"Sorry," she said. "I don't know her, but you should check with 714, Alberta Menta's place. She'll know if anyone does. She knows everybody."
I thanked her and followed her advice. I was lucky to find Alberta Menta still at home, for she was just about to leave to post a pile of relocation notices. She had a handful of the placards in her hand as she headed out the door.
"So that's where they come from!" I exclaimed. I had assumed they were distributed by an official government agency, which would explain why they were on all the fences of all the empty lots, and all looked exactly the same.
"I take it upon myself," Alberta explained, after she had welcomed me into her home and was preparing a pot of tea. "So much disturbance, so much how do you call it mayhem," she added. "Nobody knows where anyone has got to. And does the city care? Oh no, they - what would you say - no not at all. They're so busy uprooting neighborhoods and disturbing the general tranquility. People are inconvenient, that's what they'd say if pressed, and have said so when been so."
I shook my head in a vague attempt to follow her prattle. Alberta was a very small, very thin woman of indeterminate age, possibly thirty, possibly fifty. Her light brown skin was smooth and wrinkle-free and her small brown eyes darted every which way while she spoke, as if expecting to see in every corner some sort of mischief that must be stamped out at once. We sat in the sitting room just inside the front door, a tiny carpeted space containing too many little tables and chairs, and several non-functional lamps dangling from the ceiling. Behind it I could see her bustling in a teensy kitchen and was pretty sure I could glimpse a small bedroom off to one side. The house seemed to be divided into several little apartments, with narrow hallways and staircases keeping them apart.
"How do you keep track?" I shouted after her, but she was already returning with a tin tray holding the pot and two dainty cups on saucers. Motioning for me to move to a different chair, she settled the tray down onto one of the tables and poured.
"Planning commission," she told me. "My son works there. Oh it bothers him, it certainly does, to be known as the child of that interfering nosy woman who is always coming in demanding to know who's moving where and when and - how do you call it why? What's wrong with the old buildings, anyway, I'd like to know, and I do ask, oh yes I do. In detail, mind you. In very great detail. A sweet little Tudor bungalow built just eleven years ago according to all the codes and in a very nice street so why does this one have to go, and what for? To make room for a Wright house which looks, if you'll pardon the pun, absolutely wrong, quite wrong, instead. And the Peabody's who had lived on Mistercatton Street since their babies were born now have to go all the way across town to Misterwishington where they don't know anyone and the schools, so sad to say, are painted green instead of that lovely navy blue they've been accustomed to. Now why is that, I demand to know, but they put me off with the lists, which they know, oh they know how much I can't resist them, every time. I want to know their reasoning, but the perpetual re-beautification so they tell me has reasons beyond mortal explanation, something to do with cosmic tides and the wisdom of the crowds. Don't look too deep, they tell me, you're bound to miss what's on the surface - how should we say - that's right in front of you. Be happy we let you have the lists. We don't have to give you the lists, you know, even though your son, but even so, don't ask too many questions if you want what we know you really want."
I managed to interrupt her at this point with my direct question about Dotty Wooten. The name seemed to be new to her for a moment, as she furrowed her brow and concentrated.
"No, no," she muttered, "there's no one with that name, not in Misterlittleton, surely."
"She's the mother of Hernan Kaitel," I offered, at which Alberta Menta perked up.
"Oh, you mean Sarah Kaitel," she said, "Of course. Wherever did you come up with a name like Dotty Wooten? You could look for years for a person who doesn't exist. Now Sarah Kaitel, yes, she used to live her, certainly, two doors down at 718B. Not any longer, of course. She's gone. Funny you should ask, though," she said, shuffling through the placards she had set aside when we came in.
"Here it is," she announced as she pulled one out of the pile. "Effective next Thursday, that's in two days from now, Mrs. Sarah Kaitel and family can be found at 55112 Misterhammerrow Lane."
"And family?" I asked.
"Certainly," she replied. "Sarah and her two daughters, Karah and Tarah."
