Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [60]
“Yes.”
“In that case, I’m afraid you will lose your deposit, sir.”
“Why you cheap little mafioso, that doesn’t surprise me,” I said, and hung up.
Boogie, my inspiration, would be proud of me. That master prankster had played far worse tricks on people, I thought, beginning to wander aimlessly. Raging. Murder in my heart. I ended up, God knows how, in a café on the rue Scribe, where I ordered a double “Johnnie Walkair.” Lighting one Gauloise off another, I was surprised to discover Terry McIver ensconced at a table in the rear of the café with an overdressed older woman who was wearing too much makeup. Take it from me, his “pleasingly pretty” Héloise was squat, a dumpling, puffy-faced, with more than a hint of moustache. Catching my eye, equally startled, Terry withdrew her multi-ringed hand from his knee, whispered something to her, and ambled over to my table. “She’s Marie-Claire’s boring aunt,” he said, sighing.
“Marie-Claire’s affectionate aunt, I’d say.”
“Oh, she’s in such a state,” he whispered. “Her Pekinese was run over this morning. Imagine. You look awful. Anything wrong?”
“Everything’s wrong, but I’d rather not go into it. You’re not fucking that old bag?”
“Damn you,” he hissed. “She understands English. She’s Marie-Claire’s aunt.”
“Okay. Right. Now beat it, McIver.”
But he did not leave without a parting shot. “And in future,” he said, “I’d take it as a kindness if you didn’t follow me.”
McIver and “Marie-Claire’s aunt” quit the café without finishing their drinks and drove off not in an Austin-Healey but in a less-than-new Ford Escort.27 Liar, liar, liar, that McIver.
I ordered another double Johnny Walkair and then went in search of Cedric. I found him in his favourite café, the one frequented by the Paris Review crowd as well as Richard Wright, the Café le Tournon, high on the rue Tournon. “Cedric, old buddy of mine, we’ve got to talk,” I said, taking his arm, and starting to propel him out of the café.
“We can talk right here,” he said, yanking his arm free, and directing me to a table in the corner.
“Let me buy you a drink,” I said.
He ordered a vin rouge and I asked for a Scotch. “You know,” I said, “years ago my daddy once told me that the worst thing that could happen to a man is to lose a child. What do you think, man?”
“You’ve got something to say to me, spit it out, man.”
“Yes. Quite right. But I’m afraid it’s bad news, Cedric. You lost a son yesterday. My wife’s. And I am here to offer condolences.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“I had no idea.”
“That makes two of us.”
“What if it wasn’t mine either?”
“Now there’s an intriguing thought.”
“I’m sorry, Barney.”
“Me too.”
“Now do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Why in the hell did you marry Clara in the first place?”
“Because she was pregnant and I thought it was my duty to my unborn child. My turn now.”
“Go ahead.”
“Were you screwing her after as well as before? We were married, I mean.”
“What did she say?”
“I’m asking you.”
“Shit.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
Then I heard myself saying, “That’s where I draw the line. Fooling around with the wife of a friend. I could never do that.”
He ordered another round and this time I insisted that we click glasses. “After all,” I said, “this is an occasion, don’t you think?”
“What are you going to do about Clara now?”
“How about I turn her over to you, Daddy-o?”
“Nancy wouldn’t dig that. Three in a bed. Not my scene. But I do thank you for the offer.”
“It was sincerely meant.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Actually, I think it was awfully white of me to make such an offer.”
“Hey, Barney, baby, you don’t want to mess with a bad nigger like me. I might pull a shiv on you.”
“Hadn’t thought of that. Let’s have another drink instead.”
When the patronne brought over our glasses, I stood up unsteadily and raised mine. “To Mrs. Panofsky,” I said, “with gratitude for the pleasure she has given both of us.”
“Sit down before you fall down.”
“Good idea.” Then I began to shake. Swallowing the boulder rising in