Light Years Read Free Page B

Peter, Larry Vern. All friends are friends in a different way. Arnaud was his closest friend; Peter, his oldest.
    He lingered before the counter, his eye passing over colored bolts of cloth.
    “Have we made shirts for you before, sir?” a voice asked, an assured voice, immensely wise.
    “Are you Mr.…?”
    “Conrad.”
    “Mr. Daro gave me your name,” Viri said.
    “How is Mr. Daro?”
    “He recommended you very highly.”
    The salesman nodded. He smiled at Viri, the smile of a colleague.
    Three in the afternoon. The tables in the restaurants have emptied, the day has begun to fade. A few women loitering among the distant displays of the store, otherwise everything quiet. Conrad had a slight accent, difficult at first to place. It seemed not so much alien as a little special, a mark of perfect manners. It was, in fact, Viennese. There was a profound wisdom in it, the wisdom of a man who could be discreet, who dined sensibly, even frugally, alone, who read the newspaper page by page. His fingernails were cared for, his chin well-shaved.
    “Mr. Daro is a very engaging man,” he said as he accepted Viri’s coat, hanging it near the mirror with care. “He has one unusual feature. His neck is seventeen and a half.”
    “Is that large?”
    “From the shoulders up, he could easily be a prizefighter.”
    “His nose is too fine.”
    “From the shoulders up and the chin down,” Conrad said. He was measuring Viri with the care and delicacy of a woman, the length of each arm, the chest, waist, the circumference of his wrists. Each figure he noted down on a large, printed card, a card which he explained would exist always. “I have customers from before the war,” he said. “They still come to me. On Tuesdays and Thursdays; those are the only days I am here.”
    He laid his sample books on the counter, opening them as one unfolds a napkin. “Now, look through these,” he said. “These are not everything, but they are the best things.”
    The pages had squares of fabric, lemon, magenta, cocoa, gray. There were stripes, batiks, Egyptian cottons light enough to read through.
    “Here is a good one. No, not quite right,” Conrad decided.
    “What about this?” Viri said. He was holding a piece of cloth. “Would that be too much, a whole shirt of it?”
    “It would be better than half a shirt,” Conrad said. “No, truthfully …” He reflected. “It would be fabulous.”
    “Or this,” Viri said.
    “I can see already—I have known you only a few minutes, but I can see you are a man of definite tastes and opinions. Yes, I mean there is no question.”
    They were like old friends; a vast understanding had risen between them. The lines in Conrad’s face were those of a widower, a man who had earned his knowledge. His style was respectful but confident.
    “Try these collars,” he said. “I am going to make you some wonderful shirts.”
    Viri stood before the mirror inspecting himself in various collars, long, pointed, collars with rounded tips.
    “Not bad.”
    “Not quite high enough for you,” Conrad suggested. “You don’t mind me saying this?”
    “Not at all. There is one thing, though,” Viri said, changing collars. “The sleeves. I noticed you put down thirty-three.”
    Conrad consulted the card. “Thirty-three,” he agreed. “Correct. The tape does not err.”
    “I don’t like them quite that long.”
    “That’s not long. For you, thirty-four would be long.”
    “And thirty-two?”
    “No, no. That would be witty,” Conrad said, “but what is there about sleeves that makes you incline toward the grotesque?”
    “I like to see my knuckles,” Viri said.
    “Mr. Berland—”
    “Believe me, thirty-three is too long.”
    Conrad reversed his pencil.
    “I am committing a crime,” he said, erasing half an inch. “They won’t be too short, I assure you. I don’t like a long sleeve.”
    “Mr. Berland, a shirt … no, I don’t have to explain it to you.”
    “Of course not.”
    “A