Henry Pearlman's Doubt

When, many years later, that period of his life would come to mind, that doubt, which even then he'd been unable to resolve, would present itself again the same as before.

* * *

But it's only natural that it seem expensive to you. Of course. Because you consider it a mannequin, while in fact she is actually Deborah.

Well, I'd have never thought that mannequins could be people.

And indeed you'd be right. Only mine can be considered as such.

The speaker was a lady around fifty, elegant in her flowery dress with a little black belt, who had the air of someone sure of herself, all the more so for that little spotted scarf knotted tightly around her neck.

Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Florene. Florence de Roissy, to be precise. And you are?

“Henry. Henry Pearlman.”

Thank you. I like to know the name of the person with whom I am speaking.

Henry looked around, without however being able to see much. He had entered the store on West Broadway, in Soho, at the suggestion of a friend who had a boutique in Madison Avenue. He was looking for mannequins because he thought they might look nice in the window of his clothing shop in Wooster Street, and Michael, his friend, had given him this address where, in his opinion, the best mannequins in all of New York were to be found. And quite particular, he'd added.

Florence's Place, from the outside, had the look of a big shop, because it had a full four windows looking out onto the street. Three of them, however, were almost completely dark: right in the middle of each there was nothing but a chair, in profile, made up of a slender neon tube: a green chair in the first window, light blue in the second, red in the third. In the fourth window there was a pretty girl on display, slender, in a tennis outfit, racket in hand, in the midst of a backhand stroke. Her gaze was concentrated on the ball, which wasn't there, and one knee was brushing against the ground.

She was, obviously, a mannequin, but so perfectly resembling a person that it left one gaping.

The store inside was made up of a single, large room: it had probably once been a warehouse, or a garage, like many such places in the neighborhood. Scattered about the big room were various mannequins, male and female, all young, each on a platform.

Each of them had been captured, and frozen, so to speak, in a certain pose. There was one who was sitting in an armchair reading a book; one who was standing upright, legs spread, as if waiting for someone; one who was walking; one who was looking at something, screening her eyes from the light with a hand; one who was running; one who was sitting at a table set for a meal. Spotlights lit up each of them, leaving the rest of the room in darkness, so that he imagined, being unable to see it, that the ceiling was very high, as it in fact turned out to be.

Henry had the impression of being on a movie set; at least, this is what imagined a movie set would be like, never having actually seen one before. Florence had noticed his embarrassment.

I see that you're a bit confused. That's only to be expected. But you should know that each of these mannequins corresponds, completely and utterly, to a real, existing person. And they correspond not only in their physical appearance, but in their personality, their character as well. How, you ask? Just look at the expressions on their faces, their behavior, and observe what they are doing. Take for example Valerie, the girl playing tennis in the window. One day, last summer, she came to see me. As usual I wanted to know as much about her as possible: her level of education, her interests, all about her family, her work. And so I learned, along with the other traits of her character, that Valerie is among other things an excellent tennis player. I put a racket into her hands and took some pictures of her. She convinced me.

Now, if you were to meet Valerie on a tennis court, you'd recognize her right away, and you'd find her to be absolutely identical. I'll go even further: if she were swinging a backhand stroke, she would even have the same expression.

My compliments, Henry said, sincerely impressed. I'm just looking for a couple of mannequins to put in my shop though. I'd like to know, frankly, if you believe that the fact that Valerie resembles, completely and utterly - as you say - an existing person, can help me sell more.

Do I believe so? No, no I don't believe so. I am positively certain of it. You have a clothing store, if I understand correctly. Good. These days, in shops like yours, if you'll forgive my being blunt, one does everything to entice those who enter not to buy anything at all. Allow me to explain. Clothes are hung, and badly at that, along the walls, or on those metal stands, anonymous and downright horrible. The mannequins, when there are any, seem like creatures out of a science fiction movie: in semi-transparent plastic, without faces, deprived of personality: gelatinous as jellyfish.

You know better than I that people, when they look at an item of clothing, think about how it will look when they put in on.

That's what the mirrors are for, Henry replied, with air of one who's sure he's right.

