New Yorkers (47 page)

Pauli rose, in all his silver grace. “If Leni here wouldn’t never forgive me for it, I would tell who is senior here, you or me. Look at him, Ninon! Not a wrinkle, not a change. Since the war, can you see any?”

“Only in his walk,” said Ninon. “But to notice that is my business.”

Down at the foot, the faithful protégé raised his bent head. There at the side of the Judge’s chair was the cane which he had followed the Judge with out of the drawing-room, and not knowing what to do with, had placed there.

Leni pointed a red fingernail at the Judge. Even her nail polish didn’t chip in this house; she should have come long ago and enjoyed herself, Pauli was right. “Even the suits, they must be the same too.”

The black man’s laugh was ahead of the rest, the first time he had sounded like a native. Leni took it all like applause, the Judge’s especially.

Pauli, standing tall, looked down at her with pride—frog-princess daring to be so much more squatly natural than he. He tossed back his head, loving the house which fitted him in where he belonged. Often and often he’d told Leni how lucky they were in being accessory people in the cast, but not at the top. In exchange, though they suffered the neuralgias of memory like everybody, the tragedy of life itself would let them escape its central core. And here in this house, they were accessory to the best. He raised his glass.
“Vive-la, vive-la.
To society!”

Usually he would have let it stop there. But he’d never before dared to let himself look ahead, past the hope of Leni’s liking it here.

Now that moment was here, melting like a praeludium. She was in the circle now; she had chosen a style for herself and saw it relished; she might marry him. He grasped the wineglass between palm and thumb, the stem dangling, his pearly cuff shining like a concertmeister’s, and passed it back and forth across the table between them, drawing her alto music to him. In freemasonry, he hailed host and Madame too. “To weddings!”

Around the table, he saw the three young men smile; this came out of the past somewhere, wasn’t their
affaire.
At home in Seventy-second Street hung a framed notice of which he was proud: “Young Herr Chavez—who as his fellow duelists at the university have reason to know can rattle the saber like a maestro—wielded the baton like an officer.” A gust of Heidelberg blew from these young men here toward him, cutting his cheek as in the old days, though theirs remained round.
“Gaudeamus!”
he said, and sat down.

Under cover of the toast, Felix whispered to Austin, “What a fine figure, yes. One would think him an emperor, if it weren’t for his clothes.”

Edwin saw he hadn’t been chosen for confidant. Austin, the settlement house boy, took that as his dower. And maybe it was. The foot of the table has to stand alone.

“Edwin, you’re drinking nothing,” said the Judge. “Come, come.”

“A flaw in my character.” By effort, when in company he now ate so slowly he sometimes came in last. Beer he liked, and liqueurs in memory of the kümmel that had helped give him a name. Whisky he could manage, among men, though he never took it when alone. But wine was too subtle; it filched his own flesh from him and in an hour made carrion of it. Or brought out gamy flavors in it he never otherwise knew. …I’m the sort that
ought
to starve. Lean and hungry, that should have been my beat. …He lifted his glass of red—filled to the brim, what was wrong with that?—and drank it down.

“Gaudeamus,”
said the black.

Austin was humming. “Our housemaster used to make us sing for our supper with that. Dr. Brace. It’s the only Latin I know.”

“Shall we sing it?” said Pauli. “
Ach,
Austin, I am truly glad to see you home.”

“I’ve no voice. But thank you, sir.”

“I have,” said Krupong.

Pauli knocked his knife against a glass and lifted it, up,
down.
They sang charmingly together:
“post iucunduam, senectutem,”
Felix’s dark bass vibrating low at the close, drawing out the long
nos habebit hu-u-mus,
the older man’s precise reed coming out clear and young.
Let us rejoice, for we shall soon be underground.

“Hola!” said Leni. “But the end means something nasty, that I know.”

“Oh, I am not sure it must, yes,” said Felix. “Translated freely—‘we shall inherit the earth.’” He smiled at Blount. “We meek.”

“You going back to Africa?” said Blount.

“Next year, it has been offered me to stay in Cambridge. A post there. Or in London. But my whole schooling has been government-sponsored, you know, by my home country. So I owe it to them, yes, to return there?” Deferentially, he made it a question, but let everyone see the proud tendon in the neck, the glare of the eye.

“I envy you,” said Edwin. “Going back where you belong.”

