forget momentarily they might be important at all. He felt a flush of shame and improvised a lie.
‘Soon,’ he said. ‘She suggested a cocktail party.’
‘A
cocktail
party? Where? 1961?’
‘Cock-tail,’ JP said, making shooting noises with his finger.
‘She can be a bit old-fashioned,’ George said. ‘It’s just an idea.’
‘Well, I do want to meet her. This mystery woman who’s just earned you a month’s salary in a day.’
‘I had a little part in it. I did make the lion.’
‘Whatever you say, George.’
Kumiko had a second set of tiles she was reluctant to show him. There were thirty-two of them, she said, and they sat quietly in the corner of her suitcase in five separate stacks tied together with white ribbon, a single sheet of tissue paper between each to keep them from rubbing together.
‘It is a larger project of mine,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to show me,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she said, a small smile playing on her lips. ‘Which is why I perhaps will.’
She finally did late on a Saturday in the print shop. George had returned JP to Amanda after her second weekend in a row counting traffic queues in Romford or Horsham or whatever town with a great-aunt-sounding name it was, and George had come in to relieve Mehmet, who hated working alone and swore he had a Saturday afternoon call-back for ‘swing in
Wicked
’, which George assumed was a lie but let him off anyway.
He hadn’t seen Kumiko for the previous two nights. Their get-togethers were unpredictable. She now had a phone number she never seemed to answer, and often she would just show up in George’s shop, wondering if he’d like to join her for company that evening.
He always said yes.
Today, she waited until nearly the end of opening hours to make her way inside. Still with the suitcase, still with the white coat draped over one arm, no matter how much colder this winter seemed to be getting.
‘My daughter would very much like to meet you,’ he said to her as she opened the case.
‘The feeling is mutual,’ Kumiko said. ‘Perhaps if we have that party you were speaking of.’
‘Yes,’ George said. ‘Okay, yes, then definitely, let’s–’
‘It is a kind of story,’ she said, interrupting, but so delicately it was almost as if she’d done so by accident, as if he had asked her about the pile of unseen tiles seconds ago rather than many nights before. She reached into the suitcase and, instead of showing him the new picture she’d made of his latest donated cutting (a closed fist, but one drained of potential violence, one clearly clasping its last beloved thing), she picked up a packet of tiles tied with ribbon.
‘A sort of myth,’ she said, setting the packet down but not yet unwrapping it. ‘A story I was told as a girl, but one that has grown in the telling over the years.’
Yet still she didn’t move to untie the ribbon.
‘You don’t have to,’ George said.
‘I know.’
‘I’m willing to wait. I told you I was willing to wait for anything.’
She looked at him seriously now. ‘You hand me too much power, George. It is not a burden, but it might become one, and I do not wish that.’ She touched his arm. ‘I know you do it out of your abundant kindness, but there may come a day when both you and I would wish that I treat you less carefully. And that must remain a possibility, George. If there is never a chance of hardness or pain, then softness has no meaning.’
George swallowed. ‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see the tiles.’
She opened her mouth in a little square of delighted surprise. ‘
Do
you, George? And my immediate thought was to say no to you. But how wonderful. Of course I will show you.’
She untied the ribbon, and showed him the first one.
It was almost completely covered in feathers. They fanned out, looping in and out of one another in a spray of brilliant white. Within, a single feather, also white but of just different enough tone
‘Soon,’ he said. ‘She suggested a cocktail party.’
‘A
cocktail
party? Where? 1961?’
‘Cock-tail,’ JP said, making shooting noises with his finger.
‘She can be a bit old-fashioned,’ George said. ‘It’s just an idea.’
‘Well, I do want to meet her. This mystery woman who’s just earned you a month’s salary in a day.’
‘I had a little part in it. I did make the lion.’
‘Whatever you say, George.’
Kumiko had a second set of tiles she was reluctant to show him. There were thirty-two of them, she said, and they sat quietly in the corner of her suitcase in five separate stacks tied together with white ribbon, a single sheet of tissue paper between each to keep them from rubbing together.
‘It is a larger project of mine,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to show me,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she said, a small smile playing on her lips. ‘Which is why I perhaps will.’
She finally did late on a Saturday in the print shop. George had returned JP to Amanda after her second weekend in a row counting traffic queues in Romford or Horsham or whatever town with a great-aunt-sounding name it was, and George had come in to relieve Mehmet, who hated working alone and swore he had a Saturday afternoon call-back for ‘swing in
Wicked
’, which George assumed was a lie but let him off anyway.
He hadn’t seen Kumiko for the previous two nights. Their get-togethers were unpredictable. She now had a phone number she never seemed to answer, and often she would just show up in George’s shop, wondering if he’d like to join her for company that evening.
He always said yes.
Today, she waited until nearly the end of opening hours to make her way inside. Still with the suitcase, still with the white coat draped over one arm, no matter how much colder this winter seemed to be getting.
‘My daughter would very much like to meet you,’ he said to her as she opened the case.
‘The feeling is mutual,’ Kumiko said. ‘Perhaps if we have that party you were speaking of.’
‘Yes,’ George said. ‘Okay, yes, then definitely, let’s–’
‘It is a kind of story,’ she said, interrupting, but so delicately it was almost as if she’d done so by accident, as if he had asked her about the pile of unseen tiles seconds ago rather than many nights before. She reached into the suitcase and, instead of showing him the new picture she’d made of his latest donated cutting (a closed fist, but one drained of potential violence, one clearly clasping its last beloved thing), she picked up a packet of tiles tied with ribbon.
‘A sort of myth,’ she said, setting the packet down but not yet unwrapping it. ‘A story I was told as a girl, but one that has grown in the telling over the years.’
Yet still she didn’t move to untie the ribbon.
‘You don’t have to,’ George said.
‘I know.’
‘I’m willing to wait. I told you I was willing to wait for anything.’
She looked at him seriously now. ‘You hand me too much power, George. It is not a burden, but it might become one, and I do not wish that.’ She touched his arm. ‘I know you do it out of your abundant kindness, but there may come a day when both you and I would wish that I treat you less carefully. And that must remain a possibility, George. If there is never a chance of hardness or pain, then softness has no meaning.’
George swallowed. ‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see the tiles.’
She opened her mouth in a little square of delighted surprise. ‘
Do
you, George? And my immediate thought was to say no to you. But how wonderful. Of course I will show you.’
She untied the ribbon, and showed him the first one.
It was almost completely covered in feathers. They fanned out, looping in and out of one another in a spray of brilliant white. Within, a single feather, also white but of just different enough tone
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