Shadows of Berlin полностью

Out in the rink, music is playing over the loudspeaker. Calliope music. Carousel music, with a gusty melody that turns its own circles. Rachel is happy to feel her muscles moving as she pushes off onto the ice, holding on to Aaron’s arm. Happy to feel the fresh chill on her face, and soon enough, she feels the swift balance of her body as they whoosh around the inner lane, letting the momentum carry them. The boy grips her hand in his, and they let themselves float into the long straightaway.

***

That night, on the Lower East Side as Rachel tries to sleep, she feels a strange energy vibrating through her body. As if her body is waking up. Returning to life. Returning to something she feared was lost. Her desire to create. The next day, she introduces something new into the flat she shares with her uncle. A piece of Masonite board. Not very large. Nowhere near the size for big ideas or a giant talent. But big enough to receive paint. Odd shapes emerge. Ghostly fumes. Nothing living, but the colors—­blues, purples, thin grays—­rise up like chimney smoke. When her uncle sees what she is doing, he frowns thoughtfully. “Is this a painting?” he asks. She, however, is not prepared to answer that question.

Three weeks later—­or was it only two?—Aaron takes her to a theater on Broadway. There’s singing and laughter in the play. The audience laughs, Aaron laughs, so Rachel laughs too, timing her laughter to match his, even though she doesn’t really follow what’s happening onstage. Still, the laughter makes her feel light.

Later, they go to a homey, all-­night doughnut shop on the corner of 14th Street and Seventh. The coffee is overheated and bitter, and the doughnuts are greasy with sugar. But it’s a busy concern even after midnight, and Rachel and Aaron share the counter with other night owls. Aaron is taking the opportunity to instruct Rachel on the proper dunking technique, using a plain brown old-­fashioned.

“See,” he instructs, dunking the doughnut into his coffee cup, “now this is a regulation dunking. Grasp the doughnut with two fingers positioned on the forward area, and the third finger to the rear in a support role. Then lower the doughnut at a steady but moderate pace into the coffee. And here’s the essential part,” he stresses. “Two dunks, no more, for maximum exposure to the coffee flavorfulness without endangering the all-­important doughnut integrity. Remove doughnut from coffee, followed by one single lightly applied tap on the rim of the cup to prevent dripping, then raise doughnut to mouth and…” He demonstrates by biting firmly into the doughnut and chewing with gusto. “Mmmmm” is what he has to say about this sort of perfection. “The result? Doughnut paradise.”

Rachel has been smiling throughout his technical demonstration, but now she pounces, attacking the doughnut in Aaron’s fingers with passionate appetite.

Chuckling, he tells her, “Hey, hey, leave some fingers, will you?”

She chews the doughnut with exaggerated hunger. “No, I will leave nothing. I will devour you entirely.” And she falls on his neck, devouring him next, making hungry noises. He fends off the attack in a maybe kind of embarrassed-­in-­public-­but-­still-­pleasurable sort of way. “H’okay, h’okay, h’okay.” He’s laughing.

The night owl beside them lifts his eyebrows in late-­night surprise. Or is it appreciation? Aaron can only speak the truth. “What can I say? She’s a tigress.” The night owl lifts his coffee cup in salute. Rachel laughs.

Outside, the snow is coming down, piling up, but she is safe inside a doughnut shop. Not huddling inside a cold cellar or walking the ice-­slick streets. That is how Eema and she had lived as U-­boats until the day of their arrest. But now she is warm. Warm in her wool stockings. Her wool pullover. Warm with this boy. In the doughnut shop, she holds the cheap white china mug with both hands, stealing from its heat. He, though, has set his coffee aside with quiet intention. Then planting the jeweler’s box between them, he squares his elbows on the tabletop and gazes at her in a clear, affectionately businesslike manner. “So? What do you think?” is his proposal.

She stares back at him, still gripping the china mug. “What is this?”

“What is it? What’s it look like?”

Another swift stare at the small black velveteen box.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” he asks.

“You wish me to?”

The curve of his smile deepens. “Yes, I wish you to. Of course. What else?”

A swallow. Then her fingers move, opening the box with a quick movement and a soft pop of the box’s hinge. Her eyes settle on the contents, but her expression remains controlled. The pinpoint gleam of the precious stone makes her uncomfortable. She has the urge to snap the box shut and squirrel it away, as if it is a chunk of bread that she will hoard.

“So,” Aaron repeats. “Whattaya think?”