Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [84]
However, life had not turned out that way. This seemed strange to him. Strange, also, that during these years they could have lived so near each other, a few blocks apart, yet never met. Probably she must know his name as well as he knew hers. Indeed, she might very easily know him by sight. Someone might have pointed him out to her in the Terrace Grill or at a party. Logically there was no reason they should not become friends.
All at once he realized that his wife was watching. He lowered the paper and looked at her.
“What absorbs you so?” she asked.
“Oh, he replied with a laugh, “just keeping up with society,” and after another glance at Marlene Cornish he turned to the financial section.
90 In the Aztec Room
Not long after graduating from high school Ruth asked if she might come downtown to have lunch with him. He agreed, and they set a date. Why she wanted to meet him for lunch he did not know. He supposed there was a reason. She must want something.
They arranged to meet in the Aztec Room of the Westport Hotel. He had first suggested Wolferman’s Tea Room because most women liked it—the place was invariably filled with women who had come downtown shopping —but Ruth made a face. Then he mentioned the Drum Room at the President; however, she assented so listlessly that he asked where she would like to eat, and she suggested the Aztec Room. He had been there only once, years ago, for some purpose long since forgotten, but he remembered that he did not like it. The Westport was only four blocks from the Muehlebach, yet in those four blocks another kind of life appeared. In that neighborhood, in that hotel, and in the Aztec Room itself there was something cheap and stale and oppressive, almost sinister. He remembered a trio of Mexicans in sleazy silk blouses and the sequined bandstand and women in their thirties or forties who loitered around the bar as though waiting for messages. On one wall hung a painting of a nude woman done in phosphorescent paint on black velvet and above the piano were several hammered-tin masks with feathered headdresses. The ash trays were black onyx. The matchboxes gave the telephone number of the hotel. Everything about the place was unpleasantly suggestive, and he had never expected to be there again. However, that was where she wanted to have lunch, so that was where they would go.
He arrived a few minutes early. The Aztec Room had not changed. He recognized the stale odor, and there were the women at the bar. He thought of waiting outside and telling her they would eat somewhere else, but the headwaiter was beckoning.
He had just unfolded his napkin and picked up the menu when Ruth entered. She saw him and began sauntering toward the table as if she were in a public park. People watched her, which annoyed him. She did not come directly to the table but walked a little out of her way; it seemed to him that she wanted to be noticed by two men who were at a table in a corner. They appeared to be Italians, although one of them had a Jewish nose. They were young and dressed expensively but in poor taste. Their suits were almost identical. Each had a handkerchief folded into the breast pocket so that the points were visible. The collars of their shirts were prominent. The sleeves were too long. They wore diamond cufflinks. These men were coarse, and perhaps dangerous. One of them, who had obviously had smallpox, was picking his teeth with a matchstick. They were a familiar type in this neighborhood. They had nothing in the bank, but plenty in their wallets. They could