AT CAFÉ ZURICH they sweep through the revolving door and into the foyer, and the bowing and scraping begin almost at once.
Showtime, says the voice of BW.
Leila stops just inside the door and turns toward Matthew. Her eyes ask him to lead. She’s a little breathless, and he’s amazed. He says, “Let me help you with your coat.” She turns, and he slips her coat from her. She’s wearing Belinda’s backless dress. Her shoulders are white and smooth and perfect. Almost involuntarily, Matthew looks into the mirror in front of them, and there he sees her, looking at him or, more probably, looking at them, judging the effect.
Quite a charming couple, really, BW seems to say to him. Who is this handsome, rather European-looking man slipping a coat from the shoulders of his young, full-breasted mistress?
More like a father out with his daughter.
Possibly, says BW. Or a businessman from Cleveland with a child rented from an escort service.
Depends on how you look at it, I suppose.
Matthew hands Leila’s coat to a lackey, who nods when he receives it. Another lackey materializes behind Matthew and, with a murmured “Allow me, sir,” assists him in the removal of his coat. Matthew’s beginning to feel as if he’s in an operetta. Leila stands with her hands clasped in front of her, waiting for the next marvelous thing. She looks as if she ought to be holding a corsage. Matthew offers her his arm, she puts her hand on it, both flunkies push double doors open, and Matthew leads her inside, observing their progress in yet another mirror, directly ahead of them, revealed only when the doors are open. He tells himself that he ought to think they look ridiculous, but he doesn’t believe it. He thinks they look quite nice.
Matthew gives his name to the maître d’, who says, head bobbing, hands rubbing, “Oh, yes. Mr. Barber. Your table is not quite ready. Would you care to have a seat in the lounge, and we will call you? It will be just a moment.”
“Certainly,” says Matthew. He knows the lounge here. Designed to impress. Certain to impress Leila. She ought to get the full experience. “We’ll have a drink in the lounge,” he says to her, though there’s no reason in the world to think that she hasn’t heard the maître d’ as well as he has.
“Oh, good,” she says. They take the few steps to the lounge, Leila always waiting to be led, to be shown or told what to do. Matthew glances around the room. There are quiet corners that he would ordinarily choose, but he doesn’t want to look like a seducer of young girls, trying to conceal his illness in the dark, so he suggests a banquette near the door, near the bar, in the most brightly lit part of the room, where his intentions will appear aboveboard.
Two waiters arrive immediately, as soon as Matthew and Leila have made a move in the direction of a table. One pulls the table out from the banquette, too quickly, too far out into the room, with too much brio. The other bows, says, “Good evening, sir, madam,” and deposits a plate with a crock of pâté and a ring of Ritz crackers on the table in front of them.
Ritz crackers? cries BW.
Before they have had a chance to get settled, the waiter asks, “Would you care for something from the bar?”
Matthew is, for a moment, about to ask Leila what she’d like to drink, but when he glances at her he sees a note of panic in her eyes, and a resonant note of panic runs through him. Good God, he says to himself, I’m out with a child. Can she order a drink? Can I order a drink for her? Are they going to ask for her ID? Are rules like that overlooked here? Why the hell didn’t I take her to a dark corner?
Champagne, says BW. Surely they won’t refuse her a glass of champagne. Ask for the wine list anyway — it will give you a chance to stall.
“May I see the wine list?” Matthew asks.
“Certainly, sir.”
The wine list appears without any apparent lapse of time. It’s bound in leather and resembles a photo album of the sort usually embossed with the words “Our Wedding.” The waiter presents it to Matthew, opening it as he does so, and then stands, waiting, while Matthew looks through it. How much does she know about champagne? he wonders, and then hates himself for it.
Good question, says BW. It would be ridiculous to go overboard with this. Domestic, I think, but good domestic.
“We’ll have a bottle of the Domain Chandon Brut,” Matthew says.
“Certainly,” says the waiter, taking the list and, at last, disappearing.
[to be continued]
In Topical Guide 505, Mark Dorset considers Advertising: Branding; and Name, What’s in a: Ritz from this episode.
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