Harlem

Bradhurst - 8th Avenue & West 139th Street

Nelson’s Restaurant - Same Day

The man referred to as number 111 by Elena in her journal was Tom Fluker, now dead; his son William ran the hardware store, as Leo had correctly guessed. Once a degree of trust had been established, William was prepared to recollect events from the time of Jesse Austin’s death. He recounted his father talking about Austin, and how Tom had been furious with him for bringing their community under scrutiny and suspicion.

—Jesse used to make my father mad. He called him a troublemaker. But the night Jesse was shot, my father didn’t sahe had it coming, or anything like that. He did something I never expected him to. He cried. I remember thinking it was strange that he never had a nice word to say about Jesse and then he cried when the man was shot. I was a young boy and it seemed like a contradiction at the time.

William had brought them to a restaurant called Nelson’s, closing his store and agreeing to show Leo and Nara the way. In his extensive exploration of the neighbourhood, Leo had passed the restaurant but since it was several blocks from where Austin lived, and looked new, he’d never gone in. There was no mention of it in Elena’s diary and he could find no reference to it in any of the articles written about Austin in the press. During the walk William had warmed to them somewhat, almost certainly because of Nara. He’d taken a shine to her and Leo could tell she was flattered. William was a handsome man.

Unlike the hardware store, which appeared not to have been decorated or updated for thirty years, this restaurant had been recently refurbished. Like a tour guide, William gestured at the facade.

—Don’t be fooled. This restaurant has been here for longer than I’ve been alive. Nelson was the man who opened it and he and my dad were friends. Both of them built up their businesses from nothing. This was the most popular restaurant in the neighbourhood, until…

William trailed off, adding:

—That’s not my story to tell.

Inside the staff were winding down after the lunch shift, tables being cleared, only a few diners remaining, older men who looked as if they had nowhere to hurry off to, nursing cups of coffee. William caught the arm of a waitress.

—Can we speak to Yolande?

The waitress glanced at Leo and Nara, assessing them, before turning around and heading back through the kitchen into an office. Minutes passed before she emerged accompanied by a woman in her thirties dressed in a suit. The woman was tall and striking. She took in every detail of Leo and Nara’s appearance before moving forward and shaking their hands. William had phoned ahead. She’d been expecting them.

—Nice to see you, Willie.

She offered her hand to Leo.

—I’m Yolande.

Leo shook it and then Nara. Leo introduced himself.

—My name is Leo Demidov. This is my friend Nara Mir.

She smiled.

—We’d better talk in my office.

Contrasting with her immaculate attire, her office was a jumble. There was a desk piled high with papers and files. Framed photographs and newspaper clippings cluttered the walls. Without waiting for permission, Leo instinctively began studying the photographs. Belatedly he realized that Yolande was beside him. He pulled back, blushing, embarrassed by his lack of courtesy. She gestured for him to continue.

—Go ahead.

One man was central to most of the photographs. Not Jesse Austin – a man that Leo didn’t recognize. Yolande said:

—That’s my father, Nelson, in his days as a campaigne

She pointed to one of the photographs, her finger moving away from her father and into the crowd, stopping at the face of a teenage girl.

—That’s me.

Leo noted that she did not look as engaged in the march as those around her, a young girl lost in the bustle. Yolande asked, with genuine curiosity:

—Your wife was Raisa Demidova?

Leo nodded.

—She did not kill Jesse Austin.

Yolande smiled kindly, like a benevolent schoolteacher.

—I know that. So does everyone who lives round here. No one in Harlem thinks your wife killed anyone, Mr Demidov. This neighbourhood might be the one place in the world where she’s innocent. Certainly my father didn’t believe it, not for one second. The press ran the story about how your wife was Jesse’s lover. The lie became truth. There was gossip and slander, written up as journalism, maybe they knew the truth and were too scared to print it. Can’t blame a person for that. Either way, the whole thing was forgotten a few months later and now it’s a scandal most people can’t put a name to. The strange thing was that your wife received a great deal of sympathetic coverage. People said it wasn’t her fault. They said she’d been duped. That all she wanted was to escape Soviet Russia, she’d been promised a life in America. She was distraught when she realized she’d have to go back. That lie flattered America. I suppose that’s why it was such a smart lie to tell.

