Richard Ford - Women with Men

“It must be a real burden to have the compulsion to write,” Rex said confidentially, his mouth full.

“No, it really isn't,” Matthews said, trying to eat his own steak and keep eye contact with Rex. The noise in Clancy's rose and fell like a tide. New people constantly came through the door, people the other diners knew, and a clamor would crescendo and then fall off. Everybody seemed to be shouting in English, though he and Rex were able to talk under the roar by getting closer. Rex, he noticed, had on some loud minty aftershave that seemed familiar — also something his father wore.

“I guess all your family are writers too,” Rex said.

“No, they're in the furniture business in Cleveland,” Matthews said. “I've only written one book, and I don't think it's very good. So you couldn't really call me a writer. Not yet, anyway.”

“I see,” Rex said. “I guess it's all just personal expression.”

“Rex traces his family directly back to Adam and Eve,” Beatrice said. She'd been talking to Helen but listening to them. Parentage was obviously an issue she liked to bring up at Rex's expense.

“She's jealous because my parents had last names,” Rex said, and pushed his big lips out and made a juicy, insolent kiss at Beatrice.

“Right. Like Zigolowsky and Prdozilewcza — the ones you don't need many vowels for. Mountjoy's his stage name. I hardly need say that, though, I guess.”

The din in Clancy's rose and fell again, and somewhere, apparently in the room with them, a dog started barking. Several people seated near Clancy's big, white-flocked Christmas tree started laughing. “Gordon,” someone said. “Here, Gordon.” There was another brisk bark, then a squeal of sudden intense pain.

“French people,” Rex said, straining his big neck around to find the offenders. “Yep, yep, there they are,” he said. “I see 'em. Four of 'em with their fuckin’ pooch.”

“Gordon. Great.” Beatrice looked disgusted. In the bright restaurant light, Matthews could see that Beatrice's skin was more leathery and tough-looking than he'd thought. He wondered how old she really was. Once again he felt ridiculously young, though he was thirty-seven and already had an ex-wife, an ex-profession and a daughter he never saw. Rex and Beatrice and even to some extent Helen seemed like his parents’ age and, much like his parents, almost completely unreachable.

“The UN's a loada crap. I know that,” Rex was saying in answer to some remark of Helen's about differing nationalities needing to get along better. Helen was a strong believer in the UN.

“Oh, let's don't get him started on the UN,” Beatrice said, and rolled her eyes. She decided to have another big gulp of her martini. “ Or the EU. Another of his big all-time faves.”

“Yeah. Don't get me started on that,” Rex said, inserting lettuce into his big mouth and breathing a heavy breath at the same time.

“Charley knows all about Negroes. The ones who came to Paris, anyway,” Helen said. “He was once a prof. He can tell you who wrote what and where they lived and why, all that kind of thing. He doesn't look black, does he?”

“You can't always tell,” Beatrice said. “They're not like the French — visible for miles in every direction.”

“I thought you said you were a novelist,” Rex said, head down, negotiating a slice of meat onto a square chunk of potato with the intention of eating them as one.

“I didn't say that,” Matthews said, shaking his head.

“Who said it, then?” Rex said, lifting the loaded fork to his mouth.

“And who cares?” Beatrice said.

“Charley's a novel- least ,” Helen said, her eyes hot. “I haven't read his ro-man yet. But I'm going to. I want to see if I'm in it. Part of it's set in Paris.”

“You're not in it,” Matthews said, feeling in a hurry to eat, though with no idea what to do when he was finished. Helen had to be in pain, he thought. That was why she was acting agitated — solicitous one second, ready to turn on him the next. She was also drunk and undoubtedly taking painkillers.

“Is Josephine Baker in it?” Beatrice said, going on eating.

“That's who I was thinking of too,” Helen said.

“No,” Matthews said. “It's all made up. No real people are in it.” Everything he said sounded asinine. He wished he could shut up, finish his meal and take Helen home.

“I thought they only let black people teach that stuff,” Beatrice said. “Of course, I've been over here so long I've forgotten what happens at home.”

“It was pretty unusual,” Matthews said.

“No kidding,” Rex said.

“We're putting Charley on the spot here,” Helen said.

“That's all right,” Rex said. “I'll be next.”

Gordon suddenly gave three sharp reports from near the Christmas tree. Several diners shouted, then laughed. Then everyone heard a fierce, yowling cat hiss. There was then a scramble of scratching claws and growling, and something hurtled past Matthews’ legs under the table, with something else hurtling after it. The French people — all small men and women in pastel sweaters and nice jackets — seemed vaguely dismayed. One of the men got up and made his way through the tables in the direction Gordon seemed to have escaped. He didn't seem the least bit surprised, only annoyed.

Rex glared at him as he sidled past. “Monkeys'll be next,” he said menacingly. “Then talking birds. This place is going to hell.”

“Everyone's going to Prague now, anyway,” Beatrice said. “Paris is finished. I wish I'd learned Czech instead of French.”

“Or Budapest,” Rex said, pronouncing it Budapesht, like Matthews’ colleagues at Wilmot College. “Now, there's a place you can really make some money. You oughta try to publish your books in Hungarian. What's the title?”

“It's the Paris of the east,” Beatrice said.

“What is?” Rex was pushing his empty plate away.

“Prague,” she said.

“Right. I've been there. Once was enough, though.”

“Behold, the alpha male,” Beatrice said, with reference to Rex.

“I'm a man only one woman has to marry, though,” Rex said.

Matthews pretended he hadn't heard Rex ask about the title of his book. He didn't want to hear himself say the words, if only for fear of what Helen might say. In truth, he didn't want to hear himself say anything. Half of his steak was uneaten. Helen had touched none of hers. Beatrice and Rex had cleaned their plates. He wondered if he and Helen could apologize and leave. Plead jet lag.

The Frenchman in the pink sweater and the ascot came back through the restaurant, carrying a small tan poodle cradled in his arms. The poodle was panting as though it was exhausted, its little tongue lolled to the side. The Frenchman was smiling as if everyone in Clancy's was happy to finally see the dog. Outside the big clean front window, it was starting to snow.

“Did you know Helen was a wonderful dancer?” Rex said, running his wide hand over his skull, through the new hair seedlings. “She was on her way to Radio City.”

“June Taylor, anyway,” Helen said. “They were on TV when I was a little girl.” She smiled and shook her head as though the idea was funny. “That was in Pittsburgh.”

“Except what happened?” Beatrice said.

“Helen would dance till she dropped,” Rex said, setting his hands on the table in front of him, lacing his fingers and staring down at them. He was paying no attention to Beatrice.

“We all did then,” Helen said, and looked like she might break into tears. “I'm tired. I'm jet-lagged, that's all. I'm sorry.”

“These two were a marquee item once upon a blue moon,” Beatrice said to Matthews by way of explanation. “In case you were wondering.”