"You said effective on Thursday," I said. "Does that mean they are still at their current address?"
"Oh no," she said disapprovingly. "Certainly not. They'll be incommunicado until then. The city puts them up once they've gone on notice, and that is always classified information. For personal reasons."
I had no idea what she was talking about, but I'd had enough of it, whatever it was. I stood up to leave, thanking her and giving the excuse of having kept her from her important tasks for far too long already, which she agreed I had done. I was just heading out the door when a sudden inspiration occurred to me.
"You wouldn't happen to know," I said, "where I might be able to find her son, Mister Hernan Kaitel?"
"Why of course," she clucked. "He's in his luxurious new penthouse at 11 Misteravid Street. Everybody knows that," she couldn't help adding.
Chapter Sixteen
11 Misteravid Street was right around the corner from my hotel. From the looks of it, I'd assumed it was an office building, and indeed the signage out front, which advertised a financial investment firm, gave no indication that anyone possibly lived there. The lobby, with its black granite floor and brass office directory board, seemed likewise un-residential. Only by close scrutiny could you devise that some of the offices were actually apartments, and even then you couldn't be completely sure, as some of the residents listed themselves as corporations, such as Mrs. Hendly Ramos, Ltd. in 707. The penthouse suite did not even make an appearance and Hernan Kaitel was not mentioned there. I decided to proceed as if this weren't the case, and confidently stepped into the elevator and pushed the top button.
When I emerged, I found myself directly in front of the only door there. The wallpaper and carpeting were a uniform and somewhat hallucinogenic gold leaf pattern which made me feel a little dizzy as I knocked and waited patiently. I was quite convinced that whoever answered would not only not be my old friend, but would also have no idea who he was, or who I was, or anything about anything at all for that matter. I was only partially mistaken, for the man who did eventually come and greet me was the legendary Nando Kaitel himself. He looked very much like a version of my Hernan, only this rendition was wearing a very expensive, black silk suit with black dress shoes to match, a purple tie with a gold tie clip and golden cufflinks as well. He was sporting an incipient mustache and his hair was combed back and slickened with some kind of smelly substance. He certainly didn't smell like my Hernan! His overall appearance was very like a cheesy gangster from a classic old-time black and white movie. I nearly burst out laughing but managed to hold it back. His expression was one of suspicion and keen alertness, his voice full of impatience when he asked,
"Is there something I can do for you?"
"It's me, Hernan. I've finally found you."
He seemed puzzled for a few moments, then he kind of grimaced, or sneered, and said,
"Oh, it's you, is it? I expected you'd show up sooner or later. You're the alibi guy, right?"
"Excuse me?"
"The guy who told my lawyer the story about the casino. Nice trick, that, I suppose you want something for it. Go ahead, name it."
"I don't understand," I said, "I just want to talk to you."
"Okay," he sighed, "if that's what you want, you might as well come in. Now's as good a time as any."
He pushed the door open wider and stepped aside while motioning for me to enter, which I did. The apartment was everything you would expect a penthouse suite to be, from the grand view of the entire city through wide plate windows on three sides, to the sunken liv
ing room area complete with black leather sofa and chairs and heavy glass coffee table, a professional-looking kitchen off to the side and no doubt an enormous master bedroom or two further down the plush-carpeted hallway. He steered me to the seating area and asked me what I'd like to drink. I replied that water would be just fine, and he soon returned with a glass of water for me and what looked like scotch whiskey for him, another sign that this was not my Hernan, a teetotaler since his late teen years, when an episode involving his father convinced him that no good could ever come of alcohol.
"Now then," he said when we were both settled and staring at each other as if for the first time ever. I was clearly a stranger to this man, and I was beginning to believe that I was the victim of a cruel and elaborate hoax for some unknown reason. Perhaps it had to do with thievery. Perhaps I was being set up by a criminal gang, but why? I had no idea.
"I don't know who you are," he said. "I don't even know your name. My lawyer forgot to tell me."
