River had started writing again.So, where did Cohen come from then?
Cohen sat taller, trying to shake the flutters from his stomach.Oh, well, my mother suggested it. Told my father it was a solid, Irish name. And it is, in fairness to her. So, my father thought he’d won the argument. Baby named, case closed. It was only later, during the bris, that my Uncle Israel told him that Cohen was actually an ancient Hebrew name. I’m reliably informed that the fallout from that revelation was spectacular.
Again, Cohen paused, remembering the black-eyed fury of Jim Ford at his worst. He cleared his throat, swallowing with difficulty, before writing some more.
And River? Where did that come from?
River chewed on her lip for a moment, worrying the flesh between her teeth, a furrow forming in her brow. She reached for the pen, writing slowly, as though still pondering her thoughts even while in the act of transcribing them to paper.
My mother – my birth mother, that is, not Mama – named me River. I don’t know why. I probably never will. But Mama said it never occurred to her to change it. She always says that I’m like a river, rushing from one point to another, quick and quiet, and that to understand a river, you have to look into its hidden depths.
She blushed suddenly, her pen hovering above the paper. Cohen stared at her, tantalised, waiting for her to continue.
Most people don’t stay long enough to look for my hidden depths,she wrote, with woebegone eyes.They simply see that I’m deaf and then turn in the other direction.
Cohen’s reply was instant.I’m not like most people,he wrote quickly.
River smiled, resting an elbow on the table and her head on the palm of her hand.No. No you’re not, Cohen.
Abruptly, she dropped the pen. Pointing at his name, she made a firm, rhythmic movement with her hands. Five letters spelled out hurriedly so that he could only frown, lost in the fluent dance of her fingers. River shook her head, admonishing herself, and showed him again, her sign language slower this time, her movements direct but calm. When she’d finished, she took hold of his hands, helping him to repeat his name back to her.
Cohen could only stare at her, awe-struck.
I’d like to get to know you, Cohen,she suddenly wrote.
His mouth was dry when he took up the pen.All I want right now,he wrote,is to know you better. To find those hidden depths, River.
Her smile was blinding, and for several moments they sat there, grinning at one another.
Can you call here next Tuesday?River finally wrote.I want to give you something.
I’ll go anywhere you want me to, whenever you want me to,Cohen replied.
She laughed at that, her mouth wide, her eyes bright, and Cohen felt a dart of pleasure at her happiness. He knew then that nothing, not the sound of a champagne bottle popping, or the best note rolling off a baby grand would ever be able to compare to the soundless noise of this woman laughing.
Her laugh was the most beautiful thing Cohen had never heard.
Tuesday will do, Cohen. It’s the only day of the week when Mama isn’t here.
She took his hands in her own, moving them to form words, pointing at the paper.
Tuesday,she signed to him.
Tuesday,he signed back.
As he left The Great Greenwich Ice Creamery, shoving his destroyed phone into a pocket, Cohen couldn’t help but reflect on his life.
His first few meetings with Christine cost him thousands of dollars in wine and expensive restaurants, and he could hardly recall a thing about them.
But he could recall every second he had ever spent with River, and all that time had cost him were a few words with his hands and his honest thoughts, scribbled on a scrap of paper.
There was a feeling swelling in his chest and stomach that he imagined might be pure happiness.
He turned towards the train station, looping his scarf around his neck twice, trying to keep out the biting cold of the December wind. He walked through the slushy streets, a lightness to his steps, taking in the merry crowds around him, the tourists and Christmas shoppers bright in their winter coats, hats and scarves. He made it so far as the main road when he felt a pull on his coat, and he looked down to see a flustered and shivering River holding out both a folded sheet of paper and a spoon. He couldn’t help the delight that spread through him at seeing her again so soon, and he could only stare at her while she smiled at him, tucking the paper into his pocket before offering him the spoon.
It was the same chocolate ice cream from before, but when Cohen tried it now, he found it less bitter, with a divine sweetness that played upon his palate.Even the ice cream itself seemed to sparkle, with a golden sheen to the frozen cream that shimmered under the Greenwich lamplights.
Bitter chocolate,River signed, before holding up a scrap of paper for him to read.