But that's precisely the point: when people look at themselves in the mirror, they are almost always disappointed. And do you know why? Because they notice a host of imperfections - real or imaginary, it matters not - and they blame whatever it is they've just put on. This is where my mannequin comes in. As it is a person, and is acknowledged as such, it says to them: see how good this would look on you too?

It's much the same thing that happens with fashion magazines: whoever flips through them imagines themselves as the models and believes - because they want to believe it - that they too would look so good wearing that outfit. It's an illusion, true, but what would life be like without illusions?

Let me ask you question - Henry said - do you often change the pose that the mannequins are in? Or do they always remain the same? For example, that girl in the window - Valerie, you said her name was - is she sometimes playing tennis, sometimes doing something else?

No no, of course not. Valerie is always playing tennis, naturally. As I said before, she's an athletic girl, but passionate about tennis in particular. Tennis, you might say, is a part of her personality. Not at all like Lucille, the girl over there in the back: Lucille is quiet girl, she likes staying in and reading, and in fact you see her there with a book in her hand.

My mannequins are always in the same pose, because that pose reveals their individuality, their temperament. Just like with many actors and actresses, who always play the same role. Even writers, if you think about it, always write the same book.

Henry was at loss for words.

Well, what do you know, he was thinking, this Florence has got a point. Trying not to let her notice, he observed her more closely: she had a fresh face, well taken care of, with light make-up, and she expressed her ideas with confidence, but without any aggressiveness. An intelligent woman, he concluded, and a formidable saleswoman, about that there was no doubt.

Listen, maybe you're right. I'm willing to give it a try. Perhaps you know my shop, Parachute, not far from here, in Wooster Street,

Parachute? Ah but of course I know if. Young fashion, if I'm not mistaken, with its own particular character and taste, well-defined.

Seeing as you know it, will you help me choose? I need two mannequins, or rather, two people - he laughed - to put in the shop window.

And so it was that on that very same day, Henry saw Kevin and Cheryl delivered to his stop.

* * *

Entering Parachute, after a few meters, two long runways began, one next to another, with spotlights on the sides, like in fashion shows. On display along the runways were the clothing items, in an order that permitted, to those looking for it, to discern a certain coordination.

It was a big a space: at the end of the runways, on the right, there was a long wooden table, with two benches on which two long yellow cushions had been placed. It was a small restaurant, but a nice one. One could sample there some unusual dishes, and, at any time of the day, anchovies with lemon, orange-scented cream of asparagus or of carrots, Italian-style eggs, marinated beef filets, all with delicious side dishes such as lyonnaise-style potatoes, crudités, salads and steamed vegetables. Then, on some days, even the Hungarian specialities of sole fish roulades and sea bream filets au gratin. And, for dessert, sorbets, ice cream, and rice pudding with candied fruit.

All thanks to the chef, who was Hungarian, but who had worked for a long time in Lyon.

In front of the table there was window that wasn't very big, with two vases of geraniums on the windowsill. The wall in front of it, made of red bricks, beyond the grating, stood no more than two meters away, so that one had the impression that the window was painted.

Above the runways there were two rows of racing bikes, hanging from the ceiling: everyone who entered the store and looked up would marvel at them, and try to understand the reason they were there. But the reason, quite simply, didn't exist: they had been a caprice, so to speak, of Henry's when he had remodeled and reopened the shop.

Over where the two runways ended, on the right, as we've seen, was to be found the restaurant, while on the left side Henry had created what he liked to define as his corner. And it in fact mainly functioned as his office. Next to the desk was a light blue couch, in leather. Over time the leather had given way and become wrinkly, which made it all the more soft to the touch. There were also two armchairs, not matching, covered with a velvet with yellow and blue lines; there was a wooden chair with a straw seat, and a stool of Italian design, made of metal with a pink light inside, that shined through in the shape of a light bulb in the center of the seat.

Various shelves had been put on the walls brimming with books, some straight, others leaning, others horizontal, like the bricks of some of the old houses in Istanbul, that are still there in spite of the earthquakes, the injuries of time, and the foolishness of men, always ready to build something new.

