Thomas McGuane - Nothing but Blue Skies

“ Oh, no you’re not .”

“Frank —”

“We’ve been in here an hour,” said Frank.

“You should’ve asked for a waiter,” said the waiter.

Frank got up in a way that caused his chair to skid across the room at considerable speed and bound around like some live thing.

“Frank, please.”

The waiter jumped backward on his pump-up sneakers and spun toward the kitchen. Frank tried to pick an even gait in following him. When he got around the corner, the waiter had disappeared into the kitchen and the manager was standing at the swinging door, a small man in a sport jacket, dark-complected with a sharply outlined widow’s peak. His full cheeks were stippled by a heavy beard.

“May I help you?” He smiled.

“Yuh, you may. My wife and I would like to have lunch.”

“But we closed at two.” He looked closely at Frank.

“This I realize,” said Frank, picking this odd locution in an attempt to match the manager’s reasonable tone. “But we’ve been in there waiting for over an hour.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“And you expect me to believe this?”

“I can prove it. Several acquaintances of ours were in here with us.”

“I’m Federico,” said the manager, holding out his hand.

Frank shook hands with him. He said, “Frank.”

“This must be no treat for the missus,” said Federico, “but we’ll see if we can patch it up.” He gripped Frank by the shoulders, tilted his own head and looked at Frank closely. “Is everything okay?”

Frank went into a loose Robert Mitchum posture. “What’s not to be okay about except I can’t get anything to eat here?”

“You looked pretty crazed there, Frank, when you come around that corner. You looked about a bubble and a half off plumb.”

“It was getting to me,” Frank allowed.

“Frank, I am going to prepare lunch for you and the missus. It’d be my great pleasure to cook for you. After that, you’ll wonder how you ever ate that stuff on the menu.”

Federico followed Frank back into the dining room, which was now completely empty. Well, it was no wonder and it was no surprise. Frank immediately realized that Gracie wasn’t going to sit around while he caused a scene. Besides, he was doomed. His complete failure to control his impulses had again prevented him from doing what was most important to him. He was deeply shaken. He stared into the empty room until Federico moved around in front of him, spread his hands in inquiry and, with wide sparkling eyes, asked, “Where is the little woman of our earlier discussion?”

“She bugged out,” said Frank, still defensively locked into his forties movie slouch. He didn’t know how to go on to the next thing. This little Mediterranean type seemed maddeningly precise. It brought out the dormant galoot within him.

“Frank, I repeat my earlier question: are you okay?”

Frank decided to try something. He said, “No, I’m not okay.” He let his face collapse. The hell with being okay.

“Was there really a wife?”

“There was. It doesn’t matter if you believe me. We were just hungry. We were going to eat together.” Then he added in stifled despair that could have broken out in a howl, “ We could never get a waiter.”

“Frank, have a seat. I am going to cook for you. Don’t panic, Frank. I believe you. Do not, I repeat do not, jump to your feet and chase the little wife around the town. Take some time out for a beautiful meal. You have to change your timing. You look like a lunatic. The little woman will run from such a face.”

Frank sat down obediently.

“I am going to prepare you a meal and then I am going to sit down with you and tell you how to be with the woman.”

It seemed a legitimate challenge not to blow sky high, not to race into the street in geekish pursuit, not to be so blatantly needy, though it was questionable what he might hope to conceal from Gracie. Eating mysterious food with this swarthy man, whose restaurant had given him such poor service that he lost a longed-for opportunity of contact with his estranged wife, was going to test his great desire for grace under pressure. He was jumping out of his skin. He didn’t want to hear about the woman and how to be with her.

“And now,” said Federico, “I am going to the kitchen.”

Frank kept up the slouch and waved him on his way. The hand with which he waved, resting across the back of the chair so recently occupied by Gracie, swung idly at the wrist. Oh, this is good, thought Frank. He pursed his lips in an expression of leisure he had sometimes observed, eyes elevated into a middle distance. He had lost all sense of natural behavior. He found himself to be peckish and tried speculating on the approaching meal. He imagined that Gracie was somewhere nearby, expecting his footsteps at any time. That’s not a crazy idea, he thought.

The sound system came on, Elton John singing “Daniel.” A few moments later, Federico appeared and set a bottle of wine on the table, saying, “Valpolicella,” pausing to listen to the music and singing along: “Must be the clouds in my eyes.” Federico left the room and Frank checked his watch. He had a glass of wine. He was to do this several times and actually begin to perspire before Federico returned in triumph. “Il primo!” he said, and placed two dishes on the table. “Spaghettini al carrettiere.” Some kind of spaghetti deal, Frank surmised, and began to eat. He was ravenous already, but this would have made him ravenous. He mumbled respectfully and moved his eyebrows up and down in appreciation. Nice little guy, thought Frank. I guess he’s an Italian.

“I saw the pope on TV here a while back,” said Frank amiably when he finally had an empty mouth.

“That Polack,” said Federico, a sharp pinch appearing in his forehead. “Let’s not talk about him. I mean, kiss my ring, please!”

“This is delicious,” said Frank.

“Yes, it is,” said Federico. He got up and went out to the kitchen. There was some shouting out there, dominated by Federico’s voice. Evidently, he had someone still helping him in the kitchen. Frank shot his cuff and had another look at his watch. He’d been here a long, long time. He drank another glass of wine. He still hadn’t heard how to handle the woman. The wine took the slipperiness off his teeth. He couldn’t understand Federico, but somehow Federico had deprived him of his momentum. The pasta was delicious, but it was more than enough for lunch. It was a sunny day outside; he had really pressing things to do and somehow, increasingly against his will, he was imprisoned in this kitsch grotto waiting for more food. Time seemed to crawl.

At length, Federico reappeared with two more plates and another bottle of wine clamped under his arm. “Il secondo! Fagioli dell’ occhio con salsiccia.”

“I’ve never seen this before,” said Frank, looking at the plate.

“You wanted a cheeseburger?”

“No, no, no. This looks wonderful.” He took an appreciative bite. It was wonderful. Federico uncorked the second bottle of wine and refilled their glasses.

“The woman …” Federico mused as he raised his glass to his lips. “She is sitting on a fortune.”

Frank felt a glow go through his head. “How can you be so vulgar?”

He looked down at the beautifully variegated textures of black-eyed peas, plum tomatoes and sausages in olive oil and garlic sauce. He didn’t seem to have any problems and he had quit looking at his watch. He was having a wonderful experiment in sedation. Federico looked twisted all right, but twisted in a fanciful, harmless way, like a gnome.

“Little more vino,” he said.

Frank poured. “Were you born in Italy?” he asked.