by Shamim Sarif
She stops, turns, and looks at him. He has not asked if she is sure she wants to get married. Rather, he is concerned whether she will be happy. It is typical of him to do this, to look a step beyond, to what really matters.
“If you want the truth, I was once sure that I could never love anyone enough to want to be married.” Her eyes are clear and open as she looks at him. “But I want to marry you, now. Because yes, I’m sure I will be happy with you, and you with me. Despite everything, I am sure.”
She begins walking again, and the question is in his mouth, so close to being uttered – ‘despite what, Katya, despite what?’ – but she is ahead of him now, and he hesitates to keep pressing, to break the fragile beauty of this moment; and so he follows after her, catching her hand in his own, and consciously pushing his worry out of his mind. He smiles when she turns to kiss him as they go.
Chapter Fifteen
Boston
MELISSA HAS THOUGHT A LOT ABOUT Alexander Ivanov on the flight from New York. He remains something of a cipher to her. A brilliant businessman who behaves like an old-school gentleman. A philanthropist who donates large portions of his wealth to others – probably to alleviate the remains of his old communist guilt. A man devoted to his work, but not at the expense of those around him. There is much to admire in him, and perhaps something to learn – and his company is not in bad shape either, so that she is pleased that he has called her and given her another try at the deal. His telephone call two days ago had been brief and he had focused only on arranging a time for her to come back and discuss the sale – he had made no mention of the terms he might be looking for but she has schooled herself well enough in the strategy and psychology of deal-making to know when to hold back questions, and she simply agreed to fly in. She can look for all the answers she wants when they are face to face.
He shows her into his own office. There are two walls of books, mostly related to food and wine, and a slim laptop sits on his wide desk. His paperwork is stacked neatly on assorted trays; only the centre of the desk, right before his chair, is a confusion of paper, pens and correspondence.
“Good to see you again,” he tells her.
“You too,” she says. “I hope we can work this out.”
When he had first met Melissa he had thought her cold. The impression had been a function of the brusque tone of her words, and their concise content, but he had changed his mind before that first meeting was over. Even though she has often stretched his patience, and made this sale impossible so far, at times he has enjoyed working alongside her, and he feels that sense of satisfaction again now, as they begin to talk about the details of the business. She is wholly focused when she works, always absorbing and learning from him everything she can. He notes that her mind seizes instantly on whatever he says and refines it, looking at an issue from every side to see how it can be improved, or streamlined or both. He is learning a lot from her, about cleanness and precision of thought. He is precise also, even fastidious, in many ways, but often his business mind is clouded by his creative process, the part of him that produces new recipes and ideas. Hers is not, and that seems to provide her with a permanent clarity of vision.
“We can discuss details all day,” he says, “but I have to ask you if your position has changed on the charitable initiatives?”
“How much are you willing to negotiate?”
“Not at all. I want to sell but I don’t need to. And I have interest from other buyers.”
She sits back in her seat and closes her notebook.
“Can I ask you something Alexander?”
“Sure.”
“When you lived in Russia, did you believe in communism?”
He would never have predicted such a question from Melissa, who so rarely crosses the personal with the professional... He wonders if there is a ploy here, a trap to lure him into some counter-argument.
“Yes, I did,” he says. “There was nothing else to believe in. Why do you ask?”
“I’m interested. You’re the model of capitalism and free enterprise now. How do you move from one extreme mind set to another so easily?”
“It wasn’t easy. And yet it wasn’t hard either. The first belief – in communism – had been drummed into me from childhood. I knew nothing else, and was convinced, for a while anyway, that such a state was the fairest way for everyone to have something. But I began to change my mind even before I left Russia. I still thought that everyone should have opportunities, but I was less convinced that this was the way to achieve it. I knew the system was flawed, but I began to wonder if the base ideas were flawed too…There was too much cost to individual expression, individual thought, and no mercy for those who rebelled…”
He stops short, and she is quite sure that this last sentence has reminded him of his wife. There is a look of utter desolation in his eyes. Then he blinks, hard, noticeably, and he is back with her. He smiles.
“Then I lived here, worked hard. Rose on my merits, as they say. But it still troubles me that most people in the world are born without any opportunity to start a business, to feed themselves, to take advantage of the positive things that capitalism and democracy can bring. And I believe very strongly – and so does Lauren – that we have a responsibility to use the wealth that we have well.”
“Does everybody have the same responsibility?”
“I think so, but I can only control what I own. Which is why I am refusing to sell if you, or anyone else, compromises the philanthropy.”
Melissa says nothing, and he glances at his watch. He has a six o’clock conference call which is due to begin in five minutes. He excuses himself, and closes the meeting without suggesting a further one. She will contact him, if she wants to, once she has considered what they have discussed.
The apartment is too dark and too quiet. She can tell at once that her mother is not at home. She puts down her suitcase and looks down the side hallway at her father’s closed door. The carpet leading towards it is old and worn out in a line slightly to the left of the middle which is her father’s accustomed route out of his study. It is his habit to touch the wall as he walks along, and so the pile of the centre strip of carpet looks clean and thick by comparison. She wonders if her mother walks down there – has reason to walk down there – more than once or twice a month.
