his. “I know you may not want this,” said Lydia. “I know you are still mourning your wife. I respect this. But I was thinking, I have a good job now. I could help you —”
“That’s a kind thought,” said Lev. “So kind. And I’m pleased about your job with Maestro Greszler. But that’s your new life, Lydia, and tomorrow I must follow your example and find mine.”
“I don’t mean money,” said Lydia, flustered. “I mean just helping each other a little. Spend time together . . .”
“Yes,” said Lev. “Sure. And I’ll accept your help with the jobs in the paper.”
Lydia looked down. “On the bus,” she said, “I got so used to being with you. Side by side. It’s ridiculous, I know. But I pretended to myself we were traveling together. And when I said good-bye to you . . .”
“Lydia,” Lev said gently, “we weren’t traveling together.”
“I know. I know. This is really stupid of me.”
“No, it’s not stupid, but . . .”
Lydia put her hand round Lev’s wrist. She held it tight. “Can I touch your hair, Lev?” she whispered. “You have beautiful hair. So thick and nice. May I just touch that?”
Lev looked down at Lydia’s shiny face, with its splash of brown moles. There was something about her that had moved him from the beginning—the way she’d eaten those neatly packed hard-boiled eggs, the quietness of her voice—but the idea of being touched by her terrified him.
“Listen . . .” he began.
“Just your hair,” said Lydia. “That’s all.”
“My hair’s dusty,” said Lev.
“I don’t mind.”
“Listen . . .” he began again. But now Lydia reached up and put the back of her hand on Lev’s head, just above his ear. Lev didn’t move. Lydia’s hand didn’t move. The cigarette kept burning. Lev thought how, during the evening, he’d been close to feeling happy in this room, but now this happiness seemed shallow and compromised. He cursed himself for telephoning Lydia.
“Lev,” said Lydia, in a quiet little childlike voice, “you know you’re a very handsome man. It would be so sad if you decided to be alone always. Don’t you remember how a kiss can feel? Do you?”
“Yes,” said Lev. “I do. But now we must both go to sleep.”
As gently as he could, Lev reached up and took hold of Lydia’s hand and placed it in her lap, and he watched her lower her eyes and stare at her own hand as though it were some unexpected gift he had put there.
“It’s nearly morning,” said Lev. “Can you hear the birds singing?”
“Well,” said Lydia, “I am not particularly interested in birds.”
5
Two-point-five Meters of Steel Draining Top
WITH LYDIA’S HELP, Lev found a job as a kitchen porter in a restaurant kitchen in Clerkenwell. It paid £5.30 an hour.
The chef-proprietor of the restaurant, called GK Ashe, was Gregory (G. K.) Ashe. The restaurant manager, Damian, who interviewed Lev at three in the afternoon, said, “GK Ashe is the next big thing in this city. Are you hearing me, Olev?”
“Yes,” said Lev.
Damian was a pale, middle-aged man with a shaven head. He was dressed smartly in an expensive suit and a shirt the color of lemonade. He had the kind of smile that faded and died as soon as it touched his lips. Damian looked intently at Lev, his glance moving over the other man’s body, frisking him with his brown, wide-awake eyes. Then he said, “You’re skinny. That’s good. Mr. Ashe likes his staff to be skinny. Because it’s a sign they’re nimble. And everybody in this kitchen has to be nimble. Nimble, fast, and tireless. D’you understand what I’m saying?”
“Tireless?” said Lev. “What is that?”
“Never tired. Never showing you’re tired, even if you are. Because the shifts are long and you’ve got to be up for it. Nobody yawns here. Okay? You just stifle it. Catch you yawning and you could get a bainmarie chucked at your head.”
“Bainmarie?” said Lev.
“And you never,
never
eat the food, right?
“That’s a kind thought,” said Lev. “So kind. And I’m pleased about your job with Maestro Greszler. But that’s your new life, Lydia, and tomorrow I must follow your example and find mine.”
“I don’t mean money,” said Lydia, flustered. “I mean just helping each other a little. Spend time together . . .”
“Yes,” said Lev. “Sure. And I’ll accept your help with the jobs in the paper.”
Lydia looked down. “On the bus,” she said, “I got so used to being with you. Side by side. It’s ridiculous, I know. But I pretended to myself we were traveling together. And when I said good-bye to you . . .”
“Lydia,” Lev said gently, “we weren’t traveling together.”
“I know. I know. This is really stupid of me.”
“No, it’s not stupid, but . . .”
Lydia put her hand round Lev’s wrist. She held it tight. “Can I touch your hair, Lev?” she whispered. “You have beautiful hair. So thick and nice. May I just touch that?”
Lev looked down at Lydia’s shiny face, with its splash of brown moles. There was something about her that had moved him from the beginning—the way she’d eaten those neatly packed hard-boiled eggs, the quietness of her voice—but the idea of being touched by her terrified him.
“Listen . . .” he began.
“Just your hair,” said Lydia. “That’s all.”
“My hair’s dusty,” said Lev.
“I don’t mind.”
“Listen . . .” he began again. But now Lydia reached up and put the back of her hand on Lev’s head, just above his ear. Lev didn’t move. Lydia’s hand didn’t move. The cigarette kept burning. Lev thought how, during the evening, he’d been close to feeling happy in this room, but now this happiness seemed shallow and compromised. He cursed himself for telephoning Lydia.
“Lev,” said Lydia, in a quiet little childlike voice, “you know you’re a very handsome man. It would be so sad if you decided to be alone always. Don’t you remember how a kiss can feel? Do you?”
“Yes,” said Lev. “I do. But now we must both go to sleep.”
As gently as he could, Lev reached up and took hold of Lydia’s hand and placed it in her lap, and he watched her lower her eyes and stare at her own hand as though it were some unexpected gift he had put there.
“It’s nearly morning,” said Lev. “Can you hear the birds singing?”
“Well,” said Lydia, “I am not particularly interested in birds.”
5
Two-point-five Meters of Steel Draining Top
WITH LYDIA’S HELP, Lev found a job as a kitchen porter in a restaurant kitchen in Clerkenwell. It paid £5.30 an hour.
The chef-proprietor of the restaurant, called GK Ashe, was Gregory (G. K.) Ashe. The restaurant manager, Damian, who interviewed Lev at three in the afternoon, said, “GK Ashe is the next big thing in this city. Are you hearing me, Olev?”
“Yes,” said Lev.
Damian was a pale, middle-aged man with a shaven head. He was dressed smartly in an expensive suit and a shirt the color of lemonade. He had the kind of smile that faded and died as soon as it touched his lips. Damian looked intently at Lev, his glance moving over the other man’s body, frisking him with his brown, wide-awake eyes. Then he said, “You’re skinny. That’s good. Mr. Ashe likes his staff to be skinny. Because it’s a sign they’re nimble. And everybody in this kitchen has to be nimble. Nimble, fast, and tireless. D’you understand what I’m saying?”
“Tireless?” said Lev. “What is that?”
“Never tired. Never showing you’re tired, even if you are. Because the shifts are long and you’ve got to be up for it. Nobody yawns here. Okay? You just stifle it. Catch you yawning and you could get a bainmarie chucked at your head.”
“Bainmarie?” said Lev.
“And you never,
never
eat the food, right?
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