There were stars above them, art behind them, while London lay gently at their feet. He tightened his hold on River, pulling her bottom lip between his teeth and sucking on it gently. The gasp she made was beautiful, and the twinkling lights of Trafalgar Square’s Christmas tree played gently upon her skin as Cohen stroked his finger down her cheek.
All thoughts of sunflowers were banished from his mind, his head wiped blank by a searching tongue, a warm mouth and two hands full of red gingham. If he wasn’t careful, if he didn’t stop this soon, he might have been tempted to take River here and then on the steps of the National Gallery, and damn anyone who got in their way, anyone who might have dared to suggest such an act would defile the artwork. Art was, after all, only another expression of passion, Cohen abruptly realised. Sunflowers, water lilies, forgotten kings or nude gods … they were all versions of love, in their own way.
But River pulled back, releasing her hold on the scarf around his neck, her breathing heavy. She licked her lips, and Cohen had to stop himself from reaching for her again. He watched as she dipped into the pocket of his coat, handing him her letter.
He turned to the second page.
Taste.It began, and his mind instantly wandered to all sorts of interesting thoughts. River’s kiss was sweet, her mouth like sugared almonds, and Cohen’s thoughts immediately travelled south, wondering if she was just as sweet, just as addictive, everywhere else.
He couldn’t wait to find out.
I read somewhere once that if you lose one sense, the others immediately improve. I’m not sure I believe that. Did I appreciate the art tonight more than you because I can’t hear? Were the colours brighter, the lines finer? Did I discern meanings within the paintings that the hearing world cannot find? I hope not. There seems so little joy in such thoughts.
But I do have an excellent palate, Cohen. And it’s not because I’m deaf. No, it’s because I’ve spent years mixing ice cream with my mama, creating flavours while other children played, tasting textures while the few friends I did have drifted away. I tried not to let that bring me down, you know. Mama always told me I didn’t need friends if I had her and a good gelato, and maybe she was right. She always said I didn’t need boys if I had a worthwhile profession, and maybe she was right there too.
I’m fairly certain she’s going to tell me I don’t need you if I have myself, but I’m not sure that’s true. Not any more. After all, what is mint without a chocolate chip? What is rum without a raisin? What am I, Cohen, if I don’t have you? I’ll always be myself, I know that, and I’m not unhappy with who I am.
But I have this feeling, like a tingle in my blood, that with you I could be so much more. That together, we might make the perfect flavour.
I’m taking you for dinner now, Cohen. Me and my kick-ass, deaf palate.
I hope you like it.
River’s hand reached for Cohen’s, but he was too quick for her. With lightning-fast reflexes, he hoisted River into the air, his arms holding tight to her hips as he pushed her against the gallery wall. This time he didn’t hold back, and his kiss was hard, almost brutal. It was a kiss born of passion, but also a kiss born of desire. And not just desire for her body, but a desire for her to always remember this moment. He wanted this kiss to sear itself into River’s skin, her memory, as well as her heart. He pressed himself against her, delighting in her warmth beneath him, in her gorgeous smell around him, in her mouth all over his.
The perfect flavour indeed.
It was a lost cause really, this dinner. Because Cohen already knew that wherever River took him, nothing would taste as good as this moment.
No.Nothing would ever taste as good as this kiss against a wall, red gingham around his neck, on a cold winter’s eve of a deep December’s Tuesday.
Chapter Eight
Rice Wine
Cohen had never been a man of faith.
His mother, of course, was proudly Jewish. But, as she was always quick to point out, she was therightkind of Jewish. The kind that went to temple and kept kosher and spoke nicely with the rabbi and practiced Teshuvah during the days of awe, while also occasionally binging on shrimp rolls and breaking fast on feast days and forgetting to light the Shabbat candles. Jewish, Esther would tell everyone but her rabbi, but nottooJewish.
Cohen had never understood his mother’s faith, or its haphazard application to his own existence. For while his body bore the mark of the Jewish faith, his soul had remained resolutely untouched by God. He’d attended temple without feeling and said prayers that meant nothing to him, merely reciting empty words from an apparently empty soul. He married Christine in a New York courthouse, a clinically faithless wedding that Esther called a knife to her heart, and during which she tore her dress while he said his vows. Christine merely raised an eyebrow at his mother’s ‘clumsiness’, but Cohen, who understood, grit his teeth at her overt sign of mourning.
‘Are you honestly going to sit Shivah during my honeymoon, Mother?’ he asked her testily, when it was all done.
‘One of us should,’ Esther replied tightly. ‘You’ve married agentile.Now your faith dies with you.’
‘I have no faith,’ Cohen told her, his own temper frayed. ‘How can something which never existed die?’
‘You’ll see,’ Esther spat viciously. ‘One day God will find you and you’ll know. You’ll feel it. And then you’ll regret this marriage, mark my words.’
Well, in the end he didn’t need God to regret his marriage. A monthly hit to his bank account, the absence of his grandmother’s ring and a home devoid of everything but a bread maker took care of that particular emotion. Regret, Cohen knew, was something he could do on his own. In his world, self-hate and recriminations were par for the course.
And he didn’t need a helping of religious guilt to add to that misery.
So, when River led him from the National Gallery to Leicester Square, turning off into Gerrard Street and then up a dingy looking flight of stairs, Cohen almost laughed. Because this was Chinatown, and Chinese food was indelibly linked in his mind with Christmas and Easter and all the other gentile holidays he wasn’t supposed to celebrate. River looked at the smile on his face with questioning eyes, and he grinned back, reaching for his notepad to scribble an explanation for her.
My mother is Jewish,he wrote.And Chinese, like brisket and chopped liver, is a food of her people.
River grinned, reaching for the notepad and writing her own reply.
