“I cannot believe this!” I have never seen Jasmine so upset. “Wait. Stay here. Is your father in yet?”
“Yes.”
She walks out of the mailroom determined. She is going to fight for me to work with her. A warm glow fills me.
Ten minutes later Jasmine is back, a look of dejection on her face. “I guess you’ll be working with Wendell from now on,” she says. She plops down on her chair.
“What did Arturo say?”
“You can help me part-time until I find someone else. I’ll work out a schedule with Queen Juliet, don’t worry. This is all very strange. Did anything unusual happen yesterday when you were working on Wendell’s assignment?”
“No. Yes. Not with Arturo. Something else happened.”
“What?”
I think about it for a while and then I take out the picture of the girl. “I found this in the box marked ‘Trash.’”
She wheels her chair so that it is directly in front of mine and takes the picture from my hand. “Oh.”
I can tell it is hard for Jasmine to look at the picture.
“I don’t understand. What does the picture have to do with you being assigned to Wendell?”
“I need to find out more about the girl in the picture.”
“You found it in a box marked ‘Trash’?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know who she is?”
“No.”
“Wait. We can try to figure out who the girl is later. Right now I have to figure out why I lost my help. Did you ask to work with Wendell?”
“No. Wendell asked Arturo.”
“Why?”
The boat ride. I suddenly remember it. “He wants to help me succeed at the law firm so that I can go to Paterson next year.” I am not sure whether this is a lie or not.
“Yeah, sure he does.”
I can barely look at Jasmine’s face. I don’t know if I should tell her about the boat ride—that Wendell thinks he and I have an agreement and that is why he is doing all of this. But Wendell is wrong. There is no agreement between us.
“I guess I should try to call Belinda. Maybe she’s still available.”
In Jasmine’s face I see disappointment. How can she be disappointed about losing me and getting Belinda back?
“Will Jasmine help me find out about the girl in the picture?”
She looks long and hard at me. The unformulated question on her face is
why.
Finally, she says, “Let’s talk about it. Meet me here at noon. We’ll go to the cafeteria. We can strategize. I don’t have the slightest idea what’s going on. What a place!”
On the way out of the mailroom, my arms around the small box with my things, Jasmine stops me for a second. “Here.” She drops a CD into the box. “I got this for you.”
I know it is not the case, but when I walk out of the mailroom, I feel as if I am leaving on a long, long trip.
She has pea soup in a Styrofoam cup and I have the tuna sandwich that Aurora made for me. We sit at the farthest table of the cafeteria, behind a pillar, where no one can see us. The cafeteria is located only one floor above us so we can take the stairs if we want to. It is only the second time I’ve been here.
“So,” Jasmine says after she crumbles a cracker in her soup, “about the girl in the picture.”
“Tell me.”
“The girl was hurt by a Vidromek windshield. You know that, right?”
“The windshield is supposed to shatter into little harmless pieces upon impact.”
“Right. So the girl was hurt by a windshield and her parents are probably suing Vidromek. That’s how the picture ended up in Wendell’s boxes. You know all about suing and settling a case and all that?”
“Yes.” I remember the conversation that Arturo had with Mr. Gustafson at the fitness club. “People fight against each other like enemies.”
“Yeah, that’s about it. The girl’s parents probably hired a lawyer and the lawyer is asking Vidromek for money because they think Vidromek is at fault.”
“Vidromek made the windshield. They are at fault.”
“I don’t know all the legal ins and outs, but if it was that simple there’d be a lot of lawyers and mailroom clerks out of work.”
“But Vidromek made the windshield and the windshield did not break into little pieces like it was supposed to.”
“Okay, see this soup. I can tell it’s scalding. If, knowing this, I go ahead and slurp it and inflict a first-degree burn on my tongue, can I sue the makers of the soup or the cook? Suppose there was a little crack in the windshield made by a flying rock or something, and the girl’s parents did not fix the crack, and the crack made the windshield lose the glue or whatever it was that makes the windshield break into tiny pieces. That would be a defense that Sandoval & Holmes would use. They would say that it was the girl’s father’s fault because he didn’t fix the tiny crack. There are many others.”
