Tapestry of Fortunes A Novel - By Elizabeth Berg Page 0,114
helplessly at King.
“Well,” he says, “where do you keep the vases?”
14
When Jonathan and I enter the restaurant, I hear a piano playing softly. In the far corner, I see a smallish black man, dressed in a tuxedo and a crooked black bow tie, seated behind a baby grand. He is older, his hair gray, his face lined. He is smiling—sadly, I believe—and playing elegant background music. He sees me staring and nods at me. “I know,” I feel like telling him. “I don’t want to be here either. Let’s go somewhere I can wear jeans and you can play what you want.”
“Two, for eight o’clock,” Jonathan tells the maître d’, who looks as though he has been stuffed into his suit. Were he not so smuglooking, I would feel sorry for him. “Certainly, Mr. Schaefer,” the man says, checking a name off in a cream-colored register. “Right this way.”
Oh, fine. Mr. Schaefer. Jonathan’s been here a hundred times. No wonder he’s perfectly relaxed. I never saw the point in going out to fancy restaurants. It’s not that I don’t appreciate good food; I love good food. But why go to all this trouble? Why put on fancy clothes to eat?
I follow the maître d’ to the table, Jonathan close behind me. I don’t like having him so close behind me. Probably hairpins are sticking out of my French twist. I could have runs in the back of my nylons; I forgot to check. I have never learned to walk quite right in heels; I always wobble. I have never liked dressing up for any reason and I will never, ever do this again. It’s my life.
Plus I hate Jonathan. Who can’t even be honest enough to spell his name with an H. Stupid prep school name. The name of a man who walks around flinging his hair back off his forehead, talking endlessly about sailing.
When my chair is pulled out for me with a flourish, I sit down, furious. What is the point of all this formality? Why should my chair be pulled out for me? Do I look incapable of pulling a chair out for myself? Why doesn’t the maître d’ pull the chair out for Jonathan? Why must it always be the women doing these circus tricks? And then, watching the maître d’ pull the chair out for Jonathan, I think, Oh. Never mind.
Well, here we are. Only a couple more hours to go. I smile tightly at Jonathan, then at the white-coated waiter, who has glided smoothly as a swan to my side. I know his type. He will pour coffee starting low and then let his arm rise up spectacularly high, as though the stream should be roughly comparable to Niagara Falls. And he will sneak up on us, using ridiculous silver tongs to place sculpted pieces of butter on our bread plates. And everything he does will be done with an air of distant disapproval.
“Good evening,” he says, and I jump.
“Oh!—Good evening,” I say, and wish so much that I were at home, asleep.
“Would you care for a cocktail?” the waiter asks.
Would I care for a cocktail? I would care for about ninety cocktails. “Yes, a glass of white wine, please,” I say. I hate white wine. I like red wine. Out of jelly glasses, like the gangsters in movies. But I think it might be wrong, red wine. Lightning-fast, the waiter recites a list of choices for white wine. Show-off. “I’ll have the first one,” I say. “The first one you said.”
The waiter nods, turns to Jonathan. “A gin martini,” Jonathan says. “Bombay Sapphire. Extra dry, extra cold. Two olives. Straight up.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Excuse me,” I say, and when the waiter turns to me, I tell him, “I’d like to change my order to what he’s having.”
“Certainly.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s quite all right.” He glides away.
I smile at Jonathan. “So!” I clear my throat, look down at my purse. What’s in here? A lipstick, some tissues. A few bucks.
“Are you nervous?” Jonathan asks.
I look up quickly, laugh, and then, to my absolute horror, snort.
Tomorrow I will kill my mother.
“Me too,” Jonathan says.
“Pardon?”
“I’m nervous, too.”
“No, you’re not.”
He smiles. “I assure you, I am. I’m just sneaky about it.”
“So do you … what makes you think I’m nervous? Is that why you asked that question? Because you think I am? Nervous?”
“It’ll get better in a few minutes,” Jonathan says. “Honest.”
“Right.” I lean forward a little, try to relax my hands, which have been clutching each other, rigor-mortis style.