the eighty-eighth key
part one
chapter three
+++++
Callahan hopped off the cable car and began the uphill slog to his apartment, stopping at the corner market for a few things before heading up to make breakfast. He picked up a copy of the Chronicle at the register, shook his head at the headlines before making his way to the steps up to his flat, but he stopped before he made it to the entry to his building.
There was a metal fire escape attached to the side of his building, a rickety old metal affair loosely attacked to the brick siding, and under the last flight were some dumpsters and a few parking spaces, but something caught his eye that morning. There under the stairs was a carefully arranged assortment of wooden pallets and plastic tarps, and as to his eye there didn't appear to be anything random about the arrangement, he walked over to take a closer look.
He knelt and parted the blue plastic tarp and peered inside what was, for all intents and purposes, a very small living space. Three pallets made up the floor while several more made up the walls and ceiling, the whole affair sealed by one large plastic tarp. There was a mattress of sorts inside, and several bookshelves framed into two of the walls. There were more than a few books on these shelves, too; books on particle physics and ethics, and several by someone named Søren Kierkegaard. Though it was dim inside the structure he could see that two candles were burning away, and in the shadows he could just make out the crossed legs of a man sitting with his back up against the wall.
"Yes?" the man said, "can I help you?"
"Do you live here, sir?" Callahan asked.
"Why yes, I do."
"Could you step outside, sir?"
"Why should I? Are you a police officer?"
"Yessir, I am."
"I see." The man sighed and put down his book, slipped on a pair of loafers and crawled towards the opening, and only then could Callahan see that the man was indeed quite old. The man stumbled a little as he tried to stand and Callahan caught him, helped him out into the early morning light, and the two regarded one another awkwardly for a moment before speaking.
"Ah, you are the policeman who lives in the building," the old man said. "I've seen you come and go a few times, I think."
"I don't recall seeing you around here before," Callahan said. "When did you set up camp?"
"Camp? Ah, well, I lived across the street for a while, before the owner of the store chased me off. I've been here a few days."
"Why?"
"Why? What do you mean, why?"
"Why are you living out here? Don't you have anyplace you can go, someone you can bunk out with?"
"Well, no, and as to the why of such things that is simple enough to explain. I lost my job and as a result I lost my home, but I have my most important books and they keep me company enough."
"Where did you work?"
"Down the bay there, in Palo Alto" the old man said, nodding with his head towards the South Bay.
"Where? At Stanford? What did you teach?"
"Quantum mechanics."
Callahan felt a cold chill run down his spine as he looked into the man's eyes. "My mother worked at Berkeley. She taught physics." Their eyes locked and the man's never once wavered, though Callahan felt a softness in the old man's eyes he hadn't picked up before -- only just then his face seemed to tilt quizzically. Suddenly Harry felt the old man was hiding something and that he was trying not to smile. "Are you hungry?" Harry asked.
"I suppose so, but I must tell you I have very little money."
"Follow me," Harry said as he turned and made his way to the door to his building. Every bit of training he'd ever had told him this was exactly the wrong thing to do, yet his every instinct told him this was something he had to do.
He took out his key and opened the door, held it open and let the old man pass into the foyer, then Callahan walked up the stairs and unlocked the door to his apartment. He followed the old man inside and put away his groceries, then put a skillet on the burner. "Bacon and eggs okay with you?"
"Just an egg," the old man said. "Well, maybe two."
"Go ahead and take a seat; this won't take a minute."
Callahan watched as the old man walked over to his bookcase and scanned the few books on the shelves; the old man scowled once and just ever-so-slightly shook his head, then he turned and sat on the Callahan's tattered second-hand sofa -- settling in and looking around the room.
"You aren't much of a reader," the old man observed. "Strange, don't you think?"
"Strange? Why so?"
"Well, your mother was a teacher? I would think..."
"I'm not really like my mother," Callahan said.
"And your father? What does he do?"
"He's a ship's captain. Freighters between here and Japan."
"And he doesn't read?"
"Not very much," Callahan said -- perhaps a little too defensively. He tended their breakfast, turned their eggs and buttered toast that popped-up out of the little toaster, then carried breakfast to the old coffee table in front of the sofa.
