He listened to all the messages once, then a second time, writing down the customers’ phone numbers. How often, in the days before his departure, he had hurried home, praying that hers might be among the voices trapped inside the machine. Now it was, and he listened closely as she said she was back in London. “I don’t expect you to understand, but could we talk? Please. My number—”
He wrote down the number after those of his would-be customers. His hand moved toward the phone. Then it stopped and moved away. He couldn’t have said exactly what his feelings were, but he knew he was not yet ready for more turmoil. Or at least not this kind of turmoil. What mattered now were his parents. He decided to walk to the shop, a journey of half an hour, forty-five minutes at most, that would allow him to become reacquainted with the fire hydrantless streets of his native city.
Even from a distance he could see that the display outside the shop was sparse, but when he stepped inside, the bins of produce were once again full and appetizing. There was no one around; his mother must be in the bathroom or getting something from the cooler. As he stood waiting, he began to pile the bananas into a neat pyramid.
“Can I help you?”
Startled he turned and caught sight of a fair-haired woman, kneeling beside a crate of lemons. The next thing he knew, she had her arms around him and was hugging him so hard his ribs clicked. “You’re back,” she said.
“Yes,” he said obviously, and was glad to hear the shop bell ring.
For the remainder of the afternoon, he left Gwen to charm the customers and worked in the storage rooms, taking out the rubbish, breaking up empty boxes, unpacking full ones, filing delivery notes. Here at last were tasks he knew how to perform, and many of them. By closing time he had the rooms more or less tidy. He pulled down the grill, locked the door, and while Gwen sorted the money went to work on the floor.
As the black and white tiles emerged, gleaming, he sensed something else, less harmonious, also emerging. Once at university, one of the women he shared a house with had come home from a Chinese herbal shop with a piece of mushroom in a jam jar. It’s alive, she had told Zeke. All I have to do is keep it in the fridge with fresh water, and it will grow. But why would you want it to? he had said. It’s a medicine, Astrid explained. Just a small piece will cure rheumatism or conjunctivitis. He had refrained from pointing out that she was not, as far as he knew, suffering from either. For the first few days she had changed the water regularly, but soon he was the one watching over the mushroom, checking on it daily, sometimes hourly, aware even while he sat in lectures and tutorials of this presence growing larger and blacker and slimier in the fridge. Now, as he scrubbed the entrance to the shop, he thought his mother was like that mushroom; her feelings grew in secret ways he didn’t understand. At Christmas, Astrid, still oblivious, had gone home for the holidays. After several days alone in the empty house, Zeke had finally wrapped the dark mass in paper towels and carried it home in the largest plastic container he could muster. The next day he came down to find his parents’ fridge empty. His father had thrown it away.
He finished the floor and set the brush and mop to dry beside the cooler. Gwen was at her desk, pressing buttons on the calculator, and for the first time he was able to study her freely. As far as he could judge, she did not look ill, though her nail polish was ragged and her hair separated into little clumps. Maybe he had merely imagined some new feeling pervading the shop.
“Almost done,” she said, tapping away. “Do you have time for supper?”
“Yes. Where’s Kevin?”
“It’s his day off. I got Emmanuel to come and help unload stuff this morning. Have you seen him since his makeover? He’s a real fashion plate.”
He stared at her, perplexed. Where were the insults and the shouting? As she tapped out a few more numbers, he had a sudden hopeful thought: perhaps her illness had brought about a reconciliation with his father.
The walls of the restaurant, even the ceiling, were a shade of red so close to that of fresh meat that it was like stepping inside a large animal. Not surprisingly, Zeke thought, only one table was occupied. Two bearded men in white shirts were seated in a corner near the kitchen, reading newspapers and drinking out of small tumblers. The waiter, after Gwen had refused a table by the window, seated them beside a wall hung with many small dark pictures, which at least obscured some of the red. “Would you like something to drink?” he said.