I told him, but it made no impression. He merely shrugged and said,
"You were also at the jail, I'm told? And at Tony's too! Ricky says you made quite an unexpected appearance there, of all places. Did you enjoy the lemonade?" He laughed.
"I've been trying to find you for two days," I said, "or is it three? I've lost track of the time! We came here on Sunday, that's all I know for sure."
"We?" He asked, looking around the room. "Are there more of you?"
"You and I," I told him. "We drove here from Wetford, together, from my house, where we live, remember?"
"You're in my home right now," he said. "I've been living here since, well, since my last re-location. It's a nice place, don't you think?"
"It's very nice," I nodded, although to tell the truth I never liked apartments like that one. Rich people have never been my style, nor have any of their accessories. At a certain point, too much of anything leads to bloat and innervation. I prefer invention, and therefore the bare necessities.
"I'm told you say you know all about me," he said. "So, please, tell me more about myself."
Chapter Seventeen
"Well," I said, "when you were twelve your family moved to Wetford. Later they split up and your mom moved back here."
"They divorced, yes," he replied, "but only my dad moved to Wetford. I stayed here with my mom."
"She later remarried and had another son."
"She did remarry, but she had two girls, my little sisters, Karah and Tarah. Haven't you met them yet?"
"No," I said, and pushed on. It was now or never. I was determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. I tried to think of everything I had ever known about my friend, things that maybe no one else would know, or at least that only a good friend would.
"You often told me that when you were fourteen, you had to read Walden, by Thoreau in English class at school and it made such an impression on you that you went to live in the woods by yourself for three weeks that summer. When you came home your dad hadn't even noticed you'd been gone."
"That sounds like the old bastard, for sure." He was silent for a few moments and then he said,
"I remember we had to read that book. Man, what a bore. It just put me to sleep is how I recall it."
"Also around that time," I went on, "you were really into reading sea-faring adventure novels. You loved them so much you got a job at a deli after school and saved up your money and bought a little sailboat and taught yourself to sail out on the river."
"Yeah, that's pretty much the way it was." He looked more closely at me, as if he were only now aware that something strange was going on. Maybe he thought I was playing him? Maybe he thought I was the one who was setting him up? Perhaps he assumed I was a cop, or a private detective, and this was all a trick, but now I had his attention.
"The job I got was at Tony's Pizza - you know the place – but it used to be over on Mistermiddleton when it was just called Middleton, back in those days, before the storm. Tony's used to be a decent place. I bought me a Sailfish, used to take it out on the water from the Creighton Pier. Hell, I still love those books. The Sea-Wolf is my all time favorite."
"You told me that when you were around sixteen you saw a Spanish movie that was dubbed into Italian. That interested you so much you went and found the original version, and then you taught yourself Italian. It's what got you started off in translation
"I remember that movie," he laughed, "I think it was called Bella di Giorno. Made me horny as hell. Come to think of it, I've had a thing about blondes ever since. What's all this about? How do you know these things, and why do you have most of them wrong?"
"They're not wrong," I said. "Everything I'm telling you is true, it's what you've told me, or your wife has told me. Your ex-wife, Magdalena. We met through her."
"I don't know any Magdalena," he scoffed, and leaned back in his chair, taking another sip from his glass.
"You met her in a math class. I don't really know why you were taking a math class, or even why she was. Maybe it was because you'd met other girls that way, yes, and she'd met other guys the same way too. It was something you had in common, picking up people in math classes! It struck you both as so stupid and yet so odd that you hit it off right away."
"Did she have curly read hair?" He asked, sitting straight up.
"Yes, she did. She still does," I said, "only now there's a little gray in it when she doesn't color it up."
"I preferred the blonde," he said. "In math class. It was Statistics and Probability at City College. I always liked to learn about odds, risk analysis, stuff like that. I'm pretty good at that kind of thing, you know."