Henry loved to sit in that corner to work, and also to exchange opinions - not necessarily about fashion - with people who, despite being in a hurry, like most people in the city, would find a little time to chat.

That afternoon, sitting on the edge of one of the armchairs, in a quite uncomfortable position, was Doriane, editor-in-chief of one of those magazines that are done in way that makes it unclear what they are about or to whom they are addressed, and, perhaps for this reason, are sometimes quite successful.

Around forty, but dressed as though she were fifteen years younger, always bubbling over with ideas, she loved to show up at Parachute after an absence of months; or she would come for a few days in row, to buy an accessory, or to give her opinion on some pieces, or simply to say hello and run off.

I'm late, Henry, I really have to go.

Henry had got up to say goodbye, but she, already halfway across the store, had turned back as just Henry had finished saying: Thanks for all your advice about the position of the furniture in this corner.

Oh you mustn't thank me, my dear Henry. Feng Shui, Feng Shui, wind and water, wind and water. These natural forces, that escape human control, define space and so can change our life. As I've just told you, all you need to do is envision the space on the basis of the teachings of Feng Shui to attract a favorable destiny.

The spaces that we occupy, in fact, are nothing more than an extension of ourselves, and thus should be respected, if we want to live in harmony with the world that surrounds us. Not following Feng Shui doctrine in the positioning of those furniture could cause doubts and ambiguity.”

Henry was left confused.

He had heard people talking about these ideas, about Feng Shui, that he seemed to remember came from China, but he had never much considered them. Better not to think about it, he'd told himself. Instead, he should think about which clothes to put on those two mannequins.

Kevin was a handsome guy; he didn't look more than twenty five. Tall, slim, broad shouldered. He had been captured while walking with an athletic step. So Henry decided that he would look good in a tight pair of jeans, a light blue shirt with a tight Korean collar, and brown shoes, in a leather that seemed dusty, it was so worn.

Cheryl, on the hand, he decided to dress in something a bit more eye-catching: pants tight around the ankles, with western-style pockets; a long waistcoat, with the borders in fur. Underneath, a turtleneck with long sleeves, with two colors, with fur cuffs and men's cufflinks. An outfit that looked great on her and that, he hoped, passersby would stop to look at.

He went back to his corner, sat at his desk, looked around and could not help thinking about what Doriane had just said to him. The current layout of the furniture still seemed to him the most logical, so he decided to leave things as they were.

It was the early afternoon, the calmest moment of the day, when it was rare that someone entered Parachute. And it was precisely in that tranquillity - later on he would often recall that moment - which he came to the conclusion that he would like to have, in that corner, someone to keep him company.

And an idea popped up in his mind, an idea that was a bit bizarre, but that had came to him all on its own, so that when he was later to rethink it, he would tell himself that it hadn't been his fault at all.

* * *

Good afternoon. You'll be happy to know that I'm here because I'd like to buy another one of your mannequins, if you'll forgive me for calling them so.

Allow me to say what a pleasure it is to see you again. Florence said. And Kevin and Cheryl, how are they behaving? Well, I imagine; they're both good kids. And this other one, where do you intend to put it? In the window? I would hope not, it'd be too much. But inside, perhaps on the side of one of the runways, choosing the right person, could work quite well indeed.

Pardon me, but I would need this mannequin - or rather, in this case I could almost say person - only to keep me company.

For company? But of course, how did I not see it right away? As in all shops, or ones like yours at least, that don't resemble supermarkets, there are dead times, and you would like someone who was able to fill those pauses not only with their presence, but more especially with their personality. I bet you're thinking of putting her in that corner in the back of the shop that I saw.

It as if she's read my mind, Henry said to himself, and he scrutinized her with a certain curiosity.

You see: you've understood immediately the advantage of such a companion. You'd have at your side, whenever you wish, someone who would stay there and listen to you without interrupting, something that, if I may say so, is becoming rarer and rarer these days. At any rate, I believe I've got just whom you need: Deborah.

Before you meet her let me tell you something about her. Her father's a teacher, her mother a buyer at Bloomingdale's. She's twenty-eight, thirty at the oldest, if I remember well. She's not married, perhaps because she hasn't had the time, thanks to her many interests. She's an architect: she works at Straw's & Lieberman, maybe you've heard of it.

