Leaving the Atocha Station - Ben Lerner [43]
It turned out our table was ready and we were seated and I said to the waiter that my Spanish wasn’t good enough to order so I asked that he just bring us whatever the chef recommended, along with a bottle of his favorite Spanish white; my manner suggested I had made this request in several European capitals and languages. When I heard myself ask for a Spanish wine, which, no matter how expensive, would be several orders of magnitude cheaper than the others, I realized I was not entirely out of my mind, which meant I should stop acting as if I were: I was on track to spend more in one day than I’d spent in the previous two months including rent, and all of it in a manner entirely visible to my parents. How would my ailing mom and fascist dad respond to such acting out was the joke I made to myself; I heard my laughter in my head and it sounded foreign.
Isabel and I had nothing to say. She was nervous, angry, confused; she didn’t drink the aperitifs they brought us on a silver tray. I drank both of them in a manner that communicated I was entirely prepared to make a scene, whatever scene Isabel might like. But worried she would just stand up and leave, I asked her as though there were no tension in the air if she’d had to quit her job at the language school. She said she hadn’t and I realized she’d told me this already. I told her I was sorry about my insisting on such an abrupt return from Granada. She said it was fine and asked after my poems, how work on the little book was coming. I said good, great in fact, that I had never written so much, and I imagined I saw a spark of interest in Isabel as she perhaps remembered my notes and pondered the possibility that she was, in one way or another, involved in them. I told her I would send her a copy in a tone designed to demolish this fantasy if she had it, my voice suggesting I wouldn’t even remember her by the time the book came out, but her smile made it clear this was not a believable implication, that I was trying too hard to appear indifferent. I softened a little, felt myself sink into my chair, and for a second I feared I might let out the same sob, a sob very close to awkward laughter, that I’d released in Granada. Wine was served for me to taste and, making a face that expressed mild disappointment, a face I often made while reading, I said that it was fine.
A plate of steak tartare was brought to us and Isabel looked at it with muffled surprise and it was clear she had never imagined eating finely chopped raw beef. I asked her how Rufina was as I served her a punishingly large portion and it was suddenly obvious, much more obvious than I intended, that my clothes and the expensive meal were saying to Isabel: of course I never took our relationship seriously; I am a fabulously wealthy American from the United States of Bush, I have merely been acquiring experience, slumming, etc. I felt a wave of guilt and wanted to apologize and worried, having felt a wave of anything, that I was headed for a precipice. I could barely make myself eat. Isabel didn’t respond to my question, but I had the sense that, if she were embarrassed, it was only on my behalf.
Plates were taken away and new ones arrived; Isabel appeared relieved by the familiarity of the artichokes and asparagus wrapped in bacon; I couldn’t taste anything. I was moving at inappropriate speed through the wine. I asked what Oscar was doing in Barcelona and she said either that he was a mechanic or was being retrained for something mechanical or that he sold cars or worked for a car company; I didn’t care. I asked what he looked like and she put her hand on my hand and said let’s not talk about Oscar, let this be our night. I smiled at her and tried to look relaxed but when the next dish was brought, something involving caviar and maybe quail eggs, I thought that I might vomit. I could not attempt a bite and my face felt hot and I could barely drink the wine, but did. I must have looked terrible; Isabel asked if I was all