Shadows of Berlin полностью

“Whatever story makes you comfortable,” he says. Passing by her, he plants a kiss on a damp bare shoulder.

“Did you bring the wine?”

“Nope. Forgot.”

She puts back the Little Friskies on the shelf as Kibbitz crouches on his forepaws and burrows his nose into the bowl. “So go back out and get it. That place down the street is open till ten.”

“I don’t like the guy in that place. He always calls me ‘sweetheart.’”

“Calls you sweetheart?”

“I buy a six-­pack, and it’s: ‘That’ll be a buck ten, sweetheart.’ I dunno, it gives me the creeps.”

“Well, you have to go somewhere. We need wine.”

“So we’ll pick it up on the way,” he says, heading in the direction of the refrigerator. “Is there beer?”

“There’s root beer.”

“Okay, well, I guess that’ll have to do.”

“Do for what?”

“Do for I gotta fortify myself, don’t I?” is all Aaron says on the subject. “Hey, did ya know? You can buy Coke in a can now instead of a bottle. An aluminum can. Crazy,” he says. Then snaps off the cap of a bottle of A&W with the opener and takes a fortifying slug. “So how’s it going?” he wonders, frowning over in the direction of the canvas. “Looks like the canvas is still winning the staring match.”

She lights a Camel from a matchbook. “Don’t pressure me, please,” she says pleasantly enough.

“Who’s pressuring? I was just making an observation,” he says and glugs down root beer. “Hey, so whatever happened to those paintings you did when we first got married?”

Rachel says nothing.

“You know, the guy had one of ’em in his gallery for a while?”

“It was hardly any kind of a ‘gallery,’” she says dismissively. “It was in a tiny place on Tenth Street.” She cannot bring herself to speak the truth, which is that she left them on the subway or on the street. Just abandoned them, one at time. “I gave them to the Salvation Army,” she lies instead. An answer so preposterous that Aaron doesn’t bother to press further.

He emits a soft belch from downing the root beer.

“You know, I’m not wearing a tie to this little tête-­à-­tête,” he warns her.

“So who asked you to?” Rachel answers. “Besides, le tête-­à-­tête is a face-­to-­face, a private talk. What we will be attending, Monsieur le mari, is une soirée or une petite fête.” She says this, walking over and poaching a swallow of root beer from his bottle. Then she poaches another kiss, a kiss deep enough that she leaves him hard in the trousers. “But you should change your shirt,” she tells him. “You smell fishy.”

“Hey, that’s black beluga caviar you’re smelling,” he corrects. “Thirty bucks an ounce.”

Naomi answers the door dressed for a fancy affair in black capri pants and an elegant off-­the-­shoulders top that accentuates all those natural curves of hers. She also wears a look of happy surprise. That’s natural too. Rachel has always marveled at her sister-­in-­law’s ability to keep her smile so genuinely fresh. “Oh, hello, gorgeous,” Naomi announces gleefully and gives Rachel a loud smack on the cheek. When she turns to her brother, her expression makes allowances. “And hello to you, shtoomer,” she says affectionately in a tone that lightly teases the sourness of Aaron’s expectations for the evening.

“Look, let’s just get this little nosh-­up over with, okay, Red Riding Hood?” Aaron grumbles glumly. But he’s still brought a nice bottle of sauvignon blanc, along with a bottle of that particular Chianti that he knows Naomi loves. “Here,” he says, squeezing out a frown and handing over the sack. “Open ’em up early,” he instructs. “I gotta feeling I’m gonna be drinking heavily.”

Naomi shakes her head lightly. “Whatta ma-­roon,” she says. “How lucky you are to have snapped him up, Rach.”

Inside, Naomi tells them to make themselves at home as she pries the cork from the Chianti, pouring it out into three goblets that actually match. Rachel leaves her pumps by the door and sits stocking-­footed on the sofa, removing her cigarettes from her purse. She’s amazed at how clean the place looks. All the mess is stored in closets maybe, but still the surfaces are free of the standard clutter. The rug’s been vacuumed. And Naomi’s small dining table is set for a crowded four. There’s a large, elegantly shaped pottery ashtray with a red-­gold glaze on the coffee table that Rachel’s never seen before, and she tugs it closer as she lights up. Aaron, on the other hand, is still the wandering Jew, roving the boundaries of his sister’s apartment. He’s so antsy that he can’t sit, so he paces without destination, hands still stuffed in his pockets. “So where is he?” he wants to know.

“Tyrell?” Naomi says, raising her eyebrows as she hands her brother a glass. “He’ll be here soon,” she assures him.

“Tyrell, Tyrell,” Aaron repeats, jingling the change in his pockets as if he’s talking to himself. “What kind of name is ‘Tyrell’ anyhow?”