“Does Jasmine think that happened?”
“I know the lawyers in the firm are doing all they can to prove that Vidromek is not responsible. Vidromek is being sued by a lot of people over these windshields and the law firm doesn’t want to settle any cases. They’re afraid that settling would be like admitting they are at fault.”
“They are.”
“Why do they make this so scalding that it takes ten minutes before a person can eat it? Why not try to get the right temperature so that a person can just sit down and slurp without thinking about it?”
“It must be difficult to get the right temperature. One that suits everyone,” I volunteer.
“When you get back to your office, look at the back of the picture. There should be a number there.”
“There is no number,” I say.
“You sure?”
“Yes, I looked to see if it had a number like the other documents in the files.”
“Maybe someone forgot to put a file number on it.”
“Would it be thrown away if it had no number?”
“Not if it seems related to a case. Anyone looking at the picture would know that it had to be connected to a Vidromek case. Nothing is thrown away on purpose, but maybe it was thrown away by accident. But you don’t believe that was the case?”
“No. Only copies were in the box. I checked. And there were no other envelopes like the one that contained the picture.”
Jasmine pushes the soup away from her. She grabs her head with both hands. When she speaks, her tone of voice is different. It is a tone of voice one uses when it is not important to be logical. “Why are you so interested in the girl?”
I notice that my hand is opening and closing automatically. I stop it from doing that. “I felt something,” I say. “I felt something I have never felt before. It was like a fire. Here. And here.” I touch the top of my stomach, where my rib cage ends and then the middle of my chest. “It was like I wanted to fight the people who hurt her. But then I realized that might include my father. It was confusing. And…”
“Go on, tell me. I want to know.”
“There was the girl herself. Not anger. Something else.”
“Ahh.”
“I don’t have a name for it.”
She is looking at the untouched soup. I feel I need to explain to Jasmine what I felt for the girl, but how can I when I don’t know myself? “It was like a question. Like a question that had to be answered.”
“What question?”
“There are no words for it.”
“But if you could put it into words, what would the question ask?”
Is there a way to articulate what I feel? It seems like a long time passes before I speak. “I guess it would be something like, ‘How do we go about living when there is so much suffering?’ Does the question make sense? Is it the type of question that is ever asked?”
I wait for her to answer. After a few seconds she says, “We should go back.”
“Do you think Arturo ever saw the picture?”
I can see her hesitating. Then she says, “If it was part of a lawsuit against Vidromek? Yes. Vidromek is the firm’s biggest client. About eighty percent of the firm’s money comes from them. Your father insists on seeing every document related to a Vidromek case.”
“But an error could have been made—a document could have been received and filed without Arturo seeing it.”
“Yes, that’s possible.” She looks away and I see her bite the bottom of her lip. “Do you want to talk to him? About the picture?”
“I am afraid that if I talk to Arturo, he will not let me help the girl or maybe the girl will get more hurt.”
There must have been a look of guilt on my face, for I hear Jasmine say, “That’s okay. There’s no need to feel ashamed. We feel what we feel.”
“My father always does what is right.” I can almost see the words in front of me, floating in the air like solid objects.
“You shouldn’t feel bad about not telling him. It’s okay to want to get more information before you approach your father.”
I wrap the uneaten sandwich in a piece of wrinkled foil. I smooth the foil as best I can and place the sandwich in the paper bag next to the cookies and apple. I want to change the subject of my thoughts, so I say, “I have something I need to confess to you. You may not like it.”
“What?” I see on her face the look of nervous anticipation I hoped to see.
“This morning I listened to the CD you lent me: Keith Jarrett’s version of the
Goldberg Variations.
On my laptop, with the headphones.”
“Instead of doing Wendell’s work?” She is dismayed at my transgression.
“No, Wendell was not in this morning. There was nothing for me to do, so I listened to the CD.”
“Oh, no. How could you? You failed to exercise the immense skills required in your new job.”