Gwen asked for a glass of merlot. “Just water,” said Zeke. He rested his eyes on the nearest picture, a church with several spires, conscious that across the table his mother was examining him, her expression not dissimilar from that with which she scrutinized the beetroot or the cress. Only when the wine came did she break her silence. “Well,” she said, tilting the glass in his direction, “you’ve certainly surprised me this time. I’ll never complain again about your being stuck in a rut.”
“How are you? How’s Dad?”
“Don is like I told you on the phone. Butter, if he were allowed it, wouldn’t melt in his mouth.” She began to speak in an oddly deep voice. “Ooh, you look lovely today. That blouse is so becoming. What a good idea it was to start selling fennel again.” She drank some more wine. “He’s driving me mad. First he makes it hard to stay with him and now he’s making it hard to leave.”
“He loves you,” Zeke said. Before he could elaborate, the waiter was back, pen poised. Turning to the menu, Zeke discovered that it was handwritten with many impenetrable flourishes and words beginning ts. Why had his mother insisted on coming to this lurid restaurant that served something called Georgian food? “Do you have a suggestion?” he asked.
The waiter did. The lamb was very nice, the smoked fish moist, the tripe delicious, the liver tasty, the mutton stew hearty.
“I’ll have the lamb,” said Zeke, “with vegetables.” Gwen said they would each have a bowl of borscht and asked for the special. The waiter scribbled and departed. During the next five minutes he brought bread, water, and bowls of fragrant deep-pink soup at intervals that made conversation difficult. At last they were alone again.
Gwen released her wineglass and reached for a spoon. “I want you to meet Maurice,” she said.
So much for his hope that her health scare might yield one good outcome. He blinked several times, trying to hold back his disappointment. “You know I’m bad at meeting people. As you’ve pointed out four hundred times, I lack the social graces. And what about Dad?” Tentatively he tasted the soup; it was delicious. He took another spoonful and another. He tore off a piece of the dark bread.
The porcelain of the bowl was shining through the last of his soup when Gwen finally answered. “Actually,” she said, “in a funny way, because you miss most of the games people play, you’re quite a good judge of character. I know”—she must have guessed his amazement—“I’ve said other things, but at the shop I could see why you put up with Emmanuel. Once he stops messing around, he’s a good worker. This soup is nice, isn’t it? While you were washing the floor, I phoned Maurice. He’ll be here any minute.”
So that was what he had sensed in the shop and why she hadn’t wanted to sit in the window, normally her preferred location in any restaurant. He turned toward the door, dreading even as he did so that it would open to reveal the notorious Maurice. “I wish you hadn’t done that. I’ll feel weird with Dad.”
“I’m sorry,” she said and—another surprise—sounded as if she meant it. “Tell me what’s happening with Veronica?”
“Verona,” he corrected. He gave the shortest possible version: he liked her; he thought she liked him; it didn’t work out.
“But you went to America together?” The corners of her mouth rose. “It seemed so romantic, the two of you flying across the ocean. Especially you, with your phobias.”
Why did nothing stay still these days? Even his mother’s disapproval was unreliable. “On the phone you said you’d never forgive me. That you and Dad would be in the poorhouse because I’d deserted you.”
>
Gwen ran her fingers through her hair. “Do I look okay? I didn’t have time to take a shower this morning. You couldn’t have chosen a worse week to bugger off, but of course I’m glad you like someone. You’re nearly thirty. You should be settling down.”
“Your hair needs combing. And your nose is shiny.”
“Thanks.” She pushed back her chair. “Now remember, not a word about my little scare.”
He watched as she zigzagged between the other tables, several of which, he now saw, were occupied, and then turned to counting the pictures.
“Excuse me, are you Zeke?”
A man wearing a bulky jacket was standing beside the table. Nothing about him looked familiar, but Zeke felt even less trustworthy than usual. “Yes,” he said cautiously.
The man held out his right hand. “How do you do? I’m Maurice Shaeffer.”
Zeke stood up. The feeling inside his head reminded him of those wretched few minutes when the plane had thudded up and down. Keeping his eyes fixed on the table, he offered his own hand, and as they stood there, palm to palm, a thought alighted amid the chaos: This man has a perfect handshake. He let go, stepped over to the nearest empty table, retrieved a chair, and set it on the third side of their table.
