She’d started out the day as a woman with some status, not bloated with self-regard like some people she could name but confident enough to know that she was valued somewhere. Whenever she was waiting in the cafe — an almost daily routine for the past three months — she had a purpose and a role. She was the early half of a couple, waiting to be validated by her man — and that was satisfying. The owner and the little waitress understood that she would arrive before the boyfriend, that she would order a coffee and — occasionally — a glass of mineral water. They were used to her eager nervousness — the frequent checking in the little vanity mirror she carried in her purse, her habit of shaking her watch as if to hasten time, the way she stared into her book, her writing pad, her newspaper, but never seemed to turn a page. And then, when he arrived, the lover always just a little bit too late but standing over her at last to stoop a kiss onto her cheek, they’d be familiar with his embrace, her hand bunched up across his back.
Some days they’d only stay at the table for a few moments and then depart separately. The briefest meeting, just to hug. Once in a while, they’d share a beer, though clearly the man was not comfortable in such a public place. On other days, they’d go off hand in hand to possibly a restaurant or the hotels on the wharf. Then their passion would be almost palpable. It made her beautiful, the waitress thought.
Where was the beauty, though, in being so publicly stood up? Her borrowed husband could at least have called her to the cafe owner’s telephone, to whisper in her ear from his safe distance with his excuses and apologies. Why would he be so cowardly as to trust his betrayals to a messenger if he were not ashamed? Or lying? She’d had to smile and nod and seem wholly unperturbed when the cafe owner — the co-conspirator, it seemed to her — had come to pass on the shaming news: “Your friend said to tell you that he’ll phone tomorrow, when he gets the chance.” She felt exposed. Demeaned. A woman with no purpose in that cafe. She could drink a thousand coffees there and still not count as half a couple waiting for completion. She was a laughingstock — a woman revealed as exactly what she was — unmarried, only half successful in her work, the tenant of a less than homely apartment shared with two women just as unfulfilled as she was, reliant on the rationed attentions of a married lying man with children and a home he’d never abandon. She could hardly hold her coffee cup without shaking, she was so angry and upset. The evening had been so promising. They had planned to spend some time together in a restaurant, the famous — and expensive — Habit Bar where all the singers and the actors went. There’d be no grubby hour in a hotel room before he hurried home on this occasion. There’d just be food and wine and romance. She’d always liked that better than the sex. Love must be fed or it grows thin.
What occurred, then, to turn this calamity on its head and rescue the evening? What took her up the stairs to Lix’s unappealing room? An almost-stranger’s room? It must have been the romance that she had already planned for that evening which made the difference. The bottle was uncorked. Sitting on her own (before her lover’s phone call came) in her familiar place in the sidewalk cafe had — as nowadays it often did — made her not sexually but emotionally aroused. Romantic expectation was her mood — the expectation of the stooping kiss, her lover’s guaranteed tumescence, the watchful, surely jealous eyes of the cafe owner, the passing glances of the many husbands going home to their dull families, the certainty that she was being spied on through far binoculars, that kissing one in this bright street was making love to two or more. Was this a mad indulgence for a woman of her age, that she was being wanted from many angles by several men at once? Perhaps this was the worst of vanities. But surely anyone could see how poised and heaven-sent she was for men.
Now what? No boyfriend suddenly. No prospect of a kiss. Not even any twitching curtains on that night. She’d checked. Just the complicit sympathy of the cafe owner and his waitress and the added insult of the stiffening liqueur they had offered her “on the house.” To go home was impossible. How could she bear the chatter of her roommates, the television programs, the surrender of her hopes to all the domestic chores that needed attending to? A woman who had expected to be dining out with celebrities in the Habit Bar would be at home instead, ironing blouses, defeated by the telephone.
Still, she had to eat. So rather than order anything from the sidewalk cafe — an unflattering choice of cold snacks — she went to the little fixed-menu cafeteria, the ABC, behind the railway station where single men and women stranded by their lifestyles and their trains could eat without expense — and without embarrassment. She ordered menu C, the soup, the fish, the crème brûlée, and — recklessly — another glass of the Boulevard liqueur she’d been given at the cafe. She’d pay for one at least that night, to save face.
She didn’t have anything to read. Not even a pen to doodle with. So she could be excused for looking around the restaurant and studying the gallery of faces, the exhibition of clothes and postures. Staring was polite compared to some behavior there, the table manners and the arguments, the lack of modesty. The ABC was the sort of place where you could stare. Nobody considered it rude. You stared and they stared back. No need to be genteel with such a cast of students, bachelors, artists, unemployed, third-class travelers.
She spent ten minutes gazing around, not really looking for her dishonest lover with another woman possibly, or with his work colleagues, or with his children and his wife, not really practicing what she would say to him, in front of everyone. She studied almost every visible face, the back of almost every other head. So she couldn’t miss that half-familiar blemished man three rows of tables down from her and walking in between the diners and their bags and cases, looking for a place to sit. The pattern on the cheekbone was unmistakable. It was her clandestine admirer. She knew at once he’d recognized her, too.
How could she be so reckless? That was not her style, not normally. She was the sort who only spoke when spoken to, in matters of the heart at any rate. A woman of that age even in those newly unshackled days did not initiate encounters of this kind. But now her fury and her disappointment seemed to shift and occupy a different space. Instead of standing boldly at the family table, the wife amazed, the children cowering, the lying husband silent, pizza-faced, as she’d imagined, she was instead half standing at her chair, pulling back the table, making room for Lix. For once she’d made a move on her own behalf. It had been easy, actually. She simply pointed at the place opposite her and said, “It’s free.” He had no choice. To walk on past, without a ready lie, would be unnecessarily rude. So he sat. He was blushing uncontrollably. The spy exposed.
The blushing, though, was irresistible. Not only was it evidence of innocence, embarrassment, and shame, but also of desire, arousal, fear. She’d never seen such fear on anyone’s face. It made her feel unusually powerful, to be able to bring on such involuntary discomfort in a man. The shoe should be on the other foot. Had always been before. So this was what it felt like to be male, a hunter, predatory, to have a blushing quarry within reach, the color in his face the flag of his arousal.
She made Lix look her in the eye by simply chatting at him like a cousin. It helped that he was so much younger than she was. Perhaps ten years, she judged. It helped, as well, that she had already drunk two shots of alcohol. It let her talk. Why not? It’s not unnatural — especially in the ABC — to talk when you are sharing a table with a stranger. She bullied him till he submitted to her questions. And as he spoke — about his theater studies and his agitprop, his many opinions on almost everything, including — on that day — the good news, bad news from Iran, the coming plebiscite, the confrontation planned for Nation Day, the famine in Cambodia for which he’d organized a street performance called, he said, PolPottery — she started once again to feel contented with herself, to feel attractive, passionate, even to like the woman sharing a tablecloth with him, the unmasked Peeping Tom. She wasn’t listening, of course. The theater and PolPottery? Iran?