The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [104]
Missie sat at the table opposite him. “Excuse me, Mr. Abramski,” she said, “it’s not much of a place to ask you into, but maybe you would like a glass of tea?”
He shook his head. “Thank you, no. I came to ask you … I wondered only if you might take supper with me one night.” The brim of his hat crunched under his fingers as he clutched it anxiously tighter; her violet eyes were round with astonishment, and she was looking at him as if she were really seeing him for the first time. He put up his hand to straighten his tie and she smiled.
“Why, Mr. Abramski,” she said quietly, “I should be delighted.”
His face lighted up suddenly. “Sunday would be nice?” he said quickly before she could change her mind. “I will come by your apartment at six o’clock.”
“Six,” she agreed. “I’ll be ready.”
At five-thirty on Sunday Missie took Azaylee down to Rosa’s, then she brushed her hair, twisting it into a knot on top of her head. She rubbed her cheeks to bring the color to them, put on her hat, and asked herself dismally for the tenth time why she had agreed to have supper with Zev Abramski. He was a man she barely knew, a man who had lent her money, a man she had an obligation to pay back. She wondered for the hundredth time what he was leading up to by asking her to supper.
His knock came promptly at six. She threw on her worn gray coat and hurried to the door, afraid to ask him in when she was alone, worried about what the neighbors might think.
He looked neat and very foreign in his black overcoat and hat as they walked down the dark street together. “I know a café on East Broadway,” he said, hesitating at the corner. “I have no car, like O’Hara. It’s all right by you to walk?”
“Of course, Mr. Abramski.” Turning up her collar, she hurried by his side but he kept to the outer edge of the sidewalk, maintaining a distance between them as if afraid of a casual touch.
The silence between them deepened as they walked. “And how are you, Mr. Abramski?” she asked desperately after they had gone a block.
“I am well, thank you,” he replied.
Silence fell again and he glanced nervously at her out of the corner of his eye. Here he was, his dream come true, Missie O’Bryan was by his side and he could not think of a word to say to her.
He turned thankfully into East Broadway. “It’s a Ukrainian café,” he said stiffly. “I thought it would please you.”
The café was crowded and noisy, filled with Russian voices and the sound of balalaikas and guitars. In the back room somebody was singing a familiar gypsy song; a samovar bubbled on the counter and there was the heady smell of warm poppyseed bread, and piroshkis, coffee cakes, and sour pickles.
Missie’s face lighted up as they squeezed into a tiny table by the window. “It’s wonderful, Mr. Abramski,” she said, delighted. “It reminds me of a gypsy café I used to go to in St. Petersburg.” She laughed, singing a snatch of the song, and the proprietor, a burly Ukrainian, stopped and spoke to her in Russian, complimenting her on her voice.
Zev gazed at her, thrilled. He had only ever seen her as the subdued, hardworking young woman, worn down with worry; now suddenly he was seeing the young girl she really was. She ordered the borscht, closing her eyes in ecstasy as she tasted the first mouthful and exclaiming how good it was, but then her face fell. “I should not be here with you, Mr. Abramski,” she said guiltily. “I owe you so much money, it’s not right that you should spend more on buying me supper.”
“Are you not enjoying it then?” he asked worriedly.
“Oh, of course I am. Why,