The Dud Avocado - Elaine Dundy [108]
“Gosh!” I was really overcome. I mean he’s one of the world’s top photographers.
“Fine,” said Stefan. “Now that it’s settled, let’s have a little drink first. What’ll it be?” But before I could open my mouth he said “No! Wait a minute. Let me mix you something. My own speciality.” I looked over at the impressive array of bottles at the bar and nodded eagerly.
He turned his back to us and for a while worked swiftly and expertly, mixing an elaborate cocktail. My mouth was watering. Finally he handed it to me with a flourish. “Taste it,” he said.
I tasted it. “It’s delicious.”
“Not too strong?”
“Perfect.”
“Good.” He turned back to the bar again and poured out two more glasses. I looked over at Max, puzzled. “There’s no liquor in it,” I whispered.
Max was delighted. “Of course not,” he said. “Once a Hungarian—Thank you, Stefan. Lovely drink.”
Dear Stefan. He was so proud of himself. He didn’t for a moment doubt he was getting away with it. What a wonderful evening it could have been if only it had happened a year before. B.P. Before Passport. Was I going to have to gauge everything that way for the rest of my life?
Max took hundreds and hundreds of pictures of me and afterward we went out to dinner. We went to the Scheherazade or Monseigneurs, one of those expensive violin places. Stefan was expansive. Everyone knew him there.
“Champagne,” he said. “First of all champagne.” When the champagne came he took a sip of it. He was just about to accept it when he happened to catch my eye. “No,” he said. “It’s flat. Send it back.”
The proprietor arrived. “What’s all this, Gogo?”
“We don’t like the champagne,” said Stefan grandly.
The proprietor tasted it. “Don’t be silly,” he said, slapping his old friend on the back. “It’s exquisite.”
“Ah well.” Stefan took it philosophically. “It’s not like his old place in Vienna.”
Max laughed. “Hungarians don’t like each other, they understand each other.”
“Don’t: be disrespectful,” said Stefan crossly.
We looked at the menu. “Hah! Avocados,” he said, brightening. “How I love them. Cheer up, my little avocado,” he said to me, pinching my hand. “You know, these American girls are just like avocados. What do you think, am I right, Max? Who ever even heard of an avocado sixty years ago? Yes, that’s what we’re growing nowadays.” His avocado arrived and he looked at it lovingly. “The Typical American Girl,” he said, addressing it. “A hard center with the tender meat all wrapped up in a shiny casing.” He began eating it. “How I love them,” he murmured greedily. “So green—so eternally green.” He winked at me.
“Stefan, please.…”
“No, it’s true. And I will tell you something really extraordinary, rnes enfants. Do you know that you can take the stones of these luscious fruits, put them in water—just plain water, mind you—anywhere, any place in the world, and in three months up comes a sturdy little plant full of green leaves? That is their sturdy little souls bursting into bloom/’ he finished off, well satisfied with his analogy.
“Well, this one isn’t going to burst into bloom,” I said morosely, putting my nose in my drink. “What you’ve got here is a dead one.”
“A what? A dud one?”
I took my face out of the glass. “No, dead. Dead. Oh, forget it.”
Max raised his glass and smiled at me. “The dud avocado,” he said, proposing the toast.
It was a party and I desperately wanted to be happy and I couldn’t. So I drank and drank and drank and naturally I got very drunk. I behaved disgracefully. After the second course I tried balancing my glass on my little finger. Twice it fell off and I caught it just before it hit the carpet. Then my legs got pins and needles and fell asleep on me. I tried to stamp them back to life; a difficult and dangerous maneuver at best, under a table. Dessert had just arrived and in a magnificent tour de force I managed to overturn it on everything except my dress. Then my eyes went out of focus. The only way I could bring them back in again was by concentrating on my shoes, wiggling them about. Then my shoes