He’s right, the bastard. Live what’s left. Live it as large as you both can. That’s what he wants. That’s what you want.
Zipper threw her journal on the table.
But the words. How do I start? Where do I end?
The words will come, said Kitts. They always do.
Wilkes and Zephyr met at university.
They took a loose interest in the other’s academics: Ambrose sneaking his friend into a life-drawing class to prove that artists did not get erections; Freddie instructing his friend on the proper balance between single malts and thesis writing.
After graduating, they shared a shoebox flat in a hard part of London and lied on each other’s CV. They began referring to each other by last name only. It sounded good, they’d explain. Something professionals might do.
When it appeared likely they were destined to drive cabs, Wilkes passed his foreign service examinations and Zephyr landed a junior position as a copywriter. Which, much later in their lives, they would characterize as ironic.
Between distant postings and demanding clientele, the friends rarely saw each other. They never reminisced when they did. They kept every piece of wish-you-were-here correspondence and look-what-I-created souvenir each had sent the other.
No one, least of all Zipper, could explain why they had remained friends for so long and at such distance. Or why they had even become friends in the first place.
Drinks? always meant the Savoy bar.
All Ambrose would later say about his evening with Freddie was how good it had been to see an old friend. They spent the time talking mostly of each other’s work, said Ambrose. State secrets, slagged clients, that sort of thing.
What likely occurred was that after enough kirs and enough whiskeys, Ambrose reluctantly described the circumstances. There would have been long silences, pinched glances, calls for same again please.
After some time the friends would have found their Gallipoli courage and looked each other in the face. There would have been tears in their eyes. Stoic ones, but tears nonetheless.
Damn, Freddie likely said, turning away for a moment.
Ambrose probably apologized.
The friends would have pulled themselves together. Freddie, as always, would then have said something clever and wise.
You need to edit. Enough with A through Zed. Toss the list. You’ll end up hating half the places you go anyway. Think of Zipper. Stop dragging the woman about. Wasn’t she the one who said it was time to come home?
At the end of the evening, the friends would have stood on the street waiting for taxis. They would have embraced, as old friends do when parting. If you need anything, Freddie no doubt said.
Right then.
Right.
Taxis would have appeared.
Neither friend would have said goodbye. They never had before.
J.
Ambrose Zephyr would sometimes remark that a better man was one supplied with an intelligent woman, the ability to tango and an able tailor.
For those who knew Ambrose, an able tailor became the explanation for why Ambrose Zephyr had stroked out Jaipur on his list and pencilled in Old Jewry.
Mr Umtata sailed from home a younger man, stowed away in the hold of a runt freighter. When the authorities realized he was gone, he wasn’t missed. Good riddance, they said. Another kaffir away.
On the day the freighter docked in London, Germany was invading its neighbours. A week later Mr Umtata found work in the army. Nothing at the sharp end of course, they said. You understand. Still doing your bit as it were.
He learned a trade. Mind the break at the cuff, Major would say. A bit snug across the shoulder. Give those buttons a polish, there’s a good fellow. Mr Umtata’s war raged through the officers’ mess. When it ended Major and his buttons went home to the country and Mr Umtata went to Cheapside.
He took up piecework in a ladies and gents shop. Alterations To All Garments Our Specialty The Smartest Styles Within Bespoke Orders Upon Request Satisfaction Assured For All Closed Sundays. He enjoyed the ladies’ work particularly.
He learned how to dance. To understand how the clothes move, he told his employer. Mr Umtata was a small man whose teeth were too big for his mouth, but his partners did not mind. He was always impeccably dressed, he smelled heavenly and he could move. Like Astaire himself, they said.
After twenty years Mr Umtata purchased the shop. It was a narrow concern, too dark in summer, too hot in winter, and could neither boast nor hold the selection common among the Savile shops. But Mr Umtata’s handwork was slow and sure, his service humble, his discretion reliable. Observation and counsel were parcelled out as he saw fit. Upon request.
