But stare he did, because there was something in the lines of the painting that caught him, something in the bright colours that appealed. The pigments were rich, the yellow so warm that he could almost feel the sun on his skin and the softness of a petal under his fingertips. In fact, he became so caught up in a moment of art appreciation that he jumped when he felt Uncle Israel’s false hand on his shoulder.
‘Van Gogh,’ Israel mused, looking at the painting. ‘A repetition from the Sunflowers series.’
‘A repetition?’ Cohen queried.
‘A copy by the artist. The original of this one is in Munich.’
‘Oh.’
‘I never would have taken you for an art fan.’ Israel considered him, his eyes searching. ‘Your father certainly never was.’
‘Well, I’m not my father,’ Cohen returned hotly.
‘No. No you’re not,’ Israel agreed. ‘And good thing too, because all that man ever did was let your mother down.’ He sighed, looking at the painting one more time. ‘Well kid, give me five more minutes, and we can get out of here.’
Cohen nodded as Israel walked away. But then, as he stood – alone again – staring at the vase of warm sunflowers, a bitter taste rose in his throat.
Because while his mother and uncle may have thought about how Jim let Esther down, neither of them considered Cohen for a moment. And that rankled in his mind.
Standing in a cold gallery in a strange city, his mother in another country, with the prospect of four months with his uncle and aunt before him, Cohen felt a stirring of rage.
Because Jim didn’t just let Esther down. No. He let Cohen down too.
And Cohen decided, then and there, that he would never ever forgive him for that.
Not now.
Not ever.
Not for as long as he, or his father, lived.
River’s letter was succinct and to the point, which Cohen appreciated. The night air was cold, whipping over them with a chilling intensity, while snow started to lazily settle on the ground beneath their feet.
Cohen,
You’re not an idiot, so you’ll know there are five human senses (and don’t talk to me about the fabled ‘sixth sense’, because I’m also not an idiot, and if ever I do die and hang around this planet rather than drifting through the stars or going to meet Elvis, I want you to kill me again).
Sadly, fate has taken hearing off of the sensual menu for me; that particular kitchen is permanently closed. C’est la vie. Life goes on.
But there are still four other kitchens pumping out proverbial food.
Sight, taste, smell and touch. So, let’s try them all tonight ... together?
Our first stop is right behind us.
Cohen looked up at River, who was grinning widely. She motioned to her right, and he glanced in that direction.
And then he was grinning too.
The National Gallery, sitting at the top of Trafalgar Square, was imposing in its majesty and outlook. The building itself was a work of art, bedecked by low-lit fountains and gracious, winding steps. The white limestone, cool under Cohen’s fingers, brightened the grey landscape, and from the entrance itself the view of London was beautiful. From here the slow-moving hands of Big Ben were visible, as was the graceful curve of the Millennium Wheel and the orange-hued lights of the city. Cohen stopped, keen to take it all in, before River’s warm hand in his made to pull him forward.
He instantly complied.
A woman at the entrance smiled warmly, and her hands sprang to life as she started to talk.
‘Good evening, and welcome to the National Portrait Gallery of London. Are you both signed up for this evening’s SeeHear tour?’
River’s hands became animated as she answered, and the woman nodded.
‘Excellent,’ she said, while signing, ‘Well, if you could both just tick your names off the list and sign in, the guide will be ready in around ten minutes.’
‘The guide?’ Cohen asked, and the woman’s eyes took him in, instantly noting his lack of signing.
‘Yes,’ she replied, although she continued to sign for River’s benefit. ‘Tonight, we have a guided tour of part of the gallery taking place. It’s for hearing-impaired people like your—’ she paused, clearly uncertain of which word to use ‘—your friend,’ she finally finished, although Cohen winced at the word. River was everything to him and describing her simply as a friend felt empty, completely lacking in meaning or emotion.
But he shook the feeling off, which was new for him. He knew he didn’t need this woman, or anyone else, to validate what he and River shared.
That was for them, and them alone.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Where do I pay?’
‘I’m sorry.’ The woman frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘For the tour? Where do I pay?’
Because he’d be damned if River was putting her hand in her pocket this evening. Cohen was the son of Esther Sedler after all, and the grandson of Adelaide Appelbaum, who was a distant descendant of Austrian royalty (although that was a long-buried set of bones in a closet full of skeletons that Israel and Esther never brought up), and he might be an utter bastard at work and a black-hearted swine to all who knew him, but he was still a gentleman and, as such, tonight he would pay.
But the woman shook her head. ‘Sir,’ she said, and her voice pulsed with affront, ‘art and beauty are for everyone. There is nothing to pay.’
But Cohen stared at her, because her words made no sense. Everything in life came at a price. Nothing in life that was beautiful or good or sincere was free. But then River pulled on his hand, shaking her head and motioning to the guide for a pen. She hurriedly scribbled for a moment, before pushing a note into Cohen’s hand.
All public galleries and museums in London operate on an optional donation only basis, Cohen.
And damn, he’d been here a year and didn’t know that. But in his defence, who had the time for perusing galleries and museums when there was work to be done and money to be made?
Still, he stood taller. ‘Where do I make a donation, then?’
Now the woman was all smiles. ‘We have two stands in the main hall where you can deposit notes and coins. We suggest a donation of ten pounds per visit, but of course, that is completely optional.’
Ten pounds? Cohen was baffled by the paltry sum. This woman was signing and this museum was about to run a tour that River could actually understand, so ten pounds seemed almost offensive in its thriftiness. So he put sixty pounds into the box, feeling it was money well spent, perhaps the best he had spent all year. Maybe even in his whole life.
By half past eight a small crowd of people had gathered, but the hall remained silent. Around them, hands and arms moved like a pulsing tide through a sea of people, and Cohen was adrift. But River linked her arm through his, her head on his shoulder, and her steady warmth against him was the only raft he needed. Their silence was companionable, utterly calming and completely engrossing, and for once, Cohen stood still, concentrating only on the woman beside him, not caring about the curious stares and subtle glances he knew they were receiving.
The guide arrived and began their tour. He talked as well as signed, and as they drifted from painting to painting, taking in works by Monet, Michelangelo, Da Vinci and Gauguin, Cohen listened eagerly. There was something profound in knowing that the words he heard were the same that River saw, that their understanding of this moment was for once the same. The gallery was silent as the group made their way around, only the guide’s smooth voice and the echoing of their footsteps breaking the quiet, and Cohen looked for repetition in the hand movements, learning the signs for words like blue, brush, sky, water and shadow.