Deborah is complex girl, of changing humor. While she is sweet and feminine, she's not submissive, quite the contrary: she's very strong-willed. She also plays tennis, though not like Valerie of course. She has good taste, which you can see from how she dresses: even when she wears things that are a bit peculiar, all of her class shines through. Come, come meet her.

They crossed the room, stepping past Randy here, Richard there, Susy over there. Sitting on swivel chair, the kind you see in many offices, was Deborah.

The first thing the struck him were her eyes, long, shining and full of life. The features of her face were a little uneven, but it was that uneveness that made her so pretty. Her head was turned to the side, as if she were listening to someone very attentively.

Henry imagined her sitting in his corner, and he liked her immediately.

I have to thank you. Deborah should be perfect. But if in a few days I have changed my mind, can I bring her back?

Of course. If you aren't happy, I won't be either. But I know Deborah: she won't disappoint you.

He had to admit that, in those first days, having the mannequin there next to him, which continued to stare at him, had made him somewhat uneasy. Maybe, he told himself, his decision had been a bit rushed, he shouldn't have given in to the idea right away. He didn't however want to make another mistake by returning her to Florence. Let's wait a bit, he told himself. In the meantime let's think of her clothes.

He went to choose the clothes, and immediately realized that it would be no easy task. Should he dress her in formal wear, how she presumably dressed for work, or in a more fun way? He tried and retried, but was unable to put together an outfit for her that was fun but at the same time classy. Perhaps it was the ponytail that was hanging him up, he thought, in order to find an excuse, not wanting to admit he was incapable of finding the right clothes.

But in the end he decided it was best to put it off till later, some things take care themselves on their own, he told himself.

Nevertheless, after a few days, when he approached is desk and saw the mannequin sitting there, in an armchair, with the same outfit that Florence had chosen for her, he figured that the best thing to do was to go talk about it with her.

Florence had met Deborah in person, so she would undoubtedly be able to suggest which clothes to dress her in from his collection.

It seems very simple - Florence began - it's all about keeping in mind the personality of who's in front of us. Nevertheless I've got to admit that in Deborah's case things are a little more complicated because, as I told you before, she has a moody temperament, so her personality isn't always the same. But let me think about how she was dressed the first time she came to see me.

Ok, I've got it.

As you'll noticed, Deborah is tall, almost as tall as Kevin, so she looks good in long jackets. Let's see... this one, for example, in green crepon. No, I'm mistaken. Surely that sort of knit overcoat would go better, the russet and mauve one, with the pea-green pockets. It seems like it was made for her: changeable, just like her mood.

Underneath, I'd put on this striped pullover. Those are knee-length stockings, right? Then they'll go perfectly. With those shorts I see over there in the back. And shoes without heels, she's already tall enough.

Now, I already know you're going to tell me that this outfit doesn't match. It is however a planned, studied non-matching: if you observe closely you'll discover, in this outfit, a match with a surprising logic.

And then what's really important is that it's an outfit that corresponds to Deborah's tastes, to her mentality, a mentality that is, so to speak, elastic. I'm sure that, were she to see them, she would buy these exact clothes.

Surprised, only one one word came to Henry's mind: formidable, just like it did the first time he'd met this Florence.

* * *

His friend Mark, when he came to see him, was enthusiastic from the moment he laid eyes on her.

Fantastic! It's too bad I'm already married, she'd be the ideal wife, she never speaks! Anyways, I like her; I especially like her hair. I have to ask my hairdresser if he can do those auburn highlights for me. I'm joking. Unfortunately, in less than two month's I'll be going back to my natural color: as you know I had to go blond because I lost a bet, but my wife would ask for a divorce if I didn't go back to my natural look.

Deborah, you said her name was? Pretty name, uncommon. Plus, by how she dresses you can see that she likes imaginative things, like you. You could talk about them together.

He started to laugh: when he laughed he did it with so much gusto that tears would come to his eyes, in that big face of his that was always cheerful, well-suiting him, tall, big and broad as he was, and yet he always did have a tender heart, like a finch, Henry would say.

