Willow Locke - Anarchist Detective

The Lostches

Eitan had woken up when Reuven got home, after the evening rainstorm had subsided.

"Hullo Dad," He said sitting up in bed, his eyes still closed. He always slept fully dressed, and now he rose, scratched his head and put on his cap. He laced up his boots and shuffled over to the table, where Rachel was setting out their meager dinner. Tension shaped his features, and Talia lost the image of the child she had seen when he was sleeping.

The Lostches sat around their little wooden table dining on thin stew and stale rye bread. Reuven drummed his fingers on the table as he ate, a wry smile playing over his face. He had a look of expectation, a man with good news. 

"Talia, go up to the roof and fill the water pitcher, will you?" asked Rachel.

She took the glass pitcher and walked into the dark hallway, holding tight to the railing as she ascended the narrow flight of stairs to the roof. Opening the door she saw Reuven's condensation trap, gleaming beneath the luminous brassy clouds.

The condensation trap—a strange architectural anomaly blooming from the humdrum, decaying building. Reuven had scavenged scraps of corrugated tin and aluminum sheet from construction sites and cut them into large ovals, which he had assembled into the trap's condensation array. It looked like a gigantic metal rose, the petals funnelled rain to the central collection tank. Because the water inside the tank was always colder than the air outside, it continuously generated condensation—beads of water like tiny jewels. The petals shook delicately in response to the subtle tremor of her footsteps, sending rivulets of water streaming into the collection tank. It was impossibly beautiful, and it furnished the whole tenement with clean drinking water.

They had had running water until last winter, When the water main had frozen and burst. New York City ordinance said that all residential buildings had to have fresh water. Mr. Koch said that he had called the city, but the municipality had failed to dispatch a repair crew.

"No one cares about the tenements," Mr. Koch had said, shaking his head dejectedly. The pipe was never repaired, and the central supply valve to the building had been turned off. Talia wondered if Koch had reported the broken pipe at all. Reuven, a head pipe-fitter who worked full-time repairing such systems for the city, said nothing, but Talia noticed a flame of anger glowing behind his cold blue eyes as he worked on the trap that winter.

Reuven had constructed the condenser array as emergency response, and it was so effective that it provided water for everyone in the tenement. Mr. Koch, who was usually authoritarian about every detail of his property, was in no position to demand that the condenser be destroyed—how would the tenants get water? Mr. Koch had acted like it was an act of magnanimity on his part, but Talia knew he had done nothing. Whenever Mr. Koch broached the subject with the tenants, one cold, silent stare from Reuven would cause him to falter, and quickly change the subject.

It was a silent negotiation—he ignored the 20-foot condenser array on his roof and in exchange no one complained. The situation was hard on the tenants, now they all had to walk up the dark flights of stairs to the roof to get water. And surely Mr. Koch must worry about people noticing the array—it shone like a beacon from the rooftop. It was like a giant metal rose blooming from the skyline. Talia always smiled to herself when she saw it, sometimes from miles away. She filled the glass pitcher with the clear, cold rainwater that had fallen from the sky a few moments ago, and went through the access door back down the flight of stairs.

    She saw Mrs. Pearlman on the landing, silhouetted in the darkness of the stairwell—cloud of unruly white hair, stooped posture, threadbare flannel dressing gown. She was clutching the railing holding her pitcher, peering doubtfully up the stairs.

    "Who's there?" she called.

    "It's Talia Lostch, Mrs. Pearlman."—drawing close to her.

    "I can't see, I'm just on my way to get some water." She held out her empty ceramic jug in the dark.

    "I'll get it for you, Mrs. Pearlman, let's go back to your apartment, OK?"

    She took the old woman by the elbow and walked her back to her rooms. She had left the door open. Talia placed her full glass pitcher on the table and helped Mrs. Pearlman into her broken down easy chair.

    "I'll be right back."

She took Mrs. Pearlman's ceramic pitcher up to the roof and filled it, then returned to the apartment to switch it for her own. She held her glass pitcher and for a moment admired the needlework on Mrs. Pearlman's linen tablecloth. One of her sister's friends had made the tablecloth. They had all thrown a redecoration party for the old woman one day last spring. The pattern of the tablecloth fascinated Talia. All of the stitches were similar in length but the pattern never seemed to repeat. It was close to random but somehow held some intrinsic order. She regarded Mrs. Pearlman again. The frail old woman was smiling beatifically up from her easy chair.
"You never have to get your own water, Mrs. Pearlman. Don't I get it for you every day?" She was concerned for the old woman. She lived alone and all of the neighbors pitched in to help her get through her daily routine.

"I know, you're such a good girl, Talia. I just don't want to be a bother."

"It's not a bother at all Mrs. Pearlman. You enjoy your dinner."

Someone had already brought her a bowl of stew, and Talia left quietly with her pitcher of water as Mrs. Pearlman sat down at her little table to eat.