“You could always be a bus driver,” said Sasha. “After all, the pay’s pretty good and so are the holidays.”
“You’d get longer holidays if you go up to Cambridge,” said Ben, revealing his true feelings. “By the way, I’m holding an end of exams party at my place on Saturday night. Mum and Dad are away for the weekend, so make sure you don’t miss it.”
* * *
Sasha put on a freshly ironed white shirt, school tie, and his new suit. As soon as he arrived at Ben’s home he realized that he’d made a dreadful mistake. But then, he had assumed the party would be just a few of his classmates, who would down pints of beer until they fell over, fell asleep, or both.
He discovered his next mistake as he walked into a hallway that was larger than his flat. There were just as many girls as boys at the party, and none of them were wearing school uniform, so he’d removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt long before he reached the drawing room. He looked around and smiled, quite unaware that everyone seemed to know who he was. But he didn’t talk to a girl until more than an hour had passed, and she evaporated almost as quickly as she’d appeared.
“He’s from another planet,” he heard her tell Ben.
“Only wish I occupied it,” his friend replied.
Sasha wished he had Ben’s ability to casually chat to a girl, and make her feel she was the only woman in the room. He settled down in a comfortable chair from which he could observe the scene as if he were a spectator watching a game where he didn’t know the rules.
He froze when he saw a particularly attractive girl heading in his direction. How long would this one last before she too evaporated?
“Hi,” she said. “My name’s Charlotte Dangerfield, but my friends call me Charlie.” She’d broken the ice, but he still froze. She made a second attempt. “I’m hoping to go up to Cambridge in September.”
“To read maths?” asked Sasha hopefully.
She laughed, a gentle laugh followed by a captivating smile. “No, I’m an art historian. Or at least that’s what I’d like to be.” What’s my next line? thought Sasha, trying not to make it too obvious that he was staring at her legs as she perched on the arm of his chair.
“Everyone says you’re going to win the Isaac Barrow Prize. And as I’m no better than a borderline case, I’ve got everything crossed, including my toes.”
Sasha was desperate to keep the conversation flowing, but as he’d never visited an art gallery in his life, all he could manage was, “Who’s your favorite artist?”
“Rubens,” she said without hesitation. “Particularly the early paintings he did in Antwerp, when we can be certain he alone was responsible for the entire canvas.”
“You mean someone else painted his later pictures?”
“No,” she said. “But once he became famous and even the Pope wanted to commission him, he allowed his more talented pupils to assist him. Who’s your favorite artist?”
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
“Leonardo da Vinci.” The first name that came into his head.
She smiled. “That’s hardly surprising, as, like you, he was a mathematician. Which of his paintings do you particularly like?”
“The Mona Lisa,” said Sasha. It was the only one he knew.
“I’m visiting Paris with my parents in the summer,” said Charlie, “and looking forward to seeing the original.”
“The original?”
“At the Louvre.”
Sasha was trying to think what to say next, when she slipped down into the seat beside him, leaned across, and gently kissed him. Neither of them said a great deal during the next hour, and although Sasha was clearly untutored, she didn’t treat him as if he’d come from another planet.
When some of his friends began to leave just after midnight, Sasha plucked up the courage to ask, “May I walk you home?” His mother had told him that was what a gentleman did when he really liked a girl. You can hold her hand during the walk, but when you reach her front door, you should only kiss her on the cheek and say, “I hope we’ll meet again,” so she knows you care about her. If it’s gone really well, you can ask for her telephone number.
“Thank you,” she said.
* * *
When Charlie took a key out of her bag, he leaned toward her, intending to follow his mother’s advice. Her lips parted, and he thought he would explode.
“Why don’t you pick me up next Saturday morning around nine,” Charlie said as she turned the key in the lock. “Then I’ll take you to the National Gallery and introduce you to Rubens,” she added before disappearing inside.
As Sasha walked home, he was certainly on another planet, and for a change, Newton wasn’t occupying it.
* * *
Charlie did most of the talking on the tube journey from Fulham Broadway to Trafalgar Square, and almost all of the talking once they’d climbed the steps to the National Gallery.
What Sasha had originally considered no more than an excuse to spend some time with Charlie, turned out to be the beginning of a love affair. He was courted by the Dutch, beguiled by the Spanish, mesmerized by the Italians, and enchanted with Charlie.
“Are there any other galleries in London?” he asked as they walked back down the steps and joined the pigeons in Trafalgar Square.
Charlie didn’t laugh, as she already knew it wouldn’t be too long before Sasha was asking her questions she couldn’t answer.
When they arrived back in Fulham, Sasha wanted to take her to lunch at Moretti’s, but the fact that he couldn’t afford it wasn’t the only reason they ended up at a local coffee shop. Charlie would need a little more time before she was introduced to his mother.
* * *
Charlie was still on Sasha’s mind on Monday morning when the headmaster rang him at home and asked him to drop by and see him. “Drop by” made him laugh.
He thought his legs might give way as he walked through the school gates and down the corridor toward the headmaster’s study, like a punch-drunk boxer about to face the final round.