They turned towards Deborah, and both noticed her eyes: intelligent, one might define them. Her face, turned towards them, had that intent look on it, of one who's paying attention to what's being said.

* * *

It was the time of year when Henry placed orders to his suppliers for the next season.

It was a constant coming and going from one showroom to another, though there was an occasional representative who came over to Parachute to show his collection.

Henry received them in his corner, and would take each article of clothing in his hands, observe it calmly, then set it on his desk and try to imagine how it would look on the runway, next to the others. It was a rather stressing job, since he knew - but couldn't do anything about it - that some of the pieces wouldn't sell, because of the style or the color that weren't quite right: experience, knowledge of his clientele and their tastes were never enough.

After the representative had left, Henry liked to go back and reflect on his choices, to then perhaps modify them.

He weighed the reasons that had made him decide yes or no, and would try to convince himself that he had chosen well. And, by habit, he went through this debate out loud, because he'd found that hearing the arguments aloud made them seem more, or less, well-founded.

It was like this that he noticed - or, to put it better, believed that he noticed - that Deborah, there at the side, was not only paying attention, but listened to the reasons for and against, and most definitely took the side of one or the other.

In fact, observing her furtively, while he spoke, he had the sensation that a light had appeared in her eyes that he'd never noticed before, that her gaze had become more vivid.

The first time he had stopped right in the middle of a sentence and turned all of a sudden to look at her, but her expression had seemed like the same one she'd always had.

It was obvious that it could not be true, and yet, even as he realized the absurdity of it all, from then on, when he spoke, he would sometimes turn to look at her.

* * *

That day he decided to accept the invitation that he had received from O.K. Harris, a contemporary art gallery, not far from his shop, on West Broadway, the part that used to be called South Fifth Avenue. It was a spacious gallery, with a big room after the entrance and various the smaller rooms further on. There were a lot of people, as it was a vernissage of a new artist.

Henry found O.K. Harris to be one of the more interesting galleries in Soho: the works that it exhibited were always unusual. Not that he was much of an expert on art, much less contemporary art, but going there was for him a bit like going around inside the head of someone else, in which the most imaginative ideas appeared, ideas that he hadn't even thought could exist.

Take the case of the works of Muriel Castanis, an artist he'd never heard of, whose works he was viewing now: if he had had to say what they resembled, he would have said that those works, in his opinion, looked like ghosts.

The artist had indeed put a white sheet over a person, draping it from the head to toes like a tunic. Then he'd made the person inside disappear, as if by magic, so that only the wrapping remained.

Many of the works were life-sized. There was one - Great Dancer read the plaque - that evoked, in the movements of the draping, the lightness of a ballerina, and Henry was fascinated by it.

He decided that in each of those works dwelled two people together: the real person, who could only be imagined, and the external wrapping. This created inside him the doubt that his being unable to identify the person hidden inside depended solely on the inadequacy of his imagination.

He'd taken a few steps back, when all of the sudden he had the impression of recognizing, in a girl with her back turned standing a couple steps before him, Deborah, none other than she. He realized that it was impossible, but nevertheless she was the same height, and her chestnut hair was identical, with same auburn highlights, also worn in a ponytail.

He approached her, and lightly brushed against her with his arm. The girl turned, and he was quick to say:

Pardon me. And he blushed.

She looked at him and smiled.

They're extraordinary, don't you think? She nodded towards the figures.

Really. Every once in a while I come here because the works that this gallery displays always amaze me with their inventiveness. Sorry, I haven't introduced myself: I'm Henry, Henry Pearlman. And he put out his hand.

Barbara. She said. I think the same thing, even though I've got to admit I have trouble considering pieces like these to be works of art. In any case, they help us understand how the world is changing.

There's no doubt about that. But it's almost seven: I was thinking of going to dinner. What are you doing? Do you have any plans? Why don't we have dinner together?

12

She didn't respond, but looked him in the eyes. She's wondering what kind of guy she's talking to, whether she can trust me, Henry told himself. So he quickly added: I have a clothing shop, Parachute, here nearby, in Wooster Street. Do you know Mezzogiorno?