“I know,” I say. I try to look as if I’m sorry to be so irresponsible.
“You’re right. I don’t like it.”
“No, that’s not what I thought you wouldn’t like,” I say.
“Then what?”
“I have a CD of the
Goldberg Variations
at home. It is by a pianist named Glenn Gould, and I think Glenn Gould plays the
Goldberg Variations
more correctly than Keith Jarrett.”
“More correctly? More correctly? Is there such a thing as more correctly?”
“Yes,” I say. But in fact I’m not sure “more correctly” is grammatically correct.
“Okay, fine. I’m going to skip the ‘more correctly’ discussion for the time being. I can’t believe you said that. You are so, so wrong. But let’s leave that aside for now. I want you to answer me this: Who is the better artist, who has the most talent? Your Glenn Gould
interpreting
Bach’s
Goldberg Variations
‘more correctly,’ as you put it, or my Keith Jarrett
improvising, creating
on the spot? Answer that for me.”
But I can’t. I am unable to answer her question. I am at a total loss. I see the skills and talents required for both types of playing and I am stuck. She waits for me to answer, beaming warmth. I can feel the warmth coming from her all the way across the table. And the warmth reminds me of the fire I saw in the girl’s eyes.
“I must help the girl somehow.”
“I know.” She is still beaming.
“But I don’t want to hurt my father.”
The warmth coming from her fades now. “I know.”
“What would Jasmine do if she were in my place? Would she forget about the picture? Does Jasmine think that I am acting strange?”
“That’s one of those questions that can only be answered by you.”
“I know. But why can’t Jasmine give me her opinion?”
“Because my opinion would not be based on all the factors that need to be taken into account. I’m not you. I don’t feel what you feel for your father or for the…girl. I am not situated to lose what you might lose. Every time you decide, there is loss, no matter how you decide. It’s always a question of what you cannot afford
to lose. I’m not the one playing the piano here. You’re the one that needs to decide what the next note will be.”
“But how do I know the next note is the right one?”
“The right note sounds right and the wrong note sounds wrong.”
We do not speak on the way back to the firm. In the elevator, as we ride alone and in silence, I ask myself:
If I do nothing to help the girl, if I let things be, what do I lose?
O
n my way back to Wendell’s office after lunch, Juliet says to me, “I hear you got promoted.”
At first I decide not to answer her but then I ask, “When is Wendell returning?”
She opens the top drawer to her desk and hands me a note. I recognize Wendell’s handwriting. “He came in while you were at lunch,” Juliet informs me.
Hey Marcelo,
What did I tell you? Ask and it shall be given. I’m out for the rest of the week on a little relaxation cruise. Juliet will tell you what to do. Remember: Sandoval and Holmes above all. Stay out of Juliet’s clutches if you can.
Wendell
I fold the note. “You are supposed to tell me what to do,” I tell Juliet.
“Is that it? Does he tell you anything else?”
“He says I should stay out of your clutches.”
“Is that supposed to be funny or something?”
“I believe he was talking figuratively.”
“I’ve never clutched anybody in my whole life.”
She seems upset, but not at me. She doesn’t like that Wendell said that about her. It means that Wendell thinks about her in a way that is different than the way she would like him to think about her. This is how I interpret her sudden grouchiness. But then again, Juliet is always grouchy. I have never seen her smile. Suddenly I realize how pleasant it was to work in the mailroom. Jasmine didn’t smile that much either, but it was different.
“Has Juliet ever seen Wendell’s yacht?” The question pops into my head.
Juliet sits back in her chair with a jolt. I look up long enough to see a momentary look of fear. “Why do you want to know?” She asks this as if she’s afraid of what I am going to answer.
“I wanted to know what the boat was like.”
“It’s a boat.”
“Wendell invited Juliet.”
Her usually pale face is turning pink. I am making her upset and I don’t mean to.
“For your information, and not that you need to know, Wendell has invited me to the boat like he has invited many others in this firm. And for your information, I know what the boat looks like, but I did not go there at Wendell’s invitation. I am not into little boys.”