"If you say so," I murmured. My Hernan had thought himself something of a wizard in those subjects as well. I always thought it was more about luck than anything else. Bad luck, in the case of my friend. Maybe the opposite for this guy.
"I remember the redhead, though. I did think about asking her out, but the blonde. The blonde turned out to be an idiot, and by the time I figured that out the class was over and it was too late for the other one."
"Yes, Probability," I said. "That was it. What are the odds?" I said to myself, and wanted to laugh, but I couldn't. I had to go on.
Chapter Eighteen
"When you and I met for the first time," I said, "you asked me something very interesting. You asked me, how do people know when they understand each other?"
"I think they can tell more easily when they don't." Nando answered.
"That's exactly what you told me then," I said. "Word for word."
"Seems like an obvious answer," he shrugged. "Listen, you and I, no matter what you say, you and I have never met before. Never. I don't know you and I never knew you. I don't know what you're after or what you want. Maybe you are working for the system somehow? Or some newspaper, perhaps?"
"I do run a newspaper," I told him, "but that has nothing to do with this. In fact, you work for my paper. I am your employer, and your friend. That's my 'angle', as you put it."
"Now you're making even less sense," he shook his head. "But I'm curious, I have to admit. Exactly what does this me do for your newspaper? Is he your paper boy? Does he ride around on a bicycle making deliveries?" He chuckled at his attempt at humor. I did not.
"You are a writer," I told him, "and a translator. You speak many languages." Here I paused, for it didn't seem like the time to bring up the imaginary ones. He might already suspect me of being a possible lunatic, and that tidbit certainly wouldn't help matters much.
"I do speak English," he said, "and some Spanish, here and there. I should speak more, I know, considering my heritage and all, but growing up around here, you tend to lose it, you use it mostly for swearing or talking about food. But you said I was a writer. What do I write?"
"All sorts of stuff," I said, again hedging my answer. I did not need to go into the fictitious nature of our "news" stories, nor provide too much detail. "You're a journalist. You write about things that happen."
"But you
are telling me about things that do not happen, things that never happened and can never happen. A person can only be one person. He can only live one life, but you are telling my that my life is not the one I remember, and that I am not the person I know myself to be. You have made up another version of myself, for some reason I cannot figure out. All I know is that this alibi you came up with somehow had some reality to it. There are records of my being at this place, this casino, and my fingerprints are there, and videos and photographs of me, and my signature, yes, I have seen the photocopies and it is my own, or at least very like it. Perhaps this is all some elaborate trick. I don't know. A man in my position cannot be too careful, especially with these recent charges, which I'm sure you understand are potentially quite serious. And so, you see, you are putting me in an awkward position. You say you are my friend and yet, I feel I must ask you to leave."
Saying this, he stood up and made it quite plain by his gestures and expressions that he expected me to do the same. I could not see an alternative. I could offer more proofs, more stories, more anecdotes of the real Hernan, but these could have no other effect than the ones I'd already produced. And deep inside I already knew it was a hopeless situation. This man was not Hernan Kaitel. I did not know who he was, and I was feeling the very same instinct that he was, that this whole thing was a curious trick set in motion by someone for some mysterious reason. It was with a sense of great sadness that I finally rose to my feet, and walked slowly to the door. There was one thing missing, I felt, one crucial piece of information, and I couldn't come up with what it might be. I hesitated, and dawdled, and dragged and I could feel him becoming more and more impatient as we made our way toward his door. It wasn't until I was barely out that I thought of it, and turned around just in time to catch him just before he locked me out.
"What is all this about lemons?" I blurted out, and he stopped with the door half-shut, and smiled.
"My monicker, you mean?"
"They said something about lemons at that hole in the ground on Misteranibal Street. And then at Tony's Pizza, like it's some sort of totem."
"I am sometimes known as The Lemon Thief," he said. "It is not a long story, but not a very interesting one either, though perhaps you will write about it some day in your newspaper. I stole a lemon from a vegetable cart when I was twelve years old." Here he paused and sighed with the memory.