The Dud Avocado - Elaine Dundy [10]
“Well, but living you know …” I said warily, at the same time trying to project that off-beat thing, whatever it was.
“Oh no. Not that please,” he cut me off briskly. “Look, I tell you what. I’m going to direct a program of one-act plays at the American Theater. You know, that little one around Denfert-Rochereau they keep trying to get started. It’s just possible that you might be right for something. You might fit into the Saroyan play. We’re playing safe and starting off with the usual stuff: Saroyan, Shaw, Tennessee Williams——”
“Which ones?” I asked breathlessly.
“Haven’t decided yet. Anyway, come over there sometime. We’ll be casting soon.”
Then, having made this decision and having wasted enough of his precious time that should no doubt have been spent geniusing, he shot to his feet and faced the cluster of waiters with such imminent departure in his manner that two of them came running.
But I didn’t care any more. The whole flock of them could have come. The Pernods melted in my stomach in one glorious swooshing splash and all was gaiety and song and dance.
Larry paid the bill and stood up, looking down at me and grinning.
“Gosh, I’d love to act again,” I said. “I really would. I’m dying to—but when?”
“As soon as you get your laundry back,” he said, and left.
Larry had gone. I drifted into the street lit with love and began turning imaginary handsprings. I hadn’t the faintest idea where I was going. I found myself in front of the Métro Odéon and began playing with the metro map, pushing the buttons en toutes directions. Porte des Lilas-Châtelet, Mairie d’Issy-Porte de la Chapelle, Vincennes-Neuilly … how beautiful they sounded. “To the end of the line,” I murmured. A virtuous thought crossed my mind that in this new life dedicated to Art I should take the metro, not taxis. But I found I couldn’t bear to go underground into the dark. Not on a day like that.
A taxi came by and I hailed it, suddenly knowing where I had to go. I told him to go directly to the American Library in Saint-Germain. There I would get out the Collected Works of Tennessee Williams and William Saroyan. Then I would go and see about my laundry. As if to emphasize the miracle of the day the taxi driver actually conceded the quartier to be in his route.
With many a “bon, bon, ça va” to commemorate our fellow-feelings we drove off. Upon arrival I glanced at my watch and saw that it was one o’clock. Everything would be closed until three. The little hotel to which I had recently moved was on the rue Jules Chaplain in Montparnasse, and so was the tein-turerie where my laundry was marking time. It was a matter of three minutes away. Three minutes au maximum, 2. mere flicker in the eternity of a taxi driver’s life, you would think, but the doughty old Parisian at the wheel refused to budge another inch with me in the cab.
One o’clock. Two hours to go.
I found a table at the Royal Saint-Germain, ordered an omelette au jambon and a café noir, and stared across at the church with its towers encased in scaffolding. I wondered why I’d never seen any workmen on it. Maybe I was up and about for only a few hours every day, after all. Boy, I’d better pull myself together.
I made a mark with my knife on the paper tablecloth to underline my decision: Teddy would have to go. I probably really didn’t have the true courtesan spirit anyway. How in hell had I got into all this in the first place? I tried to figure out how the whole thing started. Well, first of all, of course, I came to Paris. And the reason I had a chance to come to Paris was because of dear old Uncle Roger.…
The week before I became thirteen—two days after I’d run away for the fourth time—my uncle Roger had sent for me. He was then living in lofty majesty, in a big, white clapboard house overlooking the Hudson Valley, and spending most of his