The Word Exchange (40 page)

But knocking, pleading, banging gave me nothing but silence, then, after a while, the neighbors’ shouts. And I had no way of knowing why. Was he not at home? Where else could he be? Maybe, I thought, he was too sick to stand. Or afraid of infecting me.

Hands trembling, I fumbled in Phineas’s coat for my vial covered in illegible writing. Found a pen and a Society pamphlet that Phineas had folded into the pocket and scrawled a message on the back:
ALICE SAYS
EAT THESE
. I folded the paper into a triangle, poured in the pills—almost
spilling them, my hands were quivering so badly—slid it under his door, and prayed.

Outside, as I cast one last look up at the building and started to climb onto the bike again, I heard a voice call, “Hey, girlie,” very nearby. Twisting my head as I started wobblingly to ride, I saw a man step out from behind a parked car, and my heart suddenly felt like two hearts, grappling with each other. But that was all I saw. Because as he yelled, “Hey! Hey!” and started coming toward me, I took off and was gone.

On our seventh day of confinement, Phineas braved the world, leaving me behind.
¹
He wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone but thought it might be quite a while; he said not to let anyone but the dog-walker inside. While he was out, I did hand Canon over, which I later regretted very much. I also tried to call Bart again, but he didn’t pick up. And I went into Phineas’s study.

I was looking for Doug’s letter, the one that read “You can trust Phineas implicitly.” The original—not the one that I knew had been doctored. Carefully I stepped past teetering piles of papers. Tripped on an eviscerated dog toy. Tried to blind myself to the dark, damning coins of Nadya’s eyes watching from the walls. All those naked portraits of a woman who looked so much like my mother, uncannily familiar, made
me
feel exposed, reminding me of the spying I’d done on Doug the night he’d disappeared. And as I searched Phineas’s desk for my letter, I uncovered others, written in 1966, 1967, 1968, to Nadya Viktorovna Markova at a Moscow address. The papers’ alien softness was enthralling. I found myself wishing they were my parents’ letters. That maybe they held clues. Blueprints for why love doesn’t last.

I caught the phrase “When you said I never loved you but only
myself in love with you, maybe you were right.” And I peered up at the photo over Phineas’s desk. It was the one whose pane I’d broken, of Nadya clothed only in her hair. A few tiny glass incisors still clung to the frame. And as I studied the one sliver of cheek not veiled, I made a startling discovery: I knew her. Not because she looked like Vera. She was the younger simulacrum of another woman: Victoria Mark, of the Diachronic Society.

“Viktorovna. Nadya Viktorovna Markova,” I murmured aloud.

And that’s when Phineas found me.

“Alice!” he said, breathless, smelling of snow. His coat was spangled white.

I tucked the letter behind me. “I was just—”

But he cut me off. “Come with me!” he said in the shouted version of a whisper. With his gloves still on, he placed a screen in front of the pneumatic tubes, then grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to my room. Opening the closet, he shushed the clothes aside. Lifted his red hat from a high shelf, slid out the remote, and pressed a button that made the back of the closet open with a clack. Shoving me in, Phineas hissed, “Don’t make a sound” before shutting and locking it again. Then, from outside: “And don’t turn on the lights!”

For a moment I stood dazed, unmoving. “Phineas?” I whispered through the wall. But all I heard was silence. I felt the blackness crowding in around me, pressing on my eyes, and I shivered, heart quickening, lungs feeling tight. I swept the dark with my arms and recoiled at the light cord’s feathery kiss. I was tempted to tug it but groped my way instead to the wall monitor. When I turned it on, an image leapt to the screen: a man dressed all in black was entering the lobby with a dog on a leash. I felt a wave of nausea.

Clive stepped from behind his desk. Pointed to the door. But the man held up a hand and walked to one of the wintry paintings. Lifted it. And moments later the apartment filled with the buzzer’s long, piercing skirl. I stopped my ears. As it ended, I saw the man shove Clive aside and head toward the elevators.

