There was a woman behind the counter. She was probably in her early forties, but in the shadows of the little diner she could have passed for a decade younger. Her hair was very dark, and when I passed her I could see no trace of gray in it. She was also beautiful, and smelled faintly of cinnamon and cloves. She nodded at me, but she did not smile.
I took the seat across from Epstein but turned so that I also had a wall against my back, and could see the door.
“You could have told me that you were persona non grata at the Orensanz Center,” I said.
“I could have, but it would not have been true,” said Epstein. “A decision was made, one that was entirely mutual. Too many people pass through its doors. It was not fair, or wise, to put them at risk. I am sorry to have kept you waiting, but there was a purpose: we were watching the streets.”
“And did you find anything?”
Epstein’s eyes twinkled. “No, but had we ventured farther into the shadows then something, or someone, might have found us. I suspected that you would not come alone. Was I right?”
“Louis is nearby.”
“The enigmatic Louis. It is good to have such friends, but bad to have such need of them.”
The woman brought food to our table: baba ghanoush with small pieces of pita bread; burekas; and chicken cooked with vinegar, olives, raisins, and garlic, with some couscous on the side. Epstein gestured to the food, but I did not eat.
“What?” he said.
“About the Orensanz Cen R aOrensanz ter. I don’t think I believe that you’re on such good terms after all.”
“Really.”
“You don’t have a congregation. You don’t teach. You travel everywhere with at least one gunman. Today you have two. And there was something you said to me, a long time ago. We were talking, and you used the term ‘Jesus Christ.’ None of that strikes me as very orthodox. I can’t help but feel that you might have earned a little disapproval.”
“Orthodox?” He laughed. “No, I am a most unorthodox Jew, but still a Jew. You’re a Catholic, Mr. Parker-”
“A bad Catholic,” I corrected.
“I’m not in a position to make such judgments. Still, I am aware that there are degrees of Catholicism. I fear that there are many more degrees of Judaism. Mine is cloudier than most, and sometimes I wonder if I have spent too long divorced from my own people. I find myself using terms that I have no business using, slips of the tongue that embarrass me, and worse, or entertaining doubts that do not entertain me. So, perhaps it would be true to say that I left Orensanz before I was asked to leave. Would that make you more comfortable?” He gestured once again at the food. “Now eat. It’s good. And our hostess will be offended if you do not taste what she has prepared.”
I hadn’t arranged the meeting with Epstein to play semantic games, or to sample the local cuisine, but he had a way of manipulating conversations to his own satisfaction, and I had been at a disadvantage from the moment I traveled here to meet him. Yet there had been no choice. I could not imagine Epstein, or his minders, permitting an alternative arrangement.
So I ate. I inquired politely after Epstein’s health and his family. He asked about Sam and Rachel, but he did not pry further into our domestic arrangements. I suspected he was well aware that Rachel and I were no longer together. In fact, I now believed that there was little about my life of which Epstein was not aware, and it had always been that way, right from the moment my father approached him about the mark on the man who died beneath the wheels of a truck, and whose partner had subsequently killed my birth mother.
When we were done, baklava was brought to the table. I was offered coffee, and accepted. I added a little milk to it, and Epstein sighed.
“Such a luxury,” he said. “To be able to enjoy a coffee with milk so soon after one’s meal.”
“You’ll have to forgive my ignorance…”
“One of the laws of kashrut,” said Epstein. “One is prohibited from eating dairy products within six hours of consuming meat. Exodus: ‘Thou shalt not seethe a kid in his mother’s milk.’ You see: I am more orthodox than you might think.”
The woman hovered nearby, waiting. I thanked her for her kindness, and for the food. Despite myself, I had eaten more than I had intended. This time, she did smile, but she did not speak. Epstein made a small gesture with his left hand, and she retreated.
“She’s a deaf mute,” said Epstein, when her back was turned. “She reads lips, but she will not read ours.”
I glanced at the woman. Her face was tu R a face wasrned from us, and she was examining a newspaper, her head bent.
Now that the time had arrived to confront him, I felt something of my anger at him dissipate. He had kept so much hidden for so long, just as Jimmy Gallagher had done, but there were reasons for it.
“I know that you’ve been asking questions,” he said. “And I know that you have received some answers.”
When I spoke, I thought that I sounded like a petulant teenager.
“You should have told me when we first met.”
“Why? Because you believe now that you had a right to know?”
“I had a father, and two mothers. They all died for me, in their way.”
“And that was precisely why you could not be told,” said Epstein. “What would you have done? You were still an angry, violent man when we met: grief stricken, bent on revenge. You could not be trusted. There are some who would say that you still cannot be trusted. And remember, Mr. Parker: I had lost my son when first we met. My concerns were for him, not for you. Pain and grief are not your exclusive preserves.
“But, still, you are right. You should have been told before now, but perhaps you chose the time that was right for you. You decided when to begin asking the questions that led you here. Most have been answered for you. I will do my best to deal with the rest.”
Now that the time had come, I was not sure where to start.
“What do you know of Caroline Carr?”
“Next to nothing,” he said. “She came from what is now a suburb of Hartford, Connecticut. Her father died when she was six, and her mother when she was nineteen. There are no surviving relatives. If she had been bred to be anonymous, one could not have asked for more.”
“But she wasn’t anonymous. Someone came looking for her.”
“So it seems. Her mother died in a house fire. Subsequent investigations revealed that it might have been started deliberately.”
“Might have been?”
“A cigarette smoldering at the bottom of a trash can, with papers piled on top of it, and a gas stove that was not turned off fully. It could have been an accident, except neither Caroline nor her mother smoked.”