choices by imagining food on a plate in front of me. My mind definitely prefers a visual mode. I guess you could say, when it comes to food, it’s graphics, not menu, driven. Tonight it wanted something red and heavy.
“Italian?”
“Okay.” She considered. “Vivaldi’s on Prince Arthur? We can sit outside.”
“Perfect. And I won’t have to waste this parking place.”
We angled across the square, passing beneath the large broadleafs that arch above its lawn. Old men sat on benches, talking in groups, surveying their fellow citizens. A woman in a shower cap fed pigeons from a bag of bread, admonishing them like rowdy children. A pair of foot patrolmen strolled one of the paths that crisscross the park, their hands clasped behind them in identical V’s. They stopped periodically to exchange pleasantries, ask questions, respond to quips.
We passed the cement gazebo at the west end of the square. I noted the word “Vespasian,” and wondered, once again, why the name of a Roman emperor was carved above its door.
We left the square, crossed Rue Laval, and passed through a set of cement pillars marking the entrance to Rue Prince Arthur. All this time no words were spoken. This was odd. Gabby wasn’t this quiet, or this passive. She was usually bursting with plans and ideas. Tonight she’d simply yielded to my suggestion.
I watched her, discreetly, from the corner of my eye. She was scanning the faces we passed while simultaneously chewing on a thumbnail. The scrutiny didn’t appear to be absentminded. She seemed edgy, searching the crowded sidewalks.
The evening was warm and humid, and Prince Arthur was jammed. People swirled and eddied in all directions. The restaurants had thrown open their doors and windows, and the tables spilled out helter skelter, as though someone planned to arrange them later. Men in cotton shirts and women with bare shoulders talked and laughed under brightly colored umbrellas. Others stood in lines, waiting to be seated. I joined the line outside Vivaldi’s while Gabby walked to the corner dépanneur to buy a bottle of wine.
When we were finally settled Gabby ordered the fettuccine Alfredo. I asked for veal piccata, spaghetti on the side. Though seduced by the lemon, I remained partially loyal to the vision of red. While we waited for our salads, I sipped a Perrier. We spoke some, moving our mouths, forming words, saying nothing. Mostly we sat. It wasn’t the comfortable silence of old friends accustomed to each other, but a dialogue of uneasiness.
I’m as familiar with the ebb and flow of Gabby’s moods as I was with my own menstrual cycles. I sensed something tense in her demeanor. Her eyes didn’t meet mine, but roved restlessly, continuously exploring as they had in the park. She was obviously distracted. She reached for her wine often. Each time she lifted her glass the early evening light kindled the Chianti, making it blaze like a Carolina sunset.
I knew the signs. She was drinking too much, trying to blunt the anxiety. Alcohol, the opiate of the troubled. I knew because I’d tried it. The ice in my Perrier was slowly melting, and I watched the lemon resuscitate itself. It dropped from one cube to another with a delicate fizzing sound.
“Gabby, what’s up?”
The question startled her.
“Up?”
She gave a short, jittery laugh and brushed a dreadlock from her face. Her eyes were unreadable.
Taking her cue, I moved once again to a neutral topic. She would tell me when she was ready. Or perhaps I was being a coward. The price of intimacy would be its loss.
“Do you hear from anyone from Northwestern?”
We’d met as graduate students in the seventies. I’d been married. Katy was a preschooler. I envied Gabby and the others their freedom back then. I’d missed the bonding experience of all-night parties and early morning philosophy sessions. I was their age but lived in a different world. Gabby was the only one with whom I’d grown close. I’ve never really known why. We look as different as two women can. We did back then. Perhaps it was because Gabby liked Pete, or, at least, pretended to. Flashback: Pete, military-crisp, surrounded by flower children high on grass and cheap beer. He hated my grad school parties, masked his discomfort behind cocky disdain. Only Gabby had made the effort to break through.
I’d lost contact with all but a few of our classmates. They were scattered across the States now, most at universities and museums. Over the years Gabby had been better at maintaining ties. Or perhaps