The Dud Avocado - Elaine Dundy [3]
All at once I knew that I liked this place, too.
Jammed in on all sides, with the goodish Tower of Babel working itself up to a frenzy around me, I felt safe and anonymous and, most of all, thankful we were going to be spared those devastating and shattering revelations one was always being treated to at the more English-speaking cafés like the Flore.
And, as I said, I was very glad to have run into Larry.
We talked a little about the various cafés and he explained carefully to me which were the tourist traps and which weren’t. Glancing down at my Pernod, I discovered to my astonishment that I’d already finished it. Time was whizzing past.
I felt terribly excited.
“White smoke,” said Larry clicking his tongue disapprovingly at my second Pernod. His hand twirled around the stem of his own virtuous glass of St. Raphael. “You keep that up,” he said, tapping my glass, “and it’ll blow your head off—which may be a good thing at that. Why pink?” he asked, studying my new coiffure carefully. “Why not green?”
As a matter of fact I’d had my hair dyed a marvelous shade of pale red so popular with Parisian tarts that season. It was the first direct remark he made about the New Me and it was hardly encouraging.
Slowly his eyes left my hair and traveled downwards. This time he really took in my outfit and then that Look that I’m always encountering; that special one composed in equal parts of amusement, astonishment and horror came over his face.
I am not a moron and I can generally guess what causes this look. The trouble is, it’s always something different.
I squirmed uncomfortably, feeling his eyes bearing down on my bare shoulders and breasts.
“What the hell are you doing in the middle of the morning with an evening dress on?” he asked me finally.
“Sorry about that,” I said quickly, “but it’s all I’ve got to wear. My laundry hasn’t come back yet.”
He nodded, fascinated.
“I thought if I wore this red leather belt with it people wouldn’t actually notice. Especially since it’s such a warm day. I mean these teintureries make it so difficult for you to get your laundry to them in the first place, don’t they, closing up like that from noon till three? I mean, my gosh, it’s the only time I’m up and around over here—don’t you think?”
“Oh sure, sure” said Larry, and murmured “Jesus” under his breath. Then he smiled forgivingly. “Ah well, you’re young, you’re new, you’ll learn, Gorce.” A wise nod of the head. “I know your type all right.”
“My type?” I wondered. “My type of what?”
“Of tourist, of course.”
I gasped and then smiled cunningly to myself. Tourist indeed! Ho-ho! That was the last thing I could be called—did he but know.
“Tell me about this,” I said. “You seem to have tourists on the brain.”
He crossed his legs and pulled out of his shirt-pocket a crumpled pack of cigarettes as du pays as possible—sort of Gauloises Nothings—offered one to me, took one himself, lit them both and then settled back with pleasure. This was obviously one of his favorite subjects.
“Basically,” he began, “the tourist can be divided into two categories. The Organized—the Disorganized. Under the Organized you find two distinct types: first, the Eager-Beaver-Culture-Vulture with the list ten yards long, who just manages to get it all crossed off before she collapses of aesthetic indigestion each night and has to be carried back to her hotel; and second, the cool suave Sophisticate who comes gliding over gracefully, calmly, and indifferently. But don’t be fooled by the indifference. This babe is determined to maintain her incorruptible standards of cleanliness and efficiency if the entire staff of her hotel dies trying. She belongs to the take-your-own-toilet-paper set. Stuffs her suitcases full of nylon, Kleenex, soapflakes, and D.D.T. bombs. Immediately learns the rules of the country. (I mean what time the shops open and close, and how much to tip the waiter.) Can pack for a week end in a small jewel case and a large handbag