Steam rose from the platters of food that had already been set out. The spaces between the dishes were decorated with dried herbs and wildflowers. Since the tablecloth was old and well used, I had set out as many platters as possible in order to cover up the stains, and I had arranged the knives and forks, the glasses and napkins to look as nice as possible.
“Sit down,” I told him. “You’re right here.”
It was quite complicated for the three of us just to take our seats. We had to move on tiptoe in the narrow space, taking care not to bump into the plates or flowers. R took each of us by the hand, helping us to reach the bed, before he maneuvered himself into the lone chair.
Then he opened the wine, which looked more like soapy water, put up as it was in an old, scratched bottle. It had come from the hardware store where they produced it clandestinely in the yard out back, but it was the only thing I could find. Still, I was relieved to see that when it had been poured into our glasses it glowed a lovely pale pink under the lamp.
“A toast!” I said, and we had only to raise our glasses slightly from the crowded table to bring them together.
“Happy birthday!” R and I cried.
“To your health,” the old man added, as the glasses clinked softly.
It had been a long time since any of us had been so jolly. R was much more talkative than usual, and the old man’s eyes wrinkled with pleasure. As for me, after just one sip of wine my face was glowing and I felt utterly happy. It was as though we had forgotten where we were. Still, from time to time, after a particularly loud burst of laughter, we would cover our mouths and look around sheepishly at one another.
The serving of the fish was an event in itself. It had been steamed in sake and was set on a platter decorated with greens.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I told them. “I’m sure it will end up a mess. Would one of you do it instead?”
“Don’t be silly! It’s the hostess’s duty to serve the main dish,” R said.
“And such a beautiful fish it is!” added the old man.
“I suppose it is,” I admitted, “though it lost the lovely spots on the back when I cooked it.”
“There’s a little cavity here on the head,” R said.
“That’s where the fishmonger hit it to knock it out. It was swimming around until just a short while ago, so it should be delicious, though it would have been even better if I’d had some celery to flavor it,” I said.
“Give our guest of honor some of the meat from the back, where it’s most tender,” said R.
“Of course,” I replied. “But watch out for the bones.”
The conversation flowed on without pause. Our voices, the clattering of dishes, the sound of wine flowing into glasses, the creaking of the bed, all blending together with nowhere to go in the tiny, hidden room.
In addition to the fish, we had pea soup, salad, sautéed mushrooms, and pilaf with chicken—all quite simple and in small quantities. R and I tried to make sure that the old man’s plate was never empty and that we found the tastiest bites from each dish to serve him. And he, in turn, ate slowly and gratefully.
When everything had been consumed, we stored the plates under the table in order to make room for the cake.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t manage to bake something grander,” I said, as I pushed it toward him. It really was rather pitiful—barely enough to cover my palm, without whipped cream or chocolate or strawberries to decorate it.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” said the old man, turning the plate to admire it from all sides. “I doubt there’s a more beautiful cake in the whole wide world.”
“I nearly forgot!” said R, taking a packet of thin candles from his pocket and pushing them gingerly into the top of the cake. Anything less gentle would no doubt have reduced the whole thing to crumbs, since I’d been forced to use fewer eggs and far less butter and milk than called for in the recipe, which had yielded a fragile, flaky mass.
“And we won’t need this,” R added, reaching out to turn off the lamp once his match had lit all the candles. We huddled still closer together as it grew dark, and I could feel the heat of the little flames on my cheeks.
Darkness spread out behind, like a soft veil of shadows shrouding the three of us and keeping out the noise and cold and wind, all trace of the outside world. In here, there was only our breath and the gently flickering flames.
“Well then, blow them out,” I said.
The old man nodded and blew ever so carefully in short puffs, as if afraid that he would send cake and candles flying across the room.
“Happy birthday!” R and I shouted again, applauding the old man’s efforts.
“I have something for you,” I said. As R turned on the light, I reached under the bedspread and pulled out the present I had hidden there: a porcelain shaving set I’d found at the notions store that also had a place for a bar of soap and a pot of talcum powder.
“You really shouldn’t have done all this. I don’t know what to say.”
As he always did when I gave him something, the old man held out both hands to receive it, as he might have when making an offering at the household altar.
“You’ll be quite the man of fashion,” said R, nodding approval at my choice.
“Why don’t you put it in the bathroom on the boat? It will make me happy to think of you using it every morning.”
“I certainly will. The pleasure will be mine. But could I ask what I would do with this?” he said, holding up the puff that was meant for applying the talcum powder and eyeing it dubiously.
“It prevents razor burn. Like this,” I said, taking it and brushing it lightly against his jaw. He closed his eyes tightly and pursed his lips, as if I were tickling him.
“That feels wonderful!” he said, stroking his cheek. R laughed as he pulled the candles out of the cake.
“I have a present for you, too,” said R. We had finished the cake, barely three bites each, and were sipping our tea, one cup each.
“I wish you wouldn’t worry about an old man like this, when you’ve got so much to worry about yourself.” He seemed overwhelmed.
“Don’t be silly,” R said. “I wanted to show my gratitude for everything you’ve done, though I’m afraid it’s not much of a present.” He turned in his chair, opened the desk drawer, and brought out a wooden box that was about the same size as the cake I had baked. The old man let out a muffled cry as we stared at the object that had been set in front of us.
The box was stained a dark brown and carved with a geometric pattern of diamond shapes. Four small legs resembling cat’s paws were attached to the bottom. A blue glass bead was set in the lid, which was attached with small hinges, and the color seemed to change as the angle of the light shifted. The design wasn’t particularly unusual, but something about the look of it made you want to hold it in your hand and open the lid.
“I’ve used it for a long time, for tiepins and cuff links. I’m sorry it’s secondhand, but I don’t think you’ll find anything like it in the stores now. I suppose you could say it’s from another time.” R opened the lid, and as he did it almost seemed to me that warm rays of light came from his hands. The old man and I looked at each other and held our breath. There was a quiet creak from the hinges and then we heard a sound coming from inside the box.
The box was lined with felt and a mirror was affixed to the inside of the lid, but beyond that there was apparently nothing else inside. No record spinning, no hidden instrument, and yet a melody was coming from it.
It might have been a lullaby, or a song from an old film, or a hymn. I had a feeling it was something my mother had hummed from time to time, but I couldn’t quite remember. The sound was like nothing I’d ever heard before, unlike any stringed instrument or woodwind. It was simple but with a certain sense of style, soft as a murmur and yet in no way weak. As I listened, transfixed, I felt the same slow, spinning sensation that I felt every time something disappeared.