Cockpit (21 page)

The woman assured me how much she appreciated my saving her dog’s life. She said she could not afford a lawyer and complained that the landlord refused to do anything to help her.

I next telephoned the man, whose name and number I had copied down from the woman’s letter. I introduced myself as a friendly citizen who had struck up a casual acquaintance in the park with a middle-aged lady walking her poodle. I cautioned him that, without any encouragement from me, the woman had mentioned him by name and described him as an incurable degenerate who picked up male and female whores every night, got drunk, took drugs and then pounded on her door, though he was too cowardly to confront her during the day. I suggested that, if this woman continued to spread rumors about him, his reputation would suffer and her lurid stories might even get back to his employers. He thanked me profusely and said he would buy me a drink any time I was in the neighborhood.

A week later, I called the woman again. As soon as she recognized my voice, she burst into tears, telling me that the morning after I called, her neighbor had angrily accosted her in the corridor and made a horrible scene. Thanks to my warning, he had not gotten the chance to harm her dog. She said she was becoming unhinged by living next door to
such a monster, and, thanks to my intercession, had decided to move for the sake of her sanity. She told me I was the only man who had ever assisted her so chivalrously, and invited me to dinner.

But perhaps the most successful forays I have made into other people’s lives have depended on the mail system. I often notice full mail pouches lying open and unprotected near the drab green street mailboxes or in the lobbies of office buildings. Since there is no one guarding them, and no chains secure them to the boxes, anyone can reach in and snatch a bundle of mail or even make off with the whole bag. I look upon these mail pouches as grab bags full of fascinating secrets.

Recently I befriended an older mailman whom I accompanied on his rounds. During one lunch hour, as I sat next to him, I noticed the chain attached to the master mailbox key hanging out of his pocket. Pulling gently, I extracted the key, made an impression of it in the wax block I held hidden in my hand and replaced it without his knowing. Within a week, I had my own duplicate key.

One morning, wearing a mailman’s uniform rented from a theatrical supply store, I casually strolled up to a mailbox, took an empty collection bag from the large pile accumulating underneath and walked away.

Now, every few weeks, I drive around the town in my uniform until I spot a mailbox that suits my purpose. I double-park my rented sedan next to it, then check the time of the next collection. If I see there are at least two hours until the pickup, I unlock the box, gather up the mail, throw it in the pouch and drive off with it.

After parking my car in the garage, I pack the bag inside a large suitcase that I keep in the trunk and lug it upstairs to my apartment.

Anxious to see what I have won, I immediately spread the haul on the floor. I weed out fourth-class mail, packages, sweepstakes and contest entries. First-class and air-mail letters are what primarily interest me.

I slit each envelope down the side fold, slide the letter out and read it carefully.

Many of the letters are like pages torn at random from novels: they reveal a lot, but never enough. I feel cheated and disappointed. Often I endow the writers with voices, with gestures and facial expressions.

When I finish reading, I slide the letter back into its envelope and reseal it with transparent tape. A day or two later, I drop all the letters into a mailbox, assured that, in this era of automatic letter openers and outrageous mail delays, no one will notice his envelopes have been tampered with.

If I come across a particularly interesting letter, or if I want to know more about the writer or the person to whom the letter was written, I simply copy it before remailing.

Until now, in every mail collection, I find at least one letter that might enrich someone’s life with an offer of a job, money, love. Intercepting such letters excites me because I feel I have found a magic passport to another’s life, as well as control over that life.

From one letter I learned that a naturalized American citizen had been arrested when the airliner on which he was traveling made an unscheduled stop in his native country. He had fled twenty-five years earlier with no intention of returning. Now, the local authorities had charged him with illegally crossing the border, and had imprisoned him.

The man’s naturalized citizenship was not recognized by his captors, who considered him a fugitive and an enemy of the State. They would almost certainly sentence him to a long term. The more I read the letter, the more enraged I became.

The letter gave the man’s name and local address. Pretending I was a housing official making a routine check of the premises, I visited the family at their crowded three-room apartment in a middle-income housing project.

Four children, ranging in age from five to nine, followed me around as I examined windows and door frames, walls and ceilings. The children introduced me to their cat and
kept showing me their toys. I also talked to their bedridden grandmother, who was obviously very ill and spoke English with difficulty.

When I asked the woman about her husband, she began to tell her story. She said that her husband and three of his business associates had been sent abroad to attend a four-day international congress of specialists in their field.

The husband’s colleagues had reported that, during the airplane’s stopover, the passengers had been asked to show their passports, and then proceed to the airport’s transit lounge. Moments after entering the lounge, her husband was accosted by two plainclothes agents, who asked him to follow them outside. When the man refused, claiming the transit lounge was international territory, one of them knocked him out. Then the agents dragged him from the lounge in front of the stunned passengers.

His wife showed me the letter she had received from the State Department in response to her plea that the U.S. government intervene on her husband’s behalf. The State Department officially informed her that the question of original citizenship was a matter solely between her husband and the foreign government that claimed him, and politely regretted that the American government could not influence the other government or assist her husband in any way. Her husband’s employer had also written to her, arguing that since the man had been aware of the danger inherent in his status before he made the trip, he alone was responsible.

During the two months her husband had been in prison, she had sought aid from the Red Cross, Amnesty International and even The International League for the Rights of Man. She had written petitions to members of American P.E.N. as well as to dozens of senators and congressmen. All had tried to help, but, since her husband was still awaiting trial, no American counsel was allowed to see him. He was permitted to receive letters but was prohibited from
writing them. Recently, she learned that the State Prosecutor would probably bring additional charges against her husband, even though the initial accusation was already enough to earn him years of hard labor.

