ALI AZEEM: AUGUST 2016
I walked into Tower Seven at six o’clock that evening.
The lobby was finished now: polished travertine mixed with inlays of
dark ebony wood and, behind me, a jagged wall installation made out of
prisms of golden polished brass. Designed to impress, but no one had
thought about the acoustics, because every word I spoke on my cell phone
traveled clearly to the ears of the uniformed concierge, who hovered behind
his desk, ready to throw me out.
I hadn’t had time to shower — I had taken an Uber up to the Bronx from
the New Yorker Diner — and my cargo shorts and T - shirt were still thickly
streaked with dust. Hardly the look of an illustrious Khan family member,
but I didn’t care. In my hands I clutched the faded blue Jan Sport backpack
that I’d discovered stashed inside the last carton at the diner’s lost and
found.
I spoke calmly into my cell phone. “Nice lobby, but not exactly your
style — I thought you went for something more bohemian. Can I come up?”
Farhan’s voice was faint, distracted, and behind her I could hear loud
pop music. “If you’re here to beg for your job back, it’s not going to work.”
“Epps. I know what happened to him.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Silence. Just that wailing music — some power ballad, abruptly turned
down.
“You better not be bullshitting me. Okay, come on up. I’ll give you ten
minutes.”
Kyle Nowak’s apartment was on the sixtieth floor.
The front door was open, and I walked into a vast living room with a
double - height wall of fritted glass. The early evening light illuminated
minimalist wooden furniture upholstered in creams and beiges. The place
looked like a high - end hotel lobby designed by a d epressed Scandinavian.
Kyle Nowak had spent decades theorizing the tastes of the rich — and this is
the aesthetic he’d chosen to signal his arrival?
It took me a second to spot Farhan. She was behind the huge kitchen
island, surrounded by hanging racks of gleaming copper pans. She filled a
Japanese earthenware teapot carefully with hot water, but didn’t offer me
any tea. Here she was, my former lover. A year in Costa Rica — shouldn’t
she be tan? Instead, she was pale, hard faced, angular — and without that
plump softness, her youth had evaporated; the dyed platinum - blonde pixie
hair didn’t help. She wore a tight, bright red sweater with a push - up bra and
black leather pants. So this is what Kyle liked.
“You’re filthy. Have you been going through someone’s garbage?”
Farhan wrinkled her nose at me. “Kyle will be home soon. Say your piece
and get out.”
“Okay, yeah. Take a look at this.”
I unzipped the faded blue backpack, pulled out a manila envelope, and
slapped a sheaf of yellowed papers onto the kitchen island.
Farhan walked over, drying her hands on a crisp white kitchen towel.
“What am I looking at?”
“Lease agreement. For an apartment on the Grand Concourse in the
Bronx. For an Ewa Nachtmann. She lived there for decades. One of those
big old prewar apartments, and she didn’t pay a cent. The building is owned
by Tiger Corp.”
“What does this have to do with Epps?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute. This is the apartment where I found your
father. I went back there this afternoon and talked to the neighbors, an
elderly Lithuanian couple — a little deaf but very helpful. They said that a
standoffish Jewish lady had lived in that apartment for many years. Plainlooking,
dumpy, but she had a long - term boyfriend, an Indian man, always
well dressed, suit and tie. He visited every Sunday. And after the Jewish
lady died — some kind of cancer — the man still came to visit. He’d sit for
hours in her empty apartment. Mourning her, the neighbors said.”
“Huh.” Farhan fingered the papers, but she didn’t read them. “So the
rumors were almost correct. Papa did have a mistress, but in the Bronx, not
Queens. Big deal. That’s not new information.”
“This lady wasn’t always dumpy. I’ve seen a picture of her in Abbas’s
study: Ewa Nachtmann — daughter of the man who owned Nachtmann’s
Polish Restaurant in the Bronx.”
Farhan put down the teapot and gave me her full attention. “That place
Papa worked as a waiter in the seventies? So this was a long - term affair,
huh?”
“I think Ewa was the love of his life. I think he was forced to marry your
mom, but he never lost touch with Ewa. He even bought the building so she
could have a place to live.”
“Very touching — but I thought you were going to tell me what happened
to Epps.” Farhan began to mess around with her teapot again, and I heard
her black leather pants creak.
I refused to be hurried. I reached into the padded envelope and handed
over another document.
“Take a look at this. A birth certificate. Ewa Nachtmann had a son, born
about two years after you. Kamran Nachtmann. This is what Epps found
out: This is the ‘dynamite’ he was referring to — before he disappeared.”
