The Ministry of Special Cases (29 page)

Lillian shifted in the chair. She didn’t mention her severance. Her tin was full again; she’d gone straight from Gustavo to the bank. The freezer had frozen over so Lillian wrapped the tin in a rag and put it under the sink. There were other hiding places as well. She’d spread the money about.

“We don’t have to be ruined,” Kaddish said. “My business will take off.”

“Even when Pato’s back, I doubt the delicate sons of whores with something to lose will seek out your services. They pay you to avoid drawing attention to themselves, not for you to put them in harm’s way.”

“A quiet time, is all,” Kaddish said. “It has nothing to do with Pato. It’s like the street outside. All kinds of things happening in the silence.”

“Go do your chiseling, Kaddish. Just know that news of Pato must have made the rounds. Word always spreads among the Jews.”

“It will pick up,” Kaddish said. “I will take care of us.”

“I’m not complaining either way. Once we have Pato we’ll start from nothing. We’ve done it before, haven’t we? It will be a new beginning for all of us. I can hardly wait for morning with no job to worry about and only the Ministry of Justice ahead. I’m going to read through Pato’s novels while I wait for the good news. A literary mother to talk to, that will be some shock when he gets back.”

Kaddish picked up his tool bag.

“I see why you thrive on the nights,” she said. “I’d always thought it was depressing. It’s hopeful, though. It’s the body defying nature, too excited to give up on the other half of life.”

“There are things missed while the city sleeps.”

“I’m going to stay up and keep an eye,” Lillian said. “Who knows, maybe the wheels already turn at the Ministry of Justice. Already tonight those cowards could let him go.”

· · ·

There was a bottle of turpentine in the super’s crawl space off the lobby. Kaddish poured it over the pile he’d made on the grate in the center of the air shaft. He mixed the day’s newspaper in with Pato’s possessions and lit the edges. He then retired to his Moorish bench.

Lillian was right, they had nothing left to lose. Without Pato to protect, there was no reason for Kaddish to hide out in the bathroom burning books. And even if he set himself on fire and sang the national anthem while he cooked, his neighbors wouldn’t dare see. Lillian was the only one who’d look down.

Kaddish knew she wouldn’t understand what madness had driven him to do what he was doing. It was a fire for the others, not for Pato or Lillian or him. If Lillian thought he was heartless, let her stand by her own logic. She shouldn’t care about a few keepsakes when they’d soon have Pato home. Back to your chair, he’d tell her. Watch your street. You don’t want to miss Pato’s nighttime return.

Before heading off to the cemetery, Kaddish stood with his tool bag and admired his little fire. The smoke rose straight up from the courtyard, not a twist, not a bend, a perfect column of smoke rising straight up into the sky. He checked a broken nail on his thumb and bit at its end. Then he took a last look toward their balcony. Let her come out, Kaddish thought. Let her see the kind of sacrifices he made.

WHERE WAS KADDISH
for such a moment? Lillian didn’t think she could handle the joy of it alone. Two days at the Ministry of Justice and the man with the clipboard was back. He came up to her and offered a perfunctory greeting, an interaction mirroring those between normal people who’ve already had dealings within the framework of a normal world. “Mrs. Poznan,” he said, “your paperwork has come through.”

“I got it?” she said. “It’s not a ‘not being detained’?”

The young man, straight-faced, straitlaced, looked neither happy nor sad. He put Lillian’s purse on the floor and sat at her side.

“You have been issued a habeas corpus,” he said, “in regard to the arrest attested to by …” and here he paused, flipping through the various papers for the baker’s name. Then, as he had the previous time, he asked her to sign and sign and sign.

“What do I do now?” Lillian said. It was a protocol question, no desperation to it.

“Generally,” he said, “nothing.”

“There must be a next step,” Lillian said.

“Not for the petitioner, really. It’s more of a government matter—it’s up to them to respond, to provide an answer or a person.”

“Will they?” Lillian said. She began to shiver. “Will you?”

“Me?” The clerk seemed genuinely taken aback. “Not my decision.” He looked at Lillian, whose shaking was prominent. He puffed out his cheeks and blew the air out slowly. He made eye contact with the woman sitting across from Lillian. The woman, who had been pretending not to listen or look, got up and walked away. “Usually I wouldn’t know, not a detail.”

