He took my hand
Down the road from the office where I have worked for the last six years is a small sushi place, run by a Asian couple, husband and wife. They are gentle, humble and polite. They make decent sushi for an affordable price and once they know you to be a regular, their blank politeness turns genuinely warm and hospitable. Their age is hard to guess, but they are old enough to be grandparents. Their tiny shop can seat three people in a row on high chairs at a ledge running along the window, but most of their clients buy to go. So have I, regularly, for the last several years.
From the very first time I went there, I discovered that paying and having my fidelity card stamped was a little ritual. I’m not very much aquainted with Oriental customs, but from the way they received and treated the money and the folded paper card, and then handed both back to me, I gathered that it was an act of respect to make sure our fingers never touched.
Never before had I wondered about the way I had been handing over money, or receiving change. Suddenly, my own casual way of handling these things seemed very sloppy by comparison. It is in fact quite difficult to perform this act in such a way that you both only touch the money, without either dropping it or ending up having some minimal form of physical contact.
So this always made for an intricate ballet of fingers, a small, gracious moment that required carefulness on both sides. I grew to appreciate and even like it.
Today, I went to fetch my lunch with them for the last time. We performed the little money ritual, as usual, gently, carefully. We exchanged smiles (their English is poor and very hard to understand), but when the man thanked me and wished me a nice weekend, I told him that I had in fact also come to say goodbye, since I was quitting my job and I wouldn’t be coming to Brussels very often anymore.
He summoned his wife from the kitchen with a single word, and before I knew it, first he, then she, reached out to me, took my hand and shook it.
His grip was full and firm, a big, soft hand. Hers was bony and strong.
Both, they thanked me for so many pleasant years. Their gratitude was genuine and heart-warming. They asked me about my job. I told them I was a writer, and they wished me the best of luck. We all smiled and bowed to each other, and for the last time, they opened the door for me on my way out.
Outside, on the curb, I stood for a moment.
On my way back to the office, the sudden April wind blowing in my face had a tang to it sharp enough to make my eyes grow a little wet.