“What? A half brother?” Farhan looked up from pouring tea into a
wafer - thin china cup. “No way. Ridiculous. I would have known.” She
peered at the birth certificate. “You’re clearly mistaken. Look — here it says
‘Father unknown.’”
“Ewa was protecting Abbas. The neighbors said that after the boy was
born, your father visited all the time, took the child to the zoo, bought him
toys — until he was around thirteen. Then Abbas’s visits became irregular,
and the boy started acting out: He joined a street gang — shoplifting,
vandalism, breaking into parking meters, stuff like that. This is what the
neighbors said.”
Farhan sipped her tea and looked past me. “Papa couldn’t have hidden it
from us all these years.” Then her voice faltered. “The apartment in the
Bronx. Where she lived, the mistress. What did it look like?”
“Old. High ceilings. Shabby. Water stains. Why?”
“Was there ... in one of the rooms, a big iron chandelier? Set into one of
those plaster rosettes? Was there?”
I stared at her. “Yes. Weirdly, in the bedroom. A huge, dusty cast - iron
chandelier. How do you know that?”
Farhan had started sweating. Her red sweater turned dark under her
armpits, releasing her familiar salty smell.
I continued to press her. “So, you’ve been to this apartment? You
remember it? The neighbors talked about Abbas bringing a tiny girl with
him in the early days — two or three years old. A sweet little girl with short
hair. Must have been you, right?”
“I don’t know ... I have this dream — I thought it was a false memory ...
A woman, lying in bed, under that chandelier, bleeding ... Oh, Jesus. I think
I was there when she gave birth...”
What the hell was Farhan talking about? She looked stunned, stricken.
Clearly, some memory had clicked into place, and she was struggling to
absorb my news — but she was tough and refused to show any overt
emotion.
The vast apartment was silent. Through the soles of my feet, I felt the
nearly imperc eptible sway of the supertall. The marketing film I had
directed came back to me: “Above It All.” The illusion of being apart from
the world. The illusion of controlling one’s destiny.
Farhan finally spoke, and her words tumbled out in a rush. “My half
brother. Who else knows about it?”
“Epps is the one who found out. And Barey Mian definitely knows, but
he’ll never talk.” Just then I felt chatty. After all, who else could I share this
information with? “You know, I’ve been thinking about it. This secret,
sitting there in plain sight — Abbas must have been terrified that it would get
out. No wonder he didn’t want you talking to Epps that night. Think about
what would have happened if you’d gone on the record: The NYPD would
have started an investigation. R eporters would have swirled around you,
started poking into the past. For Abbas, it was damaging enough to have a
promiscuous daughter who’d sl ept with a serial killer — but what if the
r eporters also discovered his Jewish mistress and illegitimate son? He
would have become a pariah in the Ismaili community, lost all his
financing. He couldn’t risk that — that’s why he yanked you out of that
interview with Epps.”
Farhan stared, stunned, at the lease and the birth certificate — and when I
continued to speak, she flinched.
“You wanted to know what happened to Epps, right? I don’t know for
sure, but here’s what I think: After I spilled the beans to Barey Mian, Abbas
realized that Epps was on his trail, digging up leases and birth certificates.”
“What do you mean, Ali? Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Think about it. How hard would it have been for Abbas to get rid of
Epps? He was no longer a serving NYPD officer but a sick old man. And
Abbas could have easily had his apartment cleaned out. But Epps was
canny, he sensed that someone was on his trail, and he hid these papers —
doesn’t matter where — and I found them. Abbas almost got away with it.
Almost.”
Farhan’s face flushed with anger. For a second, I thought she was going
to rip up the documents — but then she managed to control herself; I could
see the effort in the tensed muscles of her jaw.
“The old bastard,” she finally said. “It makes sense. Papa killed Epps —
or rather, had him killed.”
“Y ep.” I nodded in agreement. “And they were smart about disposing of
the old man’s body. We’ll never find him. But there are some more
documents you should look at. I think you will be very interested.”
I pulled out two more pieces of paper that had been in Epps’s envelope
— but I held them close to my chest.
“Two years after her son was born, Ewa Nachtmann changed her name.
And she changed her son’s name, too. Many Jews who had survived
pogroms did so once they arrived in America — but Ewa had waited for
years, until after she had a child. I think that Abbas was behind it. He didn’t
want anyone to make the connection between them.”
“Come on, Ali.” Farhan beckoned to me, openhanded. “Show me.