“Dad?” she says, in a voice that is too small for him to hear.
She turns and goes into the kitchen and switches on lights. Scans the fridge for food. There is parmesan cheese, a platter of raw meat, the sight of which turns her stomach, and some fruit and yoghurt. Then she turns again and walks determinedly down the unwelcoming hallway and stops outside her father’s study door. She knocks and opens it.
“Hey,” she says.
With a single push of his foot, he allows the swivel action of his chair to bring him slowly around to face her... “Hey,” he replies. “When did you get back?”
“This afternoon.”
“Business?”
She nods. He blinks, trying to disengage from the literary world of the nineteenth century that has absorbed his brain without release for the past few hours.
“Where’s mom?” she asks. A simple question to help ease him back to the world of the apartment, the world of his family.
“In the kitchen, I think.”
“She’s not home,” she tells him, a reminder. He frowns, remembers.
“She’s at the movies. She’ll be back by eight, she said.”
“Did you ask her what she’s seeing?” She gives him a half-smile, a way to soften the accusation that underlies her question. She knows that usually he would not think to ask.
“Doctor Zhivago,” he says, and his voice is a curious mixture of triumph and regret. “She’s in a Russian phase, you know. She’s set on going over there next week. Lauren asked her.”
“My mother’s scoring better than me.”
He grins. He loves the utter dryness of her wit, the complete unexpectedness with which it dart
s from her serious face. He indicates the chair beside him. On its seat are open books, and its back carries various outer garments which Frank Johnson alternately wears and discards throughout the day, according to his mood and temperature. It is a chair that has not been sat upon for some considerable time.
“Why don’t you go to Russia?” he asks. “Very interesting place, you know.”
“I know.”
A pause. “You like this girl?”
Melissa gives a short laugh. “What makes you ask?”
“Oh, I pick things up. Your mother and I discuss you quite a bit, you know.” He waits, giving her time to reply, but she says nothing. He watches her with a frown, then turns back to his papers, reads the last sentence he wrote, scratches out a word and replaces it with another. Then he turns back to her. She looks at him, a little amused but mostly irritated.
“What?” she asks.
“Try,” he says, turning back around in his chair. “Try, and see what happens.”
“Maybe,” Melissa says. “Maybe I’ll ask them. I need a vacation.” Her father’s back is to her now, and his pen is working up and down on the paper once more. She stands up and puts the books and cardigans and scarves back on the chair.
“Just get another ticket,” he says suddenly, just as she reaches the door. “Or better yet, persuade your mother to stay here with me.”
Melissa waits silently, hoping that he will turn around and that she will be able to read in his eyes the full meaning of these last words. But he does not look up from his work. She closes the door behind her, gently, and goes back to the kitchen. From there she will call Lauren and see if she will come out with her for dinner.
Estelle is trying to locate within herself what she imagines Alexander must feel when he cooks. She moves about her kitchen purposefully, trying to shake off the heady languor of the cinema, that sense of loss that she felt as the vivid screen darkened, taking with it that other world of Russia, revolution, passion and snow. She is preparing steaks and pasta, and she tries to look at and handle each ingredient as Alexander might. Initially, this only makes her conscious that her pasta is not Italian-made, and often turns out a little soggy. And that she has forgotten to buy fresh basil to tear into her tomato sauce. She opens the fridge and pulls out her new purchase of fresh parmesan. A whole piece of real cheese, not the ready grated imitation strands she usually scatters. She serves the pasta while the steaks lie warm in the pan, and she grates the cheese over the hot sauce. It smells wonderful, but still she cannot build up quite the enthusiasm or the delicacy of handling that Alexander shows. The steaks land in their allotted positions on the plates with a slap, and she wipes her hands and walks out to the hallway.
“Frank!” she calls. “Dinner!”
She has said those two words in exactly the same way for as long as she can remember. Sometimes she has an impulse to vary the phrase. Occasionally she does so. She will shout, “Dinner’s ready,” or “Shall we eat?” But usually, it’s the same. Why this should bother her now, she does not know. Except that most things about her usual routine have been feeling restrictive over the last few days. She listens for a grunt of recognition, which is generally the signal that he will take another five minutes or so to emerge from his study; but instead the door is flung open immediately, and he is walking down the hall towards her.
“Smells good,” he says.
She turns and precedes him into the kitchen.
“Fresh parmesan.”
They sit down in their accustomed places, and with one of their worn, blunt knives Frank Johnson saws at the meat on his plate.
“Parmigianno Reggiano,” he says, in an exaggerated Italian accent. “The king of cheeses.” He leaves a slight pause, and then: “Tell me, do we owe our initiation into the king of cheeses to the ‘King of Catering’?”
