her hand on to the paper, rub her fingers over the blue
thumbprints that Charlotte had left in the empty spaces, the
indentations and folds, the crooks and crannies of the work.
She knew it was the fallacy of the object she had been sucked
into. Knew that those small pieces of coloured paper had
been touched and held by Charlotte.
‘Excuse me, Ms Dean.’ The old caretaker had come in
silently, bringing a cup of peppermint tea for her. We’re
closing in half an hour. You’ve been here so long today, I
thought you might like a drink.’ She looked up from Gouache
number 430, took the cup.
‘Thank you, Moshe. I get so carried away in here, I
sometimes forget to eat.’ She looked at her watch. Could it
be possible that she’d been staring at this piece for the last
two hours, ever since Wouter’s phone call?
The old man smiled, his teeth glinting through the white
beard. ‘I have some gefilte fish my daughter cooked me at
home. You want some?’
She always walked Moshe home, even sometimes when
she wasn’t studying she would come in at closing time and
walk with him the fifteen minutes it took to his flat. Yes,
that would be nice.’ Nice to get out of that room, away from
the tempting phone, from the pull of the ringback, the
last-minute apology, the hopeless pleading.
‘It is our New Year tomorrow. My daughter still cooks
me the traditional things, things her mother once taught
her.’
They walked past the tourists stuck in their seats in coffee
shops and cafes, past the businessmen hurding through the
city on their way to another appointment, past the canals
and streets that were now so familiar to her. She held his
tired hand as they walked, half the speed she was used to,
and tried not to think about Wouter.
When they reached his place, he unlocked the door and
let them in. A typically small Amsterdam room, heavy with
the smell of dusty books and papers and the old man’s
unfiltered cigarettes. He brushed away some magazines he’d
been reading and placed the small dumplings of minced fish
into the microwave as Suze sat down in one of his tattered
armchairs.
‘You ever eat gefilte fish before?’ he asked her as he laid
out two paper plates on the table.
‘No. Just another gap in my life’s education, I guess. There
weren’t too many Jews in Phoenix, not where I grew up
anyway.’ She was glad for the talk, the disruption, the
emphasis on the small and banal. The room she worked in sometimes
felt like a glove, slowly shrinking.
Well you’re in for a real treat, young lady,’ he said as he
piled the little grey patties on to her plate, his bony, brittle
fingers laying out the fork and spoon. She watched the
precise way he put everything in its proper place and she
began to cry, turning away at first, not wanting him to see.
But she was unable to hold it in. He slowly stood up, moved
towards her and placed his thin arms around hers and held
her, like that, until she was done.
‘Not something you want to talk about with an old man,
I suppose?’ he said as he sat back down.
She looked up at him. She wished he hadn’t seen her like
that. She wanted to appear strong, independent. ‘Nothing
much to say.’
‘But enough to cry?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll get over it.’
‘A boy?’
Nodded again. ‘Nothing serious,’ she added, more to
herself now.
‘But you wanted it to be.’
‘No. He did. I enjoyed being with him but I couldn’t really see us living the rest of our lives together and I thought, if not that, then what’s the point in pretending, wasting time
like that.’
Moshe looked at her. Hard. Unbelievable to think he was
so old.
‘But sometimes people change,’ he offered. ‘Things grow. The perfect man will never come. He will only flower from the less perfect one; if you give him the chance, that is.’
They ate silently, perhaps in respect for the history in
those fish cakes. The long nights and empty days that
thumbprints that Charlotte had left in the empty spaces, the
indentations and folds, the crooks and crannies of the work.
She knew it was the fallacy of the object she had been sucked
into. Knew that those small pieces of coloured paper had
been touched and held by Charlotte.
‘Excuse me, Ms Dean.’ The old caretaker had come in
silently, bringing a cup of peppermint tea for her. We’re
closing in half an hour. You’ve been here so long today, I
thought you might like a drink.’ She looked up from Gouache
number 430, took the cup.
‘Thank you, Moshe. I get so carried away in here, I
sometimes forget to eat.’ She looked at her watch. Could it
be possible that she’d been staring at this piece for the last
two hours, ever since Wouter’s phone call?
The old man smiled, his teeth glinting through the white
beard. ‘I have some gefilte fish my daughter cooked me at
home. You want some?’
She always walked Moshe home, even sometimes when
she wasn’t studying she would come in at closing time and
walk with him the fifteen minutes it took to his flat. Yes,
that would be nice.’ Nice to get out of that room, away from
the tempting phone, from the pull of the ringback, the
last-minute apology, the hopeless pleading.
‘It is our New Year tomorrow. My daughter still cooks
me the traditional things, things her mother once taught
her.’
They walked past the tourists stuck in their seats in coffee
shops and cafes, past the businessmen hurding through the
city on their way to another appointment, past the canals
and streets that were now so familiar to her. She held his
tired hand as they walked, half the speed she was used to,
and tried not to think about Wouter.
When they reached his place, he unlocked the door and
let them in. A typically small Amsterdam room, heavy with
the smell of dusty books and papers and the old man’s
unfiltered cigarettes. He brushed away some magazines he’d
been reading and placed the small dumplings of minced fish
into the microwave as Suze sat down in one of his tattered
armchairs.
‘You ever eat gefilte fish before?’ he asked her as he laid
out two paper plates on the table.
‘No. Just another gap in my life’s education, I guess. There
weren’t too many Jews in Phoenix, not where I grew up
anyway.’ She was glad for the talk, the disruption, the
emphasis on the small and banal. The room she worked in sometimes
felt like a glove, slowly shrinking.
Well you’re in for a real treat, young lady,’ he said as he
piled the little grey patties on to her plate, his bony, brittle
fingers laying out the fork and spoon. She watched the
precise way he put everything in its proper place and she
began to cry, turning away at first, not wanting him to see.
But she was unable to hold it in. He slowly stood up, moved
towards her and placed his thin arms around hers and held
her, like that, until she was done.
‘Not something you want to talk about with an old man,
I suppose?’ he said as he sat back down.
She looked up at him. She wished he hadn’t seen her like
that. She wanted to appear strong, independent. ‘Nothing
much to say.’
‘But enough to cry?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll get over it.’
‘A boy?’
Nodded again. ‘Nothing serious,’ she added, more to
herself now.
‘But you wanted it to be.’
‘No. He did. I enjoyed being with him but I couldn’t really see us living the rest of our lives together and I thought, if not that, then what’s the point in pretending, wasting time
like that.’
Moshe looked at her. Hard. Unbelievable to think he was
so old.
‘But sometimes people change,’ he offered. ‘Things grow. The perfect man will never come. He will only flower from the less perfect one; if you give him the chance, that is.’
They ate silently, perhaps in respect for the history in
those fish cakes. The long nights and empty days that
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