Irwin Shaw - Rich Man, Poor Man

Manners, she noted automatically. She followed him from the parking lot, where there were five or six other cars ranged under the trees, towards the entrance to the hotel. His brown shoes, well they weren’t really shoes (jodhpur boots, she was later to discover they were called), were highly shined, as usual. He was wearing a houndstooth tweed jacket, and grey flannel slacks, and a scarf at the throat of his soft wool shirt, instead of a tie. He’s not real, she thought, he’s out of a magazine. What am I doing with him?

Beside him, she felt dowdy and clumsy in the short-sleeved navy-blue dress that she had taken so much care to choose that morning. She was sure he was already sorry he had stopped for her. But he held the door open for her and touched her elbow helpfully as she passed in front of him into the bar.

There were two other couples in the bar, which was decorated like an eighteenth-century tap room, all dark oak and pewter mugs and plates. The two women were youngish and wore suede skirts with tight, flat jerseys and spoke in piercing, confident voices. Looking at them, Gretchen was conscious of the gaudiness of her own bosom and hunched over to minimise it The couples were seated at a low table at the other end of the room and Boylan guided Gretchen to the bar and helped her sit on one of the heavy, high, wooden stools. ‘This end,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Get away from those ladies. They make a music I can do without’

A Negro in a starched white jacket came to take their order. ‘Afternoon, Mr Boylan,’ the Negro said soberly. ‘What is your pleasure, sir?’

‘Ah, Bernard,’ Boylan said, ‘you ask the question that has stumped philosophers since the beginning of time.’

Phoney, Gretchen thought She was a little shocked that she could think it about a man like Mr Boylan.

The Negro smiled dutifully. He was as neat and spotless as if. he were ready to conduct an operation. Gretchen looked at

him sideways. I know two friends of yonrs not far from here.

she thought, who aren’t giving anybody any pleasure this afternoon.

‘My dear,’ Boylan turned to her, ‘what do you drink?’

‘Anything. Whatever you say.’ The traps were multiplying. How did she know what she drank? She never drank anything stronger than Coke. She dreaded the arrival of the menu. Almost certainly in French. She had taken Spanish and Latin in school. Latin!

‘By the way,’ Boylan said, ‘you are over eighteen.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. She blushed. What a silly time to blush. Luckily it was dark in the bar.

‘I wouldn’t want to be dragged into court for leading minors into corruption,’ he said, smiling. He had nice, well-cared-for dentist’s teeth. It was hard to understand why a man who looked like that, with teeth like that and such elegant clothes, and all that money, would ever have to have lunch alone.

‘Bernard, let’s try something sweet. For the young lady. A nice Daiquiri, in your inimitable manner.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Bernard said.

Inimitable, she thought. Who uses words like that? Her sense of being the wrong age, wrongly dressed, wrongly made-up, made her hostile.

Gretchen watched Bernard squeeze the limes and toss in the ice and shake the drink, with expert, manicured black-and-pink hands. Adam and Even in the Garden. If Mr Boylan had had an inkling … There wouldn’t be any of that condescending talk about corruption.

The frothy drink was delicious and she drank it like lemonade. Boylan watched her, one eye raised, a little theatrically, as the drink disappeared.

‘Once again, please, Bernard,’ he said.

The two couples went into the dining room and they had the bar to themselves, as Bernard prepared the second round. She felt more at ease now. The afternoon was opening up. She didn’t know why those were the words that occurred to her, but that’s the way it seemed - opening up. She was going to sit at many dark bars and many kindly older men in peculiar clothes were going to buy her delicious drinks.

Bernard put the drink in front of her.

‘May I make a suggestion, pet?’ Boylan said. ‘I’d drink this one more slowly, if I were you. There is rum in them, after all.’

‘Of course,’ she said, with dignity. ‘I guess I was thirsty, standing out there in the hot sun.’

Pet. Nobody had ever called her anything like that. She liked the word, especially the way he said it, in that cool, un-pushy voice. She took little ladylike sips of the cold drink. It was as good as the first one. Maybe even better. She was beginning to feel that she wasn’t going to blush any more that afternoon.

Boylan called for the menu. They would order in the bar while they were finishing their drinks. The head waiter came in with two large, stiff cards, and said, bowing a little, ‘Glad to see you again, Mr Boylan.’

Everybody was glad to see Mr Boylan, in his shiny shoes.

‘Should I order?’ Boylan asked her.

Gretchen knew, from the movies, that gentlemen often ordered for ladies in restaurants, but it was one thing to see it on the screen and another thing to have it happen right in front of you. ‘Please do,’ she said. Right out of the book, she thought triumphantly. My, the drink was good.

There was a brief but serious discussion about the menu and the wine between Mr Boylan and the head waiter. The head waiter disappeared, promising to call them when their table was ready. Mr Boylan took out a gold cigarette case and offered her a cigarette. She shook her head.

‘You don’t smoke?’

‘No.’ She felt that she was not living up to the level of the place and the rules of the situation by not smoking, but she had tried two or three times and it had made her cough and go red eyed and she had given up the experiment. Also, her mother smoked, day and night, and anything her mother did Gretchen didn’t want to do.

‘Good,’ Boylan said, lighting his cigarette with a gold lighter he took from his pocket and put down on the bar beside the monogrammed case. ‘I don’t like girls to smoke. It takes away the fragrance of youth.’

Fancy talk, she thought. But it didn’t offend her now. He was putting himself out to please her. She was suddenly conscious of the odour of the perfume that she had dabbed on herself in the washroom at the office. She worried that it might seem cheap to him. ‘I must say,’ she said, I was surprised you knew my name.’

‘Why?’

“Well, I don’t think I’ve seen you more than once or twice at the Works. And you never come through the office.’

I’ve seen you,’ he said. ‘I wondered what a girl who looked

like you was doing in a dreary place like Boylan’s Brick and Tile Works.’

‘It isn’t as awful as all that,’ she said defensively. ‘No? I’m glad to hear that. I was under the impression that all my employees found it intolerable. I make it a point not to visit it more than fifteen minutes a month. I find it depresses me.’

The head waiter appeared. ‘Ready now, sir.’

‘Leave your drink, pet,’ Boylan said, helping her off her stool. ‘Bernard’ll bring it in.’

They followed the head waiter into the dining-room. Eight or ten of the tables were occupied. A full colonel and a party of young officers. Other tweedy couples. There were flowers on the polished fake-colonial tables and rows of shining glasses. There is nobody here who makes less than ten thousand dollars a year, she thought.

The conversation in the room dropped as they followed the head waiter to a small table at the window, overlooking the river far below. She felt the young officers regarding her. She touched her hair. She knew what was going on in their minds. She was sorry Mr Boylan wasn’t younger.

The head waiter held the chair for her and she sat down and put the large, creamy napkin demurely over her lap. Bernard came in with their unfinished Daiquiris on a tray and put them down on the table.