There was a pause—the forks at rest, the song, the wine-dream pierced. At the bottom of civilization always this cannibal debris. Austin turned in his chair, full to Edwin. Under his focus, Edwin, at the foot, seemed more isolated than before. “I find that an unnecessary remark.”

“Oh no, Austin.” The Judge sighed. “You Harvard boys, always misunderstanding one another. He means
he
can’t go back. Didn’t you Edwin.”

…So, you humiliate me. By being personal. Not for
me
the courtesy of being left unexplained. …“Some people are more comfortable in their skins than others.” Edwin’s bow to Krupong made clear who he meant. “Maybe to see that requires having had early discomfort in one’s own.”

“Very graceful,” said the Judge, with a quizzical look. …Wonder if Austin recognizes the origin of my protégé style. … “And now allow me to give everybody some more. Though I warn you, there’ll be a kind of savory—an English custom my father-in-law’s family brought when they came. My wife kept it on.”

“Just a little of that oyster plant with the nutmeg. Oh God, that is good,” said Leni. “And to be greedy.”

“You
cook?
” said Ninon.

“Of course not.” Leni drew herself up. “That’s for the married.”

The Judge burst out laughing. They all did—any pretext. “There should be more women at this table,” he said.

Now the salad, a great bowl, was wheeled in, to Austin’s shamed relief. He’d never before lost social control here—or, anywhere. It’s the war, they would think. …I wish it were. This table is too small for private silences to go unnoticed for long. …According to his grandfather’s pamphlet, silence was a loud contributor in the parable.
Table Talk, Tête-à-Tête, Inner Monologue.
But for a moment the talk did disperse. Through the gloom of shame—was he a prig?—he heard only bits of it. Trouble with Fennos, they didn’t know how to question themselves.

“Salade panachée,”
said Madame. … And a mixed bag, this table. What’s more, a table still with a wife. How sharp would one have to be, Simon, to gnaw you free? …

“How glittery your accent is,” said the Judge.

“Don’t you have to be English, to be a Dame?” said Blount.

“You are—journalist?” Madame, waiting for his answer, drew the feather boa from the back of her chair, posed it round her neck, and when answered, spoke over it, raising her eyes as one would for a flashbulb. “I am—English enough.”

“But that is true of everybody in England, yes,” said Felix. “Here, I am told, each man is a social phenomenon, all by himself.”

“Oh, we’re not a young country any more,” said the Judge. “My private opinion is, Felix, that except for the few huntsmen at the very beginning—we never were.” This was part of an after-dinner speech. In a lifetime, a man found himself only a few strong opinions and insights. If these in turn found the same words everytime he voiced them, it was too late to feel insincere.

Under the table, Ninon’s ankle warmed him, delicately but unmistakably, as from some
ancien régime
of love.

“Ow, Simon, you were never an émigré.” No one was fonder of his adopted country than Pauli—who would have been happy anywhere.

“Tchah!” said Madame. “People at the top are the same everywhere.”

“Tchah,” said the Judge agreeably. “What a politician’s wife
you
would make!” Nothing made one feel more foolish than footie under the table. But it was years since he had felt so political, that old Jack-Horner-pie feel of the table, with all the strings held.

Across the table, Leni smiled at Madame. And Madame smiled back.

“But
I
would be a stock character here surely, yes,” Felix said quietly.

“Oh in this country now aren’t we all?” said the Judge. “It’s mass culture, the news services tell us—those old individualists. Edwin here says that for younger people the whole notion of a person with a fixed character is obsolete. Isn’t it, Edwin?”

No answer.

“The current of the times,” said Blount. “Isn’t that what I always said?”

“Is it, Dan?” said the host.
“Answer
yourself.”

“Well then…yes.” Blount grinned. “Simon, you like to hand
me
my character all right, all right. May I have some more of that salad? Field lettuce—how nice of Anna to remember.”

“Are you too warm, ladies?” Pauli said anxiously. “Would you like a cigarette?” He never liked to see either courtesy, weather, food, or any other basic of life neglected for ideas.

“Beware a man whose life has been very contemporary,” said the Judge. “Nobody’s dead quicker when he dies.” Edwin was smiled at. “To quote a judge.”

To Blount, his host looked flushed, as a judge who’d had to quit his way well might. Shooting a wife was contemporary enough, in its time, Blount thought—down where he kept his private thinking, in the tiniest print. “But when a man’s lively enough at it, won’t he become history? Look at Pepys for that matter. I carry a Pepys with me everywhere.” He lowered his eyes modestly. “Not many people know that about me.” Only those he didn’t tell, or who didn’t read.