The wife told me that she had been born in this country and such things made no sense to her. Even though he had grown up elsewhere, her husband had been forced to serve in the military and to pay taxes in the United States. It was absurd that he should now be claimed by a country he had not seen or wished to see for twenty-five years.

She had become the sole support of her family, working for a brokerage firm during the day and moonlighting as a cashier in a twenty-four-hour delicatessen. She cried when she told me that she had been forced to keep her oldest child at home to look after the younger children and the ailing mother-in-law. I told her not to lose hope, and promised to talk to a relative of mine who specialized in international law.

During the next few days, I hung around the consulate, the UN mission and the tourist bureau of the country that had imprisoned her husband. I began following the country’s diplomats and their wives, checking the buildings where they lived and the garages that serviced their cars. I bribed several of the employees of the real estate offices that managed the properties the diplomats owned and rented, and several of them gave me useful information. I even became friendly with a nurse in the office of the doctor who treated the UN ambassador and managed to get acquainted with his wife’s hairdresser.

Finally, I went to the UN mission, presenting myself as an investor who wished to discuss with the ambassador a matter relating to real estate. When I was ushered into his chambers, he greeted me cordially, and asked me to sit down. I did; then I mentioned that I had come to plead for the release of the arrested man. He immediately attempted to terminate our meeting. Getting up to leave I
asked if the custom-made sports car parked outside belonged to him.

“It does,” he said curtly.

“It’s most impressive. It must be the only one of its kind in the city.”

“Possibly.”

“By the strangest coincidence, I have become familiar with the unusual terms by which Your Excellency acquired it. I also learned that when recently your government sold one of its consulate town houses here, the actual price was substantially higher than the figure recorded in the bill of sale. I believe the local realtor paid the difference to Your Excellency in cash …”

Ignoring my remark, the ambassador asked me to sit down. I obeyed. He asked coolly, “What is your connection with this arrested nomad?”

“My connection is his imprisonment,” I answered.

The ambassador grew impatient. “Come now, we’re practical men. Who sent you?”

“No one,” I replied. “I came on my own.”

“I don’t believe you. Still and all, what do you want?” he asked.

“I would like you to suggest to your government that the man be freed and returned to his family within two weeks. I would also like you to assure me that he will be compensated for his time and treatment in prison. You can blame his abduction on a bureaucratic slip-up.”

The ambassador picked up a paperweight and passed it from his right hand to his left, then put it back on the desk. “Nonsense. There was no slip-up. According to the penal code of my country …”

“Your country’s penal code does not apply in the free transit lounge of an international airport,” I interrupted. “The man was kidnaped.”

“Rubbish,” he interjected. “Rubbish. Your own government not only refused to grant political asylum to a foreign
sailor, but returned him to his own country for trial. And you talk about ‘free’ transit lounges. Are you mad?”

I did not reply. He looked at me intently, then said in a firm but friendly voice, “Tell me who paid you to investigate my private life, and I promise to have that man released.”

“I could tell you that it was one of our newspapers looking to discredit your government and you would believe that. I could tell you that I am employed by a personal enemy of yours at the Foreign Ministry of your country. You would believe that, too. But you will not believe me when I tell you I am alone. Why?”

The ambassador smiled, took my arm and led me politely to the door. “I don’t believe you because no man acts alone,” he said, “and it’s precisely because I don’t believe you that I’ll give my word that your man will be home in two weeks. You know, I could have you charged with extortion,” he added lightly, his hand resting on the gleaming doorknob. He opened the door for me.

I called the abducted man’s home two weeks later. When his wife answered, I told her I was the housing official calling to inquire if my relative had been of any help in solving her problems. She told me ecstatically that her husband had returned home, and had been with his family for almost a week. She was more grateful for my help than she could ever show. She said that, just as her husband was being brought to trial, the charges against him were abruptly dropped and his arrest proclaimed a bureaucratic mistake. He was even paid damages for his time in jail and provided with free transportation back to the States. He was resting now, she told me, but she would be glad to wake him if I wanted to speak with him. I told her not to disturb him, joking that I wake up only those who do not deserve their rest.

Whether I am looking for a new acquaintance or merely trying to get to know an old one better, I like to familiarize
myself with his or her professional life. In one instance, my search for a new adventure took me to the offices of a large publishing house. When I began my explorations, I didn’t know anyone who worked there, but the books and authors the company published intrigued me. For the first few days, I got out of the elevator on a floor without a receptionist, then took the interdepartmental stairs to an editorial floor.

Behaving as if I were a new employee trying to learn his way around, I would take off my jacket and hang it either behind the door of an unused office or in a hall closet among umbrellas, sweaters, a shabby raincoat and a few old jackets that must have been forgotten long before. I would roll up my shirt sleeves and loosen my tie, pick up a sheaf of papers, talk with the secretaries and sit in empty cubicles, where I leafed through papers and stationery in desk drawers. Or I simply stood in a passageway as if waiting for someone, occasionally taking a catalogue or a book off a shelf and appearing to browse through it. I would enter a reference room, take a seat at a table and peruse various dictionaries and directories, chatting with the editorial assistants who frequented the room.

After I had become familiar to the staff, I would leave a floor at lunch time through the main entrance, making sure to attract the attention of the receptionist. I always joked about my arriving at the office earlier than she did and complimented her on a new dress or hairdo. Soon, we even began to gossip about other employees. I usually returned for an afternoon tour, again chatting with the receptionist as I passed through the entrance area. Then, I headed for the stairs and proceeded to other floors. I would leave the office only after most of the editorial staff had gone home. On my way out, I used to stop on the ground floor to say a few words to the night guard. I never failed to mention to him that, once again, I had worked longer hours than anyone else in the building.