Authors: Karl Alexander
Time After Time (14 page)
But that didn't help. Here he was with a perfectly gorgeous young lady and he could not bring himself even to talk to her. He was embarrassed that he had cut her off so abruptly. He supposed that they would have a brief lunch somewhere and that that would be the end of it.
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They parked and got out of the car. H.G. saw rows of small shops and markets; beyond were the masts and spars of a fishing fleet at anchor. Gulls circled. He felt very much at home, for aside from the architecture, he could have been strolling through the restful streets of Eastbourne. The smells and the sounds were the same.
“Ah, the waterfront!” he cried. “I love the seashore. How on earth did you know?”
She faced him, her eyes full of concern, her hands clasped in back of her. “Look, Herbert, I'm sorry about the way I acted in the car, but I've never really been very good when it came to things like death. If you don't want to talk about it, that's your choice and not mine. So, I apologize, okay?”
His stomach slipped, and his body surged. Before he knew what he was doing, he grasped her shoulders and pulled her close. His cheek touched her hair; she smelled clean and freshâlike the seaâwith just a hint of perfume, just enough to make his knees sag. She returned the embrace, and he felt her shiver slightly. He almost told her right then and there who he really was.
She took his hand and led him toward the small establishments of Fisherman's Wharf.
“Do you like seafood?” she asked gaily.
“Right now, I'd eat anything,” he replied.
And so they entered Alioto's, and the maître d' seated them at a table by a large window that had a panoramic view of the wharf, the fishing fleet, the bay and the green mountains of Marin County. But what commanded his immediate attention, what he gazed at in awe was the Golden Gate Bridge. In his view, the massive twin towers, the suspension cables, the mile-long span stood as a monument to the infinite capabilities of man.
“Magnificent,” he exclaimed.
“It is a nice view, isn't it?” said the waiter who had been hovering near their table for several minutes.
“View, indeed! It's that bridge! It's both impossible and spectacular! I never could've imagined! The men who built it are geniuses, you hear? Pure geniuses!”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, blushing at the show of overexuber-ance, yet managing a thin smile.
“My good man, how might one contact them and query them about their construction techniques?”
The waiter looked around, then replied discreetly, “I doubt that would be possible, sir, since the bridge was completed in 1937.”
“Oh.” H.G. stiffened. “Oh, yes. Quite impossible.”
“Would the lady and the gentleman care for a cocktail?” the waiter asked with a slight Italian lilt to his words.
“I'd love some wine,” said Amy.
“A smashing idea,” concurred H.G. He raised his eyes to the waiter. “You wouldn't just happen to have a grand cru Chablis, would you?”
“Any particular château, sir?”
“I'd prefer a château de grenouille, vintage 1890, actually.”
“I believe that the oldest grenouille that we have in the cellar is a 1976,” he replied smoothly.
H.G. turned crimson at his faux pas, realizing too late that white wines turned to vinegar if aged for longer than three years.
“Could I interest you in a California Riesling, sir?”
“We'll try the 1976 grenouille, thank you.”
“An excellent choice, sir.” The waiter bowed slightly and left. H.G. got the distinct impression that the man would have said the same thing had the order been stale beer.
The wine was extremely good, but Amy did not have the courage to admit that she would have preferred the California Riesling. She ordered abalone, and he triedâdevoured, actuallyâthe scallops. The lunch was fun and the atmosphere perfect, although she began to suspect that there was something significantly wrong with the behavior and mannerisms of her companion. He kept questioning her about things that she had always taken for granted. And his references weren't quite right. They lacked the brevity that she was used to in the speech of other men. True, it could be merely the charm of an English gentleman. Or perhaps she had been in San Francisco too long.
He sipped his tea, then leaned back in his chair, delightfully
sated, mind still buzzing from half a bottle of Chablis. He knew he was talking too much, but didn't care. For the first time since landing in 1979 he felt completely at ease.
sated, mind still buzzing from half a bottle of Chablis. He knew he was talking too much, but didn't care. For the first time since landing in 1979 he felt completely at ease.
“Good?” she asked.
“My dear girl, the slight touch of crushed herbs, the perfect blending of lemon and lightly salted butter, the thin, browned crustsâalong with this exotic vegetable ⦠I have never eaten a finer meal. And to dine with such a charming companion makes the entire affair a most pleasant experience, indeed.”
“But then again, it's not McDonald's,” she said with tongue in cheek.
He looked away, thought, then turned back. “No, it isn't.” He was quite serious. “You're right.”
She looked at him askance, sighed and poured herself the last of the wine. Was he putting her on?
“The view, that bridge ⦠this is all too, too memorable.”
“Herbert, are you an actor?”
He laughed. “Good God, no. If I were, I certainly would not be here.” He laughed again, a faraway twinkle in his eye.
“Where would you be?”
“Oh, I don't know. Probably back in London, strutting across the boards of the Lyceum doing Addison's Cato.”
“Addison's Cato?” she exclaimed in disbelief.
“Maybe not. Perhaps I'd fare better in Lady Windermere's Fan. I must tell you, though, I detest the theater.”
“You like movies then?”
He was momentarily speechless.
“What's your favorite movie, Herbert?”
Right then and there he thought that she had finally caught him and for what seemed like the longest time could not think of a response. Finally: “I don't have a favorite movie,” he said candidly.
