corner, she winged it over in its direction. “Since this is obviously your doing —
you
keep it!”
If she hadn’t sailed in to her bedroom and slammed the door … she would have seen the picture get caught.
Chapter Twelve
The breeze off the East River carried a smell that was astoundingly close to nature, the smell of actual water with a touch of actual sea salt.
Amazing
, thought Jamie, ambling down Greenpoint Avenue for home. Live here long enough, and you see — or smell — everything; the next thing they’ll be telling you, there’ll be fish living in that river.
But who needs a river full of fish when you’ve got the city that never sleeps? Jamie laughed at himself, at his own corniness, at the idea that he could still be impressed by this sprawling, impossible place. And that he could still, even after six and a half years, almost seven, feel like he’d only just arrived.
Did he feel as if he belonged? Not sure, now. Not sure. In fairness, he still traded on the accent thing, and thickened it as necessary. It was a bit of a cop-out, but if nothing else, Jamie had enough cop on to know that in this town, you did whatever worked. And also in fairness, if he was in fact being fair with himself, he’d pretty much fled Manhattan, or what he usually called city center, and settled across the river in Brooklyn, in a neighborhood that — be honest — had more in common with Dublin 7 than it did with downtown.
A Polish working-class neighborhood, the tenements and factories weren’t the least bit reminiscent of Stoneybatter’s red brick, two-up two-downs — it was more the quality of the folk, the same family-oriented, hard-working ethic that Jamie knew by heart. They had a lot in common, the Polish and the Irish, even down to the beige, boiled cuisine, but at least the Poles knew how to lash on a bit of horseradish or whatever to give the food a spark. He waved through the storefront glass to Lena Kowalski, the lady in the dry cleaners, and she flapped one huge, muscular arm at him, and starting shouting something he couldn’t hear, and as it was in Polish, he couldn’t understand it either. Since she always shouted, he couldn’t be sure if she was commenting on the weather, or scolding him for forgetting his dry cleaning. Had he left in a jacket or trousers? He’d have to check for a ticket when he got home, and legged it across 9th Street against the light, more afraid of Lena Kowalski than the oncoming traffic.
The pavement. That was pretty similar too. Nice and wide, and bumping up against the front garden walls of the apartment buildings. A bit like auld Manor Street, that led down to Blackhorse Road, that led down to the Liffey. Now that was a river. No cleaner than any of these American rivers, but a river that had a more of a personality than either the East or the Hudson.
And
he had actually seen a school of fish swimming in it. Alive yes, pelting it for the Irish Sea, most definitely, but an entire school of fish.
“Jamie! I got fresh asparagus, first of the season!”
Bobby Malachevski waved a bunch of bright green stalks at Jamie from underneath his vegetable stand’s boldly striped awning.
“The first asparagus of the season? Sure, that’ll cost me an arm and a leg.” Jamie shifted his handful of shopping bags from his right hand to his left.
“A man’s gotta — ”
“Make a living, yeah, yeah.” Jamie put on a frown, and settled in for a nice haggle. Never mind that he had patronized Bobby’s shop since the very first day he’d moved into the neighborhood, it was their thrice weekly tradition, and it would be honored.
“Look at this eggplant — ”
“Aubergine.”
“Whatever.”
“Bobby, I’ve been tellin’ ya for what, almost seven years now, it’s an aubergine.”
“Hey, how come you’re Irish and you call it something French? Hah? Hah?”
Jamie wasn’t sure, so he changed the subject. “I like the look of those red peppers.”
“May wee, monsewer,
you
keep it!”
If she hadn’t sailed in to her bedroom and slammed the door … she would have seen the picture get caught.
Chapter Twelve
The breeze off the East River carried a smell that was astoundingly close to nature, the smell of actual water with a touch of actual sea salt.
Amazing
, thought Jamie, ambling down Greenpoint Avenue for home. Live here long enough, and you see — or smell — everything; the next thing they’ll be telling you, there’ll be fish living in that river.
But who needs a river full of fish when you’ve got the city that never sleeps? Jamie laughed at himself, at his own corniness, at the idea that he could still be impressed by this sprawling, impossible place. And that he could still, even after six and a half years, almost seven, feel like he’d only just arrived.
Did he feel as if he belonged? Not sure, now. Not sure. In fairness, he still traded on the accent thing, and thickened it as necessary. It was a bit of a cop-out, but if nothing else, Jamie had enough cop on to know that in this town, you did whatever worked. And also in fairness, if he was in fact being fair with himself, he’d pretty much fled Manhattan, or what he usually called city center, and settled across the river in Brooklyn, in a neighborhood that — be honest — had more in common with Dublin 7 than it did with downtown.
A Polish working-class neighborhood, the tenements and factories weren’t the least bit reminiscent of Stoneybatter’s red brick, two-up two-downs — it was more the quality of the folk, the same family-oriented, hard-working ethic that Jamie knew by heart. They had a lot in common, the Polish and the Irish, even down to the beige, boiled cuisine, but at least the Poles knew how to lash on a bit of horseradish or whatever to give the food a spark. He waved through the storefront glass to Lena Kowalski, the lady in the dry cleaners, and she flapped one huge, muscular arm at him, and starting shouting something he couldn’t hear, and as it was in Polish, he couldn’t understand it either. Since she always shouted, he couldn’t be sure if she was commenting on the weather, or scolding him for forgetting his dry cleaning. Had he left in a jacket or trousers? He’d have to check for a ticket when he got home, and legged it across 9th Street against the light, more afraid of Lena Kowalski than the oncoming traffic.
The pavement. That was pretty similar too. Nice and wide, and bumping up against the front garden walls of the apartment buildings. A bit like auld Manor Street, that led down to Blackhorse Road, that led down to the Liffey. Now that was a river. No cleaner than any of these American rivers, but a river that had a more of a personality than either the East or the Hudson.
And
he had actually seen a school of fish swimming in it. Alive yes, pelting it for the Irish Sea, most definitely, but an entire school of fish.
“Jamie! I got fresh asparagus, first of the season!”
Bobby Malachevski waved a bunch of bright green stalks at Jamie from underneath his vegetable stand’s boldly striped awning.
“The first asparagus of the season? Sure, that’ll cost me an arm and a leg.” Jamie shifted his handful of shopping bags from his right hand to his left.
“A man’s gotta — ”
“Make a living, yeah, yeah.” Jamie put on a frown, and settled in for a nice haggle. Never mind that he had patronized Bobby’s shop since the very first day he’d moved into the neighborhood, it was their thrice weekly tradition, and it would be honored.
“Look at this eggplant — ”
“Aubergine.”
“Whatever.”
“Bobby, I’ve been tellin’ ya for what, almost seven years now, it’s an aubergine.”
“Hey, how come you’re Irish and you call it something French? Hah? Hah?”
Jamie wasn’t sure, so he changed the subject. “I like the look of those red peppers.”
“May wee, monsewer,
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