become part of something—and I did, desperately, want to be part of the Agency, more than I had wanted anything in ages, and without really understanding why—I had to relinquish some semblance of myself, my own volition and inclinations.
We’d moved in just a box or two before I realized why the apartment looked off-kilter, strange, wrong: the kitchen had no sink. How had we not noticed this when we looked at it? “I noticed it,” Don admitted. “But who cares? It’s five hundred dollars a month. We can wash the dishes in the bathtub.”
“I think we should ask the landlord to install a sink,” I said. “It’s just weird.”
“Why should the landlord install a sink?” Don scoffed, shaking his head at my naïveté. “He can find someone else to take the apartment without one. Like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis. “You can ask, but it’s not going to happen. And then the landlord is going to hate us.”
That night, a more pressing problem arose: we couldn’t figure out how to turn on the heat. There were vents in the floor, but nothing came out of them. In the hallway outside our front door we found a thermostat and turned it up, but nothing happened.
It was cold. Unusually cold for New York in January. And the walls of the little building appeared to lack any insulation at all. Inside, the air was as cold as out. I put on my warmest pajamas, a heavy sweater, piled blankets on the bed, but I still froze.
“I’ll turn on the oven and open the door,” said Don.
“Is that safe?” I asked. “What if the pilot blows out? Couldn’t we be gassed?”
Don shrugged. “It’s fine. This apartment is so drafty. There’s plenty of ventilation even if the windows are closed.”
“Okay,” I agreed, nervously. The next morning, we were still alive and the apartment was warm: it was so small that the oven could heat it entirely. As soon as I got to work, I called the realtor, who said he’d call the landlord. Her name, he told me, was Kristina. “She’s a real character,” he said.
That night, I arrived home to find Don talking to a squat woman with a platinum-blond bouffant and an excess of tanned flesh spilling out of a red tank top. “Hello,” she said in a thick Polish accent. “You are the wife. I am Kristina. I am very happy to meet you. Very happy to have such a nice couple, a nice professional couple, in this apartment. You met the man downstairs?”
“Um, no,” I said, taking off my coat. Don still had the oven on and the apartment was quite warm. Had he left it on all day? While we weren’t here?
“He is Mexican. Nice man, but he drinks. Mexicans, they work hard, but they drink. Poles, they don’t work hard, and they drink. The man upstairs, he is Polish, but he’s okay. Old.” Her eyes narrowed and her jaw began to protrude in an expression of distaste. “The man who lived in this apartment before you? He
destroyed
it. Holes in the walls. Gah.” She pursed her lips, her jowls doubling into themselves, and shook her head in disgust. Suddenly she turned to Don, who was sitting at his desk, wearing his glasses—round, wire-rimmed—in a plaid shirt and jeans. My jeans, actually. We were about the same size. “You are Jewish?” she asked him, though it came out more as a statement than a question.
“Me?” he said, smiling. “No. I’m not Jewish.”
“Of course you are!” she cried, throwing up her bare arms. “Look at you.” She turned to me with a conspiratorialsmile. “He thinks because I’m Polish I don’t like Jews. But I do. I love Jews. Jews are good tenants. Pay the rent on time. Quiet. Reading books.” She gestured to Don’s desk, which was indeed littered with serious-looking tomes. “Jews are best tenants, yes?” She turned to me again and smiled, as if I, too, were a slumlord with fiercely held opinions on such matters. I smiled back. “He is Jewish, yes?”
“
She’s
Jewish,” said Don, laughing, waving his hand in my direction.
Oh
We’d moved in just a box or two before I realized why the apartment looked off-kilter, strange, wrong: the kitchen had no sink. How had we not noticed this when we looked at it? “I noticed it,” Don admitted. “But who cares? It’s five hundred dollars a month. We can wash the dishes in the bathtub.”
“I think we should ask the landlord to install a sink,” I said. “It’s just weird.”
“Why should the landlord install a sink?” Don scoffed, shaking his head at my naïveté. “He can find someone else to take the apartment without one. Like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis. “You can ask, but it’s not going to happen. And then the landlord is going to hate us.”
That night, a more pressing problem arose: we couldn’t figure out how to turn on the heat. There were vents in the floor, but nothing came out of them. In the hallway outside our front door we found a thermostat and turned it up, but nothing happened.
It was cold. Unusually cold for New York in January. And the walls of the little building appeared to lack any insulation at all. Inside, the air was as cold as out. I put on my warmest pajamas, a heavy sweater, piled blankets on the bed, but I still froze.
“I’ll turn on the oven and open the door,” said Don.
“Is that safe?” I asked. “What if the pilot blows out? Couldn’t we be gassed?”
Don shrugged. “It’s fine. This apartment is so drafty. There’s plenty of ventilation even if the windows are closed.”
“Okay,” I agreed, nervously. The next morning, we were still alive and the apartment was warm: it was so small that the oven could heat it entirely. As soon as I got to work, I called the realtor, who said he’d call the landlord. Her name, he told me, was Kristina. “She’s a real character,” he said.
That night, I arrived home to find Don talking to a squat woman with a platinum-blond bouffant and an excess of tanned flesh spilling out of a red tank top. “Hello,” she said in a thick Polish accent. “You are the wife. I am Kristina. I am very happy to meet you. Very happy to have such a nice couple, a nice professional couple, in this apartment. You met the man downstairs?”
“Um, no,” I said, taking off my coat. Don still had the oven on and the apartment was quite warm. Had he left it on all day? While we weren’t here?
“He is Mexican. Nice man, but he drinks. Mexicans, they work hard, but they drink. Poles, they don’t work hard, and they drink. The man upstairs, he is Polish, but he’s okay. Old.” Her eyes narrowed and her jaw began to protrude in an expression of distaste. “The man who lived in this apartment before you? He
destroyed
it. Holes in the walls. Gah.” She pursed her lips, her jowls doubling into themselves, and shook her head in disgust. Suddenly she turned to Don, who was sitting at his desk, wearing his glasses—round, wire-rimmed—in a plaid shirt and jeans. My jeans, actually. We were about the same size. “You are Jewish?” she asked him, though it came out more as a statement than a question.
“Me?” he said, smiling. “No. I’m not Jewish.”
“Of course you are!” she cried, throwing up her bare arms. “Look at you.” She turned to me with a conspiratorialsmile. “He thinks because I’m Polish I don’t like Jews. But I do. I love Jews. Jews are good tenants. Pay the rent on time. Quiet. Reading books.” She gestured to Don’s desk, which was indeed littered with serious-looking tomes. “Jews are best tenants, yes?” She turned to me again and smiled, as if I, too, were a slumlord with fiercely held opinions on such matters. I smiled back. “He is Jewish, yes?”
“
She’s
Jewish,” said Don, laughing, waving his hand in my direction.
Oh
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