affronted. “If you won’t listen to me, what’s the sense in my telling you what I think?”
“Okay, okay,” he said wearily, “I’ll make those lists.”
“And take a good look at your wife’s lists, too, while you’re at it,” Elaine said. “And I hope you’re still married at the end of it. Please”—her voice softened—“please be careful. Don’t let anything happen to you. I have to know that you’re all right and still around. Today, as always, I’m glad to see you, no matter what the reason. Let’s pretend for the rest of the bottle that this is a romantic, nostalgic lunch, and that you’re my glorious old lover whose heart has been broken for thirty years because we parted.”
She poured herself another glass of wine, lifted it in a toast toward him. “Now, let’s forget it for the rest of the meal and try to get some pleasure out of being together again and still able to eat and drink without wanting to kill each other. Now tell me, honestly, do you think I ought to have my face lifted?”
CHAPTER
SIX
H E WALKED SLOWLY ON his way back to the office after lunch, going over in his mind what Elaine had said to him while slugging away at the drink, hardly noticing the people around him, the names of men and women he had known in his long life not arranging themselves in his brain in orderly and manageable lists as suggested by Elaine, but swirling around in a mist and confusion of identities. Then, suddenly, he saw a slightly stooped, small old man with thick glasses, dressed in a black coat with a fur collar approaching him. There was only one man he had ever known who had a coat like that—Harrison Gray.
“Harrison!” he said and hurried to meet him and put out his hand.
The man stopped and looked at him puzzledly, half-frightened by the greeting. He put his hands behind his back. “There must be a mistake, Sir,” the old man said. “My name is George.”
Damon stepped back, blinked, shook his head to clear it. “I’m sorry,” he said, almost stammering. “You look so much like one of my best friends. I don’t know what I was thinking of. He’s dead, you know …” The man stared at him suspiciously, sniffed as though to detect prelunch martinis on Damon’s breath. “I’m not dead,” he said, offended. “As I hope you can see.”
“Forgive me, Sir,” Damon said lamely. “I must have been daydreaming …”
“At the very least,” the man said crisply. “And now if you’ll permit me …”
“Of course.” Damon stepped aside to let the old man pass him. Then, when the man had gone, he shook his head violently again and, feeling the cold sweat break out all over his body, continued on toward his office, watching his every step and being meticulously careful when crossing a street to watch out for speeding cars. But when he came to the entrance to his building on Forty-third Street, he stopped, stared dully at the people going in and out and knew that he was not going to be able to enter and take the elevator and face Miss Walton and Oliver Gabrielsen at their desks and pretend that it was an ordinary afternoon and that they could depend upon him to go through an ordinary afternoon’s routine of work.
Stopping dead men in the street. He shivered, thinking of it. Often, at this hour, he would have just had lunch with Mr. Gray at the Algonquin on the next block uptown and more often than not would move from the dining room to the bar, to which Mr. Gray was attached, by many years of quiet tippling, for an after-lunch brandy, Mr. Gray’s preferred drink.
Almost automatically, Damon walked toward Sixth Avenue, now called Avenue of Americas (Oh, amigo, what is America?) and turned into Forty-fourth Street and went into the Algonquin bar, which he had patronized rarely since Mr. Gray’s death. He liked the bar and had not permitted himself to delve into the reasons why the death of his friend and partner had been the signal somehow to avoid it.
The dead have
“Okay, okay,” he said wearily, “I’ll make those lists.”
“And take a good look at your wife’s lists, too, while you’re at it,” Elaine said. “And I hope you’re still married at the end of it. Please”—her voice softened—“please be careful. Don’t let anything happen to you. I have to know that you’re all right and still around. Today, as always, I’m glad to see you, no matter what the reason. Let’s pretend for the rest of the bottle that this is a romantic, nostalgic lunch, and that you’re my glorious old lover whose heart has been broken for thirty years because we parted.”
She poured herself another glass of wine, lifted it in a toast toward him. “Now, let’s forget it for the rest of the meal and try to get some pleasure out of being together again and still able to eat and drink without wanting to kill each other. Now tell me, honestly, do you think I ought to have my face lifted?”
CHAPTER
SIX
H E WALKED SLOWLY ON his way back to the office after lunch, going over in his mind what Elaine had said to him while slugging away at the drink, hardly noticing the people around him, the names of men and women he had known in his long life not arranging themselves in his brain in orderly and manageable lists as suggested by Elaine, but swirling around in a mist and confusion of identities. Then, suddenly, he saw a slightly stooped, small old man with thick glasses, dressed in a black coat with a fur collar approaching him. There was only one man he had ever known who had a coat like that—Harrison Gray.
“Harrison!” he said and hurried to meet him and put out his hand.
The man stopped and looked at him puzzledly, half-frightened by the greeting. He put his hands behind his back. “There must be a mistake, Sir,” the old man said. “My name is George.”
Damon stepped back, blinked, shook his head to clear it. “I’m sorry,” he said, almost stammering. “You look so much like one of my best friends. I don’t know what I was thinking of. He’s dead, you know …” The man stared at him suspiciously, sniffed as though to detect prelunch martinis on Damon’s breath. “I’m not dead,” he said, offended. “As I hope you can see.”
“Forgive me, Sir,” Damon said lamely. “I must have been daydreaming …”
“At the very least,” the man said crisply. “And now if you’ll permit me …”
“Of course.” Damon stepped aside to let the old man pass him. Then, when the man had gone, he shook his head violently again and, feeling the cold sweat break out all over his body, continued on toward his office, watching his every step and being meticulously careful when crossing a street to watch out for speeding cars. But when he came to the entrance to his building on Forty-third Street, he stopped, stared dully at the people going in and out and knew that he was not going to be able to enter and take the elevator and face Miss Walton and Oliver Gabrielsen at their desks and pretend that it was an ordinary afternoon and that they could depend upon him to go through an ordinary afternoon’s routine of work.
Stopping dead men in the street. He shivered, thinking of it. Often, at this hour, he would have just had lunch with Mr. Gray at the Algonquin on the next block uptown and more often than not would move from the dining room to the bar, to which Mr. Gray was attached, by many years of quiet tippling, for an after-lunch brandy, Mr. Gray’s preferred drink.
Almost automatically, Damon walked toward Sixth Avenue, now called Avenue of Americas (Oh, amigo, what is America?) and turned into Forty-fourth Street and went into the Algonquin bar, which he had patronized rarely since Mr. Gray’s death. He liked the bar and had not permitted himself to delve into the reasons why the death of his friend and partner had been the signal somehow to avoid it.
The dead have
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