Chapter 3
Dolce Far Niente
BECAUSE Belinda’s birthday fell in the middle of the week, when she and Matthew were both too busy to celebrate it, they agreed to celebrate this evening, Friday. When Matthew arrives at Belinda’s, he asks his cabdriver to wait and dashes up the stairs. The toothsome Leila lets him in. In her eyes Matthew sees more coy sparkle than usual.
“Come on in,” she says. “Mom’ll be down in a minute. She’s got a surprise for you, and I’m supposed to brace you for it.”
“Brace me?” Now this is provocative; a surprise, and not just a run-of-the-mill surprise, but one for which Matthew must be braced. What might that be? A weasel of a thought crosses his mind, darting from cover to cover, shamefully: the virginal Leila has asked Belinda — no, begged Belinda — to ask Matthew to initiate her in the famous joys of love. He imagines mother and daughter, blushing, stammering, beating around the bush until they finally come out with it, and then the awkward march to the bedroom, the nervous jokes. Mother and daughter, lying side by side, awaiting him, while he folds his clothes. How thrilling! How flattering! How unlikely! The thought slinks off, but not far; it’s sure to return when he’s alone. Disappointed by the thought that whatever the surprise might be, it isn’t likely to be that, he hangs his coat in the hall closet. Leila disappears into the living room, and almost at once Matthew hears her stirring a martini.
“Is that a martini I hear?” he asks. As soon as he’s said it, it strikes him as the wrong kind of line — too old. He just can’t find a way to talk to Leila. He wishes he could, but it’s hopeless.
Leila presents the drink to him, holding the glass by the stem, with both hands, as if she were elevating a chalice. She’s giggling.
“You can tell a martini by the sound?” she asks.
“Ahhhh, yesssss,” Matthew says, drawing it out. He’s trying to imitate W. C. Fields. “A very useful skill in the event of a blackouuuuut. Enables one to find his way to a haven of safety and comforrrrrrt.” Not bad, really not bad, he tells himself. He’s delighted that the bit came to him so quickly — and the words, too. “A haven of safety and comfort” — that really sounds like W. C. Fields, he thinks. He’s feeling pretty loose tonight; he doesn’t feel half as ill at ease with Leila as he usually does. Her breasts are hidden under a heavy sweater, which helps, and — Uh-oh, there’s a blank smile on her face; she probably didn’t recognize W. C. Fields, probably doesn’t even know who W. C. Fields was; nothing in her expression suggests that she does. But wait! Another humorous routine has occurred to Matthew. What the heck, he thinks, I might as well go ahead with it. The girl probably thinks he’s an addled old duffer anyway, maybe he can boost himself up a notch, possibly to funny old coot.
Issue Number 19 of The Babbington Review is now on Substack.
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