"You live simply," the old man said. "Thank you for this," he added as he took the plate Harry offered.
They ate in silence, then Callahan took their plates to the sink. He washed then dried them before putting them in the draining rack next to the sink, then he turned and looked at the old man, and again...he felt that fleeting impression of a smile...
"You know my mother, don't you?"
"I do," the old man sighed.
"How? How do you know her?"
"She was my wife. Before the war. Before all the other things that happened, before she forgot how to live. How to smile."
The words hit like a gut-punch, and Callahan turned away trying to catch his breath, while the emerging cascade of burning realization and dizzying implication left him rolling in uncertainty, unsure of his footing on this earth.
"This wasn't an accident, was it?" Callahan said. "This meeting, I mean? I would have seen you, even across the street."
The old man indeed smiled just a little, then looked out the window down to the street below. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Once upon a time we were very good at hiding from policemen, your mother and I. But no, I set up my little ruse yesterday."
"You didn't teach at Stanford, then?"
"Oh, yes, that much is very true. When I found out your mother was alive, we worked to bring her here."
"We?"
"Those of us already in the States, with the help of the Rockefeller Foundation. We resettled academics where we could. Many out here in California, though a few chose to go home. And a few, like me, decided on Israel."
And now the room began to spin out of control, and Callahan sat quickly as waves of heat washed down his face. "Israel?"
"Yes, Israel. She is, after all, my wife."
"Does my father about know any of this?"
The old man nodded: "All of it, Harry. He knows everything."
"You know my name?"
"Of course. I'm not your father, but in a way I feel you are a part of me, too."
"Why are you here? Why did you come now?"
"A message from your mother. She wants you to know she is happy, and she wants you to start on your music again."
"That's it? She couldn't write?"
"There are many pieces to this puzzle, Harry. You must be patient. Many things will become clear in time." The old man sighed, continued his survey of the street below. "I must go now, but the books below, in the shelter? They are yours now. I brought them for you. Thank you for breakfast," the man said as he walked to the door.
Who was out the door in a flash and moving down the stairs before Callahan realized what was happening. He got out of his chair and followed the old man out onto the street, and he just saw the old man slide into the back seat of a waiting sedan double-parked in front of his building. As the car's door slammed-shut Callahan dashed forward to get a better look at the car as it sped away...
...and all Callahan saw was the rear license plate.
...a diplomatic plate.
He committed the number to memory as the car disappeared, then turned and went to the little shelter the old man had been sitting in. Crawling inside, he found the books neatly stacked and inside one of Kierkegaard's works a sealed letter. In the sole physics text he found a picture of the old man taped to the cover page, and this he assumed was indicative of authorship. He looked around, wondered if he should get fingerprints off the items, yet in the end he decided to leave the little hovel intact. He then gathered the books and carried them up to his flat, placed them on his little bookcase...all but the Kierkegaard tome with the letter inserted.
He went to the sofa and opened the letter, looked at his mother's florid cursive script and read her mea culpa, then his eyes opened wide at the last paragraph...
"...Harald, I would enjoy nothing more than for you to visit with us next month. Actually, it is vital for us all that you do. If you would call the number penciled on the envelop and ask for Mr Shektor; he will take care of the arrangements. And please, tell your father nothing of this. Love -..."
He looked at those last few words, then the trailing word 'Love' all on its own. Not 'Love, Mother,' or even 'Love, Imogen,' but the simple, single word. Alone, as if bathed in guilt and left to dry under a harsh middle eastern sun, he wondered what exactly this was all about.
A visit? Yet 'vital for us all'? What on earth could that mean?
He looked at the phone number on the envelop, the anonymous scrawl just barely legible, and without really knowing why he carefully dialed the number, waiting impatiently for the rotary dial to wind and unwind with each number. Then a woman answered...
"Yes?" the disembodied voice said.
"Mr Shektor, please."
"One moment."
A brief pause, several clicking noises in the interval, then...
A man's voice, the pronunciation forced, the middle eastern accent thick yet oddly familiar: "Mr Callahan?"
"Speaking."
