Читаем Fall and Rise полностью

“I love what it brings. Cars, vacations, any book I want to buy. Even a boat once, and an island last summer — rented one, didn’t buy. And I don’t do well compared to a lot of the lawyers in my graduating class. I’m satisfied with a hundred thousand a year — this year — who needs more? Uncle Schmuel only gobbles it up when you only have one deduction besides yourself every other year and no cooperative or house. I’m buying one though.”

“You have a child?”

“A boy — eight. Lives with his mother. She’s one who was in my class and nowhere near me in grades or on the Review and makes more than I. Corporate law, that’s why. And because she works harder and doesn’t like to play as much as I. No boats, only business trips — There, told you we should’ve hustled faster for the smoked fish. They always run out of it first. I can take you to a great restaurant if you crave some — even now. It’s open till one. Has the best smoked sturgeon and salmon in town.”

“Thanks, but this will do fine.” I help myself to a slice of bread and cheese and several slices of turkey and tongue.

“Cranberry sauce?” a man behind the food table says. “Homemade, not canned.” He plops a spoonful on my plate.

“Aren’t you eating?” I say to Arthur.

“Too full — I’ll just drink. Good champagne like this you don’t get every night. Though I always have champagne in my fridge. Right this moment, three bottles of Taittinger’s brut on the bottom shelf, but I have to admit I don’t pour it as freely as they do here.”

“You ought to throw wedding parties at your home. Then you’d — no, sorry.”

“Go on, what?”

“Really, for the time being I have to continue to be the judge whether what I’m about to say will make sense or not and then if I should stop.”

“Who are your favorite American authors, contemporary and late?”

“Wait. Let me eat first.”

“Quiche lorraine?” the man behind the table says. “It’s the old quiche lorraine, before all the rage. French recipe. The real McCoy.”

“Sure, a slice, please. Thin.” He does.

“And our curried veal? You won’t forgive yourself if you don’t.”

“My appetite’s got better but not that much, thanks.”

“Tomorrow or the days after your friends here, when you discuss the party, will ask if you had it. It’s the house speciality — one of a kind.”

“Go on, be brave,” Arthur says.

“You be brave. Grab a plate.”

He gets a plate and holds it out. The man gives us a portion each. “Now, how about a côtelette de mouton? It’ll melt in your mouth. I won’t even ask your permission.” He puts a piece on my plate. Arthur sticks out his plate and gets a piece. “Now you’ll have eaten our best except for the chicken breast l’orange.”

“No room for it,” I say, “in my stomach or on my plate.”

“Mandarin oranges flown-in for us expressly from Valencia, Spain? — Very well, but sit down while you eat. And drink a beverage with it. I don’t want you coming back to me saying I made you choke on the small servings I gave.”

“I promise I won’t. Thank you.” He bows and we walk away.

“That guy was another who had an instantaneous crush on you. And his language, when he was alluding to food to you, was so subtly erotic.”

“He was only being nice while doing his job.”

“How come he wasn’t as nice to me?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes, I do.”

“No. As I said I don’t know you that well and I have a way of either being too much of everybody’s therapist or saying too quickly how I feel, which makes them think they or I need one. I just want to eat.”

“How do you feel? Well, do you think I need one? Then can I get you some Perrier or wine?”

“Perrier. Thanks. I’ll be sitting over there — give me your plate.” I go to an empty table and put the plates down. “And napkins, Arthur,” I yell. “There’s plenty of everything else here.”