thank you. It’s fine like this.” He shrugged, then sat down and began to spoon jam into his own glass. “My father studied art as well,” I continued. Though Alojzy never talked very much about his life in Poland before he moved to Israel, he had said he was expelled from the art academy in Warsaw in 1968. He’d implied it was because he was Jewish, but I didn’t know if there were other contributing factors. In a way, my getting kicked out of college placed me in my father’s footsteps.
“Yes, your father studied art under communism also. We both possessed solid appreciation of art, despite having had solid socialist art education inflicted on us. We were both expelled. Though I must say, the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw is not as respected as the one in Leningrad. You know, that was a typical move on Al’s part, to be born a Jew in Poland, after the war. A Russian Jew in New York, that’s nothing special. Kak sebak ni rieznih. But to be a Jew from Poland, in modern times . . . typical Edel. Always had to do things the wiseass way.”
“What is your connection to Alojzy, exactly?” I asked. Presumably they had had some sort of friendly relationship before Alojzy allegedly robbed him.
“Business partners. We sold art books, on the street in Manhattan. He sold other books also—and other things besides books as well.” I didn’t know what he was insinuating, other than that Alojzy was a hustler who would buy and sell stolen goods, which I already knew. “But art books, there is money in that. Art books are not cheap. People in lower Manhattan are mostly not poor. There was plenty of business. It was a profitable endeavor, until he stole our money and left town.” Goldov’s face contorted into something ugly.
“I’m very sorry that happened,” I said. Alojzy surely had his own side of the story, but I didn’t want to anger the man. He didn’t acknowledge my comment.
“I don’t hear from him again for almost two years after that. The next thing I do hear, he’s in jail in Las Vegas. Passing bad checks, I believe. He described it as just misunderstanding. He needed bail money.” The old painter sighed, then chased the sigh with a gulp of tea. “I sent it.”
“Why did you do that? If you say he’d already robbed you?”
“I wish I knew. I didn’t want to, but he persuaded me. Thing is, your father was, to me, like a drug. A bad habit. I could never shake him. Besides, I thought maybe he’d still pay me back someday. He always made promises to pay my money. With interest.” I raised my tea to my lips, but it was still too hot to drink. “Well, he’s shook now, apparently. They say he’s gone for good.”
“But who says he’s gone for good?” I demanded. “Was it reported somewhere?”
“I heard it only as a rumor. But these rumors are most often true.” It occurred to me that Alojzy could have started the rumor himself, if he believed someone was after him. If Goldov was in on it, he could be spreading the tale for Alojzy. If this was the case, I needed to press Goldov until he came across with the truth. On the other hand, considering this apparent bad blood between them, Alojzy might have specifically wanted Goldov to believe the story.
“I remembered your mother’s name—lucky she didn’t change it when she remarried—and the lady at the library helped me find her on the Internet. We found her crafts Internet page—the candles she makes look very nice, by the way, though I have also seen nicer—and I sent a postcard to the address listed on the page.” My mother actually had changed her last name, to Bernie’s name, Fischer. But I guess she did business under her old name. “I felt I should let your family know.” He looked up at me. “My condolences,” he added, without conviction.
“Thank you,” I said. “But I really don’t know if they’re necessary. Your letter is the only indication I’ve had that he’s dead. And you don’t know this for sure, do you? You haven’t seen any evidence?”
“Only rumor. But I don’t have a reason to doubt, either.” The man held up his arms in a gesture of helplessness. “You could have written in regard to settling matters. You did not need to come down here for so little.”
“But since I did, isn’t there anything else you could maybe tell me about my father’s life? What he may have been doing. Or be doing now? I haven’t seen him since I was in high school.”
“He’s doing nothing now,” Goldov said, setting his glass down on the table with a small thud. “Sleeping in the dirt.” I didn’t move. Goldov sighed. “Fine. After our partnership dissolved, he ended up selling books again by himself. Not so much the fine art books, more the cheap paperbacks. More time was spent chasing women than working. He could charm any woman. I saw him one time chatting up a nun. She blushed, but she listened.” He seemed to be getting away from useful information, but I enjoyed hearing about my father and didn’t interrupt. “People didn’t walk away from Ally Edel. He carried himself fearsomely sometimes . . . he could be very intimidating. It was good to have a man like that with me on the street. He was not a guy who took any guff.” Yes, that was Alojzy. He was a truly tough man. I hoped to become tough too. “It really was a loss, his death.”
“If he is dead,” I said. “His body must be somewhere.” As long as there was no body, Alojzy was alive. The rabbis said that you should not mourn for someone when they were merely missing; you needed confirmation of their death from a witness.
“In potter’s field on Hart Island, I imagine. That’s where I’ll be going. An unmarked grave, no words above it.”
“Yes, I guess so.” Who would hold a funeral for these men? “Do you know where he’s been living?”
“No. Now and then, I did see him, but there was the money problem between us, always, so that kept a distance between us. The last time I saw him, he called me up, said he wanted to talk about the money he owed me, maybe paying some of it back.” Goldov had far more information about Alojzy owing him money than about Alojzy dying. He could be using the rumor of Alojzy’s death to try to squeeze me. Or he could have made up the story himself, as a plan to scam money from our family. “When we met up, well, of course he didn’t have the money. All he had was excuses. I don’t know what it was he wanted from that meeting. He didn’t have to call me in first place. I left him there on the bench.” He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I got nothing else for you.”
“Fine,” I said. “Can you think of anyone who might know more? Anyone who can verify his death, or trace the rumor? Or at least provide details about his life before that? Maybe I should check with the police or hospitals or something, see if they have records about him.” I wasn’t going to accept Goldov’s account alone.
“No, I would not recommend going to authorities. Go if you want. But Edel lived . . . under radar. If he ever went to the hospital, it would be under fake name.”
“Please. You have to give me something. I’ve come all this way. I can’t leave without something. I really can’t.” Goldov looked at me with annoyance and disdain. He slurped up the rest of his tea, then finally spoke.
“Ladno. There is another bookseller, Mendy, who maybe knows something more about where he was living, or his business. He could be the one I first heard the rumor from. Maybe there are still some assets you can sell off, to settle the estate. Go harass him.”
“Thank you. Is there a telephone number where I could reach him, this Mendy? Or an address maybe?”
“No.” Goldov shook his head. “No telephone. And I’m not knowing his address. But he sells on West Fourth Street in Manhattan, by the southeast corner of the park there. He’s out on the street most days, providing it
