The Sweetness of Forgetting (95)

“Voilà,” he says. He holds the door for me as I enter.

Inside, the foyer is dimly lit, and there’s a narrow staircase straight ahead. I look around. “No elevator?” I ask.

Gavin scratches his head. “No elevator. Wow. That’s weird.”

We begin walking up, and by the time we get to the fifth floor, I’m ashamed to say I’m breathing hard. “I guess I should work out more,” I note. “I’m huffing and puffing like I’ve never climbed a staircase before.”

Gavin, who’s behind me, laughs. “I don’t know. Huffing and puffing aside, it doesn’t look to me like you’re in need of a workout.”

I look back at him, my face on fire, and he just grins. I shake my head and continue climbing, but I’m flattered.

We finally reach the tenth floor, and I’m in such a rush to see whether Jacob still lives here that I don’t even bother catching my breath before knocking on the door to 1004.

I’m still breathing hard when the door swings open, revealing a woman about my age standing there.

“Can I help you?” she asks, looking back and forth between Gavin and me.

“We’re looking for Jacob Levy,” says Gavin, after apparently realizing I can’t get words out.

The woman shakes her head. “There’s no one here by that name. I’m sorry.”

My heart sinks. “He’d be in his late eighties? From France originally?”

The woman shrugs. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He used to live here, we think,” Gavin says. “Until at least a year ago.”

“My husband and I moved in in January,” says the woman.

“Are you sure?” I ask in a small voice.

“I think I’d notice if some old dude was living with us,” the woman says, rolling her eyes. “Anyhow, the super lives in apartment 102 if you want to check with him.”

Gavin and I thank her and head back down the stairs.

“Do you think we came all this way for nothing?” I ask as we descend.

“No,” Gavin says firmly. “I think Jacob moved somewhere else and we’re going to find him today.”

“What if he’s dead?” I venture. I hadn’t wanted to consider the possibility, but it’s foolish not to.

“Elida’s husband didn’t find a death certificate,” Gavin says. “We’ve got to believe he’s still out there somewhere.”

When we reach the ground floor, Gavin knocks on the door to apartment 102. There’s no answer, and we exchange looks. Gavin knocks again, harder this time, and I’m relieved to hear footsteps coming toward the door a moment later. A middle-aged woman in curlers and a bathrobe opens the door.

“What?” she asks. “Don’t tell me the plumbing on the seventh is broken again. I can’t handle it.”

“No ma’am,” Gavin says. “We’re looking for the super.”

She snorts. “That’s my husband, but he’s mostly worthless. What do you need?”

“We’re looking for the man who used to live in apartment 1004,” I say. “Jacob Levy. We think he moved out about a year ago.”

She frowns. “Yeah. He did. So what?”

“We need to find him,” Gavin says. “It’s very urgent.”

She narrows her eyes. “You the IRS or something?”

“What? No,” I say. “We’re . . .” And then I don’t know how to continue. How do I tell her that I’m the granddaughter of the woman he loved seventy years ago? That I might even be his granddaughter?

“We’re family,” Gavin fills in smoothly. He nods at me. “She’s his family.”

The words make my heart hurt.

The woman scrutinizes us for a moment more and shrugs. “Whatever you say. I’ll get you his forwarding address.”

My heart beats faster as she shuffles back into her apartment. Gavin and I exchange looks again, but I’m too excited to say anything.

The woman reappears a moment later with a slip of paper. “Jacob Levy. He fell and broke his hip last year,” she says. “He’d been here twenty years, you know. There isn’t no elevator, and when he got back from the hospital, he couldn’t make it up them stairs, what with his hip and all, so the landlord, he offered him the vacant apartment at the end of the hall here. Apartment 101. But Mr. Levy, he said he wanted a view. Picky, if you ask me. So the movers came, end of November.”

She hands me the slip of paper. On it, there’s an address on Whitehall Street, along with an apartment number.

“That’s where he asked us to send his final bill,” the woman says. “I got no idea if he’s still there. But that’s where he went from here.”

“Thank you,” Gavin says.

“Thank you,” I echo. She’s about to close the door when I reach out my hand. “Wait,” I say. “One more thing.”

“Yeah?” She looks perturbed.

“Was he married?” I hold my breath.

“There wasn’t no Mrs. Levy that I know of,” the woman says.

I close my eyes in relief. “What . . . what was he like?” I ask after a moment.

She regards me suspiciously then seems to soften a little. “He was nice,” she says finally. “Always real polite-like. Some of the other tenants here, they treat us like servants, me and my husband. But Mr. Levy, he was always real nice. Always called me ma’am. Always said please and thank you.”