Heads You Win

“Why don’t you pick me up next Saturday morning around nine,” Charlie said as she turned the key in the lock. “Then I’ll take you to the National Gallery and introduce you to Rubens,” she added before disappearing inside.

As Sasha walked home, he was certainly on another planet, and for a change, Newton wasn’t occupying it.

*   *   *

Charlie did most of the talking on the tube journey from Fulham Broadway to Trafalgar Square, and almost all of the talking once they’d climbed the steps to the National Gallery.

What Sasha had originally considered no more than an excuse to spend some time with Charlie, turned out to be the beginning of a love affair. He was courted by the Dutch, beguiled by the Spanish, mesmerized by the Italians, and enchanted with Charlie.

“Are there any other galleries in London?” he asked as they walked back down the steps and joined the pigeons in Trafalgar Square.

Charlie didn’t laugh, as she already knew it wouldn’t be too long before Sasha was asking her questions she couldn’t answer.

When they arrived back in Fulham, Sasha wanted to take her to lunch at Moretti’s, but the fact that he couldn’t afford it wasn’t the only reason they ended up at a local coffee shop. Charlie would need a little more time before she was introduced to his mother.

*   *   *

Charlie was still on Sasha’s mind on Monday morning when the headmaster rang him at home and asked him to drop by and see him. “Drop by” made him laugh.

He thought his legs might give way as he walked through the school gates and down the corridor toward the headmaster’s study, like a punch-drunk boxer about to face the final round.

Mr. Quilter answered his knock with the familiar “Come!” Sasha opened the door, but learned nothing from the expression on the headmaster’s face. He declined the offer to sit down, preferring to remain standing until he’d heard the verdict.

“Proxime accessit,” said Quilter. “Many congratulations.” Sasha’s heart sank. He didn’t consider coming second was worthy of praise. “You were beaten by a boy from Manchester Grammar School who got one hundred percent, while you managed ninety-eight. Of course,” the headmaster continued, “you’ll be disappointed, and understandably so. But the good news is that, after assessing your A-level papers, Trinity is still willing to offer you a scholarship.”

“But you just said I came second.”

“In maths, yes. But no one got anywhere near you in Russian.”

His first thought was, I hope Charlie …

13

ALEX

Brooklyn

Ivan handed over twenty-three dollars to Alex and said, “Another good day. I can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t go on milking this cow for a lot longer. So I’ll see you next Saturday at eleven sharp.”

“Why wait until then,” said Alex, “when we could make money like this every day?”

“Because then we’d only milk the cow dry. And in any case, if your mother were to find out what you’re up to, she’d certainly put a stop to it.”

Alex stuffed the crumpled notes in the back pocket of his jeans, shook hands with his partner, and said, “See you next Saturday.”

“And try and be on time for a change,” said Ivan.

As he walked toward the market, Alex began to whistle. He felt like a millionaire—which he’d already told his mother he would be by the age of thirty. He handed over ten dollars to her every Sunday evening, explaining that it came from the odd jobs he did in the market over the weekend. The truth was that the market had become his second home, and in the afternoons after school, and while Elena was still at work, he would hang around the stalls watching the traders, quickly learning who could be trusted and, more important, who couldn’t. He always bought his fruit and vegetables from Bernie Kaufman, who never short-changed a customer or sold them yesterday’s wares.

“I need two pounds of potatoes, Bernie, some runner beans, and a couple of oranges,” said Alex, checking his mother’s shopping list. “Oh yes, and a beetroot.”

“Three dollars, Mr. Rockefeller,” said Bernie, handing over two paper bags. “And I’d just like to say, Alex, how much I’ve enjoyed having you as a customer, and I have no doubt you will do well if you go to NYU.”

“Why would I go anywhere else for my fruit and vegetables?”

“You’ll have to in the future, because I’ll be giving up my stall in a couple of weeks.”

“Why?” asked Alex, who’d assumed Bernie was a permanent fixture in the market.

“My license comes up for renewal at the end of the month, and the owner’s demanding eighty dollars a week. At that price, I’d be lucky to break even. In any case, I’m nearly sixty, and I don’t enjoy the long hours anymore, especially in winter.” Alex knew Bernie got up at four o’clock every morning to go to the market, and rarely went home before five in the afternoon.

Alex couldn’t accept that his friend would disappear overnight. There were a dozen questions he wanted to ask Bernie, but he needed some time to think. He thanked him and began to walk home.