“Thank you,” said Maurice. “Are you sure I’m not intruding?” And then he didn’t do what people normally did when they asked such a question, which was to presume the answer they wanted, but stood there, waiting for Zeke to speak.
“We were expecting you. My mother is in the bathroom.”
Maurice unzipped his jacket and slipped it over the back of the chair. Beneath he wore a navy blue fisherman’s sweater. “I already ate,” he said, “but I might have a glass of wine.” He glanced around the restaurant, searching for a waiter, Zeke thought, but the men in white shirts had disappeared. His father would have grumbled, perhaps pounded the table, but Maurice simply twitched a shoulder and asked how Zeke’s travels had gone.
“Not great. It was very cold and I found America”—he paused, searching for a word that summed up, even partially, his experiences—“confusing.”
“I know what you mean. I went to Miami a few years ago, just for a week, but there were two drive-by shootings and the couple in the next room were mugged going to the beach. Gwen’s glad you’re back.”
“Yes. I was at the shop,” he said, inanely. From the next table came the clink of cutlery; a stout woman and two small boys were spooning up borscht.
“I tried to help a couple of times,” Maurice said, “but I can barely tell a carrot from a cucumber.”
How could that be, Zeke wondered. Unlike people, vegetables were easy to identify. “What do you do?”
“I work in a carpet shop—wools, berbers, vinyl, some nice Indian rugs, the so-called Persians. I stumbled into it, a part-time job after school, but I enjoy it. There’s a lot to learn about rugs, a lot of history. That’s how your mother and I met. She came in to look at carpets, and we started talking about her dream room.”
“Her dream room?” He imagined a space like the walk-in cooler where Gwen’s dreams were inventoried floor to ceiling, nightmare to pastoral, gothic to romantic.
“Her perfect room, the room where she felt she’d be most herself.”
“Which is not a restaurant toilet. I’m glad you found each other.” Gwen bent to kiss Maurice.
In a matter of minutes she had transformed herself as surely as Daphne into a laurel. Her face seemed lit from within, her hair gleamed, even her clothes looked newly pressed. Was it really possible that she was in any way ill? As she took her seat, the waiter appeared with their food. He set down the plates and greeted Maurice with a clap on the back. “How are you? We haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“I’m fine, Leo. Busy, though I suppose that’s good. Am I in the way here? How’s your sister?”
“The same. I go every Sunday and read her the newspaper. Not very cheerful, but the nurses say I should talk to her and I can’t think what to say.” Beneath his bristling eyebrows, Zeke saw, the man had small, pleasant eyes.
“She’ll come round,” said Maurice. “Her body just needs to get over the shock. These are my friends. Gwen, Zeke, my old compatriot, Leo.”
The three of them said hello and Maurice asked for a glass of whatever Gwen was drinking. While Leo fetched the wine, he explained that Leo’s sister had been in a car accident the day before Christmas and was still in a coma. “Eat,” he admonished and, as if to release them from the demands of conversation, began to talk about Russia; two years ago he’d gone to Moscow and St. Petersburg for his holidays. “I went to visit Lenin’s tomb in Red Square. That was an odd experience, queuing up to see a dead man. People were chatting away as if they were waiting for a ride at the funfair. And when you finally get to the body—they only let you see it for a moment—it’s bathed in this peculiar red light. He reminded me of my father.”
“How?” said Zeke. His ravenous hunger had been appeased.
Maurice moved his head up and down. His light gray eyes—it took Zeke several minutes of surreptitious study to figure this out—were set a little farther apart than most people’s. In the middle of his chin was a dimple. Zeke pictured him at school, pressing the point of his pencil there, hour after hour.
“I wonder that myself,” Maurice said. “I suppose the main thing was that you never knew what my dad was thinking. My sisters and I counted on our mother to translate. Of course”—he drank some wine—“it’s not fair to judge a man by his eighty-year-old corpse. Did you ever see the dead chap at the British Museum?”
