Page 34 of The Phoenix Bride
“I am grateful for the invitation, Master van Essen,” I say. “I’d be glad to come, if Master Mendes will permit it.”
“Call me Jan, please. David, shecancome, can’t she?”
“Your sister will be looking for you,” Mendes says to me.
“I know,” I reply. “But if this is my only evening of freedom, I intend to use it well.”
“Ignore him. He is always dour.” Jan offers me his arm, and I loop my hand through his elbow. “We are both delighted to have your company.”
He leads me down the path. Mendes trails behind us. I turn my head to look at him, and our gazes meet. His black eyes reflect the pink of the sunset and the green of the grass. I realize that they are not colorless, as I once had thought, but rather every color at once: like mirrors, reflecting all else. I feel a flush of pleasure at his attention, and then shame for it immediately after. This newfound attraction is unwelcome. It will never bereciprocated, and it will lead me to nothing but further grief. I must forget it. There is nothing else to be done.
One evening of freedom: the cure Mendes prescribed to me, albeit far smaller a dose. Then back to the townhouse, I suppose. Back to my sister and my suitor. Back to my embroidery needle and my emerald silk and the endless tedium of my confinement.
One evening of freedom. I will make it count.
I came to this coffeehouse with Manuel once, a little over a year ago. I had just lost a patient, a young woman. She’d had a tumor in the stomach; by the time I discovered the true cause of her pain, it had been too late. I’d been in the room as she’d passed.
Manuel had always been able to tell when I needed distraction. He’d bought drinks for us, and sweet biscuits. We sat across from each other. He did not ask me what was wrong; he knew better than to press me. The coffeehouse was mostly empty that evening, but there was a storm outside—the last of the spring rains—and it did enough to fill the silence. The steady patter of the water against the roof was some measure of distraction from my thoughts. Not enough, but some.
He knew I didn’t want to speak of it, and that if I eventually did, I would do so without his prompting. Instead, he fetched a pamphlet for himself, and one for me also. We sat and read until the biscuits were gone and the coffee no longer steamed.
Our eyes met over the top of the page. He smiled.
I thought,If only we could stay here always, you and I, and pretend the earth is no longer turning.
I never did tell him about the patient in the end. But I felt better for having him there. That afternoon will remain with me always, and for good reason: It was one of the last times I saw Manuel before the plague came. It was a time when he was most himself, when the qualities that endeared him to me were most evident.
No matter. I have become skilled at putting such thoughts away. Whenever I return to this place, and I recall that day, I file the past down, soften and reshape it into something I can hide. Each time I do so, the memory gets smaller. Perhaps, eventually, it will disappear entirely, and I will lose Manuel for good. I don’t want that to happen, but I have no choice; it feels like the only way to cope with his loss.
“David,” Jan says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “Return to the living, I beg of you. We need to find seats.”
The room is a crush of noise and color. Someone has had the foolish notion to bring up war reparations as the topic of the evening’s debate, and the argument is already near a brawl, screams and insults being hurled across the room. We stand in the doorway, and Cecilia—astonished, clutching her hands to her chest—says, “Will there be a fight?”
“Perhaps,” I reply. She needn’t look so excited about it. “Jan, is there any possibility of a table?”
Jan, who has a better vantage point than either of us, peers over the top of the crowd. “Ah, there,” he says. “A booth’s just been cleared.”
He surges forward. Cecilia goes behind him, elbowing her way through the horde, parting them like Moses. I am left following in their wake.
Cecilia and I slide into the booth. It is quieter here, the lightdimmer. Jan remains standing; I give him a desperate look, but he smirks at me and says, “I must go hawk some beans. I will return later.”
Before I can stop him, he turns and leaves. Cecilia watches him go. “Hawk beans?” she asks.
“He is a roaster. He sells to the brewer here.”
“Oh. How do we order?”
I lean over the side of the booth and hold two fingers up to the serving girl. She nods.
“Like that,” I say.
“I suppose that makes sense, considering the noise.” She peers over the crowd. “There are so many people here! How extraordinary. I must admit that you were correct, Master Mendes. I feel much better to be out of the townhouse and doing something different.”
I don’t reply. The imprint of her fingers on my knuckles as we played the spinet has been a phantom presence, lingering for days after we last touched; I felt her hand on mine as I picked herbs in the garden, as I poured wine and lit candles for Shabbat, as Sara smiled at me in my parlor.
Now she is here again, when I thought she would only ever be a memory, and anything I can think to say seems inadequate.
The serving girl comes and deposits a tray on the table, laden with a pair of coffee bowls, a kettle, and twin dishes of sugar and salt.
