Paul Morand - The Man in a Hurry

“The film doesn’t begin until half past ten. Let’s not hurry,” said Pierre. “We have plenty of time. Ah! How good it is to relax…”

“I can arrive whenever I want at the cinema,” said Fromentine confidently, “I always understand.”

“I never understand,” Pierre replied. “I’m not saying that in order to appear more intelligent than you, but because that’s the way it is.”

Seeing Hedwige’s astonishment, Pierre did not press the point. He realized that he had just made the kind of remark used in his circles that these young creatures would be unable to understand, being far too natural and unused to such sophisticated simplicity. Among some of Pierre’s customers and friends, there were people of proverbial preciousness and subtlety who, either because it was the fashion or because it was tactically astute, pretended to be naive, simple, gauche, to imitate Abbot and Costello, to read large-print books or be whipping boys. “We take pot luck when we entertain,” boasted the marquises ; “I’m a peasant,” a certain painter used to say who took care to conceal his devilish cunning; “I write in my sleep,” proclaimed the most far-seeing critics; “What a clumsy oaf I am,” announced an elderly witch; and all the vicomtes who buy their shoes from Hellstern & Sons and the millionaires dressed in sackcloth at 200 francs a metre, who awkwardly dunk bread in their coffee, who read aloud the serialized novels of Jean de La Hire, who assert that one should arrive at the theatre “before the lights are dimmed” and who peel oranges in the boxes, the boxes at the Châtelet, because the Châtelet is a thousand times “more attractive” than the Salzburg Festival.

“I don’t like,” Pierre went on, “being shut up for three hours in a large, dark room criss-crossed by beams that are meant to be projecting onto a screen endless frames showing the most stunning sights in the universe, but which only succeed in making me, unwillingly, the lazy accomplice of vulgar sentiments, foul manners, and actors who are paid so highly that they don’t even do you the favour of blinking an eyelid. At the cinema, I always expect the unexplored, some powerful incantation, I want to be drained of myself by the originality of the show. And then… nothing at all!.. What are we going to eat? Oysters? How long does it take to open thirty-six oysters?”

The maître d’hôtel came out with the customary misleading estimates. Without listening to him, Pierre calculated: “They’ll need a good ten seconds per oyster; the man who opens them is on his own; if he uses a serrated knife, they’ll have to allow fifteen seconds; for three dozen that’s about ten minutes!”

“We’ll have whatever you have,” said Fromentine, who was stunned by the elegance of the room and whose wide-open eyes resembled those of a Negro being taken to the circus.

“I’m a petite marmite man myself; there are five ingredients in the petite marmite: soup, bread, boiled meat, vegetables and cheese.”

“Let’s have that then,” said Hedwige in a placatory manner.

“The petite marmite is finished,” replied the maître d’hôtel .

Pierre was not sorry about this, for the soups are always scalding-hot and it would be awkward for him in front of the uninitiated to ask for several cups into which to pour the soup and so cool it more quickly; you don’t display your bad habits straight away.

The maître d’hôtel fiddled around impatiently with his blank notepad. The Boisrosés contemplated their menus without saying a word. Pierre took the matter in hand since, with women, you could be in the restaurant all night.

“It’s late already to offer you a sumptuous dinner, so let’s all have the plat du jour .”

“Yes, yes,” Hedwige exclaimed, “never mind the sumptuous dinner.”

“Bravo,” said Pierre.

“What an electric man!” said Fromentine with a laugh as she exchanged glances with Hedwige.

Pierre realized that both the sisters had already discussed his hastiness and had laughed about it between themselves. This pained him; he promised himself to be more alert.

“We’ll make up the time with the wines. Let’s wait a little and order a soufflé beforehand. Maître d’hôtel , how long would a soufflé take?”

“Twenty minutes, monsieur.”

“We’ll have it.”

“And while you wait?” said the maître d’hôtel , who was beginning to wilt.

“But mademoiselle has told you that we are having the plat du jour! ”

“The plat du jour takes ten minutes, monsieur. Nothing beforehand?”

“Why do we have to wait ten minutes longer for the plat du jour than for the other dishes?” sighed Pierre. He sensed that he would appear far too unpleasant, or too ridiculous, or too insane were he to get angry over such a minor matter.

“Waiter! Pass us that bowl of crayfish,” he said, half leaning over the table and pointing to the crayfish on the nearby trolley. “That bowl there, and not any other, do you understand! And right away!”

“And the wine?”

“Some good champagne as long as it’s chilled and ready to drink.”

“We’ll put it on ice for you,” said the wine waiter.

“Which means that you’re going to give us warm champagne beforehand.”

“We can’t chill the champagne beforehand, monsieur, it will ruin it.”

“And you prefer to ruin me!” moaned Pierre, cracking his metacarpal joints impatiently.

The peeling, cleaning and sucking of the crayfish tails made Pierre miss the oysters which, after all, can be opened immediately with a good knife and an expert hand.

“How lovely it is,” said Hedwige, a very gentle and very happy expression in her eyes, “to eat food one hasn’t prepared oneself!”

Pierre looked at her, admiring once more the beauty of her face and that silent melody that emanated from her. She was wearing a turban made of very hairy fur that called to mind something from sixteenth-century Poland and made one want her to wear (which she was not wearing) a slightly orange-red dolman. Pierre felt quite affectionate when he recalled that she had not laughed when Fromentine had started to tease him, and that on the contrary she had seemed saddened. No doubt Fromentine combined the natural maliciousness of redheads with the innocent sadism of girls who suffer and enjoy making others suffer because they are unhappy themselves.

The waiter came to present the plat du jour: duck with peas.

“It’s very nice, very nice,” said Pierre, “but just leave the duck on our table. Dishes that are presented to one ceremoniously only to be spirited away immediately afterwards drive me to despair.”

“But I’m about to bring it back to you, monsieur!” said the waiter, half turning around.

Pierre grabbed him by the apron.

“No, no, my friend, bring the chopping board and tell the maître d’hôtel to carve it here, in front of us. I’m fed up with waiting!”

Fromentine squirmed. Hedwige smiled in embarrassment. In this way did Pierre gradually ruin an evening that had begun so well. There he was sitting opposite two beautiful, undiscovered girls, at a well-attended table, in a warm restaurant, where everything was progressing normally, according to ritual, with that quiet sophistication and smooth good manners that generations of Parisians had perfected. And yet he had only one desire, one longing, which was to create panic and commotion there. “What a boor I am!” he told himself. “If all these delectable things collapse on me one day, I shall be sorry, but I shall have brought it upon myself.”

Pierre had already wolfed down his duck before the waiter had even begun to reheat the legs over the burner. At a nearby table, a woman was shelling some fresh nuts.