Before he left, Bennett turned to Julian. His lip trembled. “I wish my son could’ve known Wild. He was a remarkable man.”
Julian shook his head. “Do you know who else was a remarkable man? Your son.”
“I know that,” Michael Bennett said, crying, his head low. “I learned it too late.” Leaning heavily on his walker, he shuffled away.
33
Silver Angel
JULIAN AND DEVI LIVED SO LONG IN STEADY, HUMMING, comforting, regimented proximity that Julian lost track of time. He jumped up in the middle of one night, not knowing where he was, or when he was, terrified that three equinoxes had passed, or twenty.
It was the middle of September. Devi didn’t say which September.
On their last night together, Julian took Devi to Chinatown for dinner at Tao Tao Ju on Lisle Street, just off Leicester Square. Eating food with Devi that was cooked by other men was a two-hour stand-up act. Julian didn’t know Devi could be so petty. It was hilarious. Nothing was to his liking. The fish was too salty, the dough too stale, and the sake not strong enough. They dared bring him low-salt soy sauce and overcooked his garlic brisket.
“What’s Lahpet?” Julian asked.
“Pickled tea leaves served in a salad. But they didn’t prepare it correctly,” Devi said with scorn. “They didn’t add enough vinegar. It’s not pickled, it’s watered.” They had pork buns with mango. They drank a white palm toddy or coconut wine, a fermented cloudy sap. “It contains many nutrients,” Devi said, “including potash, which you could add to your suet if you wanted to make candles.”
Julian chuckled. “There are some things I don’t regret having behind me,” he said. “That’s at the top of the list.”
“Nah, I bet it doesn’t even make the top five,” Devi said, both of them mutely acknowledging some of the greater horrors. “Did you know,” Devi said to change the subject, “that longer fermentation produces vinegar, not stronger wine?”
Julian smiled. “Yes, Devi,” he said, “I did know that.”
“I forgot I was talking to the King of Vinegar,” Devi said.
Afterward, the cook said he had a good time. “Maybe when Ava is discharged, I can bring her here for a celebration.”
“I don’t know. She’s not thrilled with your food. You want to take the chance she’ll like someone else’s?”
“Maybe I’ll take her to the Savoy, then,” Devi said. “I seem to remember she enjoyed it that one time you took us.”
“You didn’t,” Julian said. Devi had derided the French cuisine at the Savoy almost as strongly as he derided the food at Tao Tao Ju tonight.
“Like you, I’m capable of making small sacrifices,” said Devi with a straight face.
They took the long way back to Quatrang, the really long way back. They meandered through the lit-up dusky Soho and Covent Garden. It was a Sunday night, there was street music everywhere, the city was pulsing with people, with laughter. The Festival of Lights re-formed some of the roads into a kaleidoscope of color. Buildings, statues, awnings were dressed up in red and gold. It was like fireworks on every street from Carnaby to Seven Dials.
Like fireworks on every street.
And the Spitfires and the Hurricanes weren’t in the clouds overhead and the air wasn’t pierced by a wrenching up and down wail.
They walked down St. Martin’s Lane and sat on the steps in front of the National Gallery, watching the happy people and the hungry pigeons wage battle for domination of Trafalgar Square, listening to a choir sing Allegri’s “Miserere,” the sentimental harmonies mournfully carrying through the open doors of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.
“I’m going to miss London,” Julian said. It was a warm windless September evening, loud and crowded and sublime. “How do you figure I could ever forget this? You haven’t forgotten Kolka Mountain.”
His head lowered, Devi stammered when he replied. “That’s true. But that’s how I continue to carry his soul with me—by not forgetting. I don’t have his earthly life to look forward to. I’m not as lucky as you.”
“Devi, Mr. Lucky is leaving tomorrow. And we’ve known each other many years.”
“What of it?”
“There is hardly a thing you don’t know about me. Tell me about your son.” Julian put his arm around the sturdy little man. “Come on. Look what we’ve got. Our bellies are full after a farewell supper. We’re a little tipsy on sake . . .”
“Speak for yourself.”
“We have a view, a camaraderie, a breathtaking choir. Now is the time we sit around the fire and tell stories.”