He snapped his fingers for the waiter, and while they waited for him to come to their table, she leaned over and whispered the three most expensive words in the English language.
“I love you.”
And he looked at her with tender guile and answered with the three cheapest words in the English language.
“I love you.”
There was, in Teddy Carella, the constant fear that she didn’t do enough for her husband.
Perhaps it was because she lacked the power of speech. She could not whisper the expensive words or the cheap words or any words. She could only show him how much she loved him, could only invent for him a thousand and one ways to show that she was his. She felt, you see, that she would eventually bore him. She felt that he would eventually seek a woman who could tell him the things his ears undoubtedly longed to hear — and she couldn’t have been more wrong. Her face told him all he had to know.
Her devotion to invention, however, made her an excellent wife, a wife full of surprises, a wife who constantly delighted Carella and diverted Carella and made his life a day-by-day birthday party. In all truth, Teddy Carella would have been that kind of a wife even if she could speak. She was simply that kind of a person. Her ancestry was part Irish and part Scotch, but there was something of the Oriental philosophy in her attitude toward her husband. She wanted to please him. If he were pleased, she in turn would be pleased. She didn’t have to read a book to know that love was a many-splendored thing.
And since her attitude was definitely Oriental, it was not surprising that her mind often returned to the jovial Charlie Chen and to the cherished butterfly design that adorned the wall of his shop.
What would Steve’s reactions be if he came to her one night, found her in a flimsy nightgown, and upon lowering one of the delicate straps to kiss her shoulder, discovered there a lacy, black butterfly?
The prospect delighted her imagination.
The more she thought of it, the better the idea seemed. She was sure that Steve would be pleased. And, too, she was sure that Charlie Chen would be pleased. And, without a doubt, she herself would be pleased. There was something terribly risky and ridiculous about having a butterfly tattoo put on your shoulder. The idea was exciting. Even thinking about it, she could hardly contain her excitement.
But would it be very painful? she wondered.
Yes, it probably would be very painful. Although, Chen seemed like a man you could trust. Chen seemed like a man who would not hurt her. And Chen knew how much she loved her husband. That was important somehow. The butterfly would be a gift to Steve, and it should rightfully be tattooed by a man who knew and understood a woman’s love for her man.
Pain be damned, she thought, I shall do it!
NOW!
She glanced at the clock. No, not now. Steve would be home for dinner soon, so not now. She went to the desk calendar and flipped the pages. She had a dental appointment day after tomorrow, but she was free all day tomorrow.
Would it really look attractive in a strapless gown?
Yes, if Chen did it delicately, a small black butterfly poised for flight.
She made her mental assignation. Tomorrow, after lunch, she would visit Charlie Chen.
And then, a live, dark butterfly poised for flight, she busied herself around the apartment, waiting for Steve, her secret humming inside her.
Fourteen
The young man had problems of his own.
He walked the streets of the city, and he concentrated on his problems, and he considered what happened to him, the greatest kind of good fortune.
The young man was dressed neatly and conservatively. He looked as if he might have money in the bank. He didn’t look overly bright. He walked the streets of the city, and now that the rain had stopped, it wasn’t so bad at all. People were beginning to appear in the streets, like victims of a siege after the shelling has stopped. The sky was still gray, but the clouds were tearing away in spots like gauzy cheesecloth, and the sun was trying desperately to push its way through. In the gutters, the accumulation of water sped for the sewers, carrying the miscellaneous refuse of the day. The kids rolled up their trouser legs and splashed in the water, stomping their feet. Store owners came out onto the sidewalk, stood looking up at the sky with hands on hips for a moment, and then went to roll up their awnings. A pair of lovers emerged from a dark hallway where they had stopped to wait out the rain. The girl’s mouth had been kissed hard, and the boy’s mouth carried lipstick, which had been bruised into the skin. Together, they walked briskly up the street, navigating the large puddles that dotted the sidewalk.
Everything stops, the young man thought. The rain stops, and the sun comes out, and then the sun stops, and the rain begins. When will my particular problem stop?
A boy on a bicycle rode past, his wheels creating hissing canopies of water as he raced alongside the sidewalk.
The young man watched the boy on the bicycle. He sighed heavily. There were two men standing on the sidewalk near the corner. One of the men was a redhead. The other man was tall, with dark hair, and he wore a dark-blue suit.
The young man gave them a cursory glance. As he approached them, the man in the blue suit stepped into his path.
“Excuse me,” he said.
The young man looked up.
“My name is Charlie Parsons. I wonder if you’d do me a favor.”
“What’s that?” the young man asked.
“This fellow here,” Parsons said, indicating the redhead, “has a gold coin, and I might be interested in buying it from him. Trouble is, I left my glasses home, and I can’t read the date on it. I wonder if you’d be so kind.”
The young man shrugged. “Well, I’m in sort of a hurry,” he said.
“It’ll only take a minute, and I’d certainly appreciate it.”
“Well,” the young man said, “where’s the coin?”
The redhead produced a large gold coin. “Picked it up in Japan,” he said. “I just got back from there. I was in the Army until last week. Just got discharged.” The redhead grinned disarmingly. He seemed like a simple country boy. “My name’s Frank O’Neill.”
The young man simply nodded and took the coin. “What am I supposed to look for?” he asked.
“The date,” Parsons told him. “Should be on the bottom there someplace.”
“On the bott...? Oh yes, here it is. 1801.”
“1801?” Parsons said. “Are you sure?”
“That’s what it says. 1801.”
“Why, that’s...” Parsons stopped himself. O’Neill was looking at him.
“That makes it pretty old, don’t it?” he asked innocently.
Parsons cleared his throat. Obviously, he had stumbled upon something of real value and was now trying to hide his find. “No, that’s not very old at all. In fact, I’d say that’s a pretty common coin. The only surprising thing about it is that you were able to find a Russian coin in Japan.”
The young man looked at Parsons and then at O’Neill. “Russia once had a war with Japan, you know,” he said.
“Say, that’s right,” O’Neill said. “Bet that’s how the coin happened to be there. Damn, if you can’t pick up all kinds of junk in the interior of that country.”
“I might still be interested in buying the coin,” Parsons said guardedly. “Just as a curiosity piece, you understand. You know, a Russian coin that found its way to Japan.”
“Well,” O’Neill said, “I got it for a pack of cigarettes.” His candid naïveté was remarkable. “That’s all it cost me.”
“I couldn’t let you have more than ten dollars for it,” Parsons said judiciously. In an aside, he winked at the young man. The young man stared at him, a puzzled expression on his face.