a moment. “Fifth floor,” he said, evidently satisfied with his knowledge.
I looked at the nameplates in neat rows by the ancient intercom. I had no idea which was his. He laughed at my expression.
“Tom Wilson, third floor. And yes, I’d count it a great favor if you’d help a tired old man with his groceries.”
His suit jacket hung from broad shoulders; he would have been a big man thirty years ago. I wondered what it must be like to get old.
I balanced my sack on top of his groceries, and he talked as I humped the cart, one tread at a time, up the three flights of stairs. “What have you got in here?”
The look on his face was interesting: unsure whether or not it was polite to be offended at this invasion of privacy by a Good Samaritan. In the end, he grinned and said slyly, “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
I smiled wryly. He was right. I shouldn’t have asked. “It’s heavy, whatever it is.”
“Do you good.” He held open a door for me and I pulled the cart gratefully onto the landing.
“Can you manage from here?”
“Didn’t think you had to set off for your job for hours yet.” That sly grin again. “I thought you might like to share a cup of tea with a lonely old man.”
I couldn’t think of any reason to refuse him, so I followed him into his flat.
It was bigger than mine, and cozy, filled with Scandinavian furniture, the blond wood and gray-nubbed fabrics of twenty or thirty years ago. Everything was very clean. He watched me take it all in. “Nicer than that tomb of a room the landlord gave you upstairs. Warmer, too. How strong do you like it?”
“What?”
“Your tea. I’m partial to strong tea myself.”
“Oh. Whatever you’re having.”
“You won’t ever get what you want unless you know. And unless you tell those who ask. I’ll ask you again: How do you like your tea?”
I closed my eyes, thought back to other times. “Lapsang souchong, no milk, no sugar, no lemon, three heaped teaspoons in a pot big enough for two. And hot, not lukewarm. Served in bone china—the old kind, wafer thin, so you can see the color of the tea through the white—with a silver spoon. Steel spoils the taste.” I opened my eyes. “Well, you asked.”
“I did, I did. And thank you for sharing that with me.” He nodded at me seriously, and disappeared into the kitchen.
He brought out a tray and took it over to the table by the window: two pots, two cups. One of the cups was Wedgwood. It had a tiny chip on the rim. He took it over to the table by the window which, unlike mine, looked out onto the street. “For you,” he said, handing me the Wedgwood cup, and pointing to one of the pots. “Right out of Lapsang souchong and silver teaspoons. But I found some Earl Grey.” I poured for both of us. My tea was that lovely light brown gray of undyed fine tea. His looked like treacle.
He sipped and smacked his lips. “Strong enough to stand a spoon up in.”
I sipped mine. It was delicate and deliciously hot. I smiled and nodded. “Very nice.”
“A simple pleasure, tea. Doesn’t matter how rich or poor a person might be, good tea is good tea.” He looked at me over the rim of his cup. His eyes were gray as a winter sea. “Lot of simple pleasures are very important. Take that window, now. I can sit by it when I’m too stiff to get up and down the stairs, and watch the world. I know every one of the tenants in this building by sight. I know what time they go to work, or not, as the case may be. I know who visits them, and for how long.”
I know you’re lonely, he seemed to be saying. I am, too. If you talk to me I won’t pry for more, and I won’t tell anyone else. I didn’t say anything.
“For example, I know that Mr. Rachmindi is moving out next month. His place is nicer than yours, and not much more a month.”
“I’m happy where I am.”
“Maybe you are, but think about the weather as the winter gets on. You’ll be mewling with cold come January. And his window looks out onto the trees at the back, if that’s what you’ll miss.”
“It’s not that.” He just waited. “It’s. . .” I stood up,