you have eaten at Chez Georges not a block from the unjustly celebrated Coq d’Or in Nîmes.”
“Unjustly celebrated? Ah, but you didn’t know it when the old man was still alive. Big as a mountain, he was, and he kept that kitchen in order, I’ll tell you. Never have I eaten such chicken. And his salads! Cyrano’s friend, Ragueneau, the pastry chef in the play, could have written sonnets praising his sauces alone.” And so on. The conversation was as animated as though we were sitting in a five-star restaurant, surrounded by the greatest living chefs. Sitting among this group of world travellers were patients who commented with looks and shrugs across the table. One of these, I think, was a former judge, another was a trial lawyer, famous in stories my father told. Meanwhile, just so you don’t get the idea that this was some sort of gourmets’ retreat, the rest of the patients stared into their bowls without uttering a word, or if they did, it was about something they were watching on the television screen which, as far as I could see, had no off switch.
“So here you are, you sly old fox!” It was the nurse who spelled off the one whose name I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember her name either. “You didn’t tell us you were married.”
“I didn’t tell you I was married because I’m not. Do you mean my friend, Anna? Anna’s as close as I get to awife.” A cloud ran across the nurse’s eyes, as if the joke she had been about to make had melted in her mouth. My companions leaned in closer.
“Are you saying you aren’t married?” asked the nurse.
“Not now and never have been, so help me.”
“Well, that’s odd.”
“What’s so odd? It’s not bothered me much. Has it become compulsory?”
“I was talking to Erna Pyke. You know, she runs the desk when Libby’s off. Anyway, she told me that a week or so ago you had a visit from your wife. She said she lived in Grantham and everything.”
“And it wasn’t Anna Abraham? My friend, Anna Abraham?”
“Not according to Libby. And she knows Dr. Abraham.”
“I’ve never heard of a Dr. Abraham.” This was the contribution of one of the gourmets. I explained that Anna was an academic friend of mine. She had been more than a friend for a long time, but we’d retreated from that advanced position some time ago. He didn’t have to know about that. He shrugged his indifference.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought this up at the table, Mr. Cooperman. I’m sorry.”
“See if you can find out what my wife is supposed to have looked like. Maybe she was just trying to get in?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“I’m not embarrassed. I’m intrigued but not embarrassed. I’d like to know more. Like when this happened and what did she look like.”
“I’ll see what I can do. And … I’m really sorry.”
“What was that all about? Are you married or not?” asked the retired engineer to my right.
“If it’s any of our business,” added the diplomat.
“Right,” said the banker. “We don’t mean to pry.”
“It’s just as much of a mystery to me as it is to you.” I didn’t tell them what I was thinking. Was it someone trying to finish the job started in the Dumpster, or was a new character in this tangled tale making a dramatic entrance? I wanted to find out. But I didn’t know where to begin.
NINE
I missed Anna Abraham. All the talk about my mysterious “wife” made me wish Anna would come to see me. I understood from the nurses that Anna had sometimes come up to the fifth floor, but that I had been off in cloud-cuckoo-land. One of the young cleaners, who, I gathered, had encountered Anna while mopping my room, shook his head at me, saying, “I hope I’m never that tired.”
On the question of visitors I was insatiable. Professional visitors as well as personal ones—I couldn’t get enough of them. When company was in short supply, I became greedy for more. I became a company
“Unjustly celebrated? Ah, but you didn’t know it when the old man was still alive. Big as a mountain, he was, and he kept that kitchen in order, I’ll tell you. Never have I eaten such chicken. And his salads! Cyrano’s friend, Ragueneau, the pastry chef in the play, could have written sonnets praising his sauces alone.” And so on. The conversation was as animated as though we were sitting in a five-star restaurant, surrounded by the greatest living chefs. Sitting among this group of world travellers were patients who commented with looks and shrugs across the table. One of these, I think, was a former judge, another was a trial lawyer, famous in stories my father told. Meanwhile, just so you don’t get the idea that this was some sort of gourmets’ retreat, the rest of the patients stared into their bowls without uttering a word, or if they did, it was about something they were watching on the television screen which, as far as I could see, had no off switch.
“So here you are, you sly old fox!” It was the nurse who spelled off the one whose name I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember her name either. “You didn’t tell us you were married.”
“I didn’t tell you I was married because I’m not. Do you mean my friend, Anna? Anna’s as close as I get to awife.” A cloud ran across the nurse’s eyes, as if the joke she had been about to make had melted in her mouth. My companions leaned in closer.
“Are you saying you aren’t married?” asked the nurse.
“Not now and never have been, so help me.”
“Well, that’s odd.”
“What’s so odd? It’s not bothered me much. Has it become compulsory?”
“I was talking to Erna Pyke. You know, she runs the desk when Libby’s off. Anyway, she told me that a week or so ago you had a visit from your wife. She said she lived in Grantham and everything.”
“And it wasn’t Anna Abraham? My friend, Anna Abraham?”
“Not according to Libby. And she knows Dr. Abraham.”
“I’ve never heard of a Dr. Abraham.” This was the contribution of one of the gourmets. I explained that Anna was an academic friend of mine. She had been more than a friend for a long time, but we’d retreated from that advanced position some time ago. He didn’t have to know about that. He shrugged his indifference.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought this up at the table, Mr. Cooperman. I’m sorry.”
“See if you can find out what my wife is supposed to have looked like. Maybe she was just trying to get in?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“I’m not embarrassed. I’m intrigued but not embarrassed. I’d like to know more. Like when this happened and what did she look like.”
“I’ll see what I can do. And … I’m really sorry.”
“What was that all about? Are you married or not?” asked the retired engineer to my right.
“If it’s any of our business,” added the diplomat.
“Right,” said the banker. “We don’t mean to pry.”
“It’s just as much of a mystery to me as it is to you.” I didn’t tell them what I was thinking. Was it someone trying to finish the job started in the Dumpster, or was a new character in this tangled tale making a dramatic entrance? I wanted to find out. But I didn’t know where to begin.
NINE
I missed Anna Abraham. All the talk about my mysterious “wife” made me wish Anna would come to see me. I understood from the nurses that Anna had sometimes come up to the fifth floor, but that I had been off in cloud-cuckoo-land. One of the young cleaners, who, I gathered, had encountered Anna while mopping my room, shook his head at me, saying, “I hope I’m never that tired.”
On the question of visitors I was insatiable. Professional visitors as well as personal ones—I couldn’t get enough of them. When company was in short supply, I became greedy for more. I became a company
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