The End of the Alphabet Read Online Free Page A

the colour of her shoes. Assistants asked if madame required help. Zipper felt her eyes water and managed no thank you. She left the store without buying anything.
    She came across a small bookshop in a tilted narrow building. A sign in the window advertised Gently Read Literature, Items for Composition and Correspondence Within. Zipper shuffled around the shop, finally settling on a small leather journal, rounded at the corners. An envelope for keeping reminders and receipts and bits of things was bound inside the back cover, a thick elastic band held all in place. The proprietor was still counting change as Zipper ran out of the shop.
    She struggled to catch her breath, needed to sit down, went cold, thought she was going to vomit. She found a bench overlooking a canal and sat on her hands to hide the tremors. She stared at a passing tourist barge, her eyes filling with panic as those on board practised ducking under footbridges yet to come.
    The shaking stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Zipper had nothing to wipe her eyes. Flustered, she used the sleeve of her blouse. She stood, unsure of her knees, and headed off to meet her husband at the train station.
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    Ambrose Zephyr reviewed the departures board, confirmed the overnight train would be leaving on time and made his way to the platform to meet his wife. If someone were no wiser, he might have looked as content as a man on holiday.
    Zipper watched her husband approach. Relieved at his relaxed way, she closed her journal. A souvenir postcard—a garish reproduction of a group portrait by Rembrandt—peeked from the envelope inside the cover. Ambrose paid no attention. He was too busy telling his story.
    â€¦bigger than I expected. Enormous. More like a company of giants…There he was, behind the watchmen, the children, the chicken, the dog, the lances and spears and pikes and canes, the drums, the flags, the muskets…the master himself, peeking over a shoulder with those laughing eyes, I swear they winked…
    Ambrose flailed and paced like an awkward conductor.
    â€¦and sweep and swirl and banners and action and such a good Rembrandt and luscious and bold and warm and thick with amazing outfits…the lieutenant in yellow of all things…
    Ambrose caught his breath.
    â€¦and the genius?
    Zipper ventured a guess. His use of light?
    Work for hire, said Ambrose. Commissioned and paid for by the Captain et al. Hah! There’s your genius. There’s the art.
    Zipper smiled. Until then, she had always assumed the Rembrandt was what it was.
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    On the night train to Berlin, Ambrose slept as well as anyone sitting upright on a train might. Zipper sat clutching the journal until her handswent clammy. She tried opening it a few times. A thousand words flew through her head but she couldn’t manage to land any on the page.
    After a while she gave up and watched the dark grey countryside speed past her reflection in the window.

 
    B.
    They sat at an outdoor table on the Unter den Linden. The sky was clear, blue, welcoming. The lime trees showed an early-spring green and offered comfortable shade.
    Nearby stood a brooding Brandenburg Gate, all heavy stone and column. Tourists and locals and friends and lovers were enjoying the morning, strolling through the gate as if it wasn’t there.
    Zipper Ashkenazi’s legs stretched from underher, her shoes off. She watched a street entertainer prepare for the day’s performance: unfolding a music stand, tuning a battered violin. She had passed a poor night, but on this morning and in this place she was content.
    Ambrose stewed. He knew he needed to be here. He knew he needed to get past this. He knew it would make Zipper happy. But still he fussed and squirmed in search of a comfortable place in his chair. He kept an eye on the gate and scowled.
    He claimed he was only thinking of his uncle, but Zipper knew there was more to it than that.
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    At one time or another, Ambrose had