Henry went to Mr. Patel for a suit to wear at his daughter’s graduation. He hadn’t ordered a tailored suit in twenty years. Mr. Patel measured his shoulders, sleeves, waist, and leg, calling numbers to an assistant who wrote them on a card.
Then the tailor stepped back, looked at Henry, and added a figure in red pencil.
“What’s that one?” Henry asked.
“Something to remember,” said Mr. Patel.
Henry assumed it was the price. He asked whether the suit would be ready in time. Mr. Patel promised a fitting on Thursday and told him not to worry.
At home Henry tried to remember the mysterious number. His wife said perhaps it was his neck size. Henry said no one had measured his neck. His daughter suggested it might be the number of cups of tea the tailor needed to finish difficult customers.
On Thursday the jacket fitted beautifully across the shoulders. The sleeves were an inch too long. Mr. Patel pinned them, checked the trousers, and frowned at the card.
“Did you change your shoes?”
“These are the ones I wore last time.”
“Then why are you taller?”
Henry stood straight. The assistant measured him again. Mr. Patel compared the new number with the red one and shook his head.
“I haven’t grown since 1987,” Henry said.
Mr. Patel looked at the mirror, then at Henry’s feet. In the first appointment Henry had been leaning against the counter while one shoe rested on the raised wooden platform used for fittings. The tailor had noted a one-inch difference in apparent height to remind himself to check it. The assistant had mistaken the red figure for extra length and added an inch to both trouser legs.
“So the red number wasn’t a price?” Henry asked.
“No. It was a warning.”
They shortened the trousers. When Henry collected the suit the following week, he put it on and asked Mr. Patel to inspect him from every angle. The jacket lay neatly; the cuffs showed the right amount of shirt. Henry walked the length of the shop and back.
Mr. Patel asked him to sit, stand, and climb a step. Henry complained that a graduation was not an obstacle course. The tailor said photographs would be taken from below, above, and every angle invented by relatives holding phones. If a seam pulled when Henry embraced his daughter, everyone would remember the seam instead of the ceremony. Henry completed the final step without further argument.
“Will I look respectable beside my daughter?”
“Very,” said Mr. Patel. “Just don’t stand on the fitting platform in the photographs.”
Graduation day was bright and windy. Henry’s daughter accepted her certificate, and the family gathered outside for pictures. Henry wore the suit proudly. A photographer arranged them on the steps, placing Henry one step above his wife so everyone could be seen.
“Dad looks taller than all of us,” his daughter said.
“I paid extra for that,” Henry replied.
Later she sent Mr. Patel a photograph with a note thanking him for the suit. He pinned it near the counter. Henry stood on the upper step, looking tall and proud beside his daughter.
The assistant noticed a red figure written on the back: one inch.
“Do the trousers still need altering?” she asked.
“No. That’s the step.”
“Why record it?”
“Henry says his next suit should make him look this tall without climbing anything.”
“Can you do that?”
Mr. Patel reached for the fitting platform. “Only if he brings this to every party.”