38
Jalena Orasac was a translator. Her CV said she spoke Serbo-Croatian, German and English. Bo put people fluent in regional languages together with travelers who were not. Her file contained records of four lengthy trips to the former Yugoslavia in the last five years. It also showed how handsomely she had been paid for her services. No doubt about it, I got to learn me some new tongues.
Orasac’ small house rested on a slightly elevated plot of land not much bigger than the house itself in the west end of Malden. The neighborhood rescued from or pounded into a craggy hillside, was adjacent to the Fells Reservation where Malden, Melrose and Stoneham sidle into one another. There was no car in the pitched driveway and her phone was still answered by her disembodied voice.
Orasac’ down slope neighbor was laying in birch bark nuggets around a scraggly young spruce in his tiny front yard. He returned my greeting with a smile.
“You looking for Helen?” He asked.
Jalena could be the Slavic version of Helen, I surmised.
“I am. Our employer is a little concerned about her.”
“I haven’t seen her for a few days. Helen’s popular. Somebody else was here, too. A girl was here looking for her.”
“Yeah? Maybe sent here before me…”
He leaned his rake against the slate and concrete retaining wall, removed his heavy denim work gloves and walked towards me. He brushed the birch bits from his jeans.
“Yup. A wicked tall girl with a thick accent sort of like Helen’s was here three days or so ago, I guess it was. Sheila…?” He raised his chin and yelled in the direction of the second floor porch. A face, Sheila’s I’d wager, appeared behind the screen. The rest of her head was wrapped in a towel.
“Honey, when was that girl here looking for Helen?” He used his sleeve to dab his brow.
“Two days ago, and she was a woman Ralphie, not a girl.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Did she find her?” I asked.
“If she did she didn’t find her here.”
“Who’s this guy, Ralph?” Sheila’s question had an edge. She had removed the towel and was shaking out her hair, dotting the screen with droplets.
“He works with Helen. Their boss is trying to get in touch.”
Sheila seemed satisfied. She disappeared.
“Yeah, Helen’s popular alright,” said Ralph.
“The woman who was here a couple of days ago, is it possible she asked for Helen at first using a name you didn’t recognize?” I asked.
“Matter of fact she did, but we got it straightened out. What was…?” Ralph’s pursed lips and creased brow told me he was thinking. “It was Yalenia Oraclees or some shit, I mean, if I remember it right. She told me that Moore was her married name and she had known her well before she was married.”
Despite his overuse of pronouns, I thought I understood what Ralphie meant.
“Did she offer the name Moore or did you tell her that was the name by which you knew Helen?”
More pursing, more creasing: “Um, I told her, I guess.”
“I see. Well, thanks Ralph. When you see Helen, please ask her to call Finn.” I gave him a card with only my name and mobile number I had printed for just such an occasion.
“Fintan O’Keefe? Right, I will. Interesting name, Fintan.”
“Bye, Sheila,” I said loudly.
“Yeah, yeah,” tumbled down from the porch.
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