She had come before. A tall full woman with milky arms who ran her fingers over the backs of his chairs. Saul watched her through the curtains shielding him in his office at the back of the store. There, on the long rough wooden table he’d covered in brown packing paper, he was eating his roast beef sandwich and reading the newspaper.
He gave her a few minutes to leave, because customers came and went quickly, when they came at all, during the summer. Who wants to think about upholstery and carpets in the heat? And Saul did not want to be seen lolling around so he stayed in the little office, hot like a sultan’s cave.
But she was standing in the middle of the diamond-shaped room, looking towards the back, as if she could see him sitting there with his half-eaten sandwich and new green pickle. He wiped his lips and moustache and came through the curtains.
“You have some nice things,” she said, lifting fabric swatches from atop a high backed chair with curved legs and arms. “Can I?” she pointed to the seat.
“Of course. Try it out.”
“So uncomfortable. But that,” she indicated the stocky tweed sofa with fat cushions, “that is not so pretty.”
It was part of his American set, the hodgepodge most people chose. Though the store was only one room, Saul had arranged the furniture as if there were several. To these he secretly gave names: French Provincial, Italian, Danish Modern. Each consisted of an armchair or sofa and a coffee table with ornaments...
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