They met the morning a younger Ambrose Zephyr produced his first television commercial: thirty seconds for the finest cleanser the mod ’70s housewife could ever wish to own.
The concept involved a red-haired actress, grinning in a mod ’70s housewife manner, on her knees scrubbing the average English street—a tip to the product’s mod ’70s scouring power. What the woman’s hot pants tipped to was left to interpretation. Old Jewry stood in as average street.
The commercial was to be filmed from an extreme angle and Ambrose had split the seat out of his trousers checking the first setup of the day. An assistant from the agency shoved him through Umtata’s door for repairs. The tailor’s first advice: a proper fit through the buttocks.
When asked by Ambrose what he thought of the activity in the street, Mr Umtata replied that it all appeared interesting but sir may want to reconsider the hot pants.
Ambrose became as regular a customer as wages and wear would allow. Jackets now and then, shirts by the gross, flirtations with bellbottomed trousers (against contrary advice). At the rear of the shop, in a wooden box marked Active, Mr Umtata kept a file card with particulars: Zephyr, A. Dresses left, favours right shoulder, prefers contrasting linings. Poor colour sense. Requires some direction. See also Ashkenazi, Z (Mrs). It was the only card filed under Z.
Ambrose brought Zipper to Old Jewry to meet Mr Umtata, as a young suitor intent on impressing might. Do you approve? asked Ambrose.
Indeed sir, said Mr Umtata. I believe the expression is yin to your yang. And if I may be so bold sir. Does the lady dance?
Mr Umtata cut, lined and hand-stitched the suit Ambrose was married in—double breasted, trousers in the full and classic style, startling yellow tie. At his final fitting, with Zipper observing, Ambrose suggested a matching yellow carnation for the lapel. Zipper rolled her eyes. Mr Umtata frowned in silence.
I think it makes a statement, don’t you? said Ambrose.
Indeed sir, said Mr Umtata.
Just the thing for the big day.
Quite.
Bit much?
As you say sir.
Mr Umtata also fit and altered Zipper’s dress (an off-white vintage number, one previous owner, purchased in Portobello Road). With my compliments missus, Mr Umtata said as he snipped the last thread and stood aside to allow Zipper a full look in the mirror.
The lady does indeed dance, said Zipper as she swished.
Mr Umtata and Zipper then toasted her impending marriage with a deep and expert dip. To ensure proper movement, said Mr Umtata through a toothy smile.
On the day, the newlyweds looked like famous people, despite the downpour in Kensington Gardens. Zipper’s bouquet was a handful of small white rosebuds. Complemented by a small white rosebud in Ambrose’s lapel. Mr Umtata was unable to attend. Saturday was a brisk day at the shop in Old Jewry. He sent regrets.
Years later the wedding suit still fit. The linen number, however, was in urgent need of attention. And there was the matter of shirts being ready.
At the rear of the shop, Mr Umtata uttered a stream of sighs. Ambrose asked if anything could be done. Zipper mentioned time was pressing. Mr Umtata then suggested sir might strip to his boxers. Missus might want to take a seat.
In silence the tailor of Old Jewry worked his needles and threads
and scissors and irons. Ambrose searched for somewhere to put his hands. Zipper watched her husband’s white skin, stretched thin over bone.
We’ve been abroad, said Ambrose.
Indeed sir, said Mr Umtata through the pins between his teeth.
Rather suddenly.
Indeed.
Travelled light.
So it would seem sir.
Sorry for the rush.
As am I sir, said Mr Umtata, hiding the last seam, his eyes fixed on Zipper’s wet eyes.
A fresh shirt was unwrapped. Ambrose strained out a smile as he dressed.
A miracle, Umtata. As always.
As you say sir.
A bit loose across the shoulders though.
Indeed sir. Shall we check the fit?
With that Mr Umtata took Ambrose Zephyr in his arms. Allow me the lead sir, he whispered. The men dipped. Deeply, expertly.
Zipper Ashkenazi laughed out loud. For the first time in days.
