Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

“Yes,” the waiter said, looking perplexed but still smiling. “ Das herz .” pointing to his chest. “I understand the heart very much. Thank you. Americans are very kind.” He refilled Hank’s glass and moved back till he stood by the bus table, holding the bottle and ready to pour the moment one of their glasses needed refilling.

“I thought I told you to tell him to beat it.”

“He only means well. He’s not busy, so I guess he thought he’d give us a little extra service.”

“But he should know better than to hover around our table — making us feel uncomfortable with his lousy groveling act.”

“I don’t feel uncomfortable. And I see no reason for you getting upset.”

“Are you going to tell him or do I have to in my own way?”

“Not another commotion — please. It’s not as if he should vanish because we’re acting like a couple of starry-eyed honeymooners.”

He stood up, signaled for the waiter, and when the man eagerly strode over, grabbed him by his jacket’s white lapels and said “So, you versteht English? Then beat it!” The waiter patted Hank’s back as if telling him to forget whatever was bothering him, and pulling free of Hank’s hold, leaned over to refill Pat’s glass and pour a little wine into Hank’s filled glass. When he stood erect again, Hank swung at his face but missed and fell across the table, his arm knocking both glasses to the floor when he rolled onto his chair and then toppled over with it. At the other end of the room the German party toasted to one another and began singing a new song — a loud cheerful one. Pat wanted to scream, to create total silence with her scream, but covered her shaking lips with her fist and bent down and pushed some broken glass away from Hank’s hand as he struggled to get to his feet, the waiter holding him under an arm. When he made it to one knee and was resting in that position, Pat took the billfold from his inside jacket pocket, gave the waiter a ten-dollar bill and said to him “I am very sorry. Sehr. Mein mann …he meant no harm. Please understand. Bitte versteht. Es tut mir leid . Both of us. Es tut mir leid .”

The waiter smiled at her and pocketed the money without looking at it. Then with the help of another waiter who’d just come running over, they lifted Hank into a sitting position and slid a chair under him. The singing had stopped, and when Pat looked over she saw most of the group looking at them.

“Sit up,” she said.

“I’m sitting.”

“You’ve really done it this time. My poor boy of a husband’s really gone berserk and done it.”

“Stop with the soap opera crap and help me get the hell out of here. I slugged down that rotten wine too fast and it went to my head.”

“You’d never act like this in the States, You’ve acted like a boor often enough, but you’d never go this far because you know you’d never get away with it there.”

“Well, I had good reason here. You saw what happened. Freaking creep wouldn’t leave us alone. And you just wait till I get back to the States. Europe this time has given me renewed vigor, new balls.”

“I wish we were going back tomorrow.”

“What’s the matter, Patty Pooh, aren’t you having fun?” He rubbed her cheek affectionately and scanned the room, avoiding the embarrassed glances of their waiter and the glares of the older waiter, who’d raced back from the kitchen with a beer stein of coffee, which he handed to Hank.

“How much did it take to pacify the kid?” Hank said.

“Drink up the coffee. It’ll do you good.”

“I said, how much did you give him?”

“Ten,” she whispered, “but only so he wouldn’t call the police. He had a right to, you know.”

He laughed. “Hell, for that amount of gelt it should’ve at least got a good crack at the Nazi punk.”

“Will you stop being a moron?”

“Bottoms up, everybody.” He raised the stein, sipped from it and put it on the table. “So”—grinning now as if that one sip had done the trick—“ready? I feel much better, and I know of a terrific keller across the street where this Yid can really get into a brawl. Get back at the butchering bastards the best way you know how, I always say.”

“I asked you to stop it. And I think they’re waiting for you to apologize, I hear it’s the local custom after you’ve tried to kill someone.”

That tenner both apologized for me and paid for the wine.”

“No, it didn’t. And you really have to apologize to our waiter if you want me to leave here with you.”

“Stop threatening me with the either-or shit. I want you with me-you’re my darling schatzie and I’ve told you that — so let’s get a move on.”

“ Mein mann ,” she said to the waiters, who’d been standing silently a few feet away, “ er kanst nicht gut Deutsch gesprechen , am I being clear? I’m saying— ich sage — konnen sie verstehen mir? Aber er sagt zu mir das er ist sehr traurig für alles diese — sehr .”

“Please speak nothing of it,” the older waiter said. “It happens. We are sorrowful too.” The younger waiter nodded, smiled at her and gave her the check.

“ Danke schön .” She got the exact amount in marks out of her handbag and gave it to him.

“ Bitte schön , madame,” he said. The two waiters picked up the broken glass, cleaned the floor with a towel, cleared the table of everything but the wine list, and went back to the kitchen.

“Good God,” Hank said, “did you catch those guys smiling so nicely at me? What in the world could you have told them?”

That you were very sorry. And that you also wanted to say just how sorry you were in German but didn’t know the language, so you asked me to say it for you.”

He thought about it, then whistled. There’s one I never heard before. It’s good; no, it’s actually superb. You’re a genius when it comes to making my apologies,” and shaking his head in wonder how she could have come up with such a line, he started for the door. When he got there, he yelled back “So, der, meine sveetheart, sie comink?”

She was searching in her handbag for a tip, found five one-mark coins and put them on the table. Then seeing that not only wasn’t Hank watching her but he was already past the door and hustling up the steps, she hurried after him.

“If you weren’t always in such a damn rush,” she said when she caught up with him on the street. “I can’t run like you. I haven’t got your long legs. And I’ve high heels on, Hank, high heels, so have a heart, will you?”

I say “So I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She says “Not tomorrow. I need some time by myself.”

Then the next day.”

That day too.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” I say this jokingly but she doesn’t take it as a joke. No smile; she looks serious. I say, not smiling this time, “What’s up?” and she looks at me a little sadly. As if she’s about to cry. Then a tear comes to one eye. I watch it well in the corner and go down her cheek. She’s wiping the cheek when another tear wells in the same eye. I say “Why are you crying? What’s wrong? You sick? About us, then? Something wrong with us? That has to be it. I recognize the signs. So, come on, speak.”

“I think…this is what I think. I think…”

“Why are you crying, though?”

“Please let me finish. I’m crying because of what I’m thinking. I think you should get used to spending more time by yourself and with other people than me. I mean, every day with me.”

“It’s not just your work, then, that you want to be alone?”