Page 81 of Desperate Victory
We had enough issues.
The breeze shifted over the river. Fried meats, garlic, and onions joined the fresher air.
“Goddamn,” Freddie said as he took a deep breath. “I wasn’t hungry before.”
“We’ll find something.” I nodded toward the shops a block away. “Probably cafes down there. We can scout lunch for the ladies.”
“Boo-Boo shouldn’t eat in public.” The swiftness of the response betrayed another layer of Freddie’s agitation.
“We can pick stuff up. You know what she likes, right?”
“Maybe.” The non-committal, almost sullen, intonation was not Freddie. I slanted a look at him. His tone wasn’t an invitation. So, I wouldn’t push the issue.
I’d just have to let him talk to me.
The selection of meals varied. Bread dumplings. Ghoulash. Potato soup. Fried potato pancakes. Dishes I could identify. Some I couldn’t. The combination of scents were enticing.
At the fourth restaurant, Freddie paused to read the outdoor menu. I tracked other movement on the street, but nothing stood out as problematic.
“I suppose being able to read Czech would be helpful,” Freddie said with a long sigh.
“Or you can read the English translation on the other side of the door.” There were two menus posted. He made a face and then crossed over to the second menu. The delaying tactic only worked for so long.
We headed for another shop. Three shops later, we paused for coffee. I paid for both of us while Freddie paced the space, studying what was on the shelves. The restlessness radiating off of him seemed to set off tremors in the air.
Ten more minutes.
I’d let him take ten more minutes.
He ended up cracking at the six minute mark while we stood outside of a bakery window where we had an excellent view of the bread being kneaded and other treats being prepared. There was something hypnotic about their work.
“Bodhi… How the hell do you fix something if it’s broken beyond repair?”
“You don’t,” I told him. “If you think something or someone is that broken, you can’t—restore it to a state where it has never been harmed. You have to incorporate the pieces you can and strengthen the bonds with new things.”
“What if you don’t have enough pieces?”
“Kintsugi,” I said, then took a sip of the coffee. Clearly, he was talking about himself. But I also didn’t think he was being kind about himself. Broken? Yes. We were all broken. Beyond repair? Compared to what? Still, those were arguments to be made after I identified the issues.
“Gesundheit?” Freddie gaped at me and I grinned.
“It’s a traditional repair method in Japan. You take broken pottery, a bowl, a dish… some vessel that has been damaged. You glue the pieces back together with lacquer, while painting the seams with gold or silver powder. The dish is not restored to what it once was. But it becomes something new, something beautiful for its imperfections.”
“Kintsugi.” He repeated the word as though he needed to turn it over and test the syllables. “Think that works on people?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, don’t run me over with your explanations there.” He downed more of his coffee and turned away from the bakery window. I fell into step with him before he’d made it three strides. “I don’t think it will work for me.”
“Why?”
“Because there are too many pieces. Too much is broken. I don’t even know what I should look like, much less know how to put it back together.”
“You should look like you.”
“Helpful,” he said in a tone that declared my comment was anything but. The belligerence in his voice was frustration and not targeted at me. “If I ask you a question, can you just give me a straight answer?”
He paused, pivoting to face me. His nostrils were flared, his pupils slightly dilated, and his breathing coming in swift pants. A sheen of sweat dotted his forehead.