Lewis shook his head ruefully, clearly ashamed of what he had done.
“Brown said he had access to some immigration documents that would help locate my son in America—the very documents I had been trying to find for decades. Harvesting the information would be a great risk for him, he said, because of where the database was located. He would do it for me, but only in exchange for my help in locating your mother. He said he would protect Yalena when he found her, and the two of you would be reunited, just like you wanted so badly. I ignored our rules, I know, but my own desperation blinded me, Wallis. To die without knowing my son … I was too weak to resist the opportunity.”
“So the Brighton Beach file was your idea?”
Lewis nodded yes. “I knew that with just a small amount of inspiration you would begin your search, and that sooner or later Yalena Mayakova would reveal herself to you.”
Wally realized now how perfect the plan had been. A little thread of hope had been offered to her and she had pulled it, unraveling her own life and the lives of those she loved most. She could blame Lewis, certainly, for helping Cornell Brown set all of it into motion, but Wally felt responsible as well. She had been willing to risk anything in the search for her mother, and in the end she had lost it all. She expected to feel hatred and rage for Lewis, but instead all she felt was pity.
“And Brown was lying?” Wally said to him. “He never told you where to find your son?”
“No. I haven’t heard from Brown in days.”
“You won’t,” Wally said. “He’s dead.”
“Oh God.” Lewis was stunned. “What happened, Wallis?”
Wally wondered if Lewis Jordan—looking older and weaker by the moment—would survive the guilt he would feel when he had heard about all the grief that had resulted from his mistake, but she couldn’t bear any more secrets. Wally sat down beside Lewis and calmly told it all as the old man wept—for Wally, for her family, for the sorry state of the world, and for his own fall from grace.
When the story was over, Wally felt exhausted but also strangely lighter, unburdened. She moved to the side table and turned on the electric teapot that was set up there, then placed tea bags in two mugs and waited for the water to boil. There was a draft in the room and Wally noticed the open door in the back of the office. She walked through the doorway and found herself in a large, musty room with three rows of industrial file shelves rising all the way to the ceiling, bolted there to prevent them from toppling under the weight of all the paper. A label hanging from each shelf read
OPEN CASES.
Every shelf was full.
Wally marveled at the sheer numbers. The Ursula Society held thousands of open cases—thousands of unanswered prayers. Some files were recent, but many looked very old, their edges frayed and yellowing, untouched for decades, maybe.
She walked slowly among the stacks and experienced a strange and chilling sensation, as if she could actually hear the voices of longing whisper in her ear:
Come find us.
She thought of Tiger, her brother, a lifetime of distance between them and yet they shared an undeniable bond. Could she hear his voice as well? Was his among the chorus of others, calling out to her? The old man from the shop in Brighton Beach, he had spoken the truth:
This world is a wilderness
. Tiger was out there now, alone. She could feel him thinking of her, even at that moment, and she knew what she had to do.
She would find him. She would find them all.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am grateful for
the endless care I received from Ben Schrank, Anne Heltzel, and everyone at Razorbill/Penguin. Kari Stuart, Robert Lazar, and the folks at ICM made everything possible, and none of this would have happened at all without the faithful and formidable Christine Cuddy.
I have been blessed with family and friends who have long stood by me despite my general crustiness and variously offensive personal behaviors, for which I now apologize. Foremost among my supporters are my loving parents, Ann and Mike Richter, who have been in my corner forever and without fail.
The list of friends who have aided and inspired me would challenge the space available here, but I received special help with
Dark Eyes
from Catherine Meyers, Kate Story, Vera Blasi, Peter Maduro, Susannah Grant, David Sanger, Roxanna Badin, Geoffrey Sturr, Hailyn Chen, Sandy Kroopf, Marischa Slusarski, Claire Bidwell Smith, Leslie Rainer, Arlen Heginbotham, Laura Richter, Sarah Richter, Ricardo Mestres, Jodie Burke, Lisa Bromwell, Elizabeth McQueen, Brian Tudor, Liz Macfarlane, Diana Mason, Nan Donlin, Nina Frank, and Steven Rapkin, plus all my cheerful neighbors, both human and animal.
My heartfelt thanks to all of you.
*
The song “Strain of Guitar (on the River)”—words by A. Oshanin, music by A. Novikov—appears as translated in
A Russian Songbook
, edited by Rose N. Rubin and Michael Stillman (New York: Dover, 1989).
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