The End of the Alphabet (6 page)

 

E.

The Windy Coast of
…Zipper read, in a tone she reserved for certain circumstances. They were on a train bound for Paris, a flight to Pisa, a short hop to…

Elba, said Ambrose.

Just a thought, said Zipper. Why not stay in Paris? Get out of the airport for a while.

Napoleon wasn't keen on the place.

We could take a later flight.

But the views are spectacular.

They will be.

We'll be back to Paris in a few days, Ambrose said. And we always go to Paris. You're not tired of it?

Tired? Yes. Of Paris? No.

How's this then:
E is for Eiffel, a Tower in Paris
?

Zipper pretended to frown. Not quite the music of
The Windy Coast
, she said, but if you don't mind.

Get out of the airport for a while.

Whatever you think.

It was a tone Ambrose could never resist. Nor had ever much tried to.

 

Zipper awoke in a modest room on the top floor of a hotel—their hotel—tucked in a corner of Place Saint-Sulpice. A band of sunlight found its way between the mismatched towers of the church across the square, through the window and on over the bed. It came to rest across Zipper's face. She slid farther under the duvet, warm and safe.

Home, she thought. Another five minutes. Then she remembered where she was. Where Ambrose was. Off on his stroll.

Whether Ambrose remembered it or not was never the point. The fact remained: they
had
met, and it
was
the first time, on the Rue des Rosiers.

A younger Ambrose Zephyr is midway through his usual walk. Deep in the Marais, a spring downpour forces him into the doorway of an antiquarian bookshop. He huddles, his trench coat dripping on his shoes, and searches the sky for a break. He does not see the young woman coming through the door behind him.

A young Zipper Ashkenazi—on a break from working a fashion shoot—purchases a second-edition
gastronomique
published many years before. The book is in only fair condition and she barters well. A good souvenir, she thinks, of a first trip to Paris. The small volume slips into her coat pocket and she opens the shop door.

Zipper does not see the young man's face as the bell above the door chimes an exit. Ambrose, fretting about his shoes, does not hear the bell.

In the politest French she can manage, Zipper asks the young man's back to excuse her. A startled Ambrose turns and stares at the young woman. Zipper waits, then begins opening her
umbrella. Ambrose continues staring, oblivious to weather, shoes, umbrella.

The rain continues.

The staring becomes annoying.

After some time, Zipper breaks the young man's gaze and glances at his feet. Ambrose rediscovers his manners. He steps into the street and allows the woman by. He apologizes in the politest English he can manage. He would have removed his hat, had he owned one.

The rain pours and Ambrose stands watching the young woman disappear under her umbrella. As Zipper steps to avoid a puddle, she glances back at the young man and looks away.

He smiles, having caught her out. She vanishes around a corner and chuckles at the thought of the young Englishman's ruined shoes and drowned hair. A hat, she thinks, might have gone well with the trench and the weather.

 

Something had changed. The air seemed off. The sunlight through the window felt cold. Zipper thought it might be the cobwebs of a too heavy sleep. She glanced at the bedside clock, padded to the ensuite and ran a bath. By now her husband
would be passing Notre-Dame, stepping on the
point zero
marker as he went.

 

His
flânerie
, Ambrose called it. It was habitual, rarely altered in either route or duration. Friends called it his cliché, mentioning the beaten path, suggesting other sites and different sounds. Ambrose would politely nod his head and wander where he wanted. They have their Paris, he would tell Zipper. I have mine.

 

She slipped inch by goosebumped inch into the steaming water. Her toes wiggled at the other end of the tub. Zipper closed her eyes as the heat went to her bones, releasing wave after raw wave of terror. She tried imagining something else, but all she could see was their time. Their Paris…

The narrow street off the Boulevard Saint-Germain with its family
boulangerie
and two-table cafés and produce stalls. Where they had always bought a workman's lunch and a bottle of
vin de pays
. Where Ambrose would sneak a foul cigarette while she selected a pâté…

The Bastille roundabout. Where he would narrow his gaze and point out peasants laying
siege to the prison. Where she had mastered the grace of walking in heels amidst the helter-skelter traffic…

Zipper's shoulders heaved, she gulped for air, fought for calm. She looked down at her body and thought of his hands.

In Place des Vosges. His hands on her. In the dark beneath Victor Hugo's window, her hands on him. Breathless mouths, wordless tongues, losing themselves. Under the plane trees in the middle of the night…

She buried her face in her hands.
You cannot have it
, she screamed through her fingers.

The antiquarian bookshop. Soon it would belong to other lovers, selfishly claimed as
their
Paris…

The
bouquinistes
near the Pont Neuf. He would be there…

Zipper pulled herself from the water, hurried to dress, ran for her life.

He would be there by now.

 

Zipper rushed along the quai towards the Pont Neuf, checked her watch. She was late. Yet she smiled. She knew where he'd be and it wasn't far away and she could slow down.

A
bouquiniste
's stall caught her eye. It was decorated with the bric-a-brac of the printing trades: agate rulers, bindery clamps, typesetters' trays. A collection of old type blocks.

One particularly worn wooden cube felt soft and good in her hand.

 

Zipper found Ambrose at the downstream end of Île de la Cité. Lying on the cobbled breakwall that sloped at a comfortable angle into the Seine. He was, as usual, admiring the view along the river to the Eiffel Tower, peeking above the rooftops, far in the distance. Zipper sat beside him.

You smell like cigarettes, she said. How was the walk?

Ambrose lied. Lovely, he said. Zipper caught sight of his slowly trembling hands, the subtle curling and uncurling of fingers.

How was your lie-in? he said. Feel better?

Zipper lied.

