Read Online A Certain Age by Tama Janowitz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tama Janowitz
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slice on top of a dollop of mashed potatoes and then drizzled some kind of pink sauce over it. For a moment Florence was mesmerized—the whole thing was so hideous.
"May I help you to some of this pasta?" said Raffaello. The pasta was a huge bowl of mushy-looking curly noodles embedded with chunks of tomatoes and congealed lumps of spinach glistening with oil. He spooned some onto her plate, and as he did so he leaned into her, pressing against her from behind. Through his thin trousers she could feel his erection.
She stepped away and gave him a flattered look of disbelief. "You—you're outrageous!"
"And you are just my type. Except for your provincialism—it is so American to pretend to be shocked. Tell me, which is the food you have prepared? I will take that, specially." He certainly had some kind of S and M routine worked out—it was like getting
----
petted and slapped almost at the same time. "Some kind of Brazilian dish," she said. "I was chopping the onions."
"You must be very good at chopping onions."
She felt witless in the presence of such cynical smirkiness. "I think there's tripe in it."
"Not a popular dish, here in America!" he said. "However, for myself, I love what you call organ meat. I am very English, in that respect. You like tripe? Or kidneys? And the sweetbreads—that is my favorite."
"Are you friends of Natalie's? Or John?"
"Oh, of both," he said, helping himself to some dry slabs of white turkey meat. "And you?" He made it clear that her question was banal. Next to the turkey was the dish that she had participated in preparing—a heaving mountain of black beans, from which gray things resembling human digits protruded at various angles.
There were a few other dishes on the table: some bright green peapods, all positioned in exactly the same direction; a salad of orange segments, onion slices and lettuce leaves; and something that might have been a rice pilaf—she was uncertain. There was something that might have been beef or lamb stew, and a platter of chicken legs in a yellow-and-cream-colored sauce. As usual with these buffet dinners, nothing seemed to quite go with anything else; it was almost as if you had to create food in stranger and more peculiar concoctions than had previously been thought of, so that a meal had become the food equivalent of "The Emperor's New Clothes," with people smacking their lips and commenting "How delicious!" over a plate full of garbage.
She had only a few more minutes to decide whether to sit with Raffaello, abandoning Charlie, or wait until Charlie had finished serving himself and act as if it were only natural for the two of them to sit together. Two hundred million dollars! How her life would be changed! In one split second she had mentally purchased an apartment—penthouse duplex, terrace, fifteen rooms— and furnished it: Biedermeier, French club chairs, Mies van der Rohe. The closets were full of clothes, the maid was dusting,
----
admiring friends had arrived, she was debating whether to fly the Concorde—when she quickly realized there was no use in such fantasies: if she indulged in them, she would never get to live them. She stopped the thought as if it were an insect under the edge of her fingernail. "Tell me, what field are you in?" she asked Raffaello.
"Oh, I am in the wine business," he said, retreating into his predatory eye routine once again. The wine business. Did that mean he owned a vineyard in Italy? Or worked in a liquor store? With her luck, it was probably the latter. If only she had the courage to be blunt and ask. But it had seemed rude enough to ask him what he did. His eyes were an intense blue, outlined in black. "And you?" he inquired. "What is your field?" His tone made it perfectly obvious he knew that whatever she did was of no importance whatsoever.
"I work at Quayle's. You know—the auction house?"
He snorted. "Yes, of course. In which department?"
"I'm in jewelry."
"You're kidding!"
She couldn't tell if
"May I help you to some of this pasta?" said Raffaello. The pasta was a huge bowl of mushy-looking curly noodles embedded with chunks of tomatoes and congealed lumps of spinach glistening with oil. He spooned some onto her plate, and as he did so he leaned into her, pressing against her from behind. Through his thin trousers she could feel his erection.
She stepped away and gave him a flattered look of disbelief. "You—you're outrageous!"
"And you are just my type. Except for your provincialism—it is so American to pretend to be shocked. Tell me, which is the food you have prepared? I will take that, specially." He certainly had some kind of S and M routine worked out—it was like getting
----
petted and slapped almost at the same time. "Some kind of Brazilian dish," she said. "I was chopping the onions."
"You must be very good at chopping onions."
She felt witless in the presence of such cynical smirkiness. "I think there's tripe in it."
"Not a popular dish, here in America!" he said. "However, for myself, I love what you call organ meat. I am very English, in that respect. You like tripe? Or kidneys? And the sweetbreads—that is my favorite."
"Are you friends of Natalie's? Or John?"
"Oh, of both," he said, helping himself to some dry slabs of white turkey meat. "And you?" He made it clear that her question was banal. Next to the turkey was the dish that she had participated in preparing—a heaving mountain of black beans, from which gray things resembling human digits protruded at various angles.
There were a few other dishes on the table: some bright green peapods, all positioned in exactly the same direction; a salad of orange segments, onion slices and lettuce leaves; and something that might have been a rice pilaf—she was uncertain. There was something that might have been beef or lamb stew, and a platter of chicken legs in a yellow-and-cream-colored sauce. As usual with these buffet dinners, nothing seemed to quite go with anything else; it was almost as if you had to create food in stranger and more peculiar concoctions than had previously been thought of, so that a meal had become the food equivalent of "The Emperor's New Clothes," with people smacking their lips and commenting "How delicious!" over a plate full of garbage.
She had only a few more minutes to decide whether to sit with Raffaello, abandoning Charlie, or wait until Charlie had finished serving himself and act as if it were only natural for the two of them to sit together. Two hundred million dollars! How her life would be changed! In one split second she had mentally purchased an apartment—penthouse duplex, terrace, fifteen rooms— and furnished it: Biedermeier, French club chairs, Mies van der Rohe. The closets were full of clothes, the maid was dusting,
----
admiring friends had arrived, she was debating whether to fly the Concorde—when she quickly realized there was no use in such fantasies: if she indulged in them, she would never get to live them. She stopped the thought as if it were an insect under the edge of her fingernail. "Tell me, what field are you in?" she asked Raffaello.
"Oh, I am in the wine business," he said, retreating into his predatory eye routine once again. The wine business. Did that mean he owned a vineyard in Italy? Or worked in a liquor store? With her luck, it was probably the latter. If only she had the courage to be blunt and ask. But it had seemed rude enough to ask him what he did. His eyes were an intense blue, outlined in black. "And you?" he inquired. "What is your field?" His tone made it perfectly obvious he knew that whatever she did was of no importance whatsoever.
"I work at Quayle's. You know—the auction house?"
He snorted. "Yes, of course. In which department?"
"I'm in jewelry."
"You're kidding!"
She couldn't tell if
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