“Baby, I’ve had the best. Liebfraumilch, Lacrima Christi, Piper Heidsieck — you name it, I’ve swilled it.”
He winced. “What a word — swilled. All right, now that we’ve gotten past the amenities, tell me, how was Paris?” I should have known that was coming. Paris is always the favorite city of anybody who hasn’t been to Europe.
“It’s a dirty town, Stan,” I said sadly, telling nun the truth. “I think that all my life I’ve wanted it to be great, but it’s just another dirty town with a lot of dirty people trying to stick their hands in your pockets. Berlin was wild, very sad; Florence was lovely — but the flood —” I shrugged. “Venice is a crumbling slum in the middle of a sewer; Naples is still in nibble; Rome is — well, it’s Rome — a monument. If you can get clear of the tourist traps, it’s fine. London is dignified, honorably scarred, and — where the action is supposed to be at — cheap. The plays are good, but the eating and drinking are rotten. You want my vote, try Vienna — or Heidelberg — or Zurich. And that completes the Cook’s toenail tour.”
“Germanophile,” he snorted.
“No,” I said seriously. “The others are out to make a buck, any way they can. Most of them would sell you their little brother if their little sister or their mother wasn’t to your taste. The Germans don’t give a shit if you like them or not, and God knows they don’t need your money. Benson — this guy I knew — and I used to ride bicycles across a small mountain to a little fanning village — a kind of no-name sort of place with only a church, a Gasthaus, a few other shops, and a dozen or two houses, maybe two-three hundred people all together. We were the only Americans in the whole damned town. We rode through one afternoon and stopped for a beer. We just kept going back. The people there really got to like us, and we liked them. They had a big party for the oldest guy in town — everybody knocked off work for the whole day. The old boy was about ninety-seven or so. Benson and I were the only two outsiders invited to that blast. Not just the only two Americans — the only outsiders. It was absolutely great.”
“Ah, the pleasures of rural life,” he said. “Swains and maidens in the first flower of youth.”
“Larkin,” I said, “you’re a phony bastard, you know that?”
“I know,” he said, and I think he was serious. He had a habit of going into those “I’m not really real” depressions. As I recall, that’s one of the reasons we parted company. Too much of that stuff can get on a guy’s nerves.
Then Monica came in. I vaguely remembered seeing her around school when I’d still been there. She was a sleek brunette; and, I don’t know — polished is the word, I guess — or maybe brittle. I’d seen a couple of girls like her in Germany — the hundred-marks-a-night sort of girl. At first she treated me like a piece of garbage on the floor, but when she learned that I’d been to Europe, her attitude changed. She started poking the usual bright questions at me, trying to make sure I’d really been there — though how in hell she’d know is beyond me. She wanted to talk about Paris, naturally, and mentioned a lot of names I remembered only as the tourist-trappy kind of places to stay away from. About the only thing we agreed on was the Rodin Museum, but I think it was for different reasons. It began to sound as if she’d been there and I hadn’t. I think she was a little peeved that I didn’t fake it for her as others I knew did so often, gushing about places they really couldn’t stand,
simply because it was the “thing to do.” I listened to her chatter politely. There was something sort of odd here, but I couldn’t quite get hold of it.
“Stanley,” she said, turning to him. “Did you run those things through the washer that I asked you to this morning?” There was a threat in her tone, a kind of “You’d better have, if you know what’s good for you” sort of thing.
“Yes, dear,” he said meekly.
That was it then. The whole thing fell into place. She had the big stick, and he knew it — and he’d been ashamed to let me find out. Married not more than a couple of years on the very outside, and he was pussy-whipped already. Poor Stan.
“Good,” she said. She turned back to me and smiled briefly — like switching on a light in an empty room and then switching it off again. Click-click. “I’d love to stay and talk with you, Dan, but I’ve really got to run. We’re trying to set up a little drama group, and there are a million details. You know how it is.” Click-click went the smile again. That room was still empty.
“Oh, Stanley,” she said, “don’t forget that we’re going over to the Jamisons’ for dinner this evening.” That was obviously for my benefit. She didn’t want me hanging around the house. “Wear the blue suit. You know how conservatively Mr. Jamison dresses, and we do need their support if this little theater group is going to go anywhere.”
He nodded. Stan needed instructions on how to dress like I needed instructions on opening beer bottles. It was just a little dig to keep him in line.
“I’ll be back about fourish,” she went on, “and I’ll be in the mood for a Manhattan by then. You will be a good boy and mix up a small pitcher, won’t you?”
Click-click went the smile again. What a phony bitch!
“Of course,” he said. She was humiliating him, and she damned well knew it. I guess he wasn’t allowed to have any friends that she hadn’t passed on first.
“I’ve really got to run,” she said. “It’s been lovely meeting you, Dan.”
We all stood up, and she left. We sat down again.
“Well, Dan,” Stan said, rather quickly, I thought, “what are you going to do now that you’re a civilian again?”
“Graduate school, I guess,” I said.
“Up at the U?”
I nodded.
“Going into Education?”
I shook my head. “Straight English. Education courses are a waste of time.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I went on and took my MS.”
“Hey, Stan, that’s really fine,” I said, ignoring the defensive tone in his voice. “I didn’t know whether you’d finished or not.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, “about a year ago. I’m teaching high school now, but after I get a little more experience, I’m going to apply at several colleges. Monica’s working on her master’s, too, and we’ll be in excellent shape as soon as she finishes.”
“That’s fine, buddy,” I said. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“We should get together a few times before you go back up to Seattle,” he said.
“We’ll do that, Stan. I’m a little tied up right now. We’re getting ready to go hunting in early September.”
“Hunting?” Stan said with sudden interest. “I didn’t know there were any seasons open this early.”
“We’re going up on the High Hunt — high Cascade deer season — way to hell and gone back up in the mountains. We’ve got a guide and horses all lined up. We’re going up to the Methow River into the country on the back side of Glacier Peak. We’ll be in there for about ten days.”
“God,” he said, “I’d really love to do something like that.” He meant it. I must have hit a nerve. “It must be pretty expensive though.”
“Not bad — fifty skins apiece for the whole deal — food extra. There are five of us going altogether.”
“That would be just great,” he said longingly. “I’d been hoping to get a chance to get away this year, but it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to make it even for birds. Monica’s going to be pretty tied up during the regular season this year — her drama group and all — so I’ll have to manage the house.” He hesitated a moment. “I imagine your plans and arrangements are all made.”
“No. We’re pretty fluid.”
“You know, I’ve been working pretty hard for the last few years — getting my degree and then getting the house here and setting everything up just the way Monica and I want it. I haven’t had much of a chance to really take a look at myself — you know, stop and really see where I am.”
“That happens to all of us now and then, Stan,” I said.
“Something like this, you know — getting away for a while, going way back up into the mountains away from all the rash and pressure. It would give a man a chance to really think things through.”