For a time, River rested the weight of her head in Cohen’s palm, looking up at him curiously. Their eyes locked, and they spent several long moments staring at one another, not quite belonging to themselves, but also not belonging to each other.
Abruptly, River’s eyes flashed, and with a small grin she stood, pressing a kiss against Cohen’s hand before disentangling their fingers. She pointed to the counter, bringing her right hand to her chin and making a gesture that Cohen would recognise in any language.
Ice cream.
When River returned, she was precariously balancing a large tub in one hand and two glass bowls in the other, on top of which she had stacked two spoons, a scoop and a ream of paper and pens.
She dumped them in a heap on the table, immediately pulling back the lid on the tub to reveal an ice cream so dark brown it was nearly black. With her scoop she dispensed two neat balls of ice cream into the bowls, passing one to Cohen.
She made a ‘C’ shape with her fingers again, this time under her chin, but moving her hand twice, almost as if to emphasise the motion.
Chocolate.
Cohen attempted to copy the gesture, growling when he made an error. But River was quick and kind, bringing her hand to his, shaping his fingers with her own and showing him how to make the sign.
Chocolate, Cohen said with his hands.
They celebrated by each taking a mouthful of ice cream, and Cohen sat back, half in pleasure, half in thought, as the cold mixture melted on his tongue.
For chocolate, it was almost unbearably rich, nearly coffee-like in flavour. But beneath the strong, initial note of bitterness there was an underlying sweetness. All at once the ice cream was too much while also not being enough, and Cohen stared into his bowl, confused.
It was then that he noticed River scribbling on a piece of paper beside him.
Thoughts? she’d written, in a messy scrawl that would normally make the precise Cohen wince.
But he wasn’t wincing now. In fact, he felt damn near like celebrating. For in the stack of paper before him, he suddenly spied a window into River’s mind. In the brush of a pen on paper, he could pull back the curtains on his own.
He smiled, taking the pen, writing a stream of letters.
I think, if you’d let me, I could love you.
He passed the note back to River, watching with delight as a blush crept over her cheeks when she saw what he had written.
She bit her lip as she scribbled a reply.
There’s no permission required to love, you know. He read that with a smile. Only when you want to do something about it. Though I did mean the ice cream. I need a name for this creation, you see. Mama and I always bring out three new flavours in time for Christmas. It’s kind of a tradition. This is one of them.
He took the pen from her hand, jotting down a reply in his immaculate handwriting.
Three? What are the other two?
She glanced over his words, before giving a shrug. Taking the pen again, she scribbled something down, before turning the paper in his direction.
I don’t know. I haven’t invented them yet. So, what do you think of this one? The first?
He took another spoonful of ice cream, trying to gauge the flavour as he would a fine wine.
It’s bitter, he finally wrote. Bitter chocolate.
She frowned, trying her own bowl again. She must have agreed with him, because she nodded with a sigh, before sitting back and staring at her ice cream with a thoughtful expression. Suddenly, she touched Cohen’s fingers, before bringing her own fingers to her mouth, making a motion with them and wincing slightly.
Bitter, Cohen realised.
When he made the sign back, he added the motion for chocolate at the end.
Bitter chocolate, he signed, and River smiled at him deeply.
The chocolate might have been bitter, but there was nothing bitter at all about this moment. For this, he suddenly realised, was his first multi-word sign. River, her face bright, looked at him with such pride that he felt a dart of true happiness. In fact, there was such joy written into the silent features of her face that Cohen knew he could die happily in this moment, right here into his bowl of chocolate ice cream.
River leaned back, making a frantic set of movements with her hands before she seemed to recall that he was a novice at all this. With a shake of her head she reached for the pen, writing intently.
Your name is Cohen, isn’t it?
He smiled and nodded.
What does it mean? she wrote.
He paused, giving her a puzzled look. She pointed to the words on the paper, offering him an encouraging smile.
It means ‘priest’, actually, he wrote, flushing a little. At that point his thoughts were anything but priestly, and he felt like the worst kind of inadvertent hypocrite. But River nodded, waiting for more, and so he picked up the pen again. My mother is Jewish, my father wasn’t. He was New York Irish, through and through. Anyway, when I was born my mother wanted to give me an Israeli name, but my father wouldn’t hear of it – he wanted an Irish one. My Uncle Israel told me that they had a huge argument about it, screaming at each other over my cot. They were always screaming at each other. I don’t remember a time when they weren’t screaming at each other.
Cohen froze, the pen still in his hand, wondering if he’d said too much. It had always been an awkward subject for him, that of his parents. An awkward subject and a painful one, filled with hard memories and bitter regrets. He sighed, going to put the pen down, when River rested her hand against his. Her eyes were dark, almost mournful, and she stroked his fingers gently.
With a start, Cohen realised that she truly cared about what he said. That she was reading his words and taking in his thoughts. That she, a deaf woman, was listening to him.
Momentarily, he was rendered speechless.
But River squeezed his hand before releasing it, nodding to the paper before him, encouraging him to continue. With shaking fingers, he wrote on.
My parents were so similar, and yet so different. I don’t know how they ever managed to fall in love, let alone get married. Uncle Israel said they were like magnets, the two of them. Both attractive, both clever, both intriguing. But their individual magnetism should have repelled the other, not brought them together. They were a bad mix. A bad match.
He paused, taking a deep breath before he wrote the next sentence.
They had a bad marriage, and an even worse separation. So, what does that make me, I often wonder, the result of such an ugly relationship?
River frowned, before motioning for Cohen to hand her the pen. With deft fingers she scrawled a reply, handing it back to him with a shy smile.
Two negatives always make a positive in maths, you know. Maybe you’re just looking at this from the wrong angle. Try thinking of your parents not as a bad match, but as an equation.
He laughed, deep and throaty. Grinning at her, he reached for the paper.
Maybe I’m not a positive though?
River smiled back. You are to me, she wrote, and somewhere, deep inside Cohen’s soul, he felt a flutter of excitement, a sudden surge of hope and a flash of optimism so intense he could have sworn the whole world looked brighter.
River had started writing again. So, where did Cohen come from then?
Cohen sat taller, trying to shake the flutters from his stomach. Oh, well, my mother suggested it. Told my father it was a solid, Irish name. And it is, in fairness to her. So, my father thought he’d won the argument. Baby named, case closed. It was only later, during the bris, that my Uncle Israel told him that Cohen was actually an ancient Hebrew name. I’m reliably informed that the fallout from that revelation was spectacular.