Chapter 20
The Puget Sound Book Company
101 South Main Street??Seattle, WA 98104
6/16/92
Dear Frida,
I’m relieved to know your family is okay. And you’re right. The world is repugnant. I don’t have a TV so I got my news about the riots on NPR. When the National Guard was called in and the mayor declared a state of emergency, there was this one guy they interviewed who talked about how he lived in a nice neighborhood and the riots were wrecking his property value. How disgusting is that. People were actually losing their homes. They were dying. That’s what he should have been upset about.
It feels weird that there are so many good things to tell you with everything that’s happening in places like Sarajevo and L.A. Like the night Sven snuck outside to pick lilacs from the bush across the street so when I woke up there were clouds of purple all over the apartment. We already have “our restaurant.” Lombardi’s up the street. Have you ever had roasted garlic? It’s creamy, stinky heaven on a slice of bread. We saw the Tiny Hat Orchestra at the Backstage after dinner one night, but best of all was when Sven took me on a picnic a few weeks ago. I’m thinking we’ll go to a park, sit on a blanket, and eat the liverwurst sandwiches I made with Brie and fresh-baked mini boules from Ballard Market. Brie’s a new one for me, too. Butter-flavored cheese. How did I not know about it?
Anyhow, he parked near Pike Place Market so I figured we were going somewhere overlooking Elliott Bay and the Olympics. But he carried our basket in the opposite direction to the Frederick & Nelson department store. A while ago I told him how sad I am about it closing. Every Christmas Mom and Dad drove Franny and me into Seattle to look at The Bon star and get Santa pictures taken at Freddy’s (that’s what everyone calls it). Can you believe it was the same Santa every year?
It turns out it was the store’s final day. The doorman opened the big brass doors for us, and when we walked inside, my heart crumbled. Everything was on massive sale, and I’m not comparing the situations or anything like that, but it kind of looked a little bit like some of the pictures of the looted places in L.A. in the newspaper. One woman was carrying so many furs she could barely walk. I looked around at all that elegant mahogany and marble, and I could feel the building mourning.
Sven led the way downstairs to the Arcade, and it took everything in my power not to burst into tears. Where else can you find a camera shop, record shop, stationery shop, international newsstand, shoe repair, and gourmet food shop all in one place? Malls aren’t the same. I was so preoccupied I didn’t realize at first what Sven was doing. Right there in front of the delicacy shop, he spread a blanket on the floor. Then he took out a tiny bottle of champagne. When a salesgirl saw our plastic cups, she went to the café and gave us real champagne glasses.
We sat down right there and toasted to the end of an era. I told Sven that thinking about all the times I came here makes me sad because that part of my childhood can never happen again. He held my hand and said, “We’ll make new childhoods for our own children. With your eyes and cheekbones, my lips, and a combination of our noses, they’ll be beautiful.” How corny is that? I’m such a sap. I loved it. I know what I said about not being ready for a family yet. That hasn’t changed, but I felt so happy it scared me. When I asked Sven if I was scared because I was constructing happiness to keep disappointment at bay, he said no, this happiness was real, and that’s what made it so scary.
Love,
Kate
P.S. I’m getting a reputation next door at Bowie & Company. The owner showed me a book he found at another estate sale. Front Line by Clare Hollingworth. He said he’s been keeping an eye out for books by War Journo Dames for me. When I told him about you, he gave me a discount. It turns out Clare was only a week into her first job for The Daily Telegraph when she was driving around all by herself and saw Germans massing troops and tanks on the Polish border. She wrote about it and became the Very First Person to report the outbreak of WWII. She wasn’t really ready for war either, but maybe that’s not how these things work. Probably no one’s ready until they’re in one. If journalists let that stop them, no one would go. Don’t be mad at Kirby. I bet he’s worried about you. He doesn’t want you to get hurt. He probably has a crush on you, too. Any guy would.
P.P.S. I asked our special orders department to track down some Reporter’s Note Books for you. I hope a dozen is enough.