Nara translated. Yolande was content to sit and watch Leo’s reaction. When Nara had finished, Yolande took down a photograph of her father working in the restaurant, handing it to Leo.

—I was fourteen years old when Jesse was shot. It changed my life, not because I knew the man but because it changed my father. Up until then he ran this restaurant and ran it well. He was a businessman to his bones. After Jesse’s murder, he became an activist, organizing speeches and rallies, printing leaflets. I hardly ever saw him. The restaurant got into trouble. It became a place to debate. Lots of customers stopped coming here, scared of being seen in case they were labelled a radical. Those who weren’t afraid, those who worked with my father, took free meals in payment for their services. Money ran short. Politics got him into trouble with the law: they almost closed the restaurant down. They sent inspectors who said the kitchens were dirty, which was a lie because I used to clean them myself.

Leo’s interpretation of the photograph had been correct: Yolande had been a girl caught up in the protests rather than being at the forefront of them. Her heart was here, in the business, not the politics of the time. There was anger too. She saw this restaurant as her inheritance: she’d cleaned it, learned how to manage it, only to have others threaten it. Most of the anger was towards the injustice of the inspectors but some of it was for her father too.

—In the end, my father’s health got worse, so I took over the restaurant, changed everything except the name, turned it back into a business. No more politics. No more talk of changing the world. No more free meals.

While Nara translated, William joined the conversation, saying:

—My father used to say the best kind of activism was to run a good business, to pay your taxes, to make yourself the establishment.

Yolande shrugged.

—Jesse paid a lot of tax, more in a year than I’ve paid in my lifetime. Didn’t buy him any favours. They still hated him.

She opened a drawer, taking out cigarettes and a glass ashtray shaped like a leaf. From her reluctance, it seemed to be a habit she was trying to quit. Leo asked:

—Who killed him?

Yolande lit the cigarette.

—Is that what matters to you? The individual responsible? Or the thinking behind it?

Leo checked with Nara to see if he’d understood her question. He didn’t need to consider his answer for very long.

—I’m only interested in the individual. I’m not fighting against any system.

Yolande inhaled.

—We don’t know for sure who killed Jesse. My father reckoned it was the FBI. I never contradicted him but it didn’t ring true. The FBI had already beaten Jesse down. They’d taken everything he had, his career and his money: they’d smeared his name. It didn’t make sense to kill him. Maybe they were just so full of hatred they didn’t need a reason but as a businesswoman I find that hard to swallow.

A waitress brought in coffee, pouring it for each of them, allowing Nara to catch up with the translation. Leo took out his notes, transcribed from Elena’s diary. He said to Nara:

—On the day of Jesse Austin’s murder, my daughter arrived in Harlem, to speak to him, to persuade him to address the demonstration outside the United Nations. She encountered an FBI agent coming out of Austin’s apartment. She refers to him in the document as Agent 6. Ask if they have any idea who this might be?

Yolande thanked the waitress as she left.

—An FBI agent at Jesse’s apartment. There was a man who’d go round there. I don’t remember his name. Anna – Austin’s wife – used to tell my father about him. That was a woman full of love, rarely had a bad word to say about anyone, but she hated that agent more than anyone else alive.

Yolande rubbed her head, unable to recall the name. She took a sip of her coffee, pained by the refusal of the name to come to her. They sat in silence for some time. Leo waited, watching her.

Even though her first cigarette was still lit and resting in the ashtray, Yolande lit a new cigarette and sucked on it, blowing smoke in the air.

—I’m sorry. I don’t remember.

She was lying. Leo had seen the transition in her expression. She’d tried to conceal the moment by smoking as she was reminded of the price that her father had paid for becoming involved. With the memory of Agent 6’s name came the memory of the type of man he was. Elena’s description of Agent 6 returned to Leo: