The car had trouble maneuvering the terrible traffic.
Or maybe she wants me to deal with levees and dams? Why levees and dams? Maybe she owns a ten-thousand-acre ranch that floods often, and the floods make her lose her cotton, her livestock or whatever. That’s a better explanation. And then, as an afterthought, when I’m on this farm in her beautiful house, in the middle of an environment that just screams lust, maybe she thinks I will finally agree to sleep with her—yeah, right! Sounds nice. She has a nice figure. But nevertheless, if she thinks that she can do whatever she wants with me … good grief, you’ve guessed wrong. You’d have to bat your eyes a little more, before I—and anyway, what do I know about her? And if I think about it all calmly, it is all rather bland and normal—
His circling thoughts were abruptly cut off when the elegant car, which was really more of a boudoir, stopped so suddenly that he was thrown forward.
At the green light, the lady crossed slowly, drove a few more blocks, stopped the car, pulled the hand brake, turned to him, and said with an inviting smile: “Here we are, young man. Lunch.”
Beckford followed her into the restaurant.
A waiter with billowing pants and a fez on his head that was two sizes too big invited them to sit at a particular table. The lady did not bother to acknowledge the man in the fez, ignoring his snarl, and walked toward a different table on which a card leaning against a vase indicated that it was reserved.
Beckford pulled out her chair and was just about to sit down himself when the waiter rushed over.
“This table is reserved, ma’am, please.”
The lady slowly pulled off her gloves and flicked the reservation card with her index finger so skillfully that the waiter was able to catch it. In the sweetest of voices, she said: “As you can see, dear sir, I am sitting here, or do you need a telescope?”
“Very well, ma’am,” answered the waiter, bowing slightly, which beautifully indicated that leaving less than a three-dollar tip would be an insult to his Arab dignity.
The lady pulled out a small mirror, smiled at herself, then hid it under her gloves in her purse and said, “I wanted to go to a teahouse, but then I remembered this café. It is Syrian or Turkish or maybe Lebanese—what do I know? The food isn’t boring unless you eat here every day. Have you ever had jocoque? Or have you ever eaten doneraki or quipe? You can get all of that here. And small almond cakes and coffee—you will dream of them.” She played with the menu as she was talking but barely looked at it.
“Should I choose for you, young man?”
“As you wish, ma’am.”
“The ‘young man’ sounds pretty deadly by now, don’t you think? Didn’t anyone give you a name at birth?”
“Of course, ma’am. But you haven’t asked my name yet.”
The lady laughed. “That’s right. It’s my fault. What is your name?”
“Beckford, ma’am. Clement Beckford.”
“Okay, Beckford,” she repeated slowly, as if she wanted to make sure to remember the name. “The name sounds good. Beckford.”
While she spoke, she rummaged in her purse, took out a small notebook and a very thin pencil, wrote something on a small piece of paper, tore it out, and gave it to Beckford.
“My name and address.”
Without looking at the paper, Beckford folded it and put it away carelessly. You could bet that later, when he actually wanted to read it, he would barely be able to remember where he had put it.
“Don’t you want to know my name and address?” the lady asked, surprised.
“I’ll have plenty of time for that, when I’m alone again.”
“In some ways, you interest me, Mr. Beckford. Not a lot, not a little, but you do interest me.”
“As you wish, ma’am.”
“As you wish, ma’am—just as you like, ma’am—can you say ‘I can’t stand this’ or something like that now and then? Just so you don’t agree with me all the time.”
“Why? It’s all the same.”
“Most of the time. Yes.”
Now she began studying the menu carefully, which gave him the opportunity to study her face more thoroughly.
When I really look at her, I have to say she is rather pretty, he thought. If I only knew what she wanted from me! Why was she so happy to run into me by coincidence? Is she really so desperate? Probably married to a nincompoop much older than her who bores her to death. I bet he only thinks about making money. Perhaps I should stay away after all. She’s the kind of woman who causes headaches if you get too involved, and terrible ones at that. And once you’re hooked and want to get away, she gets a gun out of her fat purse, blows out your brains, and claims that you tried to rape her. And then she cries a river for the jury, shows her beautiful legs, and the jury says: not guilty. And I haven’t even looked at her legs yet. “She’s probably one of those women who wants to be fed three times a night.”
Beckford was so caught up in his thoughts that he spoke the last one out loud. He bit hard on his lips. He blushed, thinking that perhaps he had said more than he remembered.
“Fed,” she repeated. “Fed. It’s good that you say that. You must be hungry as a—as a—”
“—as a lion.” He helped her finish the sentence.
“I don’t think I really wanted to say lion.” She laughed at him. “I don’t know a thing about lions. Well, not a lot at least. Of all the lions I’ve ever seen in a zoo, I’ve never seen one that was hungry.” The tone of her voice changed.
“Do you think, Mr. Beckford, that animals in a zoo or in any kind of captivity are happier than those who live in the wild?”
“I wouldn’t say they are happier but I think they must be more contented. They don’t have to worry about food, they always have water and a roof over their heads, and they’re protected from their enemies, even fleas, lice, and ticks, which can make life unbearable for an animal.”
No one had asked him what he wanted for lunch among the twenty different entrees on the menu. When the waiter brought pita bread, a large bowl filled with radishes, green onions, young yellow onions, and cress, and added two large glasses of jocoque, she smiled and said casually: “I think you will like what I chose for you.”
He was just about say: I am old enough to know what I want to eat and what I don’t like, when it occurred to him that the lady did not deserve such a rude response. He realized that he knew absolutely nothing about these Arabic dishes and would have embarrassed himself in front of the lady and the waiter in the fez.
The only thing he could think of saying at that moment was his usuaclass="underline" “As you wish, ma’am.”
Now it was she who came close to answering impolitely.
“You know, I could throw this onion in your face for that eternal ‘As you wish, ma’am’! At least use a different tone now and then and don’t always say it in that monotone. Why don’t you say ‘Go to hell’ or at least ‘Leave me alone!’ every once in a while? Even a wet dog couldn’t stand this.”
His breath caught in his throat.
She enjoyed his shocked expression. “See, now you don’t have anything to say anymore.”
Her tone changed again. “How do you like the food?”
“I’ve never eaten anything like this before. It’s very good. And in regard to the ‘As you wish, ma’am,’ I promise I’ll get better.”