William Boyd - An Ice-Cream War

“Oh,” Felix said, embarrassed. “Yes. Thank you very much.”

“Look, there’s Enid,” Holland said. “Come and meet her, Felix.”

♦

Felix forced himself to be attentive. He had been speaking to Enid for the last half hour. He could safely say that the fabled morphineuse was one of the most boring people he’d ever met. Holland said she was twenty-eight but she looked at least a decade older. She was a small, broad woman with a great shelf of bosom and wild straw-dry black hair. She wore a jarring futurist dress and was draped with beads and jewels. Her face was haggard and her eyes were ringed with purple. Felix switched his attention back to the monologue.

“…He’s got mumps, believe it or not.Yes, he’s got mumps. Terrible mumps. And he had a horrible discharging from one ear. Horrible . Eugh! One side of his face was all swollen from the mumps…”

Felix looked distractedly about the room. Where had Holland and Amory got to? The guitar player had quite a sing-song going—‘My Little Grey Home in the West’—and consequently only a near shout ensured that one’s half of the conversation was heard. Some of the guests actually had sketch books out and were drawing each other. Perhaps Pav would like to attempt his throat this evening, Felix thought scornfully. But these were artists, he reminded himself; they weren’t burdened with his self-consciousness.

“I must get some more wine,” he shouted at Enid, and swiftly weaved his way through the packed room to the table. There was no Chianti left so he moved on to the punch. He stood by one of the now opened windows and breathed in the night air. He leant against the wall and ran his fingers between his neck and his stiff collar. As far as he could make out only he and Holland were wearing evening dress.

Beside him was the door into the bedroom. Some people were standing just inside it having a heated discussion. The singers were now giving a full throated rendition of ‘Give Me Your Smile’ and it was some time before Felix realized that the two speakers were Amory and Holland and that they were talking about him.

“…he’s not coming to the Calf,” he heard Amory insist.

“He has to,” Holland asserted plaintively. “I told him he could.”

“Well you jolly well should have told me first . I’ve got a table for sixteen. Where’s he going to sit, for Heaven’s sake?”

“He can squeeze in,” Holland said. “I can’t tell him to go away.”

“Oh God! You and your wretched friends!”

Felix told himself he’d misheard the last remark. He launched himself off the wall and made straight for the punch bowl. The final chorus of ‘Give Me Your Smile’ was in full swing. Under such noisy conditions it wasn’t surprising that your ears would play tricks on you, he reasoned. Anyway, he thought, as he drained a glass of punch, hostesses always panicked about seating arrangements, numbers and that sort of thing.

By the time they arrived at the Golden Calf, as he’d heard the night club referred to, Felix was — he recognized — fairly seriously drunk. Unsteadily he handed over his coat, scarf and gloves in the tiny vestibule. He aimed himself at, and cautiously descended, three or four steps and looked about him. The dark cellar was filled with round tables at which people were eating late suppers. Waiters weaved to and fro with trays of food, ice buckets and bottles. At one end was a small dance floor in front of a low stage on which sat an immaculately turned-out nigger band. The ceiling was supported by huge white wooden caryatids carved in the shape of hawks, cats and serpents, with details — a tongue, a beak, eyes or scales — picked out in scarlet. The clientele, though it contained many uniformed men, seemed raffishly elegant and lively. The atmosphere, to Felix’s befuddled mind, oozed licence and vice.

Amory was greeted by a cadaverous-looking woman in a black fur coat, loosened to reveal pale shoulders and décolleté. The group was led through the cluttered tables to a pink alcove, a cabinet particulier , in which was set a large round table. Felix had been staring fascinatedly at the orchestra — he’d never seen so many negroes grouped together before — and was the last to arrive. No place had been set for him and he stood smiling foolishly while one waiter fetched an extra chair and another set a new place between Enid and a young man in khaki uniform whom Felix had not met. He sat down. Amory and Pav were across the wide table from him. His arrival had caused everyone to be squeezed uncomfortably together.

“Hello,” said Enid, her plump arm squashed against his side. “I don’t think we’ve met. What do you think of this coon music? I adore it.”

Felix looked wistfully across the table at Amory. Hairy Pav was whispering in her ear and she laughed at whatever it was he was saying, throwing her head back and exposing her long throat. Now there was a splendid throat. He’d give anything to cover it in kisses, Felix thought, the pain of his impotence suddenly spearing through his chest. He shut his eyes and immediately his head began to spin. He opened them and seized the glass of Moselle that he had just been poured, as if it were some crucial hand-hold. Waiters were arriving with food. Felix realized that he was by now dangerously drunk. A plate of prawn sandwiches was deposited in front of him. The faint fishy smell wafting up made his stomach heave. He plugged his mouth with his napkin, leapt to his feet and raced to the cloakroom.

♦

Felix offered up a silent prayer to the inventor of the tango, as he and Amory glided jerkily about the dance floor. His hand was pressed into the small of her back. From time to time the movements of the dance obliged him to lean up against her or roll his pelvic area across hers. He thanked God also for providing him with the foresight to learn the hideously complicated steps the summer before.

Amory was slightly taller than him and looked fixedly over his right shoulder as they danced. Every now and then a soft collision or clumsily executed turn would cause their eyes to meet and she would flash him an automatic smile. Felix’s spine was humming like a tuning fork with ecstatic love and adoration, but it was clear to him that Amory wasn’t enjoying herself as much as he was.

They bumped into Holland and Enid.

“Feeling better?” Holland called.

“Fine,” Felix answered airily, hoping no trace of his vomit lingered on his breath. In fact he did feel better. Infinitely more so. He wondered if Holland knew how stupid he appeared with his ridiculous little beaver. He looked like a bargee, dancing with that ludicrous woman. This novel sense of superiority elated him and he whirled Amory around with more gusto, exerting extra pressure with his hand on her back, bringing his face entrancingly close to hers.

“Shall we sit down?” Amory said into his ear, the warm breeze of her words causing that side of this body to erupt in goose pimples. He allowed his fingers to touch her elbow as he ‘guided’ her to the table, which was deserted, all the other guests being fully employed on the dance floor.

The pink lamp cast a glowing rubescent light, softening Amory’s hard features, which had reminded him forcibly — he now banished the uncharitable thought from his mind — of one of the more predatory caryatids supporting the cueing. They sat down beside each other. Felix poured out two glasses of wine. He had long ago exceeded his limit but the zenith of confidence to which the alcohol had driven him made this prudent observation seem laughably unimportant. He took out his cigarette case. It was electro-plated nickel-silver, one of the more useful product of the family enterprise in Wolverhampton.