What’s the big deal?”
I savored the moment, letting a few seconds drift by — and then I slapped
both documents down and pointed with my finger. “Ewa Nachtmann
changed her name to Ava Nowak. And — look at the second document — she
changed her son’s name, too.”
“Nowak?” Farhan frowned and lines bisected her wide forehead.
“Nowak? Let me see.”
She pushed me aside and her eyes flickered as she read and reread the
name - change petitions.
Ewa Nachtmann became Ava Nowak.
Her son, Kamran Nachtmann, was now Kyle Nowak.
“I’m going to be sick.” Farhan wheeled around and retched over the
gleaming metal sink. The sound of her vomiting filled the apartment.
I thought this moment was going to be glorious — payback for everything
that Farhan had done to me — but just then I felt sorry for her. Betrayed by
her own father, and now the ultimate betrayal by Kyle, biblical in scope:
Thou shalt not commit incest.
Eventually, Farhan wiped her mouth and turned to me. “Why? For God’s
sake, why would Kyle do this to me?”
I shrugged. “My best guess? What Kyle wanted — what he wants — is to
drop ‘Kyle Nowak’ and claim his true identity, ‘Kamran Khan.’ My guess is
that he pressed your father for official recognition — but Abbas balked. And
when Kyle k ept insisting, Abbas undercut him and started grooming me as
the heir.”
Farhan’s dark eyes flickered helplessly as she tried to absorb all this.
Then her expression changed. She came running out from behind the island
and pushed me, two - handed, in the chest.
“You bastard! You’re enjoying all this, aren’t you? Get the fuck out.
Out!”
I grunted and almost fell, but I managed to grab the documents and back
away. I was afraid that Farhan would throw one of those expensive copper
pans at my head, but she ran to a built - in cabinet and started pulling open
drawers. She uttered foul curses under her breath, and muttered, “Where did
I put it? Where the fuck did I put it?”
I did not stick around to see what Farhan was looking for. My job was
done.
I hurried out of the front door, which shut silently behind me. Out in the
lobby, the elevator took forever to arrive, and I k ept turning around,
expecting Farhan to come bursting through the front door, frothing at the
mouth.
The elevator doors finally slid open, and I rushed toward them, but just
then an elegant man emerged, wearing a brown plaid English hacking
jacket, a snow - white oxford shirt, and tailored flannel trousers. A lock of
hair fell onto his high, fine forehead and gave him a boyish look. He moved
with a spring in his st ep, a lavish bouquet of pink peonies resting in the
crook of one arm. In that split second I could see that Abbas had been
wrong: Given enough money, Kyle could impersonate the gentry, and it was
a lethal mix, that handsome facade and those street fighter instincts.
In that second — despite everything — I felt sorry for what I had just done.
Kyle was preoccupied, whistling tunelessly under his breath, but then he
saw me and stopped dead. “What the hell?” He moved closer and examined
my filthy clothes. “What are you doing here? Where’s Farhan?”
“She’s inside. Waiting for you. Look, Kyle...” I st epped in front of him.
“I told her. She knows, okay? She’s very angry. If I were you, I wouldn’t go
in there, okay?”
Kyle glared down at me with Abbas’s dark eyes, but then they sw ept
past me and focused on the apartment door, a perfect r eplica of Abbas’s
contemptuous, dismissive gesture.
“Whatever you told Farhan, she won’t believe you.” He clutched the
flowers tighter, fresh coral - pink peonies. “She trusts me. Now — leave
before I call security, okay?”
Kyle gave a little shrug to straighten out the fit of his jacket. He used the
handprint entry and swaggered into the apartment.
Once again, I was alone in the lobby. The elevator door was open, but I
could not move. I heard, through the door, Farhan screaming, and Kyle’s
calm, rational voice, and then — crack — a flat, hard sound, like a firecracker
going off.
I ran toward the front door, thinking that I could somehow intervene,
when it happened again. Crack, crack. Two more r eports.
My knees gave way, and I pressed myself against the wall. My instinct
was to flee, but instead I called 911 — just in case there was a chance to save
Kyle’s life.
I stood in that lobby for what seemed like hours. When the uniformed
cops finally arrived, they pushed me out of the way. They hadn’t had time
to obtain a key card from the management and broke down the door to get
in.
I told Maryam later that I hadn’t seen anything — but I had.
In the second after the front door swung open — and before the cops
swarmed in — I glimpsed the iron - gray carpet in the hallway. It was
scattered with coral - colored peony blossoms, lush and vivid and alive.