“But this time you do? In my case there’s something irregular?”

“In this instance there was a small hang-up, a complication to settle. Curious as it was, I made some calls personally.”

“And?” Lillian said. Now she was desperate, now her voice was that of a woman losing control. She could tell she was supposed to say something to the clerk. She had no idea what it was. And then she got it. “I didn’t hear it from you,” she said. “I swear on my life,” she said. It wasn’t enough. “I swear—I swear on my son’s.”

“Police Station Number Forty-six.”

“By the Railway Hospital?” Lillian had already learned them by heart.

“Yes,” he said. “They gave no explanation. For some reason the girl will be released into your custody there.”

“Girl?” Lillian said. “What girl?”

“The one arrested.” He showed Lillian where it was typed unevenly on the page. “Mónica Álvarez,” he said.

“Who is that?” Lillian said. “What nonsense is this?”

“It’s all written here. You can check. You can read.” He handed the clipboard to Lillian. She took it from him and she read.

It was the right date and the right time. It was the right description of Pato’s abduction at the right address. All was exactly as it should be but the name.

“This is a lie,” she said.

“What’s a lie?” he said. It was that much more frustrating for Lillian to talk with someone who gave the impression of understanding. “You’re not saying the arrest you reported was a fake?”

“No,” Lillian said.

“I wouldn’t think so because it has produced an individual. A habeas
corpus has been granted you and the turnaround has been amazingly fast. Beyond that,” he said, “it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that receiving one is rare.”

“It’s supposed to say Pablo Poznan,” Lillian said. “You can’t expect me to believe this girl was taken from my block, from my home. You can’t expect me to accept that I’ve lost my mind.”

“I make no judgment,” he said, taking back his clipboard.

“A hang-up, you said. A curiosity. It’s because you know what’s right. That’s why you made those calls. That’s why you located the girl and are telling me to go get her.”

The clerk separated Lillian’s copies from his. “Thanks to your dogged-ness there is a woman, a Ms. Álvarez, who is waiting to be released. Waiting on you.”

“It’s supposed to be my son.”

“That, Mrs. Poznan, would be an issue for the Ministry of Special Cases. Such appeals are handled there.”

She wouldn’t go back there. This is not how the day was going to end.

“You’re the one who’s mixed up,” Lillian said. “My Pato will be waiting at that station, and at another station, with another wrong form, another mother—Mrs. Álvarez—will find her girl.”

“Whoever it is that you wish, Mrs. Poznan, I wish also for it to be true. Would you like,” he said, “a manila envelope?” He blew into the envelope and, smiling, slipped her papers inside.

It was the sergeant who addressed Lillian as she stood on the threshold of the open door. “Would you mind coming a bit closer so we can have a look?” He motioned toward the envelope Lillian was brandishing. “Can you at least open it a little and give us a peek?”

The sergeant was making a joke of her. The station house was bigger than any she’d been to, and there must have been a dozen policemen standing about, watching her make a scene.

“There’s nothing to peek at,” Lillian said. “It’s a habeas corpus on behalf of Pato Poznan, fresh from the Ministry of Justice.”

The sergeant cupped his hands around his mouth, as if his voice needed to carry a great distance, though Lillian was only a few meters away.

“We have someone to release,” he yelled. “But that’s not the one we’ve got.”

Lillian yelled back, “Bring out my boy” at the very top of her lungs.

The policemen looked at her as if she was a crazy lady. Lillian pulled out the habeas corpus. “Right here, it says Pablo Poznan,” and she pointed at the name.

“I’m going to have to see that,” the sergeant told her.

Lillian looked at all the people looking at her. She marched up to the counter and, when she did, most everyone watching went back to their business. It wasn’t much of a show. They’d see better before the shift was through.

Lillian slammed a page down against the countertop, her palm pressed flat to it. The sergeant pushed delicately at her fingers, trying to read. He wasn’t a cruel man.

“You’ve scratched out the name,” he said.

He looked up at her now with a serious expression. He took the manila envelope and went through the rest of the papers. “You’ve changed it on all of them,” he said, incredulous.

“It says Pablo,” Lillian said. “That’s who I’m supposed to get.” She pointed to where she’d written it in.

