After the break-in, Mr. Gadot didn’t trust me to look after the shop and suggested I find another place to stay. I was upset and thought he blamed me. “But they didn’t take anything!” I insisted tearfully. I had an taken inventory of every book in stock.
Twice!
He was adamant, offering to pay for a place until the police completed their investigation. “It’s only temporary, Anne,” he assured me. “You’re not safe there. And, quite frankly, neither am I.”
I was reluctant to move, having grown used to waking up with hundreds of books around me. But Mr. Gadot said it was for the best and found an apartment near Washington Square. “See?” he said, walking to the fireplace. “It’s not so far away. You could walk.”
“I… suppose,” I mumbled, not eager to uproot my cursed sari. I turned to the landlord. “What are the terms?”
He rubbed his hands together, as if he could hardly wait to pocket Mr. Gadot’s money. “It’s very reasonable. First and last month’s rent, of course. Then it will be twenty-five dollars a month with adjustments for gas and use of the communal bath.”
There were many things I was willing to share.
I would gladly hand over the other half of my sandwich if you were starving in the street.
I always tossed my spare change into a charity collection pail.
And I would be the first to let you ahead of me during an escape from a burning building.
But sharing a bathtub with four strangers was something I found abhorrent, not to mention unhygienic. I leaned forward and hissed in Mr. Gadot’s ear. “I’d rather rent the space above the laundry.”
He looked at me like I had just declared war on Turkey. “That hovel?” he cried. “It’s used to store lye!”
“Yes. And they allow me to use their spare wash tub to bathe and wash my clothes.” I nudged him. “It’s right next door. I wouldn’t be so far away should you have need… of me.”
I cleared my throat, knowing he had already made inquiries about hiring a man to look after the place at night.
Mr. Gadot yanked me into the hallway. “What’s the matter with you, girl?” he demanded. “There is nothing wrong with that apartment!”
For some reason I could not explain, I did not want to be alone in that apartment. It gave off an eerie aura, as though I stood inside a room with no light. I don’t know why I felt that way. Mr. Gadot was right. It was a very nice apartment. It had one of those beds you pull down from the wall. The stove gleamed with black polish. New wood floors had just been installed. And there was a neat little cubby with baskets to store my things.
It was a dream.
And something warned me to steer clear of it.
“Can we look at something else?” I pleaded, feeling oddly lightheaded. “I promise if we can’t find anything, I will reconsider this one.”
Mr. Gadot reacted as any father would have. He gave me a reproachful look, let out an exasperated sigh, and escorted me out of the building.
* * *
I never returned to that apartment. I sensed Anjuli had been trying to warn me about something. Mr. Gadot refused to let the matter drop and nagged me about renting the place every waking moment. I finally rented the storage area above the laundry behind his back and told him I found a lovely place around the corner.
“That’s good,” he said, relieved. “How much is it?”
The nice old couple who owned the laundry agreed to let me have it for next to nothing if I did light chores around the place. Their daughter had recently married and moved to California with her husband. I guess they saw me as a substitute. They cleared out the bags of lye and brought in a folding bed and washstand. Mr. Perez even let me have an old icebox so I could have milk with my tea. I was thrilled.
“This is awfully sweet of you,” I gushed, watching his brother set it into place. I was giddy at the thought of buying a half-dozen eggs and leaving them in there so I could make an omelet in the morning. When I lived with my parents, we had a wooden icebox my mother kept stocked with bowls of fresh fruit and cheese. Since I was only eating for one, I had the basics. There were small bottles of milk and cream. A wedge of cheddar. A ball of butter. A few apples and oranges. “Thank you, Mr. Perez,” I said, touched by the simple and thoughtful gift.
Mr. Perez seemed embarrassed by my gratitude. “We needed to get a new one anyway,” he said. “And it seemed a waste to toss it out.”
“Oh, it’s wonderful. Just what I needed.” Mr. Perez also let me have a few laundry baskets to store my cans of soup. It was all I ate these days. He set them down neatly on the floor.
“What else do you need?” He eyed the folding bed doubtfully. “Will that be comfortable enough? I could—”
“Stop!” I laughed. “It’ll be fine. I’ve slept on cots that didn’t look half as comfortable as that bed.” I set the sheets and quilts Mrs. Perez had given me in one of the baskets. They belonged to her daughter. “I have all that require. Thank you.”
“Well,” he said, folding his hands behind his back. “I should warn you. It gets awfully stuffy in here during the summer. That’s why I installed those windows.”
