‘Come back next week. It’ll be dry by then,’ the artist told him, handing him a receipt. ‘I’ll have it wrapped and waiting for you.’
‘I will,’ Cohen replied. ‘Just one thing though ... where is this?’ He gestured to the painting. ‘I mean, where did you sketch from?’
The artist grinned. ‘Not from round here, are you? This is the view from the Observatory, mate.’
‘The Observatory?’ Cohen asked.
The artist pointed towards the park. ‘Cross the road, go through the gates next to the Maritime Museum and walk ten minutes up the hill. You’ll find it.’
Cohen nodded his thanks, giving one more satisfied glance at his newest acquisition before throwing his hands into his pockets and following the artist’s directions.
He’d never been in this park before. He’d seen it from office windows, of course, heard of it briefly as a pleasant place to visit, even laughed at the mistake in that Thor movie with his British colleagues ‘because you’d have to be an almighty God to make commuting to Greenwich by tube from Charing Cross happen’.
But he’d never actually been here, and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. The winter sun weakly warmed his back while the breeze was cold against his face, and the contrasting elements fostered a feeling of contented happiness within him. It was enough to make him stop again, to make him pause and enjoy the moment. He found a coffee vendor outside the museum and picked up a macchiato, surprising himself and the barista by asking for a measure of syrup to be added.
‘No offence, but you don’t look like the kind of bloke who adds gingerbread syrup to his coffee,’ the barista remarked.
Cohen shrugged. ‘I guess you don’t know what kind of person you are until you try being them,’ he replied.
‘Amen to that,’ the barista said, pushing a miniature sugared pie towards Cohen along with his coffee without adding it to the bill.
‘What’s that?’ Cohen asked, looking with trepidation at the shortcrust pastry before him.
The barista smiled. ‘A mince pie. Christmas speciality.’
Cohen resisted the urge to shudder. ‘Right. And it has … meat in it? Under all the sugar?’
The barista grinned again. ‘Nope. Look, just give it a try. You said so yourself, you never know, right?’
Cohen nodded, recalling his earlier words. ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right. Thank you.’
The barista shrugged, almost sheepishly. ‘No problem. Merry Christmas, hey?’
Cohen smiled. ‘Happy Hanukkah,’ he offered, surprising both himself and the barista once again.
The barista nodded slowly. ‘Right. Yeah. Happy Hanukkah.’
Cohen sipped his sweet coffee and clutched the pie as he made the slow journey up the hill towards the Observatory. And oy vey, Cohen thought, if he’d known this place existed he would have set the incline on his running machine a little steeper, because the hill was a bitch to climb and he was panting before he was even halfway up the slope.
But at the view Cohen felt a quick thump of excitement. As he rounded the hedge, the steep hill clearing into a gentle incline, the panorama of London was just incredible. If he hadn’t already been so winded from just getting up here, the place would have taken his breath away.
He sat on a bench, taking a bite of his pie. The taste was surprising to him, not strange or unappealing at all, but pleasantly sweet and spicy. A little like Challah, perhaps, but with a moist and rich filling, like you might find in a cherry blintz. In fact, the pie tasted a little like home, reminding him of his mother and, momentarily, he missed her desperately.
But as he brushed the crumbs from his mouth, he also brushed away all thoughts of Esther, looking around and distracting himself with his surroundings. To his left was a red brick building, tightly held behind wrought iron gates. Royal Observatory Greenwich, a sign read. Beneath that was a twenty-four hour clock, and as Cohen peered through the gates, he got it.
This, he realised with a start, was where time began. A line on the ground indicated the place from where all time was measured, and by God, he could have cried for pure joy.
Because there was something deeply poetic in deciding to take time to live, here, in the place where time began, next to an observatory, the gateway to the stars. He was so taken with the concept that he spent half an hour watching the clock make its sweeping journey around the circle of numbers – just because he could – and he rejoiced in the passage of time, in the celebration of life itself. With each movement of measured time, there was a new second, a new minute, a new hour … a new Cohen.
At that moment, he reached into his bag, pulled out the padded envelope Billy had given him earlier and opened it.
Cohen frowned, because there were another four sealed envelopes inside. He examined them with interest, his heart fluttering at the sight of River’s appalling cursive. Open now, one read. Open at 8 p.m., another said. And then there were two more, of much more interest to him. Open in case of scenario A, and Open in case of scenario B.
He opened the one he was instructed to, sat back and began to read.
Hi Cohen.
I’m sorry, this isn’t a questionnaire. Thank you, though, for indulging me by filling in mine. But very quickly, to keep things fair, my answers are as follows: on your shoulders, no, I’ve never been married, the day I nearly died, It’s a Wonderful Life (every time), and no, of course, I don’t want this to be only one thing. Although I will admit that sleeping with you is becoming a big priority for me.
I have to say, I don’t normally let myself feel attracted to, well, anyone.
But there is something about you, Cohen. Something almost, I don’t know ... familiar? Do you feel it too? When I first saw you, something in me came alive. I don’t even know how to describe it. It was like in that moment, my life made sense.
I think I’ve been waiting for you, Cohen. I think I always knew that, one day, you’d come for me.
I’ve never let my deafness bring me down. It’s part of me, part of my history and I’m not ashamed of it.
But it stings, just a little, that I can’t talk to you. That you can’t talk to me. That I can feel so much without ever letting you know.
I do have some memory of sounds, but they are brief, more like snippets than actual notes. I think I remember my mother’s voice (my birth mother, not Mama) and I’m fairly certain I remember the buzz of a hospital monitor.
I was two when I lost my hearing. I had bacterial meningitis, and according to my hospital notes, I was lucky to make it through without losing a limb, or my life.
But I lost my hearing, and then my parents.
They couldn’t handle a deaf child, they told the social workers. They didn’t want a damaged baby. It was better for me, they decided, if they left me at the hospital, if they didn’t take me home. They gave me away, like soiled goods returned to a shop.
They put me into care. When I recovered, I was put into the foster system, where eventually I made my way to Mama and Papa. Mama said she took one look at me, a quiet little ball of butterscotch, and decided then and there that she was keeping me forever. She’s so proud of that story. Of how, when the social worker suggested that they should find me a more appropriate ‘forever family’ because of my deafness, she put her to rights, and told her that there was no family more appropriate for me than hers.