Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [114]
“And just what is Mr. Mintzbaum having?”
“Some steamed vegetables topped with a poached egg. No salt.”
“Not tonight he isn’t. We both want roast brisket and latkes. And don’t forget the horseradish.”
“Cryta fishum,” said Hymie, rocking with delight.
“And we’d like a bottle of Beaujolais. And, oh dear, I see that Mr. Mintzbaum hasn’t got a wine glass. Bring him one.”
“Mrs. Katz is going to hit the roof.”
“Just do as you’re told and I’ll handle Mrs. Katz when she gets here.”
“Your funeral.”
Hymie stabbed at his gaping mouth with his fork, his eyes raging.
“Don’t even try to talk, Hymie. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
The waiter brought him his Springbank. I clicked glasses with him and we both drank. “Here’s to us,” I said, “and the good times we had together that nobody can take away from us.”
He sipped his drink. I wiped his chin with his bib.
“And here’s to the Eighth Army Air Force,” I said, “and Duke Snider and Mozart and Kafka and Jelly Roll and Dr. Johnson and Sandy Koufax and Jane Austen and Billie Holiday.”
“Flugit,” said Hymie, weeping softly.
Pushing my chair closer to him, I helped Hymie cut up his brisket and latkes. When the waiter approached our table again, Hymie began to splutter and gesture. “Okey-doke. Gotcha,” said the waiter, and he brought Hymie a pad and a pencil.
It took Hymie a while, concentrating, writing something, ripping out a page, starting again, ripping again, breathing hard, drooling, before he finally handed me what he had managed to print:
And now we were both drunk, but, fortunately, our compromising plates had been cleared by the time Fiona Darling swept into the dining room, Shelley trailing after her like a spoor, the two of them working the tables, raining blessings on those who were still A-list, while those not entitled to call-backs were dismissed with a nod. Finally they got to us. Stubby Fiona Darling, bejewelled, shrink-wrapped into a chiffon evening gown that bulged in the wrong places, her black velvet cape secured by a diamond-studded clasp. Shelley wore a tux, one of those purple ruffled shirts that always reminded me of a washboard, a string tie with a Navajo pendant, and hand-tooled cowboy boots, proof against snakebite when he risked crossing Rodeo Drive. “I’ll bet you two old rascals had plenty to talk about,” said Fiona Darling, crinkling her cute, surgically sculpted nose, and impressing a scarlet lipstick stain on Hymie’s all-but-bald pate. “I hear you guys had some lifestyle when you were in Gay Paree together in the old days.”
“Why in the hell didn’t Shelley warn me that he couldn’t speak?”
“Now now. That’s not nice. You sure are lacking in empathicity. Hymie is just difficult to understand at times. Isn’t that so, Gramps?” The rest is confusion, but I do remember that the waiter took Fiona Darling aside, and then she turned on me: “Did you let him drink hard liquor and eat red meat with wine?”
Hymie, his eyes popping, struggled to be heard. “Fluga pshit.”
“He’s incontinent,” said Fiona Darling. “Would you like to be the one to clean up after him at three o’clock in the morning?”
“Don’t tell me you do it?”
“It just happens to be Miss O’Hara’s night off tonight.” I remember Hymie reversing his wheelchair back from the table, stopping, then propelling himself at a shrieking Fiona Darling, Shelley pulling her out of harm’s way in time. Or maybe that didn’t happen and it’s just a case of my tinkering with memory, fine-tuning reality. Next I think a frustrated Hymie, who had always abhorred squealers, rode off in pursuit of the waiter, intent on ramming him, but attempting too sharp a turn at speed and colliding with a woman at another table. But possibly I only wish that had happened. Dining out on a story, I tend to put a spin on it. To come clean, I’m a natural-born burnisher. But, then, what’s a writer, even a first-timer like me?
In any event, I recall angry words were exchanged. An increasingly screechy Fiona Darling called me an irresponsible drunk. Then I inquired, icy polite, if her breasts were