He froze when he saw a particularly attractive girl heading in his direction. How long would this one last before she too evaporated?
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘My name’s Charlotte Dangerfield, but my friends call me Charlie.’ She’d broken the ice, but he still froze. She made a second attempt. ‘I’m hoping to go up to Cambridge in September.’
‘To read maths?’ asked Sasha hopefully.
She laughed, a gentle laugh followed by a captivating smile. ‘No, I’m an art historian. Or at least that’s what I’d like to be.’ What’s my next line, thought Sasha, trying not to make it too obvious that he was staring at her legs as she perched on the arm of his chair.
‘Everyone says you’re going to win the Isaac Barrow Prize. And as I’m no better than a borderline case, I’ve got everything crossed, including my toes.’
Sasha was desperate to keep the conversation flowing, but as he’d never visited an art gallery in his life, all he could manage was, ‘Who’s your favourite artist?’
‘Rubens,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Particularly the early paintings he did in Antwerp, when we can be certain he alone was responsible for the entire canvas.’
‘You mean someone else painted his later pictures?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But once he became famous and even the Pope wanted to commission him, he allowed his more talented pupils to assist him. Who’s your favourite artist?’
‘Mine?’
‘Yes.’
‘Leonardo da Vinci.’ The first name that came into his head.
She smiled. ‘That’s hardly surprising, as, like you, he was a mathematician. Which of his paintings do you particularly like?’
‘The Mona Lisa,’ said Sasha. It was the only one he knew.
‘I’m visiting Paris with my parents in the summer,’ said Charlie, ‘and looking forward to seeing the original.’
‘The original?’
‘At the Louvre.’
Sasha was trying to think what to say next, when she slipped down into the seat beside him, leant across and gently kissed him. Neither of them said a great deal during the next hour, and although Sasha was clearly untutored, she didn’t treat him as if he’d come from another planet.
When some of his friends began to leave just after midnight, Sasha plucked up the courage to ask, ‘May I walk you home?’ His mother had told him that was what a gentleman did when he really liked a girl. You can hold her hand during the walk, but when you reach her front door, you should only kiss her on the cheek and say, ‘I hope we’ll meet again,’ so she knows you care about her. If it’s gone really well, you can ask for her telephone number.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
When Charlie took a key out of her bag, he leant towards her, intending to follow his mother’s advice. Her lips parted, and he thought he would explode.
‘Why don’t you pick me up next Saturday morning around nine,’ Charlie said as she turned the key in the lock. ‘Then I’ll take you to the National Gallery and introduce you to Rubens,’ she added before disappearing inside.
As Sasha walked home, he was certainly on another planet, and for a change, Newton wasn’t occupying it.
Charlie did most of the talking on the tube journey from Fulham Broadway to Trafalgar Square, and almost all of the talking once they’d climbed the steps to the National Gallery.
What Sasha had originally considered no more than an excuse to spend some time with Charlie, turned out to be the beginning of a love affair. He was courted by the Dutch, beguiled by the Spanish, mesmerized by the Italians and enchanted with Charlie.
‘Are there any other galleries in London?’ he asked as they walked back down the steps and joined the pigeons in Trafalgar Square.
Charlie didn’t laugh, as she already knew it wouldn’t be too long before Sasha was asking her questions she couldn’t answer.
When they arrived back in Fulham, Sasha wanted to take her to lunch at Moretti’s, but the fact that he couldn’t afford it wasn’t the only reason they ended up at a local coffee shop. Charlie would need a little more time before she was introduced to his mother.
Charlie was still on Sasha’s mind on Monday morning when the headmaster rang him at home and asked him to drop by and see him. ‘Drop by’ made him laugh.
He thought his legs might give way as he walked through the school gates and down the corridor towards the headmaster’s study, like a punch-drunk boxer about to face the final round.
Mr Quilter answered his knock with the familiar ‘Come!’ Sasha opened the door, but learnt nothing from the expression on the headmaster’s face. He declined the offer to sit down, preferring to remain standing until he’d heard the verdict.
‘Proxime accessit,’ said Quilter. ‘Many congratulations.’ Sasha’s heart sank. He didn’t consider coming second was worthy of praise. ‘You were beaten by a boy from Manchester Grammar School who got one hundred per cent, while you managed ninety-eight. Of course,’ the headmaster continued, ‘you’ll be disappointed, and understandably so. But the good news is that, after assessing your A-level papers, Trinity is still willing to offer you a scholarship.’
‘But you just said I came second.’
‘In maths, yes. But no one got anywhere near you in Russian.’
His first thought was, I hope Charlie...
13
Alex
Brooklyn
Ivan handed over twenty-three dollars to Alex and said, ‘Another good day. I can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t go on milking this cow for a lot longer. So I’ll see you next Saturday at eleven sharp.’
‘Why wait until then,’ said Alex, ‘when we could make money like this every day?’
‘Because then we’d only milk the cow dry. And in any case, if your mother were to find out what you’re up to, she’d certainly put a stop to it.’
Alex stuffed the crumpled notes in the back pocket of his jeans, shook hands with his partner and said, ‘See you next Saturday.’
‘And try and be on time for a change,’ said Ivan.
As he walked towards the market, Alex began to whistle. He felt like a millionaire — which he’d already told his mother he would be by the age of thirty. He handed over ten dollars to her every Sunday evening, explaining that it came from the odd jobs he did in the market over the weekend. The truth was that the market had become his second home, and in the afternoons after school, and while Elena was still at work, he would hang around the stalls watching the traders, quickly learning who could be trusted and, more important, who couldn’t. He always bought his fruit and vegetables from Bernie Kaufman, who never short-changed a customer or sold them yesterday’s wares.
‘I need two pounds of potatoes, Bernie, some runner beans and a couple of oranges,’ said Alex, checking his mother’s shopping list. ‘Oh yes, and a beetroot.’
‘Three dollars, Mr Rockefeller,’ said Bernie, handing over two paper bags. ‘And I’d just like to say, Alex, how much I’ve enjoyed having you as a customer, and I have no doubt you will do well if you go to NYU.’
‘Why would I go anywhere else for my fruit and vegetables?’
‘You’ll have to in future, because I’ll be giving up my stall in a couple of weeks.’
‘Why?’ asked Alex, who’d assumed Bernie was a permanent fixture in the market.
‘My licence comes up for renewal at the end of the month, and the owner’s demanding eighty dollars a week. At that price, I’d be lucky to break even. In any case, I’m nearly sixty, and I don’t enjoy the long hours any more, especially in winter.’ Alex knew Bernie got up at four o’clock every morning to go to the market, and rarely went home before five in the afternoon.