dollars to each of those types. Since his childhood, he told me he’s dreamed of being disciplined as a bad dog and then forced to eat a turd— un étron .”
“No one has that fantasy. Little boys want to be cowboys or fireman—no one wants to be a bad dog forced to eat shit. Not even a Belgian baron.”
“ Chacun à son goût ,” Pierre-Georges said philosophically.
“What should I do when I see him the next time?” Guy asked. “How should I act?”
“It’s finished. He won’t bother you again. No more intimate or name-day parties. No more amazing gifts. You might be invited as an extra on a crowded stage if you’re lucky.”
“But we’re friends!” Guy objected.
“Oh, sure. Do you think he invites you because he likes your scintillating conversation about the ups and downs of the rag trade? Do you think he has a burning interest in the rag trade?”
“We have other subjects, serious subjects.”
“I forgot: Your sad childhood. Your Buddhist chants. No, it’s finished.”
Guy thought for a while. “He talked about his sad childhood, too.”
Pierre-Georges snapped, “The only thing sad about his childhood was that he couldn’t convince any of the footmen to shit in his mouth.” Pierre-Georges was warming up to his role as the disabuser. He’d come over to Guy’s for the emergency. He smiled for the first time today. He opened a white paper bag and pulled out a croissant, found a plate in the cupboard, and ate it. As Guy’s manager he of course didn’t offer him anything to eat; Guy’s breakfast was always a cup of black coffee, which he was sipping now while looking sheepish.
After a solitary lunch (a third of a chicken salad at the Front Porch, a neighborhood restaurant where he liked the campy waiter), Guy felt absolved and talked himself into a storm of irritation. He was tired of feeling foolish for a simple act of human kindness. He’d been brought up by a sainted mother. Was it his fault that he couldn’t despise a kind old man, even someone as deeply perverted and depraved as Édouard? Guy imagined most aristocrats were decadent. He was proud of his humble origins. His instincts were still unimpaired. A decade in fashion hadn’t spoiled him. He was still a good person, a simple boy of the people from Clermont-Ferrand and, thank god, not a shit-eating Belgian. He tried to feel sorry for Édouard, for making a mess out of his life.
He decided he’d invite Édouard to dinner. He knew how to cook eel in green sauce, which Édouard loved. And Guy would wear his leather harness and shorts and have menottes , cuff links—no, handcuffs!—dangling on his left side. After a bottle of Gewürztraminer, the baron would end up on his knees begging for it. He’d always been fond of Édouard, who’d been so kind to him, who’d bought him this house, who’d celebrated his name day. He was strange, but then they’d had some good conversations.
But when he phoned Édouard the butler told him once, then twice, that “ Monsieur le Baron est sorti ”—not at home. He decided to phone at eight A.M. before the butler, who’d never liked him, would have arrived and he’d get the cook, who adored him. But Marguerite for some reason was very cold, too, and told him “ Monsieur le Baron est sorti .”
“ Ça va, Marguerite? ” he asked cheerfully.
“ Ça va, Monsieur Guy. Et vous-même? ” She’d said tu to him for ages, and Guy felt rebuffed. He said, “I’ll call back,” and she said nothing. He hung up.
A week went by. At last Guy received a creamy envelope embossed with the baron’s coat of arms (two books surrounding a lion and the words MON PLAISIR ), inviting him to a large reception honoring the Belgian king’s birthday with the note, “Business attire.” Oh, it would be a straight evening, a champagne reception for dozens of business associates and their wives. No opportunity to flaunt his leathers there!
He made sure he’d look better than everyone else and took
“No one has that fantasy. Little boys want to be cowboys or fireman—no one wants to be a bad dog forced to eat shit. Not even a Belgian baron.”
“ Chacun à son goût ,” Pierre-Georges said philosophically.
“What should I do when I see him the next time?” Guy asked. “How should I act?”
“It’s finished. He won’t bother you again. No more intimate or name-day parties. No more amazing gifts. You might be invited as an extra on a crowded stage if you’re lucky.”
“But we’re friends!” Guy objected.
“Oh, sure. Do you think he invites you because he likes your scintillating conversation about the ups and downs of the rag trade? Do you think he has a burning interest in the rag trade?”
“We have other subjects, serious subjects.”
“I forgot: Your sad childhood. Your Buddhist chants. No, it’s finished.”
Guy thought for a while. “He talked about his sad childhood, too.”
Pierre-Georges snapped, “The only thing sad about his childhood was that he couldn’t convince any of the footmen to shit in his mouth.” Pierre-Georges was warming up to his role as the disabuser. He’d come over to Guy’s for the emergency. He smiled for the first time today. He opened a white paper bag and pulled out a croissant, found a plate in the cupboard, and ate it. As Guy’s manager he of course didn’t offer him anything to eat; Guy’s breakfast was always a cup of black coffee, which he was sipping now while looking sheepish.
After a solitary lunch (a third of a chicken salad at the Front Porch, a neighborhood restaurant where he liked the campy waiter), Guy felt absolved and talked himself into a storm of irritation. He was tired of feeling foolish for a simple act of human kindness. He’d been brought up by a sainted mother. Was it his fault that he couldn’t despise a kind old man, even someone as deeply perverted and depraved as Édouard? Guy imagined most aristocrats were decadent. He was proud of his humble origins. His instincts were still unimpaired. A decade in fashion hadn’t spoiled him. He was still a good person, a simple boy of the people from Clermont-Ferrand and, thank god, not a shit-eating Belgian. He tried to feel sorry for Édouard, for making a mess out of his life.
He decided he’d invite Édouard to dinner. He knew how to cook eel in green sauce, which Édouard loved. And Guy would wear his leather harness and shorts and have menottes , cuff links—no, handcuffs!—dangling on his left side. After a bottle of Gewürztraminer, the baron would end up on his knees begging for it. He’d always been fond of Édouard, who’d been so kind to him, who’d bought him this house, who’d celebrated his name day. He was strange, but then they’d had some good conversations.
But when he phoned Édouard the butler told him once, then twice, that “ Monsieur le Baron est sorti ”—not at home. He decided to phone at eight A.M. before the butler, who’d never liked him, would have arrived and he’d get the cook, who adored him. But Marguerite for some reason was very cold, too, and told him “ Monsieur le Baron est sorti .”
“ Ça va, Marguerite? ” he asked cheerfully.
“ Ça va, Monsieur Guy. Et vous-même? ” She’d said tu to him for ages, and Guy felt rebuffed. He said, “I’ll call back,” and she said nothing. He hung up.
A week went by. At last Guy received a creamy envelope embossed with the baron’s coat of arms (two books surrounding a lion and the words MON PLAISIR ), inviting him to a large reception honoring the Belgian king’s birthday with the note, “Business attire.” Oh, it would be a straight evening, a champagne reception for dozens of business associates and their wives. No opportunity to flaunt his leathers there!
He made sure he’d look better than everyone else and took
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