Estelle feels a jolt at her husband’s acuity – occasionally, she mistakes his absorption in his work, and his lack of attention to any detail outside the walls of his study, for a lack of perception. And then she is invariably caught out.
“Why, do you prefer ready-grated?” she asks.
He gives a grin at her side-stepping, and lets her know he has recognised it by not bothering to answer. They continue to eat in silence for a few minutes. He is conscious of the high, metallic scratch of her fork on her plate; she is trying not to listen to the liquid sound of his chewing.
“What’s that?” he asks finally. With his knife he points to a book that lies on the counter behind her. She glances around, playing for time, even though she knows what he is gesturing at.
“It’s a book,” she says.
“Ah, so it’s going to be one of those evenings, is it? If you want me to stay quiet, just say so.”
She looks up at him, repentant suddenly. She did not mean to be dismissive, but is not sure she has the courage to carry through the conversation that will result from a proper reply.
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
“It’s a book about the cold war.” She takes a breath, steeling herself just a little. “I’m reading it as research for my novel.”
He makes no comment for a moment, while he chews another piece of meat. He always eats the contents of his plate one item at a time – he will first eat all the steak, then the pasta.
“For pity’s sake, Estelle,” he says when he has finished. “Not the whole writing lark again.”
Now it is her turn to concentrate on her food, although the last thing she feels she can do is swallow it. But she attends to the strands of spaghetti winding around her fork as though there is nothing else of interest to her at this moment, for she cannot bear to look up and let him guess how much he has hurt her. When the fork is loaded with pasta, she finds she cannot raise it to her mouth, and so she lays it gently down next to the remains of her steak.
“Yes, the ‘writing lark’ again.” She picks up her plate and takes it to the sink, feeling the anger rising through her body. “Is it so terrible, that I have something that I enjoy doing, and want to do?”
“No,” he replies, evenly. “But it must be done well.”
“By whose standards?” She turns on him, and comes straight back to the table, standing with her arms crossed. But he does not reply. He looks down at his plate where the parmesan-coated pasta lies untouched.
“Are you the divine authority on all literary matters, Frank?”
“I have trained and read a lot. Literary criticism is my life’s work.”
“Believe me, I know that! If anyone knows it, I do.” She picks up the volume on Soviet Russia and moves away as if to leave the room, but something holds her back. If she walks out now, there will be an end to it, there will be an impasse between them, the same impasse that has never yet been crossed. She wants him to understand her, for once. If he can. If she can explain. She sits back down at the table, holding the book against her chest like a heavy talisman.
“Listen, Frank. We always argue about the same thing, and in the end it’s beside the point.”
“I don’t agree,” he begins, but she cuts him off.
“Just listen to me for a minute, can you? It doesn’t matter if I write like Shakespeare, or if I turn out the worst sort of badly-written romantic trash. Because I’m happy doing it. And I am your wife.”
“So our relationship should excuse poor writing?”
“No. Our relationship means you should support me, and be happy that I’m happy in whatever I’m doing. And then, if you feel I need help, then help me to improve. Not by being sarcastic and dismissive, but by showing me how to change, helping me with what to read, how to phrase things. You do it with your students for goodness’ sake. Be kind, Frank. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Be blind, you mean.”
“Goddamn it!”
He cannot resist the impulse to be facetious, but there are moments when she feels he must try. She gets up, wanting to bring the book down on the table with a crash, to vent her frustration,
to jolt him from his sanctimonious attitude. She is at the door when he almost shouts, which is unnecessary, since she is no more than two feet away from him.
“Estelle, wait!” He reaches for her hand, but it is clutching the book, and she will not give it up to him.
“I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.” A pause. “Don’t go away to Russia.”
“I want to.”
“To be with him?”
She is taken aback, had not considered the fact that he would probably assume Alexander would be going too.
“To research,” she replies. And then, although she does not feel he deserves the comfort, she adds, “He’s not even going.”
He looks up at her, his hair dishevelled and his eyes pouchy with exhaustion. “Thenwhy didn’t he say that yesterday?”
Estelle takes a step back into the room.
“What do you mean?”
Her husband pushes his plate away. “He came to see me yesterday. At the university. I asked him to come.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He waves a hand. “I didn’t want to make a song and dance about nothing.”
“Well, you are.”
As if he has not heard her, he continues. “It’s strange. I really liked him. He kept me at a distance – very proper and correct, and reserved. But I liked him, even as I tried to dislike him because he is attractive to you.”
Is his slight pause hanging there, waiting, hoping for her denial? She says nothing, and he speaks again:
“Under that polished veneer, in his eyes, I could see that he has a gentleness to him, and also great passion about many things. A passionate man. Attentive, kind.”
“He is.”
“And I am not, of course.”
For a man of such advanced age and intelligence, he reminds her of a wheedling child too frequently.
“You’re a good man, Frank,” she says quietly. “But attentive? Kind? Passionate, except maybe about your books? No.”
They are the harshest words she has ever spoken to him, and she feels badly, but relieved, as though something shameful has finally been revealed. He is watching her, unflinching.