“Certainly,” answered the cabbie. “Climb inside.”
Chapter Two
The sourdough bread was crusty, piping hot as Michael sank his teeth into the roll. Across from him, he could see Kate grimace slightly at the flavor of her own. She took a dainty second bite, as if tentatively tasting it to confirm her worst fears before washing it down with a sip from her paper cup of tea.
“It’s very strong, isn’t it?” she said. He had watched her stir one and a half packets of sugar into the tea, but no cream. A plain black brew that reminded him more of coffee than the perfumed herbal packets his editor sometimes brewed at publisher’s meetings.
“It’s supposed to be,” he answered. “I read somewhere that the loaves are made sometimes from cultures a hundred years old.” He often pictured someone scraping a side off a crusty, moldy loaf whenever he imagined this scenario.
“It’s a little like soda bread,” she said. “A friend of mine–and Irish chum from school–used to bring it from home after her holiday.” She broke off a small piece and poked it between her lips.
The view through the window revealed houses and shops crowded close on a hill sloping downwards, onto the ocean somewhere at the bottom Michael imagined. “The city on a slant,” a friend once referred to San Francisco in a conversation.
“I never carry a camera,” said Michael. “All the places I go, I never take photographs. Look at that,” he gestured towards the trim frame houses with the city’s trademark architectural style, “Imagine that as some sort of Christmas card, proving to people you know that you did something more than sit at home scribbling.”
“They must know that you travel,” answered Kate. “Why prove what they already know?”
“Because it’s human nature, I suppose” he said. “Making us want to be more than we are.” She produced no response to this, staring out the window at the passing foot traffic, a long-haired man in a tie-dyed peace shirt, a woman carrying a poster board sign.
“There is a song about this city,” she said, after a moment. “Isn’t there? I heard it once in a record store. Something mellow in nature.”
“More than one, actually,” he answered, with a faint grin. “The hippie culture one, the old gold mining days, the one about leaving your heart behind...” He trailed off at this point, feeling stupid suddenly, fearing she might construe a hidden meaning in this remark.
“Perhaps we should go see more of it,” she said. She rose, pushing aside her half-finished roll, although she carried the cup of tea in her free hand. Without any sign of hurrying, she waited for him to wrap his own roll in a napkin and swallow the last of his coffee before he collected his bags. It was a swift maneuver that allowed him to cut ahead of her and open the door in a gentlemanly gesture, although she seemed not to expect this courtesy. Her smile was small, almost quizzical in response.
He scanned the streets for sign of a cab, then thought of the trolley cars, the wires visible ahead for the quaint track system which defined the city’s transportation. Taking a step in its direction, he glanced over his shoulder to make certain of her presence behind him. Kate stood below him on the sidewalk, just outside the bakery door with her cell phone raised eye level. He heard the click of the shutter as it recorded an image–the trolley lines or quaint bookstore behind him, he hoped.
“Now you have proof,” she said, moving closer and flipping the screen to face him. An image of himself from the elbows up, an expression of mild interest on his face beneath slightly raised eyebrows.
He cringed inwardly at the sight of himself–he always considered his face less than photogenic with his long nose bridge and nondescript features which even the shadows of the building above didn’t hide. He hoped she would erase it, but it vanished from sight in a split-second as the phone’s screen menu reappeared.
“The windows of that building are quite beautiful,” she said, as she snapped another photo, this one of the shop across the street. She swiveled to face Michael again, who raised his hands in mock protest.
“Let’s find you something more attractive to photograph,” he suggested. “Have you ever felt the urge to visit Chinatown? I read in a guidebook once that it’s the closest you can get to Asian culture without actually going overseas.” He shifted his laptop strap into a more comfortable position. “Having never been to China, I can’t confirm it.”
“Chinatown,” she repeated. “A famous spot no one should miss while they are here, I suppose.” Something more playful emerged in her tone with these words, vanishing in a moment of serious concentration as she snapped a picture of a low-flying gull.
He offered her his arm. “Shall we?” he asked. He felt a sense of surprise as she accepted it, tucking her cell phone in her pocket as they made their way from the bakery.
The trolley was packed with tourists, a limited space available for new passengers. Spotting a vacant seat near a woman and stroller, Michael steered Kate towards it, grasping the rail to balance himself a short distance away. A heavyset man in tattoos jostled against him with a grocery bag tote, edging him closer to her despite his attempts to maintain a casual distance.
“Are you all right?” she asked, barely containing a laugh beneath her casual inquiry. He struggled to maintain his grip, forcing a relaxed smile to his face.
“Of course,” he answered. “I’m just ... out of practice. With public transportation.” At home, he was within walking distance of most places he went, the library and grocery, the specialty shops where he purchased liquor and cheese. Abroad was the only place he ever used public transportation, swift buses rolling through the Scottish countryside or ferries crossing the choppy waters separating Ireland from his dock of departure.
“I drive sometimes,” she answered, almost dreamily as she watched the parade of buildings and trees flying past the open car. “Remember which side of the road is mine–that was the hardest part when I first came here.”
“From England?” he asked. The sway of the trolley edged him closer to her even as his shoes attempted to brace against the floor. “That is home to you, I assume.”