“And during the winter?”
He gave me a look. “I’ll look into getting you one of those portable stoves. But you shouldn’t stay up here when it’s too cold. You’re more than welcome to move around the place when we’re at home.”
“Thank you. Oh, Mr. Perez,” I said, as I followed him downstairs. “Could you help me with something?”
“What’s that?”
“I have a family heirloom that needs moving. It’s a little heavy to drag up those stairs.” I hesitated. “I keep my mother’s silver in an old… trunk. And she made me swear never to let it out of my sight.”
He nodded. “How large is it?”
I gestured with my hands. “I found a trunk in an antique shop. It’s got a padlock and everything.”
“Why not place the silver in a safe deposit box?”
“Er… my mother would never forgive me. You understand.”
Mr. Perez chuckled and agreed to help. I begged him not to tell Mr. Gadot where I was staying. “He wanted to pay for an apartment,” I explained the day we went to pick up the trunk. “I couldn’t let him do that.”
“Pride,” Mr. Perez said, shaking his immaculate head at me, “will get you nowhere, muchacha.”
“It’s not pride,” I said, slightly offended. “I think the apartment is haunted.”
He eyed me skeptically. “Haunted? You believe in the spirits?”
“Uh… only after midnight.”
We walked into the shop, and I froze. Mr. Gadot was busy shaking hands with the rude Englishman, and I knew I was seeing my replacement. He spied us and stepped forth, stretching out his hand. “Mr. Perez!” Mr. Gadot chortled. “Long time, no see!”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Gadot.” Mr. Perez nodded at the gentleman. “We’re here to pick up Anne’s trunk.”
“Oh! I forgot that was today.” Mr. Gadot introduced us to my replacement as we passed through the shop. “This is Mr. Powell, Anne. He will be watching the shop at night.”
“Is that so?” I said with about as much enthusiasm as a snakebite victim. “And where do I fit in?”
Mr. Gadot laughed off my concerns. “You still work here, child! Mr. Powell already has a job.”
“Does he?” Since the day I was informally introduced to Mr. Powell, I had nurtured a vehement dislike that bordered on naked hatred. There was just something about his haughty demeanor that made me wish I were a man so I could take him out in the back of an alley and teach him a few lessons in how to address a lady. “And where will he sleep?”
“In the back, of course!”
“Of course…”
My trunk was where I’d left it, the padlock still in place. I went around the room, retrieving minor items I’d left in my haste to find a place to live. I tucked these into my pockets and watched with a nervous eye when Mr. Perez lifted my trunk as if it weighed no more than the feather Macha had given me. “Is that all?” he said, either not feeling the weight or used to carrying lead-lined trunks.
“No, this is it.” I turned to Mr. Gadot. “Should I come in tomorrow?”
“Stop that! Of course, you should. But make it nine instead of eight. We just got a new shipment.” His dark eyes danced with excitement. “From Italy!”
“Oh… joy.”
Chuckling at my dry humor, Mr. Gadot escorted us out. “You must tell me all about your new place.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “The rent seems terribly low for such a place. An icebox, Anne? Those cost money.”
I glanced at Mr. Perez, who appeared to be having trouble with the trunk. “I… er… it was included with the rent, Mr. Gadot.”
“And it’s just around the corner, you say?” He glanced about. “Where is your wagon, Mr. Perez?”
“I didn’t bring it,” Mr. Perez replied smoothly. “I enjoy the exercise.”
Mr. Gadot frowned. “Well, we all need exercise. Is that trunk heavy?”
“A bit. But it is nada.”
“Well, if you need a hand. Mr. Powell will be happy to assist you.”
He was just about to yell for the ne’er-do-well when I tugged at Mr. Perez’s sleeve. “Let’s go!”
“But the trunk is heavy!”
I grabbed it with both hands, easily lifting it as though it were made of paper. “We really must go, Mr. Gadot!” I called over my shoulder. “Thank you for looking after it for me!”
“But Anne!”
I hated to be rude, but the trunk was slowly sapping the life from me. I made it up the street and turned the corner, waiting for Mr. Perez to join me. He wasn’t as young as he used to be and bent over, wheezing. “You try to kill me!” he accused breathlessly.
“It’s this trunk,” I muttered, setting it on the ground to catch my breath. “I’ve got to get rid of it.”
“I thought your mother’s silver was in there.”
I gave him a look.
“I lied.”
