wouldn’t say no to the company,” I added hastily.

“In that case, I’ll grab my hat,” he said and bounded up the stairs again.

“I think you’ve made a conquest there, Molly dear,” Gus said quietly.

“Oh, no. It is Miss Blankenship who has his heart. He is merely being gentlemanly,” I said, and felt myself blushing furiously.

Jacob and I set off, along Rivington until we struck the Bowery. This broad thoroughfare was full of life on a sunny Sunday. Theaters were just opening, many of them offering plays in Yiddish. Cafés were doing a brisk trade. Jacob paused in front of one small theater that advertised moving pictures. COME AND EXPERIENCE THE WONDER OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY, the billboard proclaimed. YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE YOUR EYES!

“Now that is something that truly interests me,” Jacob said. “Photographs capture a moment, but moving pictures—that is the way of the future, Molly.” He looked at me expectantly. “Would you like to go to a performance with me?”

“Now?” I asked. “Why, thank you, Jacob, I’d love to. If you’ve nothing you should be doing at this moment, that is.”

“Nothing better than this. I’ve been twice already, but the scenes never fail to fascinate me.”

“I’ve heard about moving pictures, but I’ve never seen them yet.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” He took my arm and escorted me to the ticket booth.

We joined the crowd inside the darkened theater where an organist was playing in front of red velvet curtains. I was conscious of Jacob sitting close beside me in the dark, and it disturbed me how aware I was of his presence. Then even this closeness was forgotten. The curtains parted to reveal a screen.

Words appeared on the screen. “Ladies and gentlemen. Prepare yourselves for an outrageous journey of entertainment and delight. Hold onto your seats, folks, and ladies, do not be alarmed. What you see is only an image on the screen. It cannot harm you.”

The organ music increased and suddenly an image appeared on the screen. It was an ocean with waves breaking. My, but it was so real, you could almost smell the salt in the air and hear the cry of seagulls. The waves came closer and closer. Suddenly a giant wave came crashing at the screen. I heard screams and several people leaped to their feet. I touched my own face, half expecting to be wet. I could see Jacob grinning in the darkness. “A good illusion, wouldn’t you say?” he whispered.

The next scene was of a group of inept policemen chasing a car. This was most amusing and the theater resounded to laughter. Then the car changed direction and drove directly at the camera. Again people leaped to their feet, then laughed in embarrassment when they realized it could not reach them. Then the scene changed again. The title appeared on the screen. The Kiss. We were in a lady’s boudoir. A young man stole in through the open French doors. The young damsel, seated at her vanity, seemed amazed and delighted to see him. He took her into his arms. They gazed into each other’s eyes and then there was a gasp from the audience as his lips fastened upon hers. The scene only lasted for a few seconds and then it faded. The show was over. The audience rose, still muttering in horror at what they had just seen.

“What did you think?” Jacob asked as we were jostled toward the exit.

“It was so real. Almost as if we were there.”

“If I ever make any money, I plan to build myself such a camera,” Jacob said.

“And make a moving picture called The Kiss?” I teased.

He shook his head. “I have other plans. I could take my camera back to Russia and bring back living proof to the world of the cruelties and injustices going on there. I could take it to the Boer War in South Africa and show the world what war is really like. If ordinary people knew what was going on, we could change the world.”

“That’s a wonderful notion, Jacob, but an awful risk for yourself.”

“Someone has to take risks or nothing changes,” he said.

We stood blinking in the bright sunlight.

“I almost forgot that it was daylight outside,” I said.

“Should we take the trolley or do you feel up to walking?” Jacob asked.

“Do I look like a frail young thing who might faint at any moment?” I demanded.

“No, I’d say that you looked most robust and healthy.” His frank gaze made me blush again.

He had barely uttered those words when Nell Blankenship appeared, like magic, from a café.

“Jacob. Molly. What a surprise,” she said. Her eyes were fixed on me and her expression indicated that she wasn’t overjoyed to see me.

“Hello, Nell,” Jacob said. “A lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Sid, Gus, and I have been viewing Jacob’s photographs. He is very talented,” I said hastily.

“He is indeed,” she said. “So where are Sid and Gus? I should like to thank them for last night.”

“They had a lunch appointment and had to make a hasty departure,” Jacob said. “I am escorting Molly home.”

“Ah,” Nell said. Her gaze passed from Jacob to me and back again. “Well, much as I would like to stay and pass the time of day with you, I also must hurry. I’m due at my parents’ home for lunch—my weekly penance and lecture session. Please excuse me.” She rushed to jump on an already moving electric trolley. “I’ll try to send you news about where your heiress worked as soon as possible,” she called as she swung herself aboard with agility. “I’ll start on it tomorrow!”

“Do not take any foolish risks, remember!” Jacob shouted as the trolley bore her away.

“Fiddle faddle,” she shouted back, laughing.

I looked at Jacob. “Now I feel guilty. I hope she won’t think badly of me.”

“Why should she think badly of you?”

“Because I was dallying with her young man.”

“Her young man? Nell and I are friends, nothing more.”

“But I thought—I saw the way she treated you with such familiarity.”

“She may well want a more intimate relationship,” Jacob said, “but not I. I admire Nell. I think she is the most courageous woman I have ever met. But I would not choose such a woman for my wife. Sometimes she frightens me with the intensity of her dedication and fire.”

Why did I feel absurdly happy at this statement?

“I see you are smiling,” Jacob said. “Could it be that you’ve just heard some good news?”

“I can’t think what you are talking about, Mr. Singer.” I tossed back my hair and set off at a lively trot.

“Jacob,” he said, keeping pace with me.