Another Life_ A Memoir of Other People - Michael Korda [217]
I was about to ask why, if that was the case, Barnes had set the luncheon for one when the unmistakable figure of Tennessee Williams appeared. Madame Soltner rose from behind the caisse, while Soltner himself, his face broadly beaming, emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron, to greet Williams. Williams, smiling shyly, looked mildly confused, I thought, as if he was not altogether sure what he was doing here or even if this was the place he was supposed to be. He was dressed neatly in gray flannel slacks, a tweed sports jacket, and a long wool scarf wound loosely around his neck over his shirt and tie—not exactly the elegance of the average Lutèce client but altogether the outfit of Sartre, say, appearing for lunch at the Café Flore, on the Left Bank. The one alarming note was that his thick horn-rimmed glasses were askew on his nose, tilted at a steep angle so that one eye was looking over the top of them and the other peeking out the bottom. “Bonjour, cher maître,” both Soltners called out to Williams at just the moment that he shuffled forward and, missing the fact that there were two or three steps in front of him, took a nosedive straight to the floor, landing in a heap just short of our table.
All of us, Soltner first, rushed to get him on his feet again. Williams seemed unhurt, though his glasses were more skewed than ever. Full of concern, the Soltners brushed him down, Madame removed his scarf, and he was gently guided to his seat. Would he take a little something to restore himself? Soltner inquired solicitously. Williams nodded in slow motion. Perhaps a dry sherry, Soltner suggested, or a glass of white wine? Williams thought about it for a while, eyes half closed, like a man listening to distant music. “Ah believe ah’ll have a vodka,” he said at last. He thought some more. “Better make that a double,” he added.
Billy Barnes introduced me, and we shook hands. We chatted a while and were soon on a first-name basis. Tennessee was genial to a fault, and he apologized for being late. “Ah overslept, baby,” he explained. “Ah woke up with this sinus headache? Ah think ah may be comin’ down with this cold?” He rubbed his nose hard between thumb and forefinger, as if in pain.
He drained his glass and asked for another as the waiter brought the first course. Tennessee sipped his drink while we ate. Madame and her husband hovered over his shoulder anxiously, waiting for him to taste the soup, but Tennessee didn’t appear to be hungry. Gradually, he became aware of their presence. He just wasn’t up to eating today, he told them, it was all the cold medicine he had been taking. It cut the appetite, that was all. If he could have just a simple omelet? The Soltners masked their disappointment. But of course, Soltner said, beaming, as if making an omelet was the ambition of a lifetime, and went off to the kitchen. But when the omelet came, Tennessee didn’t touch that either; he had another drink instead.
By now, it was becoming apparent that my newfound friend was drunk and determined to get drunker. It was apparent to Barnes, too, who was talking at a fever pitch to cover the long silences from Tennessee. By the time Tennessee had ignored all four courses of the meal, plus his omelet, and was calling for a postprandial cognac, he had slipped so far down in his chair that his face was close to the top of the table. Suddenly, in a kind of panic, he glanced