A Gesture Life by Chang-rae Lee Read Free Book Online

services on her car phone, and yesterday she sent a large bouquet of white roses, which sit on the windowsill in thebrassy autumn light. They are beautiful, and I’m very grateful for them, even though in the Japanese tradition white is the signal color of death. But I don’t mind even this, and perhaps it’s right that Liv Crawford should be the bearer of these tidings, the mercenary angel who has saved my life.
    “Sometimes I actually find myself missing that damned woman’s company,” Renny Banerjee says, looking over at the flowers. “Can you believe that? And I was the one who broke things off, Doc. I practically had to throw her out of my apartment. I changed the locks, though it didn’t do any good.”
    “Is that so?”
    “Absolutely, Doc. The local locksmiths love her because she makes sure to send them business. She can get into any house in the county. Truly. But it doesn’t matter now. She doesn’t bother me anymore. I never find her in my bed when I get home.”
    I nod at this, for lack of a better answer. Then we sit quietly for a moment, as I finish the breakfast he has brought me. One of the qualities I have always admired is Renny’s unflinching forthrightness, more intimate than emotional, which the long hiatus in our friendship doesn’t seem to have dulled. Of course I never knew that he and Liv Crawford were in a relationship, but even just the idea appeals to me; I know they say opposites attract, but in this case I imagine that their similarities in character made for an exciting and volatile mix, ready fuel for the fire.
    “Who was that woman you used to spend time with, Doc?” he says, walking around the bed, to the window. “I remember you strolling around the village with a fine looker on your arm. Am I right?”
    “I’m not sure if you are.”
    “Come now, Doc, don’t play cute with me. She was quite tall,if I remember correctly. Statuesque, in fact. What was her name? You introduced us once, years ago, at a village festival. I’m not mistaken about this.”
    “A woman?”
    “Yes, yes,” he says, mirthfully annoyed. “A woman.”
    “Perhaps then you are talking about Mary Burns.”
    “That’s right! Exactly. The striking widow, Mary Burns. What ever came of her? I thought you two were very much the item.”
    “We were always friendly.”
    Renny laughs, almost a guffaw, as he plucks a rose from the vase. “Friendly, you say. Hmm. I recall seeing some cooing and nuzzling beneath the linden trees, when they turned on the string lights for the evening in the park.”
    “Cooing and nuzzling?”
    “Yes,” he says, “I’m sure that’s what it was.”
    “Mr. Banerjee,” I say. “I’m not sure how to respond to these terms.”
    “No responses needed. I have an excellent memory. I see it now, very clearly.” He casts his gaze past my shoulder, off and faraway. His brown face has the lustrous sheen of melted chocolate. “I see Doc Hata and Mrs. Burns, in silhouette, by the swan pond. How they stroll majestically. So very venerable. And look, here they are again, in a window booth at Jolene’s Diner, spooning cherry ice cream from a shared dish. Do I see them once more? Ah, at the July Fourth parade, standing outside Sunny Medical Supply, waving at the procession. Are they holding hands? I can’t see.”
    “I’m sure they aren’t,” I say in mock defense, acknowledging the scenes he is calling up. Renny Banerjee is remembering correctly, of course; I was with Mary Burns in those places (if not exacttimes), and I was more than content to be with her, to spend the idle hours together, in the park or a restaurant or the local movie theater. And yet as much as I happily recall those moments, there is an unformed quality to them as well, as if they are someone else’s memories and reflections, though somehow available only to me, to keep and to hold. Their warmth is fleeting, like a winter sun passing through clouds, and what I have left is the nervous heat of my