But for Cohen, there was a measure of pride in using public transport, just like the Londoners did.
‘No,’ he argued. ‘I want to do this myself.’
‘Fine,’ Fowler drawled, his tone bored. ‘Take the Piccadilly line at Green Park to Piccadilly, change onto the Bakerloo line to Charing Cross, and then take the Northern line south to Embankment. It’s easy.’
Fowler, though, was a sneaky bastard. Cohen quickly learned that no one changed trains at Green Park, that Piccadilly was always packed, and that Charing Cross wasnext doorto Embankment so there was no reason to change trains between them at all. More than that, a kindly station assistant later told Cohen that had he walked, the whole trip would have taken him fifteen minutes. By tube, it cost him an hour.
God damn, Fowler.
Now Cohen knew better. He knew to jump off the train at Embankment and make the ten-minute walk up to Trafalgar Square. There was no point in trying to get to Charing Cross or Covent Garden or anywhere vaguely near the Square, it would only add time to his trip.
He sat at the foot of a lion under the column with fifteen minutes left to kill before River arrived. A tour guide nearby, her voice both clipped and bored, directed her group of embarrassingly attired tourists to the column.
‘You’ll see that Nelson leans upon his sword with his left hand, while his right is held close to his chest. Actually, from up close you can see that Nelson’s right hand is missing, his jacket sleeve empty. This is because Nelson actually lost his right hand, and part of the arm, in battle in 1806.’
Cohen started to pay more attention. Something about this was speaking to him. His grandfather lost his right hand in World War Two, while his Uncle Israel lost his in Korea. There seemed to be a grotesque family tradition in losing that limb, so much so that whenever Israel saw Cohen, he would take his right hand, stroke it gently and look into Cohen’s eyes while murmuring ‘It’s only a matter of time’.
It creeped Cohen out to no end.
But right here, sitting under Nelson’s Column, Cohen felt an element of serendipity about River’s choice of meeting place.
And that surprised him, because Cohen had never been one for signs or superstitions. He didn’t close books he found lying open, never knocked on wood for luck, and as a child, had always knocked Esther’s hands away when she tried to pull on his ears after he sneezed. Once, when his mother visited him after Christine left, she found him kneading rye dough and with a sigh, left him to it. When he found her later, she was inspecting the corners of his apartment.
‘Mishegas!’ she’d chided. ‘Not a drop of salt in any of them.’
He’d stared at her. ‘For the intelligent head of a multi-national corporation, you do spout a crazy amount of superstitious nonsense, you know that, right? And yet you call me themeshugener.’
But Esther shook her head. ‘Maybe it’s nonsense. But so far as I can see, your wife left you and now you’re arm deep in rye dough and misery. If that isn’t the work of demons, I don’t know what is.’
No, Cohen had never been one for signs or superstitions. He’d always believed life was a series of chance and coincidences, some happy, though most – in his experience, at least – were not.
But Nelson felt like a sign, and Cohen sprang to his feet, excited. Quickly, he brought out his phone and made a quick Google search. When River arrived, he wanted to be ready.
And then, there she was. Walking towards him, a shy smile on her face, wrapped in a woollen coat and leather boots. Half of her hair was pulled away from her face, but the other half hung free, and God, she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.
He brought his hands to her cheeks, while she brought hers up to the stray strands of his hair, the ones that fluttered in the icy December wind.
For a moment they looked at each other. Trafalgar Square was thronged with people, musicians played in the distance, while living statues loitered in the background, but it was all just a landscape in which Cohen and River saw only each other. In that second, under Nelson’s Column, they were entirely alone.
After brushing a thumb along her bottom lip, the lip he was so desperate to kiss again, Cohen stepped back.
River,he signed, spelling out her name, his large hands both slow and stiff.We’re going to make this work.
He stumbled over the words, even though the signs were still fresh in his memory. The YouTube tutorials he’d watched had been clear and concise. But even though his hands were awkward and his movements clunky, River nodded as he signed, her eyes shining brightly in the evening light.
Cohen,she signed back.Thank you, Cohen.
But he wasn’t finished. He moved his hands again, the movements clear in the strength of his conviction.
I’m never going to hurt you, River,he signed.
She smiled, reaching up to cup his cheeks and pulling his head down, so that his brow rested against her own. For a time they stood like this,almost lost to the world around them, yet finding peace and comfort in their moment of self-imposed seclusion.
When they parted, she handed him a folded note of paper.
Cohen,it said.Open the next envelope and come see my London with me.
And so he did, pulling the envelope from his bag, one hand linking with hers so that they could slide her letter out together.
