Shadows of Berlin полностью

“Pleased to meet you too,” Tyrell insists.

“My sister’s got quite a mouth on her,” Aaron points out, maybe not so much of a compliment this time, more half an excuse and half a reprimand.

To which Tyrell replies, “So I’ve noticed.” Smiling, in a pleasant sort of way, though his eyes, Rachel can see, are watchful.

And then there’s only a splinter of silence before Naomi declares, “Supper’s almost ready. I’m going to pour you a glass of wine.”

20.

A Dinner Roll

Out of the oven, the chicken Kiev receives cooing accolades from Tyrell and Rachel, but not so Aaron. Naomi places it on the hot pad at the center of the table with her oven mitts on and invites Tyrell to carve it into slices, addressing him as “Boyfriend.” Aaron looks on sullenly, causing Rachel to fill in for the empty spot he’s occupying. “It smells delicious,” she declares and gets busy helping Naomi with the vegetable dishes. Mashed potatoes seasoned with paprika and minced garlic, and asparagus served with a cream of mushroom sauce, looking as bright as fresh oil paint on a palette. Rachel notes the tins of Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup lying in the garbage pail.

“It all smells so wonderful,” she confirms again, sinking a large serving spoon into the corner of the mashed potatoes. Naomi is setting out a basket of dinner rolls and covering them with a striped tea towel to keep them warm as they sit down to eat. Tyrell assists Naomi with her chair in a gentlemanly fashion, forcing Aaron, who is midsit, to quickly hop over and follow suit with Rachel. “Thank you, Husband,” Rachel offers him.

Naomi raises her glass of Chianti for a toast that serves as a blessing. “Blessed is he who creates the fruit of the earth. Or in this case, the fruit of the vine,” she says with a smile. “L’Chaim.”

“L’Chaim,” Rachel echoes pleasantly.

Tyrell declines to attempt “L’Chaim” but is smiling when he says, “To your health.” Aaron? Nothing. He just takes a deep swallow from his goblet. But as the dishes are passed and plates filled, he begins to raise himself from his silence. A friendly barracuda.

“So what do you do, Mr. Williams?” Aaron is interested to learn.

“He’s a lawyer,” Naomi answers for him. “Just graduated from Columbia Law School.”

“Well.” Tyrell smiles in modest correction. “Actually I’m not a lawyer yet. Not yet,” he repeats. “I still have to pass the bar.”

“Oh, but you will pass it,” Naomi assures him. “I know you will. You’re brilliant. He’s brilliant,” she assures all.

“No,” Tyrell disagrees in a good-­natured way, slicing his asparagus. “That is not true. Far from it.”

“It is true,” Naomi replies, then turns to Rachel with a confidential smile. “You should see him play chess.”

“Oh? You play chess?” Aaron asks, as if this might interest him, the man who’s played checkers his entire life.

“I play a bit of chess, sure,” Tyrell admits.

“He practically put himself through law school with it,” Naomi announces, and here’s the chicken tuck of Aaron’s chin jerk.

“You play for money?” he asks.

Tyrell must pick up on the ambivalence, because his answer is constrictive. “I’ve made a couple bucks,” he confesses. “But I’ve lost a couple too. More than a couple.” He smiles. “There are plenty of people whom I’ve played who are ten times better than me.”

“He means the Russians,” Naomi kibbitzes. “There’s a whole crowd of all these old farts from Leningrad or wherever over in Washington Square. But you’ve nearly beaten what’s-­his-­name,” she reminds him. “The grand master.”

“Yaakov,” Tyrell says and frowns lightly.

“Right. That’s him. Yaakov.” She pronounces the name as if it’s the name of a new Soviet secret weapon. The Yaakov Bomb.

“Really. A grand master.” Aaron grins with a touch of malice. “So how much did he take you for?”

“Nothing. Yaakov doesn’t play for money. And I’ve never ‘nearly’ beaten him.” Tyrell pokes his fork into the food on his plate. “Not by a long shot. I had him on the run for a minute or two maybe, but that was just luck.”

“Okay, if you insist,” Naomi surrenders. “But this from the man who doesn’t believe in luck.”

“I agree,” Rachel hears herself say. “I don’t believe in luck either, Mr. Williams.”

“True,” her husband confirms, chewing. “She doesn’t. You never hear her say, ‘good luck,’ my wife. Not even ‘break a leg.’” And then, “So,” he says, chewing. “Mr. Williams.” Swallows. “If you don’t mind me asking. How old are you?”

“He’s thirty,” Naomi answers.

“And who am I asking, you?” Aaron says to his sister. “I think if the man is thirty years old, he can speak for himself.”

“That’s right. I think I can,” Tyrell assures Naomi firmly. “I’m actually thirty-­one,” he says and takes a bite of his chicken. “This is delicious, Naomi,” he tells her, eliciting a girly grin that might even qualify as starry-­eyed.

But Aaron is still stuck on Tyrell’s age. “Thirty-­one,” he says with a frown. “Isn’t that a little late, you know, for just graduating college?”