Epitaph

TWENTY-SIX

To begin then, begin at the beginning. Begin with a French Hungarian named Jean Goldblum, who peddled people for profit. Who sought out men and women who were innocent of everything but poverty and sent them to the good doctor like sheep to the slaughter. Begin there. Then go on to the family-the smiling boy, the apple- cheeked girl, clinging to their mother like baby 'roos. The family portrait, the kind that's passed around over beer and sausages. Turn it into an archive. Every case for Jean was the same case and the case was his own. Picture Jean in a camp called Mauthausen, where he watched the bodies pile up like firewood while he only waited his turn. Death row Mauthausen was, and Jean the condemned man. But something went wrong; Jean was liberated. And when the well-meaning refugee committees gawked at his record, they proclaimed him heroic and quickly dispatched him to the land of opportunity. Where thanks to the beneficence of Mr. Klein and certain of his own innate gifts, he became a detective. The first eye of the Three Eyes Detective Agency, the detective who could spot guilt at fifty paces, then put a price tag on it.

You find yourself in a terrible situation. A situation where you have to do everything imaginable. Understand?

Yes, Jean. Now we understand.

Thirty years later, Jean was pinching children off the streets and selling them back to their parents. Same old Jean.

But then, something happened.

He came in, Weeks said, looking like a ghost. Just like a ghost.

And he said, I've got a case. A real case. The biggest case of my life.

What case is it? the woman asked him.

But Jean whispered, I can't tell you. But it's the biggest case…

I know, she said. Of your life.

Every case was the same case, and the case was his own.

And after Jean began to investigate this case, after he'd gone down to Florida and found what he was looking for, he'd come back and paid a visit to a clinic.

What sort of clinic?

A bad sort, Weeks said. That's what sort. They did some job on him.

And when Weeks asked him why he did it, why he'd went and had his numbers burnt off, Jean said: Because I've earned it. Every case was the same case, and the case was his own. And soon after that, Jean died. And William, old friend, old dupe, saw his obituary in the newspaper and went to pay his last respects. Which led him to Rodriguez, which led him to a phone book, which led him to the woman, which led him to Weeks, which led him, at last, to the case. Twelve old people who'd taken the banana boat to Florida and never reached the shore. Strange case. But a little, just a little, like another one. The perfect crime, Dr. Morten said. Because no one asked what happened to them-these Jews. The neighbors because they didn't care, the families because they did. Just another old person, Rodriguez said. Another old person with nobody. Family, yeah, Raoul said. But not to speak of. Twelve old people with nobody. With, that is, almost nobody. For the somebodies had gotten postcards. Dear Greely-The weather's lovely and I'm doing fine. Letters, Dr. Morten said, ostensibly from Argentina, just to let them know that everything was fine. Twelve old people. Like most old people these days. The herd, Mr. Brickman described them. Refugees, William had thought on the plane, running from the crime, the cold, the loneliness. Are there Nazis there, Mr. Gushenow asked. Are there Nazis in Argentina? No…just coconuts. Like in Florida. Where there are coconuts too. Twelve old people who'd taken a wrong turn. A lot like that other case, maybe more than a little like it. In fact, you could almost say that they were one and the same. Every case was the same case, and the case was his own. Twelve old people. Twelve refugees. Why did she go there? William had asked Raoul, the janitor. I think her doctor recommended it, he'd said. The doctor thought it'd be the best thing for her, Mrs. Goldblatt said, talking about another of the twelve. And when Weeks had asked Jean to seek medical help? I've already been to a doctor, Jean answered. And laughed. Begin at the beginning. Begin there, and if you can't swallow it, spit it out. But if you can swallow it, you have to swallow all of it. Even the last part. How did he die? he'd asked Rodriguez. Heart attack, Rodriguez said. The doctor came. But too late. The doctor came. But no one had called the doctor. Weeks hadn't. Neither had Rodriguez. But the doctor came. Every case was the same case, and the case was his own. His own. He came in looking like a ghost, Weeks had said. But Weeks had gotten the expression wrong, he had. People don't look like ghosts. People look like they've seen one. So Dr. Morten had been wrong too. They never found Marcel, he said.

But someone, of course, had.

The someone who could recognize him, the someone who'd been staring at his face every night for over fifty years.

Jean.

Jean had found Marcel. One night, one day, he'd taken a stroll and bumped into a ghost. And then, before he could do something about it, the ghost had found him.