 

As is the habit of lovers in Paris, they spent the rest of the day on the island in the Seine. They ate a workman's lunch, drank all the wine, waved to the
bateau mouche
.

At some point Ambrose lay his head in his wife's lap and stared through the trees to the sky. He said he thought it might rain. Zipper laughed.

Admit it, she said. It
was
you with the soggy shoes. Ambrose smiled.

What remained of the day passed quietly. Without a cloud in sight.

 

I bought you something, Zipper said. For missing Elba.

They were in a taxi enroute to the airport. She put the wooden type block in his palm and closed his stiff fingers around it. No peeking, she said.

He knew the character by touch. Uppercase, a bold sans serif from a headline tray. He felt the sharp zig and zag of the letterform. The smooth face of the block, the worn and rounded edges. Feels large and heavy for something so small, he said.

I bought you something too. Ambrose handed her a fat and tired edition of
Les Misérables
.

Zipper glanced through the rear window of the taxi. A tower in Paris, tiny and far away, flashed through the skyline and was gone. The taxi merged onto the
périphérique
.

 

F.

Late afternoon stretched across the Piazza della Signoria. A marble David—muscular, walleyed, tall for his age—ignored the sightseers crowded about his base. A few with cameras backed away from the horde, cautiously measuring their strides, trying to fit boy king and mugging companions in the viewfinder.

In a quiet corner of a café at the opposite end of the square, Ambrose Zephyr ordered wine. Two glasses.
Rapido
, he snapped.

Zipper was surprised at her husband's tone. She gave him a look he chose to ignore.

They sank low in their chairs. It had not been the day Ambrose had in mind. It had all been too much, too many.

 

Those who knew Ambrose would later say they were not much surprised by F. After all, they offered, hadn't his mother introduced him—
and at such a young age
—to the great art of Florence? Wasn't he proud—
annoyingly so
—of the university away-term he had spent flirting his way through the city? Did he not know its architects, its Medicis, its masters? By name
and
date, they said.

 

An old man moved past their table. He was a picture of the casual Italian gentleman: polished shoes, cufflinks and cravat, practical sunglasses. He carried a walking stick, tapping it lightly on the cobblestones as he moved along.

The stick missed Ambrose and Zipper's table. There was a minor collision; a drop or two of spilled wine, a stumble. The Italian gentleman apologized as his hand searched for the edge of the table. Ambrose swore under his breath.

Zipper glared at her husband a second time, applying more disgust, less surprise. Ambrose slumped deeper into his chair and sulked at the crowd across the piazza.

No harm done, Zipper said to the Italian gentleman. He turned his body in the direction of her voice and smiled.

Zipper found a third chair. The old gentleman asked if he might rest. Just for a moment…the joints, you see.

You smell like my wife, he said. Zipper was embarrassed by her suddenly blushed cheeks.

When we would walk. In our evenings along the river, she wore that fragrance. A wise and clever woman, my wife. This I know, she would say: A man can see a hundred women, lust for a thousand more, but it is one scent that will open his eyes and turn him to love. And he will never thank the angels for making him blow his nose that morning.

The sightseers under the marble boy king grew more boisterous.

These crowds, said the Italian gentleman. They take many photographs. Such a sad thing. Such a long way to come to take bad pictures of one's friends.

He shrugged. This city is too much for them. he said. Too many paintings, too many churches, too many Davids. Too many other people taking pictures. Can you see the Duomo? someone will ask. I can see the back of your head, another will answer.

But enough, he blurted in Ambrose's direction. Life is too quick for such gloom. There are other things to see.

Ambrose scowled.

The old gentleman searched for Zipper's hand. Indulge me a bit of a game, he said. He took her hand and cupped it between his.

Signora's blouse, he announced after a moment, is as white as our marble. Crisp and tailored, like a man's. The cuffs are rolled, the collar is turned. Very casual. The buttons open just so and—forgive me, signora—there is perhaps a peek of black lace, a peek of something.

A smile inched across Ambrose's face. The gentleman continued.

She wears a silk scarf—reds and golds, I think. A flowing skirt, calf length. Red again, like Il Papa's cardinals. But it is late in the day—she has slid her sunglasses to the top of her head. A strand
of hair hangs to the side of her face. She squints with the low sun. The feet of birds at the corners of her eyes. Have I missed anything?

Signora's shoes, offered Ambrose.

Aaaah, said the Italian gentleman, there you are. Now you wish to play my game. Very well.

They are…black. Yes. Flat. For too much rushing around. For too many people. For too much art. But I am guessing. Better, I think, for walking by the river?

Ambrose looked at his wife. Zipper noticed it was the first time his eyes had brightened all day.

 

A third glass was summoned and a toast to marble kings was drunk. Ambrose apologized for his behaviour. Not my best day, he said. The Italian gentleman said there was no harm done. Ambrose asked him about his wife.

The old gentleman produced a small photograph and handed it to Ambrose. I have many, he said. They never seem to be where I leave them.

Ambrose smiled. He passed the photograph to Zipper.

She expected an old and faded portrait of a young and beautiful woman. Instead, the face that
smiled stiffly from the photo was worn, fleshy, a little pale. But the eyes were clear, the hair well styled. An expensive scarf was tied loosely around the old woman's neck.

The face in the photograph had been embossed. Raised creases and furrows traced the features: scarf, hair, eyes. The shy smile.

I think she might be like your own signora, the Italian gentleman said. Something to see?

She was, said Ambrose. Is.

The Italian gentleman finished his wine and stood as best he could. He kissed Zipper's hand, begging forgiveness for leaving so abruptly.

I promised to meet someone by the river, he said, and tapped his walking stick across the piazza. As he passed the marble boy king, he pulled his pocket square with a flourish and quietly blew his nose.