“What chap?” said Gwen. “You do ramble on.” But the three little lines that often appeared between her eyebrows to emphasize such remarks remained in hiding.
“They have him upstairs, near the Portland vase. He was found in a bog in Norfolk, and when they examined the body they discovered he’d been garroted. They think he was a sacrificial victim.” He looked back and forth between Gwen and Zeke. “Sorry, history is one of my hobbies. As your mother says, I do tend to go on. Especially when I’m nervous.”
Why would he be nervous, thought Zeke, and, seeing the way his mother smiled at Maurice, understood. “If I’d been given a choice,” he said carefully, “I’d have tried to get out of meeting you, but I’m glad I wasn’t. You’re not at all like I’d imagined.”
“I’m not like most people imagine,” said Maurice. “You don’t expect someone with a French name to have ancestors who farmed the steppes, but my mother adored Maurice Chevalier. It could have been worse. She was mad about Bob Hope too.”
“In Boston I met a man called Chance. His mother was joking with the nurses at the hospital, and they wrote it down on his birth certificate.”
The waiter came over to see if everything was all right. Maurice ordered more wine; Gwen and Zeke said they were fine. Then Maurice asked how things had gone at the shop. He and Gwen talked about a film they wanted to see, and he said that tomorrow he was measuring the function rooms of a hotel near King’s Cross. “Years ago, when I was first starting in carpets, I botched the measurements of a ballroom. What a disaster. You must have things like that in your work.”
Now that Zeke had started to look at Maurice, he couldn’t stop. The dimple moved as he spoke and so did the rest of his face, as if all his features were participating in the conversation. So entranced was Zeke that it wasn’t until his mother said, “Tell him about that kitchen,” that he understood that Maurice’s last remark had been addressed to him. Under her prompting, he described the time he’d fitted new kitchen cupboards so high that the owner of the house couldn’t reach the bottom shelf. On another occasion he’d tiled an entire bathroom in white rather than blue, but the owner had welcomed the change. Maurice asked who bore the cost. Then he finished his wine and announced that he must be on his way.
“I’m glad we got to meet at last,” he said to Zeke. “I’ve heard so much about you.” And for once the familiar comment sounded appreciative rather than sini
ster. He stood up, put a ten-pound note on the table, kissed Gwen, shook Zeke’s hand again, and turned to leave. On his way out he stopped to chat at a couple of tables. Neither Zeke nor Gwen spoke until the door closed behind him.
“Well?” she said.
“I like his dimple.”
“His dimple?” Gwen’s eyebrows flew upward.
He pointed to his own smooth chin. And quite suddenly his mother, like Jill when he asked if she’d noticed a paint shop, was laughing. “Oh, Zeke, you’re priceless. Seriously.” She leaned closer. “Did you like him?”
“Yes, I did.” The answer leaped out as if it had nothing to do with him. “And I could see why you liked him. He paid attention, and he told good stories.”
Gwen sank back in her seat. “I shouldn’t have sprung him on you, but I was sure if I asked you’d refuse. You know, he and I have the same birthday. We only have one horoscope between us.”
A sharp pain stabbed his chest as if someone had slipped a stiletto between his ribs. When was Verona’s birthday? He had no idea. Bugger off, he thought, meaning the pain, Verona, the whole mess. “But what about the doctor, Mum? You never answered my question.”
She clutched her glass. “They’re doing a biopsy on Monday. I’m scared, Zeke. You know how long it usually takes to get an appointment. It makes me think I must be at death’s door and I don’t even feel ill. I’m only forty-five. I don’t deserve this.”
Whatever transformation she had accomplished in the bathroom had worn off. Almost from one minute to the next, the lines around her eyes were deeper, her cheeks thinner. This was what she would look like in ten years’ time. “Illness isn’t something we deserve,” he said, quoting he couldn’t remember whom. “It’s a part of life. We do our best to stay healthy, and it comes along anyway. Like me, like Dad.” He reached across the table and touched her hand. “Would you like me to go with you to the hospital?”
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