Page 31
Story: The City (The City 1)
“Lost. All lost except the court lady carved from ivory, which I found.”
“Why were your folks always losing things?”
He shrugged. “It was nobody’s fault.”
“Were they artists?”
“My mother was, of a kind. She worked with thread and needles on elaborate embroidered scenes. My father was a humble tailor. Your mother’s cookies go with tea.”
“So do these cakes,” I said, and took a third, though I didn’t really want it. The tea was better with honey, but it wasn’t Co-Cola.
“Your mother has great talent.”
“You’ve heard her sing?”
“Yes, at the club where she works.”
I couldn’t picture him in such a place. “You mean … Slinky’s?”
“That is correct. I only went there once. They wanted me to order alcoholic beverages. From time to time, as seemed required, I asked for a martini.”
“I think martinis are pretty potent.”
“Yes, but I do not drink. I paid for the martinis but left them untouched. For some reason, this disturbed the management. I felt that I should not go back again.”
Something about the way he spoke, the formality of his sentences and the lack of slang, was familiar to me, as if I’d known someone else who spoke in this manner, not stilted but with grave restraint.
“Did Mom see you at Slinky’s?”
“No. I sat in a corner table, far from the stage. I did not wish to intrude, only to listen. I am boring you.”
“No, sir. It’s pretty much the opposite of boredom. Where did you and your folks live in California?”
“First in Los Angeles. Later in a place called Manzanar.”
“Palm trees and beaches and always warm. I might want to live there when I’m grown up. Why did you leave?”
He was quiet, staring into his tea as though he could read the future in it. Then he said, “I was able to get work here. Work is life and meaning. Sloth is sin and death. At the end of the war, I was eighteen and needed work. I came here from California to work.”
“You mean World War Two?”
“Exactly, yes.”
I calculated. “You’re almost forty, but you don’t look old.”
Raising his stare from tea to me, he smiled. “Neither do you.”
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“It sounded honest. Honest is good.”
I was blushing again, but still black, so he couldn’t know.
“Now I am boring myself,” he said. “I must be boring you.”
I thought maybe this worry about boring me was his way of politely putting an end to our visit, and I realized that I hadn’t even raised the subject that had inspired me to bring him cookies.
Looking at the ceiling, I said, “It’s so quiet here, so peaceful. I hope the new lady in Six-C doesn’t ruin your quiet.”
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31 (Reading here)
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 53
- Page 54
- Page 55
- Page 56
- Page 57
- Page 58
- Page 59
- Page 60
- Page 61
- Page 62
- Page 63
- Page 64
- Page 65
- Page 66
- Page 67
- Page 68
- Page 69
- Page 70
- Page 71
- Page 72
- Page 73
- Page 74
- Page 75
- Page 76
- Page 77
- Page 78
- Page 79
- Page 80
- Page 81
- Page 82
- Page 83
- Page 84
- Page 85
- Page 86
- Page 87
- Page 88
- Page 89
- Page 90
- Page 91
- Page 92
- Page 93
- Page 94
- Page 95
- Page 96
- Page 97
- Page 98
- Page 99
- Page 100
- Page 101
- Page 102