“We have our own copies,” the sergeant said. “You’re Lillian Poznan and we’ve got a girl, sixteen years old, a Mónica Álvarez to release to you.”

“I don’t want her. I want my son.”

The sergeant held one of the papers up to the light. “You can still see where it says Mónica,” he said.

“Where’s my Pato?” Lillian said.

The sergeant said, “Not here.”

Lillian opened her mouth to yell again and was silenced with a stare. The sergeant wouldn’t have it. “Do you want the girl or not?” he said. “You can take her or leave her. Decide quickly before we scratch out her name on our forms too.”

Lillian’s chest heaved. From a place of such deep hatred that it curdled the blood to hear it, she said, “I’m not going to leave that child.”

The sergeant scanned the room until he caught someone’s attention. “Get the girl,” he said.

While a policeman did, Lillian turned angrier and angrier. By the time the policeman came back, Lillian’s huffing had built nearly to a growl. It was to this woman, to a Lillian Poznan looking positively out of her mind, that the cowering girl was released.

Lillian grabbed the girl’s elbow and gave her a shake. “Tell them,” she said. “Tell them you weren’t taken from my house, from my block. Tell them it’s a lie, that we’ve never met.”

“It was your house,” the girl said. Lillian drew back, startled by the claim and by how sharply the girl smelled of pee. “From the top floor,” the girl said. “Your house. And a bakery. There was a bakery and a beating in a car.”

Lillian first believed the girl meant it and, thinking her somehow bewitched, she pushed her away.

This was surely a nightmare that Lillian was having. To prove it, Lillian crossed her arms and pinched at her biceps as hard as she could. While Lillian did this she also tried to turn the girl into Pato. If it was a dream, let her see her son.

The girl wouldn’t change, and Lillian knew this wasn’t anything but another disappointment. All she’d be getting was this child, with her sallow face and cracked lips and a hollowness to her eyes that only got worse when Lillian saw them straight on. This child was empty inside. Lillian let her hands drop. What the girl had said wasn’t a lie. Certain things at certain times are always truth.

Lillian understood then that they must go.

“Turn the music up,” Lillian said. “Keep it up and listen to it.”

The cabdriver turned up the music and drove on.

Lillian hugged the girl in the back of the cab. She held her close, and the girl let her.

“Not my house,” Lillian whispered. “Tell me it wasn’t. Not my bakery.
Not my block.” The girl pulled away. “OK,” Lillian said.
“Shhhh,”
she said, and pulled her back with more force than delicacy. Lillian stroked the girl’s hair, all stiff and matted.
“Shhhh,”
Lillian said. “I’m sorry. I will not ask.” The girl lived in Belgrano, a fine address. In the station, she wouldn’t tell Lillian where and the policeman had been forced to write it down.

Lillian watched the city go by.

She said, “I have a son, like you. I have boy somewhere within.” She rocked the girl, cooed at the girl. “Did you meet a Pato? Did you hear of a Pato? A skinny boy with too much hair?” Lillian smiled. “And a nose. A huge big nose.”

Lillian bent her neck until it hurt. She wanted to hold the girl while keeping an ear next to the child’s mouth—in case she should whisper, whisper under the music.

“You are free, my sweet,” Lillian said. “You can tell me, my skinny.”

Lillian held the girl and for some minutes kept the girl’s warm lips against her ear.

“You do not know the things they put inside you,” the girl said. “So many different things, so many people.”

“What are you saying?” Lillian said. There was so much this day that she couldn’t comprehend.

“Electricity,” she said. “All up inside you.” The girl took Lillian’s face in her hands. She put her nose to Lillian’s nose, her forehead to Lillian’s, and blinking into her eyes, she said, so strongly, so absolutely—she said, “I’m pregnant with electric shock.”

Lillian couldn’t understand. Not what the girl was saying and not how, around that warm mouth, so much coldness came off her. Lillian felt that inside this child something essential had been knocked loose. Such a cold girl, but at the same time Lillian could not help loving her. She pulled the girl closer, rubbing with both hands, trying to get the rest of her warm.

“My daughter,” Lillian said. “Lean back, my girl.”

The girl leaned, going soft, and Lillian only squeezed tighter.
“Shhhh,”
Lillian said. “My daughter,” she said. “Not long, almost there, almost home.”