I was fifteen minutes late and his phone number was out of service. 

Even in late January, Washington Square Park pulsed with the energy of summer. The chess players were fretting over their moves to the sound of Gershwin. The saxophonist’s great dane was pining for the dog run. It was Alfred who had suggested meeting here, next to the statue of Garibaldi, a name that brought to mind fragmented pieces of Italy glued together. It was an old mnemonic from high school; Garibaldi was responsible for Italy’s unification. But Alfred was nowhere to be seen. Two men on a nearby bench didn’t match his description. He’d be alone. The agency sent photo attachments, which I rarely bothered opening. It was easy to recognise my clients from the look of expectancy, the humble bearing, the wear and tear that showed on their faces and bodies. That his phone was out of service was odd. Had they sent me the wrong phone number? 

The sound of footsteps. A toddler with squeaky shoes bumped into me, followed by her father and an excessive apology. Two boys holding a mini drone scurried towards the empty fountain. An elderly man was checking his watch. Could he be Alfred? He was far from the statue. Had he given up on waiting for me at our meeting spot? The man looked in his sixties. According to his file, Alfred was only in his early forties, just a few years older than me. Was it his preoccupation with his watch that made him look older? He hunched over it the same way my grandfather used to while winding up his Volna, a watch he’d bought in Moscow in the fifties. I walked towards him. Where was his phone, anyway? 

‘Alfred?’ I said, relieved that I managed to put the accent on the second vowel, the Albanian way. ‘I’m sorry for being late.’ He straightened his back and waved his arm forgivingly. He did look younger from up close. His face seemed stuck in between expressions. It reminded me of an unfinished Rubik’s Cube we kept around the house, which I could never resist trying to solve. ‘I was worried you were waiting somewhere else,’ he said, rubbing his sunken eyes. ‘I saw another woman over there and thought it was you.’ 

‘Is your phone out of service?’

‘It stopped working this morning. I don’t know why.’ 

‘Is your dentist around here? Shouldn’t we get going?’ 

His answer sounded muddled. The translation agency that employed me had been sending Kosovar Albanians my way. Their accent was different from mine. It took me a few seconds to get used to it, for me to understand the words immediately. We walked under the Arch and headed towards the street. I was hoping the dentist would still be willing to see him – we were late for our 6 p.m. appointment. While looking for their number on my phone, I felt a tug on my arm. Alfred was holding on to my elbow. 

‘Be careful.’ 

An SUV had run a red light. It was speeding away now, only a few steps from us. That he was a survivor of torture flashed in my mind again. I didn’t know what kind of torture it had been and was not allowed to ask for details. When his hand slid down my arm, the goose bumps surprised me.

The dentist was only a ten-minute walk from the park. We walked there silently and at some distance from each other, like a couple who had just quarrelled. In no time at all, we were filling out paperwork. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the highest rating, how would you rate your dental health? On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the highest rating, where would you like your dental health to be? The questions struck Alfred as ridiculous. He opened his eyes incredulously and shook his head in disbelief. He then jutted his chin towards the papers, giving me full power of attorney over his dental history. Judging from his reaction, I opted for the lower numbers. He nodded in approval. Still hoping that some questions might resonate with him, I kept reading aloud. 

‘Do you brush your teeth in the morning or at night? Or both?’ He was indifferent, eager to dismiss such useless formalities to deal with a toothache that had kept him up all night. He gave a deep sigh as if to say, It’s true that my dental hygiene and genetics have contributed to the state of my teeth, but do they need every single detail? Realising there were many more pages to go through – the pile on my lap did look intimidating – he glanced around with doubt.

What kind of dentist would make us do all this? ‘What would you change about your smile?’ I asked. The answer consisted of several options. I had trouble interpreting the last one. Smile makeover. 

‘Smile transformation,’ I fumbled. ‘Changing your smile completely.’ 

‘Pick that one,’ Alfred said without hesitation. 

It was the only answer that he chose on his own. Afterwards, he smiled, which frightened me. His features widened but didn’t soften, as if he were smiling against his will. He had chosen the right option after all. 

‘Are you ready, lovebirds?’ said the receptionist, who looked tired and was massaging her shoulder. 

When we stood up, she smiled in a forced way, like Alfred had earlier. Show less gum, one of the options from before, sprang to mind. She didn’t ask about insurance or payment information. We were an after-hours charity case. She led him to the back, ignoring me. She didn’t find me necessary now. The dentist would have his answers by looking at Alfred’s teeth, presumably, or at the paperwork I had completed. Waiting around random offices was the least favourite part of my assignments. Not knowing what to do, I sat back down. In the aquarium tank to my left there were no fish but several odd creatures; they were translucent with a hint of hazy grey, and long antennas. 

‘They’re ghost shrimp,’ said a young woman sitting on the other side of the aquarium. I hadn’t noticed her till she spoke. ‘When they’re about to die, they turn white.’ 

She pressed her finger to the glass, pointing at a half-white creature. ‘He’s on his way out.