In minutes I heard distant pounding on Phineas’s front door. Muted shouts. I couldn’t hear what the man wanted, but I thought I recognized his voice. My skin stung and grew tight, as if from drying saltwater. In the dim aureole of the monitor’s glow, I noticed a pair of headphones snaking from its side. Cautiously put them on and pressed the + sign.
Heard a crackle, then muzzy sound. Tried a few of the monitor’s buttons, and noises and scenes careened: first I was in the living room, then Phineas’s study, with pages of the letter to Nadya strewn on the desk. Next I saw the front door, Phineas huddled beside it, running his hands through the dandelion taff of his hair.

“Thwaite!” I heard the man outside roar. “Jong the motherfucking vare, or I’ll stev your dog!” Punctuating the threat was a terrible yelp, and then there was another, more impressive bout of banging, as if from a boot. Things rattled on shelves.

Phineas cringed and pressed his hands to his face. He hesitated just a moment more, but when he heard the dog cry again through the door, he reached for the locks, fingers trembling, and undid them one by one. But his voice stayed steady as he said, “All right. No need to blow the house down.”

When the door opened, I almost didn’t recognize the man who stepped inside. He’d slimmed since I’d last seen him, and shaved his sideburns. But it was definitely Floyd. Wrapped around his meaty hand was a thick black leash, and at his feet was Canon.

“Fucking dog
kasht
me,” Floyd said, clenching and unclenching the hand not holding the leash. Phineas lunged to grab the dog’s collar. But Floyd jammed a thick boot in the door. “Not zhutak,” he said, yanking the dog, who was visibly limping, into the apartment behind him. Phineas enfolded Canon in his arms. The dog was whimpering, licking his face, but also baring his teeth at Floyd.

Floyd seemed unfazed. He casually strolled through the foyer, dirty slush dripping from his boots. Then he started to speak. It was hard to hear him over Canon’s crying, and the headphones weren’t very good. It was more than that, though—he had the virus. But I was pretty sure I heard him say he was looking for someone. And my pulse started throbbing in my neck. I thought I saw Phineas flinch. He was still hunched over the dog, who’d started growling, and I hoped Floyd hadn’t noticed him tense.

Phineas stood to shut the door, and Floyd, looking down at Canon, said something I didn’t understand. Then, without warning, he swung back his short, powerful leg and brought his boot into Canon’s ribs. The dog fell, howling and yipping loudly.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” Phineas yelled, leaping at Floyd. But Floyd just pushed the old man, hard, and to avoid landing on
Canon, who was whining and scrabbling to get up, Phineas fell the other way, into a chair, his glasses tumbling off.

By the time Phineas had stood, touching quaking fingers to a bloody lip, and gingerly stepped toward the injured dog, making soothing sounds, Floyd had left the foyer.

Punching through the monitor’s channels, I watched in terror as Floyd made his rounds: living room, bedrooms, baths. I saw him paw through the study, scattering papers. Dump Phineas’s shirts on the floor. Check medicine bottles. Knock them in the sink. Then, transfixed, heart swelling, I watched him open the door to my room. Step inside. Stare, it seemed, right at me.

I pressed against the wall. Tried to take cover in a space with no cover to take. Prepared for what I’d do when he found me. Saw him check methodically behind the door. The curtains. Under the bed. Then, barely breathing, I watched him approach the closet. Heard him say, over the thrum in my head—and not through the headphones but the walls—“Nara zhok fuck
is
he?”

He?
I thought, confused. One of the few unscrambled words in a question whose meaning was clear enough. The impulses to listen and to block my ears were almost equally strong. I reflexively groped in my pocket and found it empty; I’d given the pills, of course, to Bart. Then Phineas appeared at the door, rubbing his arm, split lip striped red. And in a strikingly nonchalant tone, he said—almost laughed—“Unless you’re looking for the dog’s bed, I think you’ll be disappointed.”

