were facing the Rockefeller Center, Sandy breaking into a semi-jog so they could get a closer look. Barely checking the traffic, he crossed the street, Will behind him, until they were standing before it.
Or, rather, him. Even in shimmering metal, his stomach rippled, the lines of a perfect, mythic abdomen. His thighs were enormous, each one as thick as a bison. One leg was placed before the other, in the manner of a weight-lifter steadying himself. Except this was no ordinary weight.
His arms were fully outstretched at his sides, curving slightly upward to mould themselves around his load. For there, on his shoulders, was nothing less than the universe itself, rendered as an intersecting series of circles, like the lines of latitude and longitude that girdle the globe. On each of the metal arcs were marked the names of the planets. They were looking at the Rockefeller Center’s largest sculpture, the two-ton statue of Atlas.
‘Behold the lord of the heavens but not of hell.’ Sandy was murmuring the words almost to himself.
‘I can see why he’s the lord of the heavens,’ said Will. ‘But what’s the hell thing?’
Sandy was struggling to get the words out. He was panting with exhilaration. ‘It’s a famous thing about this statue. When they did it—’
‘Yes?’
‘—they hadn’t discovered Pluto yet. So there’s no Pluto on here.’
‘And Pluto’s the God of the underworld,’ whispered Will. Behold the lord of the heavens but not of Hell. This was the right spot. He dialled TC’s number and instantly described what he could see.
‘OK, you need to pick me up,’ she said. ‘And then we’ll go to your apartment.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think I finally know what’s going on. And Atlas has just confirmed it.’
Sunday, 5.50pm, Brooklyn
There was no time to be self-conscious. Even so, he could tell TC felt strange to be in this place, the home of the man she had once loved and the woman he had made his wife. He saw her stealing glances at the photographs, especially the wedding collage – perhaps two dozen pictures, pressed under glass – that hung in their kitchen.
If it was odd for TC, it was horrible for Will. He had not been back since the day Beth went missing, visiting here only in his mind. Now he saw the calendar, covered in Beth’s handwriting. He saw a cardigan of hers, slung over a chair. He felt her absence so strongly, it made his eyes sting.
‘TC, you have to tell me what’s going on.’ Throughout their journey from Central Park, from the moment they had ditched Sandy, he had been pressing her to talk. But she was adamant.
‘Will, I’m not sure I’m right. And I know you: the moment I start talking, you’ll run off and do something and it could be a big mistake. We have to get this right. One hundred per cent right. There’s no room for guesswork.’
‘OK, I promise I won’t run anywhere. Just tell me.’
‘You can’t make that promise. And I don’t blame you. Trust me, Will. Please.’
‘So when am I going to find out?’
‘Soon. Tonight.’
‘You’ll tell me tonight?’
‘You’ll find out tonight. It won’t be me who tells you.’
‘Look, TC. Seriously. I’ve just about had it with riddles. What do you mean, it won’t be you who tells me?’
‘We’re going to Crown Heights. That’s where the answer is.’
‘We? You mean, you’re coming with me?
‘Yes, Will. It’s about time.’
‘Yeah, that’s true, I mean it makes sense—’ Will stopped himself. TC was staring at him expectantly. It took him a while to realize what her expression meant. She was waiting for him to ask another question.
‘What do you mean, “it’s about time”?’
‘Haven’t you guessed, Will? This whole weekend, everything we’ve been doing? You really haven’t guessed?’
‘Haven’t guessed what?’
She was turning away, avoiding his gaze. ‘Oh, Will. I’m really surprised.’
His voice rising: ‘What are you surprised at? What are you talking about?’
‘This is very hard for me, Will. I don’t quite know how to say it. But it’s about time I went, you know, back.’
‘Back? To Crown Heights?’
‘Yes, Will. Back to Crown Heights. I thought you’d guess ages ago. And I’ve been meaning to say something, but the moment never felt right. There’s been so much to think about, so much to work out. The Hassidim, the kidnapping and . . . Beth. But you have a right to know the truth.
‘So here is the truth. My name is Tova Chaya Lieberman. I was born in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. I am the third of nine children. There’s a reason I know this world, Will. I’ve always known it, inside out. It’s my world. These crazy Hassidim? I’m one of them.’
Sunday, 6.02pm, Brooklyn
Will could say nothing. He sat pressed against the back of the sofa, as if pinned there by a fierce wind. He listened hard, his mind trying to absorb everything TC was saying. But it was also racing, rewinding wildly through the events of the last forty-eight hours, seeing each moment in a new light. And not just the last forty-eight hours, but the last five or six years. Every experience he and TC had shared now looked utterly, entirely different.
‘You saw those families with a dozen children. That’s what my family was like. I was number three and there were six more after me. Me and my older sister, we were like mini-moms: cleaning and preparing meals for the babies from the day we were old enough to do it.’
‘And did you, you know, look like that?’
‘Oh yes. The whole business: long dresses brushing the floor, mousy hair, glasses. And my mother wore a wig.’
‘A wig?’
‘I never explained that to you, did I? Remember, the women with “unnaturally straight” hair you saw, and how they all seemed to wear their hair in the same style? Those were sheitls, wigs worn by married women as an act of modesty: they’re only meant to show their real hair to their husbands.’
‘Right.’
‘I know you think it’s weird, Will, but what you’ve got to realize is, I loved it. I lapped it all up. I would read these folk tales in the Tzena
