Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk(39)

The rug department—with its large, flat wares all either stacked on the floor or dangling from the walls—presented itself as a clearing in the jungle of R.H. Macy merchandise, and I felt oddly exposed as I walked in. Nevertheless, I got swiftly to business: My eyes fell on a hand-knotted Algerian rug, patterned and vibrant and seemingly made for the space I needed it to fill. I asked the clerk the price, certain that my salary put it within reach. But the figure he quoted halted me.

“Well now,” I said. “That’s steep enough to worry my hardworking-girl conscience. What can you say to convince me?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid,” said the young man, thin and pale, his slicked-back hair the wan color of straw. “But we’ve got a guy who can tell you any and everything you’d ever want to know. Just one moment, please.”

He walked off toward the back, calling “Max? Max, you back there?”

I didn’t believe in love at first sight. In fact, as I would soon be reminded by seemingly every literate person in New York, I had written and published more than a few poems lampooning the very idea of it. But one need not believe in something for it to happen anyway.

That was my first thought when the clerk returned with Max. Handsome. About my height, and I was tall. A strong-jawed, tan, and beautiful man, polished and attractive, but not too perfect. His suit was impeccable, but his hair—thick, black—and his tie shared a slightly rumpled quality, like an unmade bed. An invitation. Touchable.

He extended a hand, warm and strong, and his shake was like a glove—not too tight, not too lengthy—and I didn’t want to let go.

“Max Caputo,” he said. “Head rug buyer. Miss—?”

“Lillian,” I said. “Lillian Boxfish. I work upstairs, in advertising.”

“You’re Lillian Boxfish?” he said. Not standing too close, but still I could smell him, the best-smelling man I’d ever smelled in my life, like black tea and orange rind and something spicy.

“My reputation precedes me?” I said.

“Indeed it does,” he said, holding out the in-house newsletter that had just been released for August. “I was just reading about you—I was in the back, sitting down for lunch. Have you seen this yet?”

I was about to tell him that I had—that in fact I’d done two rounds of edits for the folks in personnel—but he was already reading aloud. I was charmed by this: He seemed somehow to sense that this would not mortify me. Or perhaps it just never occurred to him that it might.

“Listen,” he said. “Time was when advertisers didn’t jest about such sacred things as merchandise. But Lillian Boxfish of our Advertising Department thought that a pea sheller was a funny little contraption, so why not joke about it?”

“That’s me,” I said, cheeks pink at his enthusiasm.

“They should have run a photograph,” he said. “So everyone could see that you’re as pretty as you are hilarious. But listen to me, running on. You had a question?”

I didn’t especially care anymore about the carpet, but I wanted to hear him keep talking in his raspy New York accent; I made myself say, “Yes, I did. This carpet here is a dear little thing and the price reflects that. Can you tell me why?”

“Your taste, Miss Boxfish, is right in line,” he said, stepping closer; I had to fight the urge to lean against him. “That’s the one I’d pick. In fact, I picked out that merchant on our last buying trip to North Africa. It’s a Berber. Sheep wool mostly, maybe a little goat, maybe a little camel, all with an eye toward high durability. Entirely handmade, and it traveled all the way here from the sands of the Sahara. It’s from a town called Malika where the carpets are the thickest and most colorful. Other cities have product of equal quality, but they’re more monochrome. I can assure you, this carpet will last you a lifetime.”

“Thank you, Mr. Caputo,” I said, impressed at his knowledge, impressed at his travels, and impressed at how unpretentious he seemed about both. “And you can call me Lillian. I’m almost sold, but what about this?”

I pointed to a small but unmistakable break in the geometric design.

“Lillian, I don’t think anyone’s ever noticed that without my pointing it out,” he said. “Each one is woven with a flaw.”

I looked up at him, skeptical, but his bright black eyes were guileless. “If each one is woven with a flaw on purpose,” I said, “then we can’t really call them flaws, can we?”

Max smiled. “The mistakes aren’t on purpose,” he said. “The mistakes are mistakes. Choosing one flaw to leave uncorrected—that’s on purpose. It’s so that the weaver can’t be accused of excess pride in his work.”

We stared at each other for what seemed like an indecorous interval. “Well,” I said, “the pride you take in your work, while not excessive, is certainly contagious, Max,” I said. “I’ll take it. With whom should I speak to arrange the delivery?”

“You’re speaking with him,” he said.

“Really?” I said. “The head buyer also flies around with the magic carpets?”

“Not generally,” he said. “But you just bought the rug of a lifetime, which I know is not something you’re likely to do every week. So I can’t just let you walk out of here—I have to see you again. Beauty and humor have intruded upon the path of duty.”