The End of the Alphabet (8 page)

 

The next morning near sunrise, London called nine times in as many minutes. None were answered.

Four calls came from Zipper's office, two from the offices of D&C. No messages left. One call just kept yelling
pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up.
One was from the Foreign Office:
In town. Drinks?
The ninth call left a message:
Sir's shirts are ready and may be picked up at his leisure as it were.

Ambrose stood at the hotel window, looking at the Bosporus through the dawn haze. He wavered
slightly, leaning his forehead against the pane to catch his balance. It was time to go home, Zipper announced, knowing her husband would never admit so on his own.

Ambrose turned and managed a sad smile. Home then?

Home then.

They slept that night in their own bed in the narrow Victorian terrace in Kensington.

J, and the shirts, could wait.

 

K.

Ambrose Zephyr stood shaving in his bathroom.

His wife hovered in the doorway, watching her husband's hands. A subtle tremor, more noticeable in the right. The razor hand. Ambrose leaned into the fogged mirror and pulled a slow stroke. His hands steadied. The knot in Zipper's stomach eased.

We can't keep avoiding them, Zipper said as her husband finished his neck and began on his chin.

I'd rather not be today's topic, said Ambrose.

Friends wouldn't do that.

Zipper stood beside her husband and rested her head against his shoulder. Ambrose looked at her reflection in the mirror. What he could make out appeared hollow. As if she wasn't quite there.

Everyone does it, said Ambrose. One minute you are who you are. The next it's strange looks and wringing hands and poor Ambrose is there anything we can do Ambrose let's all dance on eggshells Ambrose. Suddenly it's all that you are. All you will be.

Ambrose held out his razor hand and watched the tremor shake a few drops of water to the floor. This, he said, is not me.

He looked back at the mirror. They, he said, are not us.

 

When the Mankowitzes lived at twenty-six and the Ashkenazis lived at thirty, the girls would meet in front of twenty-eight. Neighbours said that
with that pair
, that Katerina Mankowitz and Zappora Ashkenazi, there was always much to decide. What to do about boys. What to do about Katerina's beastly little sister. What to do about their hair, their shoes, their skin. Zappora called her best friend Kitts.

When Kitts found a job as a photographer's assistant, she put a word in with her employer regarding a friend looking for work.

When Kitts thought she was pregnant, Zappora found a discreet clinic. As it turned out Kitts was late. The friends celebrated at the local. Zappora bought a round for the house.

When Zipper announced she had met someone, Kitts approved. As long as he can be trusted, she said. It was Kitts who found the wedding dress.

When Kitts left her most recent lover, Zipper made up the spare room. She used some of Kitts's photography to decorate. Kitts would never say as much, but what hung on the walls was worth thousands. Moody black-and-whites of backlane characters in rough countries were much in demand by the world's collectors.

 

Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up. PICK UP.

Zipper answered the phone.

Kitts said she was on her way.

 

Ambrose opened his front door and found Kitts glowering at him. She was, as always, tall and haggard. Like a woman just returned from working
in a place with no running water. She called Ambrose a bastard and hugged him. Longer and warmer than usual.

Lovely to see you too, said Ambrose as Kitts went inside. He sat on his front step and lit a cigarette left over from Paris.

 

In her kitchen, through two pots of tea, Zipper came apart. She started laughing like a schoolgirl. L is for List, she said. W is for Was It Something I Did? D is for Something I Didn't Do? S is for Something I Should Have Done?

She showed Kitts the journal, fanning the pages like a conjuror. She pulled odd items from the journal's envelope. Souvenirs, Zipper said. What a grand bloody tour it's been.

Other bits and baubles materialized from Zipper's pockets. Everything formed a small mound on the table.

A postcard featuring a muddy reproduction of an enormous Rembrandt.

A is for a Portrait in Amsterdam, said Zipper.

A small and smooth stone, grey and warm.

Barbaric Berlin.

A flattened lavender bloom, barely fragrant.

Advertising in Chartres.

Another postcard, this time offering a jolly watercoloured
Bienvenue à Deauville
.

A honeymoon by the sea, Zipper said.

A fat and worn copy of
Les Misérables
, an embossed photograph of an Italian woman in an elegant scarf, an unflattering Polaroid snap of Ambrose and Zipper by the Pyramids. A child's blue glass bauble.

