“Charlotte russe for a child of this age? Oh no. No no no,” Mr. Rak said. “Most unwise. Simple fare for the young, I always say. You don’t want to spoil the boy, Mrs. — ah —”
“Cooper,” she supplied. “Dolly Cooper.”
“Well, Mrs. Cooper — by the way, I do hope Mister Cooper won’t object to my having invited you to tea on this rather special occasion.”
Dolly blinked her eyes rapidly and then glanced toward her small son, her expression suddenly wistful. “Oh, no, you see Edward’s father is — that is — my little boy and I, we’re quite alone now —”
“Ah. I see. How sad,” Mr. Rak said, his face brightening. He turned to the dark-haired waitress in black dress and frilled white apron and cap who hovered at his shoulder with her order pad at the ready.
“A banana sliced in a dish with a little milk and sugar on it, I think, and some plain bread and butter for the young man. That will do you nicely, won’t it, little fellow,” he said, dipping his long face in Edward’s direction and giving him a whiff of stale breath. “The lady and I will both have the charlotte russe,” he said, addressing the waitress again, “as long as you’re sure the cream is perfectly fresh. Remove the maraschino cherries before you serve us our charlottes. They’re coloured with the bodies of dead insects, did you know that, my dear? It’s true. Insects from Mexico, of all the filthy places. In my opinion they are absolutely poisonous. I don’t know how people can bring themselves to eat such things.”
This last remark was addressed to Dolly, not the waitress. Edward knew his mother loved those cherries, and she looked as though she hadn’t believed a word of what the man said about the bugs from Mexico, but she smiled sweetly and agreed with him all the same. She turned to Edward and winked. Let’s go along with him, the wink said, I’ll make it up to you.
A small matter, or so it seemed at the time, but that charlotte russe, as it turned out, was as pivotal to the story of Edward’s life as Proust’s madeleine was to his — not a talisman unleashing a flood of memories, but the first destabilizing tremor that set in motion an avalanche of unhappiness, the first of Harvey Rak’s edicts against which his mother would never find the courage to argue. But for her acquiescence on the point of that cup of cream-filled sponge cake, her life and his would have evolved very differently. If she had been brave enough to face the man down, insisted that Edward be allowed to have what he wanted, obliged Rak to order a charlotte russe instead of fobbing him off with that filthy banana, Harvey Rak would have paid up the bill when they finished their tea, bowed to Dolly Cooper one final time, and gone on his way without a backward glance, having no further interest in a woman who would have the temerity to insist, ever, about anything.
“I don’t want a banana, thank you,” Edward said politely. Mr. Rak ignored him. A child’s wishes were beneath consideration. When the banana arrived Edward stirred it around in the dish and slopped a little of the milk onto the white tablecloth, but as no one took any notice he finally pushed the dish away and sat with his chin in his hands, staring at Mr. Rak.
Everything about Mr. Rak was long and narrow. His features were more vertical than horizontal, his mouth a downturned thin-lipped curve, his pear-shaped eyes set in pouches that look weighted, as though they might contain small ballasts of sand. He had narrow angular shoulders and a caved-in chest under his grey suit and waistcoat. His shirt collar didn’t begin to cover the length of his stringy neck, which reminded the boy of a tortoise he’d seen in the Riverdale zoo, stretching its neck out to an incredible length to reach its food. He watched with fascination as Mr. Rak ate his charlotte russe, his Adam’s apple rising like a stone under the skin and plummeting down again as though dropping of its own weight. Mr. Rak talked on and on, telling Dolly all about himself.
“I’m a manufacturer of upright pianos, Mrs. Cooper, as I believe I mentioned earlier.” He leaned back in his chair and addressed the slowly revolving black-bladed fan in the ceiling. “I do not boast but simply state the truth when I say the Rak piano is an excellent instrument, one suited for daily use in the home or classroom. There’s reliable quality in every Rak piano, through and through.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s true,” Dolly said. “It must make you very proud to produce those beautiful pianos.”
“Perhaps beautiful isn’t quite the right word, my dear. I don’t believe in putting the value into useless decoration. No no no. Plain cases. Solid, but plain. Every piano is made with a firm action, built to hold up well even with the heavy use it may receive in a school or from several generations of a large musical family.”
“I’m sure that’s very sensible,” Dolly replied.
“But make no mistake, Mrs. Cooper. The keys of a Rak pianoforte are always of genuine ivory. Top quality there,” said Rak, leaning down close toward her in a way that made Edward so angry he picked up his spoon and deliberately slopped more milk on the table. Mr. Rak did not deign to glance his way, and if his mother saw she pretended she hadn’t.
“A middle-range instrument at a reasonable price,” Rak went on. “I’m happy to say I produce something of real value to society. And what’s equally gratifying,” he said, smiling, or rather, scrunching his eyes so the pouches under them puckered up until they looked like little peach pits, “the financial rewards are in keeping with the quality of my merchandise.”
“And they ought to be, after all,” said Dolly, nodding vigorously.
“They are. They are. I own a substantial house in Richmond. Right on the river. Riverview, it’s called, my house. Do you know Richmond, Mrs. Cooper? It’s —”
“Well, I’ve never been —”
“— south of London. A short train ride. Reasonably close to the site of my manufactory in Kingston. I’ll confide something to you though, my dear,” he said, putting his face close to Dolly’s again, “and it’s this. I’ve been so busy building up my business through the years that I’m afraid I’ve neglected my personal life.”
“Oh, one shouldn’t do that, surely, Mr. Rak.”
“You’re a wise little lady. No, indeed, one shouldn’t. But here I am in my late forties — although you might not guess it — feeling as though something were missing, as though my life were —”
“But what could that possibly be, Mr. Rak? Surely with your business, and your wonderful house on the river —”
“— not quite complete. To share a secret with you, dear lady, I’ve begun to think it might be time for me to take a wife.”
Edward felt no wave of dread. The words “take a wife” meant nothing to him.
“You’re not married then, Mr. Rak?” Dolly asked.
“Not for want of hoping one day to be so, Mrs. Cooper. No indeed. But here now, tell me about yourself,” Mr. Rak said, straightening his narrow shoulders. “I’ve heard the evidence of your extraordinary musical talent with my own ears, and your — feminine charms —” he stretched out his horrible neck and inclined it obliquely toward her “— are evident for all to see. But you’re English, too, Mrs. Cooper. Home Counties, I should say, judging from your accent. How do you come to be on this side of the Atlantic, my dear?”
His mother must have invented her story on the spot, because Edward had certainly never heard it before. She told Mr. Rak a strange tale about the untimely death of a beloved husband soon after they’d immigrated to Canada, and how she’d been left almost entirely without resources and a newborn child to raise alone. She seemed to have forgotten about her great days as a pianist in the grand salon of the Queen Mary, a time of her life she never tired of telling Edward about. She caught her son looking at her in amazement and winked again. He was baffled. He didn’t know what was going on, but