She shook her head. “Not anymore,” she answered. She volunteered nothing else about this subject, the uprightness of her posture like a quiet dignity against further inquiry as she turned towards him with a look of curiosity.
“Have you always lived in America?” she asked. “You were born here–parents American.”
“We were an Ellis Island story,” he answered, before realizing that might have no meaning to her. “That is to say, it’s been a long time since anyone in my family immigrated from any place other than the East Coast.”
“Then I suppose it would be difficult for you to sympathize,” she said, with a brief laugh. “To have always been someplace wouldn’t give one the sensation of being afloat in the world.”
His brow wrinkled as he considered this idea, imagining people’s lives as continents shifting upon the ocean. The sense of adriftness which plagued him traveling through any country other than the one in his head. The only time he felt at home abroad was in the lingering weeks he sometimes spent in the Scottish countryside, where he spent much of it lost in his thoughts and wandering about on rural roads.
“I think it’s possible to feel afloat in completely different circumstances,” he said. “Take me, for instance. At home, I leave my apartment once or twice a day–if at all. But a few times a year I go forth in the world–”
“To promote your mysterious books,” chimed in Kate, interrupting him momentarily.
“Correct,” he said, continuing, “and I end up crammed on planes, moving from airport to airport, fleeing one speaking engagement to go straight to a cab or a musty hotel room for a few hours’ sleep.”
“But not today,” she said. Her eyes met his own, a look of sympathy and comprehension in them that sprang ahead of his thoughts as if waiting for their arrival at the station. It took his breath away for a moment, although he couldn’t say why.
The woman ne
xt to Kate stirred, her somber face taking on a look of interest. “Are you a famous writer?” she asked Michael, rolling the stroller slightly to shush the whimpering infant stirring inside.
He saw a spark of curiosity in Kate’s gaze, a hidden smile as she watched his face. The sense of laughter beneath the surface of reserve that dominated her face with the graceful dignity he had first noticed in the airport.
“Well, actually...” he began, with a flat smile for the woman’s benefit. “Ah, there’s our stop.” Gazing over her shoulder as if recognizing something as he seized Kate’s sleeve and began maneuvering towards the trolley’s exit.
“You might have given her a hint,” said Kate as she stepped off the platform.
“No hints,” he answered, holding up his finger warningly. “I prefer anonymity, remember? I wouldn’t put my name on the cover at all if the publisher had let me have my way.” His fingers were still holding part of her sleeve, he realized; a soft, white fleeciness pulled along without resistance as she followed. With a sense of guilt, he let his hand relax and fall to his side.
The Chinatown in his mind was a combination of a movie he watched once late at night about San Francisco and a storybook of Asian illustrations which a friend once sent him as a souvenir, scenes of paper lanterns bobbing in bright colors and a long red dragon costume snaking through the streets.
It was far simpler, far more understated in real life, with neither the heavy street fog of the film nor the bright festivities of the book. Shops marked with characters beyond his comprehension, red banners and window displays of imported goods, a heavy odor of spices and city life that both intrigued and repulsed all at once.
Kate had produced her cell phone again and was taking photographs, of a roasted duck with its head curved upwards on a platter, a row of delicate miniature dolls in red Chinese silk. The smell of soy sauce hung heavily from a street vendor’s cart, causing a sense of hunger to assail Michael despite the hot roll at the bakery.
She closed her cell phone momentarily and approached the cart. “One bowl, please,” she said. The noodle vendor nodded, ladling warm noodle and broth into a disposable bowl. As he reached for a stack of forks, Kate shook her head.
“Chopsticks, please,” she said. Michael pictured her graceful fingers handling them with casual precision as the vendor passed the bowl to her in exchange for one of the bills she handed him.
Her fingers twined the noodles around them as she held the bowl out to him. “Try some,” she said.
“I shouldn’t,” he said. “You shouldn’t feel you have to offer–”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t feel pressured,” she answered. “Merely generous. It’s only a bowl of noodles. Eating before another person seemed rude.” As she spoke, she poked the chopsticks closer to his mouth.
It was politeness which forced his hand; despite his hesitancy, he opened his mouth, feeling the slippery boiled dough brush his lips before tasting the sharpness of soy and white ginger. Something about his expression struck Kate as comical, apparently, making her giggle slightly.
“Good,” he murmured, after a moment to swallow. She shook her head.
“I rather think you’re making excuses,” she answered. As if to prove her wrong, he took hold of the bowl and lifted out another mouthful, the strands dangling long from the chopsticks.
“Not at all,” he retorted. “See?” He lowered them into his mouth in spaghetti-fashion. There was another shutter click from Kate’s cell phone as she snapped a photo of him.
“Unfair,” he protested. In response, she placed the phone in his hand.
“Then make it fair.” She took the bowl of noodles from his other one and wound a generous portion of noodles around the chopsticks, opening her mouth in an exaggerated circle to consume them. The pose seemed ludicrous–almost childlike–in comparison to the serene composure he had observed from her thus far. With a sense of fascination, he pressed a large button he assumed operated the camera. Kate’s face was frozen on the screen momentarily, the street scene a blur behind her dark hair and pale skin. He gazed at it as if committing it to memory before it vanished from sight.