Our Paris, laughed Zipper. Florence, Giza, Istanbul. Did I mention we missed Haifa?

Zipper picked up the journal. Page after blank page.

And what will I have when he's gone? Nothing. No growing ancient together, no retiring to the
pied-à-terre
, no children, no grandchildren come to that. No more. No life. Nothing. Blank.

But you never wanted children, Kitts said.

I never wanted this. I is for I Don't Know What to Do.

 

Kitts sat in the eye of her friend's storm, nodded, shook her head, held tight, wiped Zipper's dripping face, put the kettle on, wept, buttressed, agreed. Listened.

When the worst had passed, Kitts did what she had done since the childhood meetings in front of twenty-eight. She said something smart at the precise moment when there was nothing to say.

He's right, the bastard. Live what's left. Live it as large as you both can. That's what he wants.
That's
what you want.

Zipper threw her journal on the table.

But the words. How do I start? Where do I end?

The words will come, said Kitts. They always do.

 

Wilkes and Zephyr met at university.

They took a loose interest in the other's academics: Ambrose sneaking his friend into a life-drawing class to prove that artists did not get erections; Freddie instructing his friend on the proper balance between single malts and thesis writing.

After graduating, they shared a shoebox flat in a hard part of London and lied on each other's
CV
. They began referring to each other by last name only. It sounded good, they'd explain. Something professionals might do.

When it appeared likely they were destined to drive cabs, Wilkes passed his foreign service
examinations and Zephyr landed a junior position as a copywriter. Which, much later in their lives, they would characterize as ironic.

Between distant postings and demanding clientele, the friends rarely saw each other. They never reminisced when they did. They kept every piece of wish-you-were-here correspondence and look-what-I-created souvenir each had sent the other.

No one, least of all Zipper, could explain why they had remained friends for so long and at such distance. Or why they had even become friends in the first place.

 

Drinks?
always meant the Savoy bar.

All Ambrose would later say about his evening with Freddie was how good it had been to see an old friend. They spent the time talking mostly of each other's work, said Ambrose. State secrets, slagged clients, that sort of thing.

What likely occurred was that after enough kirs and enough whiskeys, Ambrose reluctantly described the circumstances. There would have been long silences, pinched glances, calls for same again please.

After some time the friends would have found their Gallipoli courage and looked each other in the face. There would have been tears in their eyes. Stoic ones, but tears nonetheless.

Damn, Freddie likely said, turning away for a moment.

Ambrose probably apologized.

The friends would have pulled themselves together. Freddie, as always, would then have said something clever and wise.

You need to edit. Enough with A through Zed. Toss the list. You'll end up hating half the places you go anyway. Think of Zipper. Stop dragging the woman about. Wasn't she the one who said it was time to come home?

At the end of the evening, the friends would have stood on the street waiting for taxis. They would have embraced, as old friends do when parting. If you need anything, Freddie no doubt said.

Right then.

Right.

Taxis would have appeared.

Neither friend would have said goodbye. They never had before.

 

J.

Ambrose Zephyr would sometimes remark that a better man was one supplied with an intelligent woman, the ability to tango and an able tailor.

For those who knew Ambrose,
an able tailor
became the explanation for why Ambrose Zephyr had stroked out Jaipur on his list and pencilled in Old Jewry.

 

Mr Umtata sailed from home a younger man, stowed away in the hold of a runt freighter. When
the authorities realized he was gone, he wasn't missed. Good riddance, they said. Another kaffir away.

On the day the freighter docked in London, Germany was invading its neighbours. A week later Mr Umtata found work in the army. Nothing at the sharp end of course, they said. You understand. Still doing your bit as it were.

He learned a trade. Mind the break at the cuff, Major would say. A bit snug across the shoulder. Give those buttons a polish, there's a good fellow. Mr Umtata's war raged through the officers' mess. When it ended Major and his buttons went home to the country and Mr Umtata went to Cheapside.

He took up piecework in a ladies and gents shop. Alterations To All Garments Our Specialty The Smartest Styles Within Bespoke Orders Upon Request Satisfaction Assured For All Closed Sundays. He enjoyed the ladies' work particularly.

He learned how to dance. To understand how the clothes move, he told his employer. Mr Umtata was a small man whose teeth were too big for his mouth, but his partners did not mind. He was always impeccably dressed, he smelled heavenly and he could move. Like Astaire himself, they said.