No, I never come to this area.

It's a restaurant a close to hear, on the corner of Sullivan and Spring Street. It's modest looking, but welcoming, and the service is great. And if you like Italian food, you can get there the kind from Northern Italy, the best.

They made their way towards the restaurant.

Along the way, Henry thought about how natural it had seemed to ask her out to dinner. He didn't normally act that way with people he'd just met, even if the person was beautiful girl. But perhaps it was due to the fact that, in a certain sense, it was as though he had been meeting an old acquaintance. And then she had such a nice face, and when she'd smiled her face had lit up and her eyes had smiled too, big, bright eyes, violet he thought, but with specks of green.

They sat down at the table, and Henry told her that the first thing to try in this restaurant was the bread, crunchy, just out of the oven. And then the oil, that they brought together with the bread, before the water even, since most customers ordered San Pellegrino. And, unlike most American restaurants, they didn't bring you butter.

Do you work, or are you still studying?

Studying? Do you know how old I am? Almost thirty. I've been working as architect for nearly four years. I like it, I dreamed of being an architect ever since I was a little girl.

And has reality matched your dreams?

More or less, yes. And that's already saying a lot, don't you think? But tell me about your store: what kind of clothes do you sell?

Things for young people, but not too young. For men and women. A lot of the things are a bit particular, imported, from Europe and Canada especially. I'm always looking for something new, that people haven't seen, but that is just what they want, even though they don't know it. So when they see it in my shop they fall in love with that particular piece of clothing. Though of course I don't always succeed.

You've got me curious. I'd like to come see it, your shop. Could I come on Saturday, since I don't work?

I'll be expecting you. Now let me take you home. Let's find a taxi, they always pass on West Broadway.

She came to the shop around midday.

She had stopped right away, at the entrance, looking around, and the first thing that had caught her attention was how the two mannequins were dressed, Cheryl in particular. The bicycles hanging from the ceiling had seemed an suggestive idea: a graphic underscoring, she had defined them. Henry brought her to his corner, from where one could see some people sitting next to one another at the table of the little restaurant.

What a nice idea, that restaurant!

She was about to seat herself in one of the armchairs, when she noticed Deborah.

And who's this? Oh, sorry, I thought it was a person. Anyways, I've never seen a mannequin that looked so much like a real person.

The person who sold it to me told me that it wasn't a mannequin, but rather Deborah. Would you

like to have a look around and see if you find something you like? Shall I accompany you?

No, thanks, I'd rather do it alone.

Henry noticed that she moved with self-assurance, sure of her choices. And he also noticed that she liked knit clothes, just like the ones Florence had chosen for Deborah, as well as vivid colors, put together, or, more precisely, mixed together, according to entirely personal criteria.

They began to see each other often, and discovered they had a great many tastes in common. They loved the same films, going to Madison Square Garden to see basketball games, and eating at Italian restaurants.

Once when she started speaking about architecture and architects, Henry admitted his near total ignorance of the subject. Among modern architects, he had explained, I only know two: Santiago Calatrava, a Spaniard, and Emilio Ambasz, an Argentine. The works of Ambasz, when I saw a exhibition of his - he'd added - struck me to the point that I still remember what he said in the catalogue about his working method: it consists of the building of fables. This phrase made me understand why his buildings seem like dream edifices, that leave one enchanted.

She had looked at him with surprise.

* * *

Mark was sitting in Henry's store.

You know I haven't seen you in ages? What's happened to you? Have you fallen in love?

Well, not exactly, but it is true that I've met a girl. We've been seeing each other for a while, and I'm discovering we've got a lot in common: tastes, interests, the same way of looking at life, if that means anything. Sometimes it's like we we already knew each other.

Mark - who was still blond - was listening with his eyes half closed, with the hint of a smile, lying motionless on the couch. He seems like a great big cat, one of those tawny ones, when it's purring, Henry thought.

I see. But are we talking about something serious?

I think so, yes, and to be frank, it scares me a bit. You know how attached I am to my freedom, I don't feel ready to be with another person, but nevertheless I can't get her out of my mind: it's as though there were some particular thing tying me to her.

