gone home.” A tired woman’s voice.
Rebecca peeked at her watch: six o’ clock. “Could I have her home number?”
“We don’t give up home numbers. Call tomorrow.” The woman was finished.
“Wait! Do you happen to know if she speaks Polish?”
There was a surprised pause. “Rosie? Nah. She speak Jewish.”
“What about you? Do you speak Polish?”
“Me! You joking? I’m Hungarian. Look, customers are here. I’m busy.”
The woman hung up.
Grey vaporous clouds hung over Cecil Street, casting a pall. Rebecca marched smartly along the sidewalk in her sweatpants and leather running shoes, though her heart wasn’t in it. She had to clear her mind. Speedwalking was good for that. April smelled of earth and moist clouds. She wanted to take it all in, like someone seeing it for the last time. To die in spring would be too ironic, everything just beginning again. God, she felt morose. A few days ago she could almost hear the new buds twisting in the ground. Now it hardly seemed possible to consider any kind of regeneration on this greycanopied street.
She needed to feel her pulse rise, get her heart beating like it used to when she felt alive. The light at Spadina turned in her favour as she approached and on impulse she decided to cross to the market side. There was something about disorderly stores and merchandise spilling onto sidewalks that suggested energy, an affirmation.
It wasn’t till she reached Baldwin Street that the gathering odour of dead meat and fish negated that promise. She glanced down the street, then stopped. Blue Danube Fish sat sedately in the evening. She wondered whether Vogel knew anyone in the market who spoke Polish. It was Friday; everything was still open. Shoppers strolled along Spadina, some of them peering up at the lowering sky. Rebecca stepped onto Baldwin Street. A misty drizzle cooled her skin.
It was almost too late when she saw him striding toward her from the parking garage across the street. The grey sweatsuit, the baseball cap that shaded his eyes into a dark blur. He was coming straight at her. She gasped at his speed. He was three yards away when she turned around and bolted across Spadina against a red light.
Traffic was slow but two cars had to brake to avoid her. One honked as it streaked by within inches, raising the airborne spray into her face. She turned, looking for her pursuer: the grey sweatsuit weaved between the cars more deftly than she. Nearly across the six lanes, she dived for the curb to avoid a speeding taxi. Her foot slipped on the pavement. She fell down on one knee, stunned for a moment as blood began to appear through her pants.
“Wait! Stop!” someone called out.
She jumped up and began to run again. No looking back, no time left. Down the other side of Baldwin, run to Beverley Street. Her knee began to throb, she wasn’t running fast enough, the trusty running shoes couldn’t do it alone, they couldn’t perform miracles. The office was too far away, she wouldn’t make it. She’d have to stand and fight in front of one of those gaudily painted houses. No, her best bet was to find someone at home. There was no one apparent on this side of Baldwin, especially since the drizzle in the air had taken shape and slanted into a soft rain. Her hair hung wet and sticky in her face.
She could barely see where she was going. She couldn’t run anymore. This house would have to be it! She pulled herself up two steps at a time onto a veranda, the green door in sight. Just get to the door! He was stumbling up the stairs right behind her.
“Jesus!” he said as they both toppled over an old bike that leaned into a corner of the veranda. The front door of the house was within reach while her body swayed over the bike. She began to bang her fist on the door.
“Listen to me!” he cried, trying to pull her away.
Just then the door opened. An elderly Chinese woman in a brocade blouse stood in the doorway.
“Call the police!” Rebecca cried at her. “911.”
The tiny woman looked from Rebecca to the man and back at Rebecca again with expressionless eyes, then uttered a stream of singsong Chinese.
Rebecca tried to make for the open door but the man held her back. “Police! Call the police!” she yelled.
The woman registered a brief exclamation of annoyance, then closed the door.
The man took Rebecca by the shoulders and held her firmly. He was very strong, she couldn’t move. He said something to her but she was too frightened to listen. Suddenly adrenaline coursed through her when she remembered. Her office keys were in her pants pocket. Plunging her hand inside, she struggled to arrange the keys between her knuckles. Then, with all her strength, she plucked her hand out of her pocket and aimed at his face. Sharp metal edges scraped at his cheek.
He let go of her then. His hand probed the wound. He looked down at the blood on his fingers. “Are you crazy?” he said in a perturbingly quiet voice. “Why did you do that?”
For the first time she looked at his face. His eyes were not what she expected. They were deep-set and restrained with a perplexing depth to them. And he wasn’t big, just a few inches taller than her. But her heart still pumped fiercely and her words gasped out.
“Why are you chasing me?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Talk to me?”
Under the wet visor he watched her. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. I wanted to talk to you about Goldie Kochinsky.”
“Just who are you?”
“I was trying to tell you back there but you wouldn’t stop. My name is Malkevich. Nesha.”
Despite the cap, his face had not escaped the rain and drops of moisture glistened on his tanned cheeks. A piece of puzzle edged into place.
“Look, I’m sorry about back there,” he said. “I should’ve tried....”
“You’re the cousin,” she said in an instant of revelation.
“She told you about me?” Rain mingled with the blood on his face.
“You didn’t have to chase me. You could’ve tried some other way to communicate.” Rebecca felt stupid and embarrassed and, finally, paranoid.
“I said I was sorry....”
“Forget it,” she said. “We’d better see to that cut. My office is just around the corner.”
chapter twenty-six
They were both soggy as they climbed the stairs to Rebecca’s office, their footsteps echoing in the empty building. She found some towels in a storage closet. Thank you, Iris. Handing one to Goldie’s cousin, she led him to an examining room, then excused herself. In her private office, she removed the sweatpants and put on her light wool skirt. Her knee had stopped bleeding; she quickly washed it off and applied a bandage.
When she returned to the examining room, she was caught off guard by the change in the man’s appearance. He had pulled off his wet sweatshirt and thrown the towel around his shoulders. His upper body was surprisingly muscular.