Mr. Quilter answered his knock with the familiar “Come!” Sasha opened the door, but learned nothing from the expression on the headmaster’s face. He declined the offer to sit down, preferring to remain standing until he’d heard the verdict.
“Proxime accessit,” said Quilter. “Many congratulations.” Sasha’s heart sank. He didn’t consider coming second was worthy of praise. “You were beaten by a boy from Manchester Grammar School who got one hundred percent, while you managed ninety-eight. Of course,” the headmaster continued, “you’ll be disappointed, and understandably so. But the good news is that, after assessing your A-level papers, Trinity is still willing to offer you a scholarship.”
“But you just said I came second.”
“In maths, yes. But no one got anywhere near you in Russian.”
His first thought was, I hope Charlie …
13
ALEX
Brooklyn
Ivan handed over twenty-three dollars to Alex and said, “Another good day. I can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t go on milking this cow for a lot longer. So I’ll see you next Saturday at eleven sharp.”
“Why wait until then,” said Alex, “when we could make money like this every day?”
“Because then we’d only milk the cow dry. And in any case, if your mother were to find out what you’re up to, she’d certainly put a stop to it.”
Alex stuffed the crumpled notes in the back pocket of his jeans, shook hands with his partner, and said, “See you next Saturday.”
“And try and be on time for a change,” said Ivan.
As he walked toward the market, Alex began to whistle. He felt like a millionaire—which he’d already told his mother he would be by the age of thirty. He handed over ten dollars to her every Sunday evening, explaining that it came from the odd jobs he did in the market over the weekend. The truth was that the market had become his second home, and in the afternoons after school, and while
Elena was still at work, he would hang around the stalls watching the traders, quickly learning who could be trusted and, more important, who couldn’t. He always bought his fruit and vegetables from Bernie Kaufman, who never short-changed a customer or sold them yesterday’s wares.
“I need two pounds of potatoes, Bernie, some runner beans, and a couple of oranges,” said Alex, checking his mother’s shopping list. “Oh yes, and a beetroot.”
“Three dollars, Mr. Rockefeller,” said Bernie, handing over two paper bags. “And I’d just like to say, Alex, how much I’ve enjoyed having you as a customer, and I have no doubt you will do well if you go to NYU.”
“Why would I go anywhere else for my fruit and vegetables?”
“You’ll have to in the future, because I’ll be giving up my stall in a couple of weeks.”
“Why?” asked Alex, who’d assumed Bernie was a permanent fixture in the market.
“My license comes up for renewal at the end of the month, and the owner’s demanding eighty dollars a week. At that price, I’d be lucky to break even. In any case, I’m nearly sixty, and I don’t enjoy the long hours anymore, especially in winter.” Alex knew Bernie got up at four o’clock every morning to go to the market, and rarely went home before five in the afternoon.
Alex couldn’t accept that his friend would disappear overnight. There were a dozen questions he wanted to ask Bernie, but he needed some time to think. He thanked him and began to walk home.
He was walking past the thrift store deep in thought, when Addie opened the door and shouted after him, “Come back, Alex, I’ve got something special for you.”
When Alex joined her in the shop, she took what looked like a brand-new suit off the rack and said, “Why don’t you try it on.”
“How did you get hold of this?” asked Alex as he slipped on the jacket.
“A regular customer who goes on shopping sprees, a few days later often gives us something he no longer wants.”
Alex tried to imagine what it must be like to be that rich. “What’s this made of?” he asked, feeling the cloth.
“Cashmere. Do you like it?”
“What’s not to like? But can I afford it?”
“Yours for ten dollars,” she whispered.
“How come?”
“It will have been in and out of the store before my boss even sees it.”
Alex pulled off his jeans, put on the trousers—they even had a zipper—and studied himself in the full-length mirror. Beige wouldn’t have been his first choice, but it still looked like a hundred-dollar suit.
“Just as I thought,” said Addie. “A perfect fit. It could have been made for you.”
“Thank you,” said Alex, handing over ten dollars.
“Are we still going to the movies next Saturday?” Addie asked as he pulled his jeans back on.
“John Wayne in True Grit. I’m looking forward to it,” he said as she folded up the suit and slipped it into a bag. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he added.
“I’ll think of something,” said Addie as he left the store.
As he walked back home, Alex’s thoughts turned to how he could possibly get his hands on the eighty dollars a week he needed to rent Bernie’s stall. He was making around twenty dollars from chess games at the weekends, but he had no idea how he could make up the shortfall. He knew his mother didn’t have that sort of spare cash, even though she’d just been given another raise. But what about Dimitri, who’d just come back from his most recent trip to Moscow? He must surely have some spare cash.
Alex had prepared his pitch long before he reached home, and when he opened the door, he could hear Dimitri singing out of tune. He joined him in the kitchen, and listened to what he had been up to on his Moscow trip.
“A fascinating city,” said Dimitri. “Red Square, the Kremlin, Lenin’s tomb. You should visit Moscow one day, Alex.”
“Never,” said Alex firmly. “I’m not interested in Lenin’s tomb. I’m an American now, and I’m going to be a millionaire.”