You haven't told me her name, what she does.

Her name's Barbara, she's thirty years old and she's an architect in a studio in New York.

Well, she's got all the boxes ticked then. I'm really quite curious to see how it all will turn out. Be careful though...

And he left with a gesture, as if to repeat the warning.

That Saturday, as usual, Barbara and Henry met to go to dinner together.

He was tired, having had one customer after another, and was looking forward to relaxing a bit.

Barbara greeted him with smile, like she always did, but he noticed right away that something was wrong. A little later, with a glass of rhubarb Zucca in front of her - her favorite aperitif - she turned to look at him better and said: So you're scared that this is becoming something serious.

He looked at her shocked.

Who told you that? You know I don't like to talk to anyone about us. Anyways it's true: I saw my friend Mark whom you don't even know, and I told him that I was scared that our friendship was becoming, for me, something serious. But this is something I confided only to him. So I'd really like to know: who told you?

It doesn't matter who told me. I know it. So it's like this: you'd have preferred that it weren't serious.

It took him some time to convince her that, if had thought this, it was only because the feeling of attraction he'd felt for her from the beginning, had become something much more serious. He just needed a little time to think things through, that was all.

But when he was climbing the few steps up to the door to his house he couldn't help but wonder how Barbara had known what he'd confided only to Mark. There are certain things women can just intuit, he told himself, they have the antennae for it.

They didn't see each other again for more than a week. They'd both been very busy, but nevertheless Henry wondered whether, in reality, they hadn't both been trying to avoid one another.

It was just past one when he saw her appear in the store. She seemed cheerful.

I have the afternoon free and I'm hungry. Can I have something here?

Are you asking my permission? Tell me instead where you've been, it's been a while since I last saw you.

I could say the same about you.

Her appetite was taken care of by a cream of asparagus, a roulade and a rice pudding. She'd come and sit in her favorite armchair, her legs crossed.

We're working on an ambitious project: a big development complex in the suburbs of Boston. I'd never have thought that our company would win the competition. But what about you, how are things going?

Things are a little slow. Maybe it's because of the late season. You know how we shopkeepers are like farmers: we always find a reason to complain, especially about the weather.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, convinced that they were both talking about other things to avoid coming to the point. He decided to break the ice:

I've been thinking about the two of us, in these days.

Really? Don't tell me that now you're at ease because you've convinced yourself that it's not something serious after all.

No I've been thinking that I wouldn't be at all displeased if it were. Quite the contrary.

Barbara had turned to him sharply:

Listen - she said, and Henry, for the first time noticed a very firm tone in her voice - she is listening to us. She nodded towards Deborah. Then she got up and headed towards the opposite corner, where the restaurant was. Henry followed her.

What are you talking about? She's a mannequin!

I don't care. I'm telling you she listens to us. I want you to get rid of her.

Henry looked at her. He was speechless, even though he'd had, in the past, that same strange sensation, irrational and absurd.

Okay. I will. Let me talk about it with the person who sold her to me. I'll call her and tell her to come take Deborah back.

“See, you call her by name. For you she's a person, and what's more she's always at you side. Anyways, promise me that you'll get rid of her. Also because - I haven't told you yet - in a week I'm going to Boston to work. For me it's a promotion. But I'll return to New York every weekend, so we'll be able to see each other.

Henry looked at her, and felt a kind of resentment building inside himself. He told himself that he'd never be able to understand them, women, and at the same time he had the feeling of having been placed at a crossroads, and it bothered him.

He took Barbara to La Guardia airport and, while embracing her, he told her that when she came back in a week she would find everything the way she wanted it.

And then - he added - we'll be able to think about us, seriously.

And in emphasizing this last word he couldn't help but smile to himself, thinking of Mark.

The next day he opened the store at the usual hour. As usual he headed over to his corner, where Deborah was sitting. But Deborah wasn't there, nor anywhere else in the shop.

He decided he had to talk to Florence about it.

Oh but there's no doubt about it. What did I tell you about Deborah?

Paolo Altamura