“That’s bound to be a problem with the younger ones after they’ve had the Beetle,” she said. “How old is this fellow?”
“Forty-eight.”
“In the prime of life,” she said. “It’s different when they’re seventy-six. At that age, even with the Beetle, they soon grind to a halt.”
“But not this chap?”
“God, no,” she said. “Perpetual motion. A mechanical lobster.”
“So what did you do?”
“What could I do? It’s either me or him, I said. So as soon as he’d had his explosion and delivered the goods, I reached into my jacket pocket and got out the trusty hatpin.”
“And you let him have it?”
“Yes, but don’t forget it had to be a backhander this time and that wasn’t so easy. It’s hard to get a good swing.”
“I can see that.”
“Luckily my backhand’s always been my strongest point.”
“At tennis you mean?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And you got him first time?”
“Deep to the baseline,” she said. “Deeper than the King of Spain. A winner.”
“Did he protest?”
“Oh my God,” she said, “he squealed like a pig. And he danced round the room clutching himself and yelling, ‘Céleste! Céleste! Fetch a doctor! I have been stabbed!’ The woman must have been looking through the keyhole because she came bursting in at once and rushed up to him crying, ‘Where? Where? Let me see!’ And while she was examining his backside, I ripped the all-important rubbery thing off him and dashed out of the room pulling up my trousers as I went.”
“Bravo,” I said. “What a triumph.”
“Bit of a lark actually,” she said. “I enjoyed it.”
“You always do.”
“Lovely snails,” she said. “Great big juicy ones.”
“The snail farms put them on sawdust for two days before they sell them for eating,” I said.
“Why?”
“So the snails can purge themselves. When did you get the signed notepaper? Right at the beginning?”
“At the beginning, yes. I always do.”
“But why did it say boulevard Haussmann on it, instead of rue Laurent-Pichet?”
“I asked him that myself,” she said. “He told me that’s where he used to live. He’s only just moved.”
“That’s all right, then,” I said.
They took the empty snail-shells away and soon afterwards they brought on the grouse. By grouse I mean red grouse. I do not mean black grouse (blackcock and greyhen) or wood grouse (capercaillie) or white grouse (ptarmigan). These others are good, especially the ptarmigan, but the red grouse is the king. And provided of course they are this year’s birds, there is no meat more tender or more tasty in the entire world. Shooting starts on the twelfth of August, and every year I look forward to that date with even greater impatience than I do to the first of September, when the oysters come in from Colchester and Whitstable. Like a fine sirloin, red grouse should be eaten rare with the blood just a shade darker than scarlet, and at Maxim’s they would not like you to order it any other way.
We ate our grouse slowly, slicing off one thin sliver of breast at a time, allowing it to melt on the tongue and following each mouthful with a sip of fragrant Volnay.
“Who’s next on the list?” Yasmin asked me.
I had been thinking about that myself, and now I said to her, “It was going to be Mr. James Joyce, but perhaps it would be nice if we took a short trip down to Switzerland for a change of scenery.”
“I’d like that,” she said. “Who’s in Switzerland?”
“Nijinsky.”
“I thought he was up here with that Diaghilev chap.”
“I wish he was,” I said. “But it seems he’s gone a bit dotty. He thinks he’s married to God, and he walks about with a big gold cross around his neck.”
“What rotten luck,” Yasmin said. “Does that mean his dancing days are over?”
“Nobody knows,” I said. “They say he was dancing at a hotel in St. Moritz only a few weeks ago. But that was just for fun, to amuse the guests.”
“Does he live in a hotel?”
“No, he’s got a villa above St. Moritz.”
“Alone?”
“Unfortunately not,” I said. “There’s a wife and a child and a whole bunch of servants. He’s a rich man. Fabulous sums he used to get. I know Diaghilev paid him twentyfive thousand francs for each performance.”