Stunningly, it worked—Floyd turned without opening the closet door. I let myself breathe a tiny, jagged sigh. Willed Floyd to leave the room. The apartment. The earth.

But then a silence opened like a safe. Floyd was curved away from the camera, and I couldn’t see his face. I found out later he was grimacing in pain. Pressing stubby fingers into his forehead. Finally he said something, and I thought I caught the words “hiding anyone.” Phineas was quiet for what felt like far too long.
Come on
, I mouthed, frantic.
Say something
. But when he did finally reply, his voice had lost its cool, scentless calm. He said, “Don’t be absurd.” But to me it sounded like “Look in the closet.”

With shaking fingers, dabbing sweat from my top lip, I wondered if I should risk escape through the darkroom’s other door. That’s when I discovered it was locked.

Floyd said something else I strained to understand. He was holding a small, bunched black thing. And my stomach collapsed. I had a terrible vision—of some lace underwear I may have left on the floor. I heard Floyd inhale and say, “Mm,” and I nearly gagged.

“Give those to me,” Phineas said. I felt ill.

“Whoa.” Floyd laughed, not about to give up. “Whose naysek?”

Phineas said a few words I didn’t quite catch, then: “… from a long time ago. I—”

“Don’t
smell
old,” Floyd somehow managed to express, or, in my horror, I imagined.

“Please,” Phineas said, sounding believably defeated. “I miss her, and this is very embarrassing for me.”
²

Floyd garbled something else I couldn’t uncode. But I’d stopped caring what he was saying; I could tell by the way his voice amplified that he’d again moved closer to me. Then I heard something that made my legs weaken: he’d opened the closet door.

I pinched my eyes shut. Braced as best I could for his discovery of my clothes—things he’d seen me wear countless times, like my long green coat. As soon as he saw it, he’d find the fake door. And me, on the other side. I heard the excruciating
tring
of hangers sliding. Felt my heart burst its telegram to my brain:
Run
. There was nowhere to go. I tried to picture how I’d take him down. Not what would happen after.

But Floyd, consistent with his character, was evidently an impatient detective. As he’d opened the door, Phineas had mumbled, “My niece—sent some things home from college.” And miraculously, that seemed to work. When I next heard Floyd’s voice, it was farther away. Phineas and I tried to piece together later what he said. We thought he was trying to convey that someone had been making calls to government agencies, leveling accusations at Synchronic. He sneered incomprehensibly at Phineas: “Zeg mabee know lukkets you this time.” But then he said something we both understood: that if anyone turned up, it was in Phineas’s best interests to tell him.

“Might help to know who you’re looking for,” Phineas said calmly.

They stepped out into the hall, and I had to jump up and change the channel to hear Floyd’s reply. But I wasn’t prepared for the answer he
gave. I could swear he said, “King.” And the knurled, brass-knuckle way he said it made me cold.

By then they were back by the front door. Canon, now lashed to the kitchen table, was snarling, low and dark. “Canon understands. Shemmet, boy?” said Floyd. Nudged the dog with his boot. Canon started barking, and Floyd laughed as he let himself out.

Later Phineas and I sat stunned in the living room, Canon at our feet. Phineas had put on
Rite of Spring
, and I’d brought him a glass of water, which he took without a word, sucking his bloody lip. A bruise bistered his arm, and a purple lump had risen near his temple. When he tried to press the glass to his head, his hand shook so badly that water spilled on his shirt.

“Are you okay?” I asked gently.

Phineas shrugged. And the vulnerability of that small, modest hump of doubt made my eyes burn. I felt more keenly than I had before what it was costing him to keep me safe.

Abruptly he took a billfold from his coat and removed a stocky, matte blue rectangle inked with tremulous letters. It was a barely extant relic: a paper airplane ticket. As he handed it over, he said sternly, “Don’t lose it.” He explained that the very earliest date he could book wasn’t until the next week. Which, in a sense, was fortunate; with the tremendous rise in passport requests, mine had been delayed even with his help.