“This is kind of fun,” he said. “I’ve never taken a photograph on a phone–sort of a feeling of empowerment.” As if to prove his point, he snapped another photo of her–no noodles in this image, but an expression of calm surprise, eyes slightly widened beneath the half-strands of dark hair brushing her face.
He would keep that one if he could, he realized. Have it framed somewhere as if freezing a moment of transition between the two sides of her nature, despite the fact that she was a stranger until an hour ago.
She withdrew the phone from his grip. “Stand over by the shop door,” she directed. “Against the red banner.” He obeyed, his hand touching the red silk as if holding it in place–or demonstrating it like a product–as she moved the camera lens up and down in search of something.
“Smile,” she said. He obeyed, although he felt the effect was one of a person forcibly posed. She took a step forward, then two more, until she stood directly in front of him. The shutter snapped.
“Why did you do that?” he asked. “The banner won’t even be visible that close.”
“It’s a photo of you, not the banner,” she said. “Anyone can take a photo of a stationary object, but–oh, what a shame, it’s blurry.”
He craned to catch a glimpse of it, but her fingers struck a button with expert speed, no doubt deleting it. She frowned as she repositioned the lens.
“Here,” he said. He placed a hand on her shoulder, gently turning her, drawing her back against his torso. He felt her body resist slightly until his free hand adjusted the cell phone camera to face the two of them.
“Now take it,” he said. His fingers closed over her hand automatically, steadying the bowl of noodles which trembled in her grip. Her finger squeezed the cell phone button, producing the familiar click. The photo appeared, Kate’s reserved smile, Michael’s eyes crinkled at the edges with his own.
She gazed at it for a moment, then snapped the phone shut. His hand withdrew from the bowl of noodles, his body edging slowly away from hers as if to avoid drawing attention to the closeness which existed between them until now.
“Take picture?” A stranger’s voice enquired, the accent thick with Chinese syllables. Both Kate and Michael turned in the direction of a smiling man holding several shopping bags.
“Yes, please,” said Kate. Her reply sent a jolt of pleasant electricity through Michael’s body. He watched as the man set two bags carefully beside the curb before accepting the cell phone from Kate’s hand, a brief murmur of direction on its use that Michael’s mind failed to translate. He felt her draw close to him again, the softness of her hair brushing against his jaw.
“Smile, please,” said the man aiming the cell phone at them. Michael heard the click, then a soft murmur of assent from the photographer. They started to move apart, but the man shook his head.
“No, no,” he said. “You kiss.” He motioned for them to obey.
“Oh, we’re not–” Michael began, his cheeks reddening; beside him, Kate tucked a strand of hair behind her ear awkwardly.
“Yes, yes, a couple,” he said. “You kiss–for picture.” As he gestured, he raised the camera lens again.
Both of them were framed within it, neither of them moving. Michael glanced down into her eyes, two dark blue orbs meeting his own.
“Maybe we should do it,” said Kate after a moment. The faintest smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "He shall never understand why not."
Michael hesitated, then leaned forward, his lips pausing for a moment a mere breath from her face. He meant to kiss her cheek, a soft peck before the camera; her face moved to close the distance. Her lips touched his; he could feel her soft skin, the curve of her muscles. A faint scent of strawberry lip gloss and mint on her breath.
For a split second, they were frozen like this, until the electronic click from the cell phon
e’s camera. Michael drew back, his eyes glancing into hers for a reaction–a look of apology, of forgiveness, of mutual pleasure for this moment between them. There was a second click from the cell phone in the hand of their photographer as they broke from the kiss.
The man placed the camera in Kate’s hand again with a smile and nod before collecting his bags.
“Thank you,” called Michael, Kate’s voice echoing the words behind his own. The cell phone photo was still frozen on the screen, their two faces cropped to fill the square almost completely. The stunning blue of Kate’s eyes alight with a sudden burst of warmth, his own face transformed by a still, almost tender expression.
*****
He saw the photo again, later that afternoon as Kate scrolled through the images on her phone. The sunlight was hazy with pink over the city as she crouched on the stone steps of a building in Chinatown, Michael stooped protectively behind her.
Their walk had taken them past the noodle vendors, into streets exotic and dark in comparison to the tourist aspects of Chinatown. He held her elbow protectively at the sight of a group of teenagers arguing before a restaurant’s entrance; even though none of the youth gave them a second glance, he felt more assertive. The posed kiss for the photograph had given him certain privileges and responsibilities in the made-up scenario between them.
“Do you have the right angle?” she asked, posing with her head in the jaws of a dragon image spray-painted on a wall. A few feet away, Michael focused her in the lens.
“Funny face, now,” he commanded, in a mock stern tone. “Otherwise, you’ll be stuck there forever.” She stuck out her tongue at him, then assumed an open-mouthed expression of horror.
“Now you,” she said. Although for his photograph, they chose a different spot, a carved statue before a shop in the form of Buddha, an incense bowl before it.
Best Man Page 2