The Judge groaned. “History. The eternal excuse of the journalist. Here’s your salad.”

“Yet it is true, isn’t it, Mr. Blount?” Felix said mischievously. “One wouldn’t read Juvenal for the same reasons one reads Lucretius.”

“Let those guys read me,” said Blount. “I’m a contemporary.”

“I read you,” said Edwin.

“Y’do. Wudga read me on?”

“‘Hot Pursuit on the Yalu.’ Only yesterday. In the
Trib.
”

“Oh, you did, eh?” Well, if they didn’t go to war, they at least read about it. “Ask me about the Koreans, I’ll be declarative enough. If they have a character, sure isn’t flowing
our
way. Just like the Japs were. A monkey puzzle inside.”

Austin looked up from his reverie.

“See,” Krupong whispered very low, only for him. “I would be an
idea
here too.” Aloud, he said, “I am too
white
for this country, yes.”

The pause was general. “How so?” said the host.

“To this noble household—I am noble too. Everything savage and good.” He shook his head. His smile had too much gleam. “Too white for me. But to the rest of the country, what am I likely to be? Black
ivory!
Too white, too.”

All the men laughed. Into that Leni whispered clearly, “Pauli says it’s bad taste to talk a person’s color here.” The laughter doubled. As Anna brought in the next course, everybody was pleased. Between simple personal wit and the spice of foreign dangers, the room was filling with clouds of pseudo family feeling—the safest kind. And the waistband of the evening spread, could be relaxed. Through curtains down here parted over window boxes, a glancing light came and the city shuffle of feet.

“Grouse!” said Blount. “My God, what’s her source of supply? The Black Forest?”

“I’m afraid, me,” said Pauli. “And the Maryland Market. But only domestic game hen. I brought them for Ruth, who loves them. And Diddy too.” Or at least they once had, in the time of dollhouses. “But too much, with the chicken. Anna changed menus, because of two extra. I told her not to cook my birds, but she did anyway. I am sorry to think we made a
crise
in the kitchen.”

In the immemorial way, the two women looked pleased, as Simon saw. Another’s household should never be perfect. …I’m subtle enough with women who are game-tame enough to allow it. Mirriam, you may
remain.
To watch. …“We’ll never know,” said the Judge, toying with the little brown bird. “We must never. You know Anna.” At the same time, he disengaged his foot, for the moment. Though the muscle doctor might be glad to hear of certain therapies. “Pauli—just go round again with the wine, would you?”

“Are we going to get drunk?” said Blount. “I thought Jews never did.”

The Judge saw Austin raise his head again. … Ah, our young protector, shall
I
speak to
you?
So that daughters may be understood between us?…“Oh—for you Christians, we Jews are always such repositories of moral force, aren’t we? While you have the weaknesses we crave. To sin fashionably. Alcohol. Sex. But we’re always too serious in the end to be chic, aren’t we? Just, as in fashion, our ladies are too lavish.”

Blount was attacking his bird, the only person to do so. “May I quote that?”

“Not in Germany. They already know.” The Judge smiled at Madame—for the loss of his foot. “Not here either, in case I should ever go back into politics. I was never Jewishly safe there.” He tossed his head, tired of being safe. Thank God. “But don’t make Jesuses of us again, as I saw—heard—Mr. Krupong suggest,” he said slyly. “I’m afraid we do that best ourselves.” Wine made him possessive. Even his lipreading powers seemed to increase. … I become as hungry after young minds as old homos are for young cherubs. Am I so sure Austin as son-in-law would share a dialogue, as young Fenno. David’s friend, never would? What is it we’d share?…He stole a look at his watch—where were those young three? “A penny for your thoughts, Austin?”

“Yes, they’re overdue,” said Austin. “I mean—the flight.” He saw Pauli twitch a collusive smile at him. …What does
he
know, this “uncle” who knows Ruth? Not a man here I could tell about Kim Yong Mai—except Blount, to whom one tells merely everything. Back there in the coarseness of war, everyone knew. How tiring civilization is to us, on our return. “Now that could be ponderful.”…“Sir?—I guess I was thinking of my grandfather.”…Who has left me the wherewithal for a flat in Convent Garden—for my reasonable sins….