The Crane Wife(48)
Author: Patrick Ness

George looked up. ‘Why do you bother?’

‘Huh?’

‘There are other jobs you could get. Even if they’re not acting jobs, they’d at least be closer to it than a print shop. A theatre box office, maybe. Or a tour guide–’

‘A tour guide,’ Mehmet practically spat.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘But what would you do without me, George?’

‘Probably much the same as now. Except with fewer interruptions.’

Mehmet swivelled back and forth on his stool, regarding George for a moment. ‘You really don’t see it, do you?’

‘Beg pardon?’

‘The way people are around you. The way they act.’

‘What on earth are you talking–’

‘They’re loyal to you, George. You inspire that. You’re best friends with your daughter. You’re best friends with your ex-wife–’

‘Hardly best–’

‘And Kumiko, who is beautiful and talented and mysterious enough to probably have any man in the whole wide world, chose you. Don’t you ever ask yourself why?’

George felt his skin flush, which might not have even been the fever. ‘It’s not because I’m loyal.’

‘It’s because you inspire loyalty. No one wants to let you down. Which, frankly, makes them all vaguely irritated with you most of the time – I know it does me – but they stick around because they want to be sure you’re all right.’ Mehmet shrugged. ‘You’re likeable. And if you like them, well, that means they’re really worth liking, doesn’t it?’

This was easily the nicest thing Mehmet had ever said to him, and in the midst of everything that was wrong at the moment George felt a sudden dizzying upsurge of love and kindness.

‘You’re fired, Mehmet.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not angry. I’m not even dissatisfied with your work. Well, not much. But if you stay here, you’re going to end up taking over this shop, and that would be the saddest thing that ever happened. You deserve better.’

‘George–’

‘I’ve got a ton of money in the bank from these goddamn tiles. I’ll give you a big redundancy. But you need to take the leap, Mehmet. You really do.’

Mehmet looked ready to argue, but then he stopped. ‘How big a redundancy?’

George laughed. It felt like a rare thing. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Mehmet.’

‘What, I have to leave now?’

‘No, of course not. You’ve got badges to finish.’

George went back to his cutting, his momentary lightness dissipating quickly. He glanced up at the first tile he and Kumiko had made together, still hanging on the wall above him. The dragon and the crane, danger and serenity, staring him down. That miracle of first creation. How had he done it then?

And how the hell was he supposed to do it now?

The day after the party, Kumiko had quietly set out every tile of the private story she was telling, one by one, along the bookshelves of his sitting room, putting them in front of his books so the story told itself around the room. The mandala of his soul holding the tiles of hers. He counted them. There were thirty-one.

‘There is one left to finish,’ she’d said.

‘The end of the story,’ he’d said. ‘Will it be a happy ending?

She smiled at him, and his heart soared. ‘Depends on what you mean by happy.’

George looked across the tiles. ‘It’s just that it all seems sort of precarious, doesn’t it? Like everyone’s happiness could be snatched away at any moment.’

She’d looked at him. ‘Do you think your happiness is going to be taken from you, George?’

‘Who doesn’t?’

She considered this as she regarded the penultimate tile. ‘One more to go,’ she said, ‘and then this story is finished.’

One more to go, he thought, looking down at his cutting again now, wondering what the little separate bits were supposed to add up to, wondering which direction he was meant to be heading with them. This assemblage would be for that final tile, but Kumiko had refused, as ever, to tell him what she wanted. Well, refused was probably a bit strong, she’d more eluded him when he asked her about it, but as the days went on he was growing more and more anxious. It felt increasingly like a test he was failing.

‘You’re an artist, George,’ she’d said. ‘This is what you must accept. And if you are an artist, then you will know the shape when it appears under your hand.’

‘But what are you cutting? So at least I’ll know–’

‘It is better if you don’t.’

And then George had found himself saying, ‘What else is new?’

They hadn’t exactly fought after that, but a chilly politeness had descended. It really seemed as if it should have been the moment they had a big blow-up, that they needed to have at least one fight that would either sunder them irreparably or – and George really did think this was more likely and not just because he hungered for it – bring them even closer together. But instead, she had (politely) insisted on going back to her own flat, saying it felt important for her to finish her work there before she took the final step of moving in completely.

He’d thought this meant just a day, but another, then another, then a few more had passed, until a full week was gone, with Kumiko still working, still demurring from making the final move to his house. It had also been a week of being battered by this fever, battered by failure after failure with his own work, and then one ugly, ugly evening, after he’d been unable to get hold of her all day long, there had dawned the single deadly thought that she didn’t really love him.

And that turned out to be too frightening to bear alone.

It only took a moment, a single, inexplicable moment, but he found himself taking out his phone and dialling a number which turned out to be Rachel’s.

‘George,’ she’d answered, as if she already knew what he wanted.

She’d come right over, despite the hour, and she’d seemed, not to put too fine a point on it, slightly unhinged.

But that hadn’t stopped him.

‘Is this for the big project?’ Mehmet said, appearing over his shoulder, making him jump.

‘Jesus, Mehmet, I nearly cut off my thumb,’ George said. Then he turned to look at him. ‘What big project?’

‘I’ve just heard rumours.’