The Suitors - By Cecile David-Weill Page 0,32
example, Nanny had set our table with glasses to the right of the plate, forks placed tines up, knives with the cutting edge facing right, and she had constantly reminded us, Hands under the table! Then my mother would visit us. Shifting the glasses to a position above the plate, turning the forks tines down, and the knives, cutting edge left, she would order us to keep our Hands on the table!)
In any case, given the simpleton sitting next to me, what did it matter? I was hardly likely to experience a soul-wrenching conflict between any personal attraction to him and the repulsion I felt for his disappointing behavior. And I had decided not to take offense at his silence, which was a small thing, after all, to one as experienced as I in making conversation and coping with the vicissitudes of formal dinners, where I had once actually seen a dinner companion fall asleep and another choke to death.
I learned the art of conversation at an early age. Mother would invite my sister and me to eat with her from time to time, for fun, as she said, although she actually had no idea what that word meant. The upshot is, now I feel capable of getting anyone at all to talk.
I have a few simple precepts. I talk about what interests the other person. And since people like to talk about themselves, I ask them questions, avoiding as much as possible anything concerning their professions. I would rather ask them if they are afraid of flying, if they’ve ever talked to a stranger on a train, if they think women should ever make the first move, or if they’re men, I ask if they’re attracted to women who are clinging and needy. Or I toss out something trivial: Do you like baths or showers? Tea or coffee? Monet or Manet? The sillier the question, the more interested I am in the answer. But no matter what people say, I make sure to seem fascinated by their observations and impressed by their wit, without seeking to impress them myself. Or discreetly, in a very low-key manner (just in case my audience has nothing to bring to the table), I announce, let’s say, that I have never been to Venice. Then I sit back and enjoy the ohs and ahs my admission invariably provokes. Or I put their kindness to the test by pretending to be shy. In short, I follow to the letter the old adage advising us to speak frivolously of serious things and seriously of frivolous ones—even if that doesn’t suit everybody, in particular the crashing bores who join a discussion only to show off their knowledge of history, politics, or philosophy, and who like nothing better than to trip you up over some mistake.
And conversation at our table was languishing, so I turned to Laszlo, who was serving himself seconds of the risotto and morels.
“I’m bored,” I whispered. “Tell me again about the time you mistook Ungaro, the couturier, for Trichet, the governor of the Banque de France.”
“But you know that story by heart!”
Instead, my father revealed his own worst blunder.
“Last December, I gave one of those end-of-the-year speeches I deliver at my company’s Christmas party, when I convey my best wishes for a happy holiday to the personnel, with respectful mention of the year’s deaths and retirements. So, after the jolly bits, and armed with a list of the deceased’s virtues (drawn up by my secretary), I assume a dignified expression and solemnly intone, ‘I would now like to invoke the memory of Monsieur Puchet, and to pay tribute to a man whom we all knew and appreciated, who died this year.’ I pause for breath, and out of the audience comes a voice, loud and clear: Oh no, I didn’t!”
Laetitia, Gay, and Jean-Michel crack up. Pleased with his success, my father forges ahead.
“Dreadfully embarrassed, I try to smooth over my blunder by saying cheerily, ‘This is excellent news indeed, and we all fondly hope you will remain with us for a good long time.’ ”
Laszlo leaned forward eagerly. “And then?”
“And then—just imagine!—the voice pipes up, very cordially: Oh no, I won’t. I’m looking forward to retiring at the end of this week!”
Our screams of laughter plunged my mother’s table into an envious and admiring silence. I, however, had achieved my goal: Jean-Michel, feeling more relaxed, found the courage to speak to me.
“And what is it you do in life?”
Too bad he picked that to