L.
The sun began to rise as Ambrose Zephyr sat on his front step. It was, still, his best time of the day.
He watched number twelve with his tiny dog. The elderly man frowned: he had forgotten his hat. Number eighteen, naked this morning and trusting that no one was awake at such an hour, gathered the morning paper from her doorstep. The neighbourhood stray, ignored, eyed the birds in the park across the way.
The night fog burned off. For Zipper Ashkenazi, standing at her front window wearing one of her husband’s new shirts, it looked to be a rare morning. A fine one, for the time of year.
Ambrose sipped his coffee, certain his wife was catching just five minutes more. He waved to number eighteen and sheepishly smiled an apology for having seen more than he should have. The elderly man went home to get his hat.
Zipper waited until the sun came through the front window, then made a cup of tea. She joined her husband on the front step.
I need to deal with the office, Ambrose said.
Zipper watched the neighbourhood stray.
Loose ends, that sort of thing.
Zipper examined the dregs in her cup.
I should have called, she said.
Near Leicester Square stood the offices of Dravot, Carnehan. A few streets away stood the offices of the third most-read fashion magazine in the country. Zipper and Ambrose had managed to work in the same part of the city, but neither one could remember when they had managed lunch together. Or ridden the underground as a couple off to work. Isn’t it funny, thought Zipper, to be doing that now. They decided D&C would be first and best dealt with.
Few heads turned as Ambrose and Zipper walked through the creative department to his office. Everyone is too fresh, thought Zipper. Too busy. Too young.
Greta sat in Ambrose’s chair, looking out the windows and fidgeting with his collection of type blocks. Without turning around she said how odd it all felt. D&C had gotten the account.
I’ll just clear up a few things, said Ambrose.
More annoying than odd, actually, said Greta.
I won’t be long.
Big meeting next week. Strategy.
Most of it you can toss.
Tactics. New staff.
The plants are fake. They’ll last.
Global campaign. Much work to do.
Just a few things.
The billing will be huge…
Greta’s voice trailed out through the window.
Ambrose picked over his desk. A photograph of himself at a location shoot: longer hair, horrid bellbottomed trousers, a red-haired actress nearby. A newspaper style manual. A pocket atlas, leather-bound with ribbon marker. A few travel brochures from the sixties: Ski Zermatt This Year, Beautiful St. Moritz, Now Is the Time for Geneva. A moody black-and-white photograph of Zipper. Taken in a rough country in a younger time.
You can keep the type, said Ambrose. My gift.
Greta turned away from the window. Tears flowed down her cheeks and dripped from her chin.
Bloody annoying, she said.
Yes it is, said Ambrose.
I hate this. I want to go home.
I hear Berlin is lovely this time of year.
Ambrose smiled and kissed Greta warmly on both cheeks. He pocketed the photograph of Zipper and left.
Pru was yelling at Milan or Paris or New York or her assistant when Zipper appeared at her door. Pru threw her earpiece across the room, glanced at Ambrose as if he wasn’t there and began yelling at Zipper.
I quit, said Zipper. Her life had unravelled. It didn’t need Pru picking at the threads. She wished quit had come out sounding angrier.
YOU WILL NEVER WRITE AGAIN, Pru said as quietly as her disposition could manage. I WILL SEE TO IT.
Perhaps you will, said Zipper.
MNOPQRSTU.
It took most of the day for Ambrose and Zipper to reach Hyde Park. Here and there Ambrose’s gait had slowed to the shuffle of an old man. Crowded pavements and clogged traffic had taken their own toll.
Through Kensington Gardens the pace improved. In other times, on better strolls, Ambrose would say he could see the King out for his morning ride: mounted on a dapple grey, overdressed in lace and buckles, the court blundering behind him like a bad comedy sketch.
They stopped to rest at the edge of the Round Pond. Canvas deckchairs had been put out for the season. Ambrose looked across the water and the swans and into nothing.
What would you have done, Zipper asked.
