Angelology(137)

Although she knew that her personal file existed, Evangeline had never thought to look at it before.

The only time she’d needed vital records or proof of her identity had been to get a driver’s license

and to enroll at Bard College, and even then she’d used identification drawn up by the diocese. It

struck her again as she flipped through the files that she had lived her entire life accepting the stories

of others—her father, the sisters at St. Rose, and now her grandmother—without bothering to verify

them.

To her consternation, the file was nearly an inch thick, much bulkier than she would have thought.

Inside, she had expected to find her French birth certificate, her American naturalization papers, and a

diploma—she was not old enough to have accumulated more records than this—but upon opening the

folder she found a large pack of papers banded together. Sliding the rubber band from the pages, she

began to read. There were sheets of what appeared to her uneducated eye to be lab results, perhaps

blood tests. There were pages of handwritten analysis, maybe notes from a visit to the doctor’s office,

although Evangeline had always been healthy and could not recall ever having been to a doctor. In

fact, her father had always resisted bringing her to the doctor’s office, taking great care that she

would not get sick or hurt. To her dismay, there were opalescent black plastic sheets that upon closer

inspection Evangeline saw to be X-ray films. At the top of each film she read her name: Evangeline

Angelina Cacciatore.

It wasn’t forbidden for the sisters to look at their personal files, and yet Evangeline felt as if she

were breaking a strict code of etiquette. Momentarily restraining her curiosity about the medical

documents in her file, she turned to the papers relating to her novitiate, a series of run-of-the-mill

admission forms that her father had completed upon bringing her to St. Rose. The sight of her father’s

handwriting sent a wave of pain through her. It had been years since she’d seen him. She traced a

finger over his handwriting, remembering the sound of his laughter, the smell of his office, his habit of

reading himself to sleep each night. How odd, she thought, pulling the forms from the folder, that the

marks he’d left behind had the power to bring him back to life, if only for a moment.

Reading the forms, she found a series of facts about her life. There was the address where they had

lived in Brooklyn, their old telephone number, her place of birth, and her mother’s maiden name.

Then, toward the bottom, written in as Evangeline’s designated emergency contact, she found what

she was searching for: Gabriella Levi-Franche Valko’s New York City address and telephone

number. The address matched the return address on the Christmas cards.

Before Evangeline had a chance to think over the repercussions of her actions, she lifted the phone

and dialed Gabriella’s number, her anticipation clouding all other feelings. If anyone would know

what to do, it would be her grandmother. The line rang once, twice, and then Evangeline heard it, the

brusque and commanding voice of her grandmother. “Allo?”

Verlaine’s apartment, Greenwich Village, New York City

The twenty-four hours since he’d left his apartment felt to Verlaine like a lifetime ago. Only yesterday

he’d collected his dossier, put on his favorite socks, and run down the five flights of stairs, his wing

tips slipping on the wet rubber treads. Only yesterday he’d been preoccupied with avoiding

Christmas parties and putting together his New Year’s plans. He couldn’t understand how the

information he’d collected could have led to the sorry state he found himself in now.

He’d packed the original copies of Innocenta’s letters and the bulk of his notebooks into a bag,

locked his office, and headed downtown. The morning sunlight had ascended over the city, the soft

diffusion of yellow and orange breaking the stark winter sky in an elegant sweep. He walked for

blocks and blocks through the cold. Somewhere in the mid-Eighties, he gave up and took the subway

the rest of the way. By the time he unlocked the front door of his building, he had almost convinced

himself that the previous night’s events were an illusion. Perhaps, he told himself, he had imagined it

all.

Verlaine unlocked the door to his apartment, knocked it closed with the heel of his shoe, and

dropped his messenger bag on the couch. He took off his ruined wing tips, pulled away his wet socks,

and walked barefoot into his humble abode. He half expected to find the place in ruins, but everything

appeared to be exactly as he’d left it the day before. A web of shadows fell over the exposed-brick