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By Root 432 0

ordered a Bloody Mary instead. Nursing it, I found I still had another three-quarters of an hour to kill when all that was left in my glass were ice cubes. So I ordered another. Then dug into my pocket for that list of interesting conversational topics I had prepared. Had she seen Psycho? Read Henderson the Rain King? What did she think of Ben-Gurion meeting Adenauer in New York? Should Caryl Chessman have been executed? Floating on new-found confidence after my third Bloody Mary, I glanced at my watch: 12:55. And was consumed by panic yet again. Hell, I had forgotten to masturbate this morning, and now it was too late. My props. I had forgotten them in my room. Her father had been a socialist, and so I had brought along the Penguin edition of Laski’s Liberty in the Modern State, as well as the latest issue of The New Statesman. I made a dash for my room, shoved The New Statesman into my jacket pocket, and got to my table in the Prince Arthur Room at 1:02, and there she was, Miriam being directed to the table by the maître d’. Rising to greet her, I managed to hide my compromising tumescence behind my linen napkin. O, how beautiful she appeared in her saucy black leather hat and black wool dress, her hair cut shorter than I remembered. I longed to compliment her on her appearance, but I feared she might consider that flirty. Gauche. “Great to see you,” I said. “Care for a drink?”

“What about you?”

“Oh, a Perrier will do. Say, this is an occasion, don’t you think? What about a bottle of champagne?”

“Well now …”

I summoned the waiter. “We’d like a bottle of Dom Perignon, please.”

“But you already can —”

“Just bring it, if you don’t mind?”

Lighting one Gitane off another, I groped for one of the bon mots I had rehearsed, but all I could come up with was, “Hot today, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Neither did I.”

“Oh.”

“HaveyouseenHendersontheRainKing?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Henderson the — I mean Psycho?”

“Not yet.”

“I thought the shower scene — But what did you think of it?”

“I suppose I’d have to see it first.”

“Oh, sure. Naturally. We could catch it tonight, if you —”

“But you’ve obviously seen it already.”

“Oh yeah. That’s right. I forgot.” Shit, is he going all the way to Montreal to fetch that bottle of champagne? “In your opinion,” I asked, beginning to slide in sweat, “should Ben-Gurion have agreed to meet Eisenhower in New York?”

“I think you mean Adenauer.”

“Of course I do.”

“Did you invite me here to be interviewed?” she asked. And there it was, the dimple in her cheek. I’m going to die right here and go to heaven. Don’t you dare lower your gaze to her bosom. Keep it at eye level. “Ah, there he is.”

“Room service wants to know if you still want the other bottle in your —”

“Just pour, will you, please?”

We clicked glasses. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you could make it today,” I said.

“Well, it was good of you to fit me in between your business appointments.”

“But I’m just here to see you.”

“I thought you said —”

“Oh, sure. Business. Yes, I’m here on it.”

“Are you drunk, Barney?”

“Certainly not. I think we should order. Ignore the prix fixe. Have whatever you want. They ought to air-condition this place,” I said, loosening my tie.

“But it’s not hot.”

“Yes. I mean no, it isn’t.”

She ordered a pea soup to begin with and I, unaccountably, asked for the lobster bisque, a dish I hate. As the Prince Arthur Room began to tilt and sway, I groped for a witty remark, a knock-out aphorism that would put Wilde to shame, and heard myself say, “Do you enjoy living in Toronto?”

“I like my job.”

I counted to ten and then I said, “I’m getting a divorce.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Wedon’thavetodiscussitnow, butitmeansyou’llbeabletoseemeagain, because I’llnolongerbeamarriedman.”

“You’re talking so fast I’m not sure I can make out —”

“Soon I’ll no longer be a married man.”

“Obviously, if you’re getting a divorce. But I hope you’re not doing this on my account.”

“What can I do? I love you. Desperately.”

“Barney, you hardly know me.”

Then, as luck would have it, a fulminating Yankel Schneider,