by Spencer Wise
I watch the van disappear into the traffic and my shoulder’s tingling, like he’s some sawed-off phantom limb my brain keeps sending signals to. I shouldn’t have let him go. A man like that isn’t safe in the wild. A man who’ll never remember that beets turn his pee red. I’m dying, Alex, come see—you’ll want to see this.
I bet he isn’t staying in Hong Kong. You can’t trust a man like that. So where then? Home? And where’s that? The States, maybe. He isn’t crying, is he? In the van. God, I hope not. No, he wouldn’t. He’s fine.
But this image flips through my head of him standing alone in one of those outlet malls in Freeport, Maine, staring at the additional 40% off sign on a rack of his own shoes, telling a pimply sales associate, “I made those,” and the kid giving him this look like, “Sure you did,” and then Dad, in a trance, shuffles out into the bright atrium, hands in his pockets like some old ghost of the shtetl, and in every direction there’s discount stores and chain restaurants. He’d rather starve. It’s not home. It’s hell. His hell. His Pale of Settlement. This shitty outlet mall dumping his designs. A cemetery of last looks. The overstocked, the seconds, the blemished, the unwanted—Jesus, I bet he’s sobbing in the van. He knows. There’s nowhere to go.
The room seems to wobble and this dark, terrible vision crystalizing: nothing will change.
But then I feel heat rising up my collar and I’m thinking, Nah, that’s not it, not by a long shot.
Forget Dad. Everyone’s gone. It’s only me here. I tell myself that. Here’s me.
All I have to do is focus on what’s in front of me: a strip of red carpet tressed with gold vines and leaves between me and the revolving doors leading outside.
I fall in with the stream of suits trailing cool aftershave and wheeling their monographed briefcases, always dragging their names behind them. See. That’s all it is. A name. Cohen. Not some invisible brand on your forehead.
The lobby’s loud with cell phone chatter, but as I’m walking, this feeling slowly gathers in me, something still and quiet, like when I first stepped into Ivy’s fake house in her village and there was French cottage wallpaper, but you knew it was holy, more holy than an ancient temple—that’s the feeling I have suddenly here in the lobby of the Intercontinental Foshan with the light pouring in from the windows. This is where I belong. It’s like being inside an old shul during the Days of Awe when the Cohains cover their heads, slip off their shoes and chant for the next world, and all the while you’re sitting up with the women in the balcony behind a curtain and it all sounds like gibberish because that’s not the holy part; what’s holy is sitting between your mother’s legs on the floor and her toes are red as blood and her hair’s not her own, it’s sewn from others whose lives you can only imagine, and your father is already halfway around the world.
The air pops as I step into the revolving doors and I push the glass with my hand and then spill out into the bright morning sun. Warm on my arms.
A taxi waiting on the curb.
One of the doormen rushes forward and opens the taxi door for me.
“Mr. Younger Cohen?” he asks.
I look at his face. He’s new. Trying to learn everyone’s name. Nervous. Eyes darting. The faintest growth, more longing than mustache, above his lip. A boy.
“Alex,” I correct him. Feels like I say it too fast.
He apologizes.
I smile at him. “It’s fine,” I say. I reach into my pocket and palm him about ten bucks. A good tip. Start off right.
He closes his fist around the money and gives me a quick head bow.
“You’ll be seeing a lot of me,” I say and duck into the cab.
* * * * *
Acknowledgments
MY LOVE AND deepest respect to my dad, who’s done everything in his life with dignity and integrity, putting his family first. Dad, thank you for encouraging me to find my own way.
I want to thank my mom for always taking me to the Andover Public Library and passing along her passion for reading and literature. I love you dearly.
And to my brilliant sister, Laura, thank you for being my first reader, my biggest supporter, and for making me read The Master and Margarita.
A huge, undying debt of gratitude to my mentor, my Cus D’Amato, my dear friend Bob Butler. What a ride. I can’t begin to express my admiration for you.
Taylor, my true love and best friend—thank you for your wisdom and kindness, and for keeping me afloat. I look up to you in so many ways.
I also want to extend my thanks to my incredible agent, Duvall Osteen, for her humor and patience, and to my editor, John Glynn, for recognizing something in this book and being its brilliant champion.
I offer my most sincere appreciation to the following people for their friendship, guidance and generosity: Karri Liu, EJ Liu, Fred Huang, Vega Leung and Bob Infantino. And of course, thanks for the love and support of Marni Wise and Eric Wilner. This book couldn’t exist without all your help.
ISBN-13: 9781488080562
The Emperor of Shoes
Copyright © 2018 by Spencer Wise
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