2
One of the two restaurants in the Astolat Hotel, where we stay whenever
we are in New York, is called the Knight's Bar. It has been extended
and refurbished recently. King Arthur's retinue, armed, armored,
gaudily caparisoned, and mounted on some of the most unlikely steeds
in mural art, charge, joust and canter on the walls. The place has
indirect lighting, banquettes and chairs upholstered in red leather,
and air conditioning. The food is excellent.
A pre-chilled atmosphere enveloped me when I came in and I felt it
without gratitude. I like hot weather.
Jay, the headwaiter, saw me, glanced about at the tables--which were by
now less than a third occupied--and beckoned me toward a place near the
bar with a definitiveness unwarranted by the wide choice. I wondered
why as I came forward--obediently, and hardly aware of the trifling
inquiry in my mind.
Then I saw, around to the right, a pretty girl, sitting alone, reading
a book. On each side of her were empty tables. Did Jay, out of
subconscious loyalty to my wife, intend to rush me past this pitfall?
Or had the girl asked for solitude? She wasn't one of the Knight's Bar
regulars--or one of the hotel residents. I knew all of them, at least
by sight.
Ordinarily, I would have meekly followed Jay to the table he had
selected. But now I thought--why should I? Rather, I thought, there is
very little time left for me on this earth. Why shouldn't I use it as I
please?
So I nodded at a table beside the girl. She would be something to look
at besides my thoughts.
Jay is an American. But what he did now was European. He smiled
slightly in understanding; he raised his eyebrows minutely in
coappreciation of the young lady's good looks; and he shrugged one
shoulder--in patient recognition of the fact that a male is a male and
the firmest marriage vows are warrants of mere intent.
I grinned back--and sat on the bench beside the young lady as soon
as Jay pulled out the table. She looked at me--turning her head
slowly--and afterward went on reading her book. Her eyes were gray,
stained with some unguessable, dark residue of emotion. Her hair was
pale blonde, not quite ashen--parted in the middle and clipped at the
back like a schoolgirl's--with a wide gold barrette. She had small,
smooth hands. She wore a square engagement ring and a wedding ring set
with many diamonds. From time to time, too, she sipped a Martini. Her
dress was a gray and white print--not fancy but fitted by somebody who
knew the tricks. Bonwit's, maybe, or Bergdorf's. Her shoulders were
fairly broad, for a girl's. But she had large, firm breasts--or the
synthetic equivalent thereof. I noticed, too, that the perfume she
used was not right for her appearance--though perhaps it suited the
self-estimate of her soul. It was one of the musky varieties--animal,
nocturnal, full of erotic business.
In a restaurant where you have enjoyed a thousand meals, you look
desultorily at the menu because, as a rule, you know what you are going
to order. I took the fried sole, a boiled, parsley potato, and apple
sauce.
Then, for a while, I forgot the girl.