“How perceptive you are.”
He blushed at the compliment and immediately changed the subject. “My dear girl, how is it that a divorced young lady like yourself can make her way so easily in the world without a male companion?”
“Who said it was easy?”
“Well, I mean, you drive your own motorcar, you have a respectable position, you live in a comfortable flat, no doubt.”
“So I work hard. How does that make me any different from an English divorcée?”
“An English divorcée would go home to her parents in the country,” he replied without thinking.
She laughed. “Either that's bullshit or you've been living in a cave, population under two hundred.”
The words stung him. She excused herself to visit the ladies' room, and he certainly hoped that it wasn't for a breath of fresh air. While she was gone, he tried to sort out his thoughts. He felt cheap. She didn't know who he was, and until she did, he would feel like he was involved in an adulterous affair, for those things thrived on deception. He had to make a decision soon. Either he had to tell her about Stephenson and himself or he had to break it off.
Break what off? She hadn't asked him to become a suitor. Why the bald-faced assumption?
She returned to the table and smiled brightly at him. She had freshened up and applied new makeup, but the hint of red in her cheeks from the wine remained. She looked both ravishing and angelic.
“Tell me, Amyâ”
“Oh, no. No more questions. You're avoiding me.”
“I am?”
“Of course. All I've done is provide you with answers. I don't know anything about you.”
“Why, that's absolutely ridiculous.” With a nervous swing of his hand, he knocked over his empty wine glass.
“Are you married, Herbert? Is that the reason you're being so strange? Is that it?”
“Good Lord, no!”
“Well, then?”
“Well, then, what?”
“Are you sure you're not married?”
“Well, I was certain the last time I was home,” he said lightly, then added, “But if I were, then I'd be paying my housekeeper, Mrs. Nelson, a decent living wage for nothing, wouldn't I?”
“Ah. You're living with someone.”
“She occupies the upstairs bedroom off the kitchen along with pictures of her deceased husband. She is sixty-seven and makes the most delicious mint-flavored roast mutton I have ever tasted.”
Amy laughed; she was relieved.
“The French poet Charles Baudelaire once said, âMarriage is like a cage. Those who are inside want to get out, and those who are outside want to get in.'”
“You're divorced, then?”
“I told you that, didn't I?”
“No, you didn't.”
“Oh.” He blushed. “Well, yes, I'm divorced.” He sighed. “I suppose that makes me unsuitable.”
“For what? The priesthood?”
“I was unsuitable for that halfway through grammar school,” he said ruefully.
“Just to remind you, I'm divorced, too, Herbert. Does that make me unsuitable?”
Suddenly very warm, he loosened his collar and wiped perspiration off his face with his napkin.
“Well? Does it?”
He supposed that it did when it came to the bans and vows of a proper marriage. One's bride should be Venus Uraniaâdistant, unattainable, yet endlessly pursued and ultimately seduced on a celestial bed of white carnations. A divorcée did not qualify. He scowled because he knew that those thoughts were incompatible with his enlightened views on social change and scientific progress.
“No. But you're different. You're an American.” He fervently wished that he had purchased a book on contemporary sociology before keeping the luncheon engagement with her.
“Copout,” she sung.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind,” she said. “Tell me what happened to your first marriage.”
“I ran off with one of my students.”
“You bastard,” she said lightly. “Why?”
Her language made him pause. “I didn't want to be a suburban breadwinner.”
“Now that, I can understand.” She leaned forward and gently touched his hand. “Do you still love her?”
“I don't know. I probably never really had a chance to find out.”
“What went wrong?”
“I was at the university when I met her. She was my first love and ⦠my first cousin.”
Amy's eyes widened.
“After we were married, I didn't have a job or any money, so we took up chambers in her aunt's house, and auntie's little ceramics were all over the place. Knickknacks, we call them. There wasn't any place for me to sit, let alone write or tinker. We never talked. To make matters worse, when we went to bed, Isabel wouldn't even undress in
front of me. Do you know that to this day I have never even seen her body? We weren't exactly David and Bathsheba, if you know what I mean.”
front of me. Do you know that to this day I have never even seen her body? We weren't exactly David and Bathsheba, if you know what I mean.”
She laughed. “Thank God you didn't have any children.”
He was startled by her thought, then suddenly laughed, too, and the mirth was good, for he felt cleansed and worthy now. She was a child of the twentieth century and had told him that she had had liberal-minded parents, a middle-class childhood and a good education. Yet she had left college to spend two years in a marriage that was as empty and frustrating as his. Whereas he was the child of the nineteenth century and was forced to accept the concept of an angry God. He had had a wretched childhood, the family always bordering on poverty. The fact that he had even made it to the university was miraculous.
They were totally different. They might as well have been from separate planets as well as being from different centuries. And yet, they had ended up in the same place. Both had endured problems and failures. He sensed that they were equals; certainly, neither one was the product of a Utopia.
He looked at the bill for the lunch. $79.83. The price for the wine, alone, had been $55.00. He grinned. No, she was not a perfect human being. He wasn't, either. And at prices like that, they hadn't exactly eaten lunch at the Erewhon Restaurant in the Garden of Eden. The world, then, did not seem so alien.
They left Alioto's hand in hand.
“Do you have a previous engagement for this evening?” He slipped his arm around her waist and felt proud.
“Oh, no, sir,” she teased.
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