Chapter 1
Our journey on the road to perdition begins in front of Carnegie Hall.
“Weary, Laura?”
“Tired, Beda?”
We ask in the same breath. The questions are identical. The answers are conflicting. The rest means for me Waldorf Astoria; for Beda his draughty attic, now his quasi marital home with Gio. Why “quasi”? He must have married her by now. Though they most probably moved to a place more suitable for the only daughter of rich parents, now also the spouse of a big name on the New York music scene. Why should I worry over so little? Am I not also a married woman? Has it ever hindered me from living as I wish?
Music aficionados are streaming out from Carnegie Hall without giving a second glance to the artist they worshipped a while ago. Oh, the futility of those star-studded moments! Oh, glory, how little you last!
“What about a bite, Beda?” I propose, postponing the inevitable conflict: my or his place? You fancy a tricky question? You are served!
“OK with me, girl!” Beda shoots me one of his sardonic glances; ‘Girl, thy will be done!’ And then, neither of us is in the mood for one of our famous lovers’ squabbles so shortly after another of our Pyrrhic victories.
“In case you have nothing against the Plaza, then Palm Court seems to me to be a good take.” I propose uncertainly, ready for my beloved non-conformist’s resistance.
“Why not?” He consents meekly contrary to his character, and I wonder if I wouldn’t prefer to have him back to normal instead of being so outrageously conciliating which, based on my former experiences, makes me fear the worst. Moreover, where to go if not to the Plaza, overdressed as we are, Beda in his brand new tuxedo, I in my extravagant evening gown?
“Allons y, Allonso,” drops Beda in his best Jean-Luc Godard’s style and we make it for the Plaza wrapped up in ribbons of light plugged in the memories of the Christmas tree of my childhood, a time to which I would hate to go back. The idea of leaving New York, I’ve got under my skin, horrifies me.
“Come on, girl! A dinner at the Plaza seems to be an excellent departure.”
Hand in hand we enter Palm Court conditioned for the fetishists of universal harmony. The pianist can’t be but classical in the choice of his repertoire.
“Tonight, enriching our traditional menu, we have the pleasure to propose you our “Cuisine Solution”, the summum of the haute cuisine.” The hostess has brought us to a table for two and the waiter hands us the menus.
“Will you choose for us, girl?” Beda asks me, more by lack of interest than out of courtesy. Food isn’t his cup of gin.
I weigh the pros and cons of my choice. It goes about money, Egon’s money, actually, and consequently Beda won’t accept to be treated by me. Can he afford to pay an extravagant sum for a meal? I wish I knew.
“Why not set off in search of the unexplored, girl? Let’s be bold! Hurrah for the “Cuisine Solution”!”
I get absorbed in the menu, more and more uncertain what to choose. How divinely simple is to have someone who knows what you want and gets it for you.
“Let’s do it that way, girl! You go for the solid and I for the liquid.” Beda offers.
“Right you are! Then I’d recommend eggplant dip and cream of Parmesan followed by fried chicken dipped in matzoth batter, seasoned with Cajun spices and accompanied by white bread and honey and then calamari commingled with fried jalapeño, delicate scallop carpaccio followed by salt pressed Tasmanian ocean trout, halibut as smooth as a first kiss and zucchini blossoms stuffed with blue prawns. Let us start with a couple of amuse-bouches, lobster in a shot glass, a tomato and fennel soup, a double duck consommé, rabbit loins and a yoghurt marinated poussin. It will be followed by the crowning finale of desserts called Chocolate and Jasmine inspiration, and to top it: Nutella - Bourbon shake.”
I thoroughly enjoy reciting the “Cuisine Solution menu”, I, the Master of art how to evade problems recoiling in my well practised “just now”. I shoot Beda a searching glance. What about him? Is he apt to chew his doubts off with refined food? He hasn’t touched his plate. The bottle of the best vintage of Chassagne Montrachet is empty to the last drop and he is signing the waiter for another. The Chocolate and Jasmine Inspiration turns bitter in my mouth. It’s utter madness to chain myself together with a drunk! In fact isn’t it better to shake him off when there’s still time? Actually nothing obliging has happened until now. A dinner à la carte with an old friend isn’t compromising and there is no need to panic. Gio will take Beda back unconditionally, drunk or sober, his escapade with me included. To have him under any condition is her kind of love. That leaving the concert hall hand in hand with me caused a scandal? So what! An alcoholic can’t be held responsible for his misdemeanor. He followed me being apparently under influence. And then, all in all, a wee indiscretion is no big deal!
My conscience appeased, I tack heartily into the dessert, unconcerned about my dining partner enjoying his drink much too much. The sweetness of the Chocolate and Jasmine inspiration melting on my tongue I let the moment last not giving two hoots for my lover man, so near to me, so far away from my heart. Chopin, well suited to the atmosphere, leads me to the land of diminished responsibilities.
“Coffee, girl?” Beda’s voice is clear. Wine is just water for him. I take little sips of my coffee dodging Beda’s eyes while getting ready to make it clear to him that, after this lovely intermezzo, the moment is ripe to come to terms with the prose of life and deal with every problem in due course. I quiver of fear pierced by Beda’s ironic glance.
“Don’t worry, girl. Let him, who has never messed up his life throw the first stone. It’s hard to want and not to want at the same moment; don’t I know it only too well? You poor Irenchen! I’d hate to put myself in your shoes. Above all don’t bother about me. Quoting your dear Oscar Wilde I feel obliged to reveal you a secret: one survives all except one’s death. We had our moment of glory. Who is to blame that it fizzled out so fast? And then, it isn’t as if I was a down and out. I have a roof over my head. I have a job. I’ll survive.” He calls the waiter and signs the bill.