After twenty years Mr Umtata purchased the shop. It was a narrow concern, too dark in summer, too hot in winter, and could neither boast nor hold the selection common among the Savile shops. But Mr Umtata's handwork was slow and sure, his service humble, his discretion reliable. Observation and counsel were parcelled out as he saw fit. Upon request.

 

They met the morning a younger Ambrose Zephyr produced his first television commercial: thirty seconds for the finest cleanser the mod '70s housewife could ever wish to own.

The concept involved a red-haired actress, grinning in a mod '70s housewife manner, on her knees scrubbing the average English street—a tip to the product's mod '70s scouring power. What the woman's hot pants tipped to was left to interpretation. Old Jewry stood in as average street.

The commercial was to be filmed from an extreme angle and Ambrose had split the seat out of his trousers checking the first setup of the day. An assistant from the agency shoved him through Umtata's door for repairs. The tailor's first advice: a proper fit through the buttocks.

When asked by Ambrose what he thought of the activity in the street, Mr Umtata replied that it all appeared interesting but sir may want to reconsider the hot pants.

Ambrose became as regular a customer as wages and wear would allow. Jackets now and then, shirts by the gross, flirtations with bellbottomed trousers (against contrary advice). At the rear of the shop, in a wooden box marked Active, Mr Umtata kept a file card with particulars:
Zephyr, A. Dresses left, favours right shoulder, prefers contrasting linings. Poor colour sense. Requires some direction. See also Ashkenazi, Z (Mrs).
It was the only card filed under Z.

Ambrose brought Zipper to Old Jewry to meet Mr Umtata, as a young suitor intent on impressing might. Do you approve? asked Ambrose.

Indeed sir, said Mr Umtata. I believe the expression is yin to your yang. And if I may be so bold sir. Does the lady dance?

Mr Umtata cut, lined and hand-stitched the suit Ambrose was married in—double breasted, trousers in the full and classic style, startling yellow tie. At his final fitting, with Zipper observing, Ambrose suggested a matching yellow carnation
for the lapel. Zipper rolled her eyes. Mr Umtata frowned in silence.

I think it makes a statement, don't you? said Ambrose.

Indeed sir, said Mr Umtata.

Just the thing for the big day.

Quite.

Bit much?

As you say sir.

Mr Umtata also fit and altered Zipper's dress (an off-white vintage number, one previous owner, purchased in Portobello Road). With my compliments missus, Mr Umtata said as he snipped the last thread and stood aside to allow Zipper a full look in the mirror.

The lady does indeed dance, said Zipper as she swished.

Mr Umtata and Zipper then toasted her impending marriage with a deep and expert dip. To ensure proper movement, said Mr Umtata through a toothy smile.

On the day, the newlyweds looked like famous people, despite the downpour in Kensington Gardens. Zipper's bouquet was a handful of small white rosebuds. Complemented by a small white
rosebud in Ambrose's lapel. Mr Umtata was unable to attend. Saturday was a brisk day at the shop in Old Jewry. He sent regrets.

Years later the wedding suit still fit. The linen number, however, was in urgent need of attention. And there was the matter of shirts being ready.

 

At the rear of the shop, Mr Umtata uttered a stream of sighs. Ambrose asked if anything could be done. Zipper mentioned time was pressing. Mr Umtata then suggested sir might strip to his boxers. Missus might want to take a seat.

In silence the tailor of Old Jewry worked his needles and threads and scissors and irons. Ambrose searched for somewhere to put his hands. Zipper watched her husband's white skin, stretched thin over bone.

We've been abroad, said Ambrose.

Indeed sir, said Mr Umtata through the pins between his teeth.

Rather suddenly.

Indeed.

Travelled light.

So it would seem sir.

Sorry for the rush.

As am I sir, said Mr Umtata, hiding the last seam, his eyes fixed on Zipper's wet eyes.

A fresh shirt was unwrapped. Ambrose strained out a smile as he dressed.

A miracle, Umtata. As always.

As you say sir.

A bit loose across the shoulders though.

Indeed sir. Shall we check the fit?

With that Mr Umtata took Ambrose Zephyr in his arms. Allow me the lead sir, he whispered. The men dipped. Deeply, expertly.

Zipper Ashkenazi laughed out loud. For the first time in days.