I would have sat on a beach in Mumbai, said Ambrose, and had my hair cut. For extra rupees the barber would have told my fortune. Sahib will be leading a surprising life. You would have worn a sari the colour of aubergine.
New York. I’d been there once. On business? No. You were there. For the spring shows. Did you take me along? Or was it business? Funny how I can’t recall. It was much farther away than I remembered.
O. O…is Osaka. I bow to the department store hostesses, they cover their smiles when they hear my Japanese. You and I are at the theatre. Bunraku I think they call it here. A tragic tale. Montagues and Capulets, judging by the acting. You cry during the final act. P. Pago Pago. Paddington. Perth? I learn a new language, Queensland gone walkabout. We waltzed, didn’t we? The beach…
There was an odd half-smile on Ambrose’s face. He looked away.
Keep going, said Zipper. Please keep going.
What?
R. You were about to say R.
…Rio…the beach. Ipanema. They have professional foot washers imagine that I can see Africa from the beach and you are not so young or tall but very tanned and quite lovely and there’s Shanghai sea of tai chi women scowling at me a tiny string ensemble of five-year-olds playing something in a minor Barber’s Adagio sad for such little hands…
Don’t stop, said Zipper.
I can’t.
T?
Can’t remember. Timbuktu?
Don’t worry. U then.
Ambrose looked at his wife as if he didn’t know her. The King, he said, is not much of a horseman.
Oh God.
Ambrose and Zipper did not move until dark. The panic was slow to ease.
The moon rose above the treetops and they walked the rest of the way home. As they turned into their road, Ambrose said he remembered.
V.
We were staying in a pensione near the Piazza San Marco. I woke up too early. It was difficult putting on the linen number in the dark, but I didn’t want to wake you. I borrowed a blanket from the hotel and walked across the piazza.
Everything was mist and fog. It was raining, softly, off and on. The air felt cold for the time of year. It was too early for the cafés to open.
I found a chair and pulled it to a better spot near the lagoon. The gondolas were still tied to their posts, bobbing like toy boats. I wrapped myself in the blanket and soaked in the hazy view across the lagoon. In all the years we talked about Venice and pictured Venice and dreamed of Venice, did we ever once imagine it might smell?
I was sleeping when
you found me. You said you had worried. I’m fine, I said. How could I not be? I’ve kept a promise.
You smiled and said yes, finally, I had.
The waiters were unstacking chairs, wiping tables, opening umbrellas. The piazza began filling with tourists bundled against the chill, griping about the weather, trying to fit the Campanile in the viewfinder.
You and I left the edge of the lagoon and went off in search of breakfast. We found the Bridge of Sighs, lost our way to the Erberia, and decided we weren’t hungry anyway. We were wet and cold and our clothes reeked of dead fish and it couldn’t have mattered less.
Zipper said that was how she remembered it as well.
Z.
I’ll be along in a minute, Ambrose said. Zipper went upstairs and crawled on top of the duvet. She stared at the ceiling.
What felt like hours later Ambrose appeared at the bedroom door. Zipper helped him into bed, wrapped him in an extra blanket to stop the shivering, curled herself around him. She was drifting in and out of sleep when the air in the Victorian terrace turned suddenly thick. The silence startled her awake.
Zipper cried quietly for a long while before ringing Kitts and Freddie. They would know what to do, whom to call.
She kissed her husband’s eyes and went downstairs.
On the kitchen table she found her well-thumbed edition of Wuthering Heights, a ragged slip of paper tucked in the first few pages. Chapter One. 1801—I have just returned from a visit…
On the paper, Zanzibar had been scribbled over. In the margin was written Zipper. With the proper amount of swoosh to the Z, and in a remarkably steady hand.
A few evenings later, Zipper Ashkenazi sat on her doorstep under a threatening sky. She wore a borrowed linen jacket, too large across the shoulders, but warm enough against a stiff spring breeze. Beside her stood the leather suitcase from under the bed.
The End of the Alphabet Page 6