Leonard Michaels - The Collected Stories

“And the wine?”

“The wine? You would like me to decide on the wine? If they run out of wine, I’ll settle for orange soda.”

“That’s very funny. I’ll come for you at eight. Give me your address.”

Promptly at eight, Nachman stood outside the house. The limousine appeared one minute later. A door opened. Nachman saw that Ali was wearing a dinner jacket. Nachman was wearing his old gray tweed jacket, jeans, and a white shirt open at the collar. He hadn’t been able to find his tie. In jacket, shirt, jeans, and no tie, Nachman climbed into the limousine.

Ali greeted him in a jolly spirit, “As you see, Nachman, I’m incapable of defying convention. Not even in California, where defiance is the convention. I must tell you a story. It will make you laugh.”

There was no uncertain, embarrassed smile flashing and vanishing in the dark face. There was nothing apologetic or needy in his manner. The limousine went sliding down Highland Avenue into the thrill of the city’s billion lights, and Ali talked cheerily. Nachman sank into the embrace of soft gray leather and studied the back of the driver’s head. The limousine smelled good. It seemed to fly. Tinted windows made Nachman invisible to the street. Such privilege and sensuous pleasure. He felt suspicious of it, as if he were being made to believe that he liked something he didn’t like and could never have.

Ali said, “One evening not long ago — this was after I came to America — when I first started to go out with Sweeny … Have I told you about Sweeny?”

“No.”

“She is my girlfriend. Do you go to football games? You would know who she is.”

“She plays football?”

Ali paused. He lost his storytelling momentum and seemed to sneer faintly, but the expression quickly changed, became a smile.

“Sweeny is a cheerleader.”

Nachman had been unable to resist the joke. The limousine, Ali’s dinner jacket, and Nachman’s embarrassment at his inappropriate attire had made him feel — yes, he named it — like a jerk. Hence, he became a comedian, keeping his dignity by sacrificing it.

“As I was saying, Nachman, I picked her up at her apartment and I arrived wearing jeans. Sweeny shrieked. Why is Sweeny shrieking? I asked myself. It was because my jeans had been ironed, you see. I laughed. I was being a good sport, laughing at myself. In my heart, I was bitterly ashamed. When she stopped shrieking, Sweeny was able to explain. Ironed jeans, you see, are horrifying. An American would know this, but I had just arrived and I had never before worn jeans. Naturally I had had them ironed. Can you imagine my shame?”

Ali wanted to make Nachman feel that his outfit was all right. Nachman appreciated his intention, but the word “shame” was telling. Ali thought Nachman looked shameful.

The limousine stopped in front of a white stucco building with a tile roof. There was no sign, no window, no doorman. Ali led Nachman through an ordinary wooden door, and voilà! Chez Monsieur, a restaurant reserved for those in the know. It was two rooms, one opening into the other, neither very large. The decor was subtly graded tones of gray and ivory. A panel of black marble, like a belt, swept around the rooms. Nachman instinctively recoiled, but tried to cover by asking, “Do you come here often?”

Ali seemed not to have heard him. Maybe the question was contemptible. A man appeared and shook hands with Ali, then led them through the first room, which had a bar and several tables occupied by men and women in beautiful evening clothes. Not one head turned to look at Nachman, despite his shameful attire. This crowd, Nachman thought, is as cool as the decor. In the other room, Nachman saw empty tables. All had cloths and plates and napkins, but only one was set with silver and glasses. Ali had reserved the entire room.

Waiters came and went. Dishes were placed before Nachman, wine was poured, dishes were removed. Everything was done with speed and grace, in silence. Ali chattered happily from one course to the next, describing the preparation of the soup and fish. He was playing the gracious host. Nachman glanced up now and then and said, “Good.”

“I’m so pleased you like it,” Ali said.

Nachman was beginning to feel resentful again. He disliked the feeling. It had surprised him repeatedly in the past few days. That afternoon, before meeting Ali, Nachman had imagined with excitement how he would talk about the paper. But Ali was absorbed by the food and the sense of himself as a man who knew where and how to eat. Nachman thought the restaurant seemed too old for Ali, who was in the prime of life, the lover of the mythical Georgia Sweeny. Did he really care so much about food? Nachman remembered Norbert’s comment about Georgia Sweeny. It now seemed less vulgar than healthy.

They finished a bottle of wine. Another bottle was set on the table. Ali had signaled for it with a nod or a glance. Nachman hadn’t noticed. He’d already had a lot to drink. His attention was diffuse. He forgot about the paper. Ali now talked about Sweeny. He wanted to spend some years in Teheran, but Sweeny refused to live with restrictions on how she could dress. It was a perplexity. The chador was peasant attire, of course, but even at the higher levels some women found it pleasing. Ali laughed at the idea of Sweeny in a chador. After all, she appeared nearly naked before a hundred thousand people on Saturday afternoons. Nachman laughed, too, though he wasn’t sure why. Intermittently, he said things like “I see” and “Is that so?” He was hypnotized by pleasant boredom. It struck him that lots of people go through life without ever talking seriously about anything, let alone Bergson’s metaphysics.

The table was cleared, the cloth swept clean, and reset with fresh glasses and an ashtray. Ali ordered port. He settled back in his chair. A fine sheen of perspiration appeared below his dark eyes. The port arrived in a black bottle with a dull yellow label. It was held over a small flame and decanted. The taste was thick and sweet, sliding along the tongue. Ali offered Nachman a cigar. Nachman didn’t smoke cigars, but he accepted it anyway. They clipped the ends. Ali held a cigarette lighter to Nachman’s cigar and said, “Tell me, Nachman. It must be nearly finished, am I right?”

Nachman drew against the flame. He flourished the cigar and exhaled a stream of white smoke. “It’s finished,” he said, an air of dismissive superiority in his tone.

“Marvelous. I’ve been dying to hear about it.”

“Hear about what?”

“The paper.”

“Right. Well, it’s coming along.”

“You just said it was finished.”

“I mean in my head. Writing is a tedious chore. I’ll put it in the mail by Friday.”

Ali reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small card. He handed it to Nachman. Ali’s name, address, and telephone number were inscribed in brilliant black ink. He said, “Could you give me a sense of the paper?”

Nachman cleared his throat, then laid the cigar in the ashtray and brushed his napkin across his lips. Earlier, he’d been eager to talk about the paper. He had no heart for it now. Ali sensed Nachman’s reluctance. His dark eyes enlarged by a tiny degree and his mouth shaped itself with feeling. A subtle swelling, almost a pout, appeared in the lower lip. Nachman suddenly felt an intense desire to give Ali a pleasure that was worth ten thousand dinners, the undying pleasure of an idea. Nachman decided to say everything, to make it felt.

“I will begin the paper with a discussion of Zeno’s paradox, then move swiftly to Leibniz’s invention of calculus. Then, then comes the metaphysics, but a good deal, Ali, depends on how I imitate Bergson’s musical style, particularly as I elucidate his idea of intuition. I could put it all in a simple logical progression, but the argument would be sterile, unnatural, and unconvincing. Don’t misunderstand me. Bergson is not some kind of rhetorician, but it is critical to understand what he means when he talks about intuition, and for this you must see why his style, his music, his way of advancing an argument by a sort of layering …”