Dimitri didn’t look surprised, but then he’d already heard the claim many times before. But on this occasion, Alex added another sentence which did take him by surprise. “And you could be my partner.”
“What do you mean?” said Dimitri.
“How much spare cash do you have?” asked Alex.
Dimitri didn’t reply immediately. “About three hundred dollars,” he said eventually. “There’s not a lot to spend your money on while at sea.”
“How would you feel about investing it?”
“In what?”
“Not in what, but in who,” said Alex. He filled the sink with warm water, and by the time they’d finished washing up, he’d explained why he needed three hundred and twenty dollars, and why he would be getting up at four in the morning.
“How does she feel about this?” was Dimitri’s only comment.
“I haven’t told her yet.”
* * *
Alex found it difficult to concentrate in class the following Monday, but as there were only half a dozen boys who could keep up with him when he was half-awake, no one noticed except his teacher.
When the bell rang at four o’clock, Alex was the first out of the classroom, and he ran all the way to the market. He headed straight for Bernie’s stall. Once he’d caught his breath, he began firing questions at the old trader while he served his customers.
“If I rented the stall,” said Alex, “would you be willing to go on working?”
“I’m trying to get off the treadmill, and you’d only want to speed it up,” grinned Bernie.
“But if I always went to the market in the mornings, you wouldn’t have to start work until eight, and I could take over after school.”
Bernie didn’t reply.
“I’d pay you forty dollars a week,” said Alex as Bernie handed a customer a bag of grapes.
“I’d have to think about it,” said Bernie. “But even if I agreed, you’d still have a problem.”
“What?” said Alex.
“Not what, but who. Because there’s someone else who will have to go along with your plan.”
“Who?” demanded Alex. “Because I’m not going to tell my mother until you agree.”
“It wasn’t your mother I was worried about.”
“Then who?”
“The man who owns my stall, and most of the others in the market. You’re going to have to convince Mr. Wolfe that you’re good for the money, because only he can grant you a license.”
“So where do I find this Mr. Wolfe?”
“His office is at 3049 Ocean Parkway. He starts work at six every morning, and never goes home before eight in the evening. And let me warn you, Alex, he’s one mean son of a bitch.”
“See you same time tomorrow afternoon,” said Alex, before setting off for home. “By then, I’ll own your stall.”
Dimitri winked when Alex dashed in and joined him at the kitchen table. They chatted about everything except what was really on his mind, while Alex waited impatiently for his mother to leave for work.
“You’ve barely eaten anything,” said Elena, checking her watch.
“I’m just not that hungry, Mama.”
“Are you working tonight?” she asked. For a moment Alex thought he’d been caught out, and then he realized what she meant.
“Yes, I’ve got to write an essay on the Founding Fathers. I’m learning about Hamilton and Jefferson, and how they came together to write the Constitution.”
“That sounds interesting. If you leave your essay on the kitchen table I’ll read it when I get home tonight,” said Elena as she put on her coat.
“She’s no fool, your mother,” said Dimitri when he heard the front door close. “If she finds out you’re more interested in Rockefeller and Ford than you are in Hamilton and Jefferson, you could be in real trouble.”
“Then she’d better not find out.”
* * *
As he walked along Ocean Parkway, Alex once aga
in went over what he would say to Mr. Wolfe, while at the same time trying to anticipate his questions. He was wearing his new suit, and could only hope he looked like someone who could afford eighty dollars a week. He was so preoccupied that he walked straight past number 3049 and had to turn back. When he reached Wolfe’s office door, he took a deep breath and marched in, to find a prim, middle-aged woman seated behind a counter. She couldn’t hide her surprise when she saw the young man.
“I want to see Mr. Wolfe,” Alex said before she could speak.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but he’ll want to see me.”
“What’s your name?”
“Alex Karpenko.”
“I’ll see if he’s in.” She rose from her desk and went into the next room.
“Of course he’s in,” mumbled Alex, “otherwise you would have said he wasn’t.” He paced around the room like a caged tiger while he waited for the ringmaster to return.
Eventually the door opened, and the receptionist reappeared. “He can spare you ten minutes, Mr. Karpenko,” she said. The first person ever to address him as Mr. Karpenko—was that a good sign? “But no longer,” she added firmly, standing aside to allow him to enter.
Alex straightened his tie and marched into Mr. Wolfe’s office, hoping he looked older than his years. The landlord looked up from behind his cluttered desk. He was wearing an olive green three-piece suit and an open-neck brown shirt. A few thin strands of hair had been combed across his head in an attempt to disguise his baldness, and a surplus of chins suggested he rarely left the office, other than to eat. “What can I do for you, kid?” he said, a half-smoked cigar bobbing up and down in his mouth.
“I want to take over Bernie Kaufman’s stall when his license expires.”
“And where would you get that kind of money?” asked Wolfe. “My stalls don’t come cheap.”
“My partner will supply the money, that is if we can agree on a price.”
“I’ve already set the price,” said Wolfe. “So the only question is, can you afford it?”
“How long would the license run for?” said Alex, trying to gain back the initiative.
Heads You Win Page 12