Old Acquaintance by David Stacton Read Free Book Online Page A

because the name displeased him, he didn’t know why. A mixture of Chamberlain and libertin, perhaps. On white wines he was less good. Chablis was drinkable. Bordeaux he loathed.
    So white wines usually turned out to be a Sylvaner, becauseof Aeneas Silvius, perhaps, which suggested pig-a-back out of Troy, a Delacroix he liked (because of the posture), while the fire was going, though since the picture actually had something to do with the Good Samaritan, it also suggested the more nearly austere Popes and Gibbons’s silver swan, who living had no note.
    “A Sylvaner ’53,” said Charlie, looking forward to the wine cooler. He was fond of the sound of ice, the chichi of the bucket, and the glitter of diamonds.
    Paul wanted to dance with the starlet.
    “What, again?” asked Charlie, staring balefully at a runny egg mayonnaise. That English restaurants should serve bad French food we expect, and even praise. That continental restaurants should serve bad English food was going too far.
    He was annoyed. Lotte didn’t see why he should be. A warm milk glass egg mayonnaise is a sickening goody, no matter where served, and if Paul wanted to pretend he was a ski instructor being nice to a rich American, she didn’t see why he shouldn’t. Having dissembled by the imitation of vice, she had a wistful attitude toward those whose real dream was to simulate virtue. Perhaps the poor boy misses women, she thought, of his own age, but did not say so. Since her mind often made unfortunate because automatic connections, she was always careful to leave the wit to those who needed it. She did not like to cause harm.
    “Why don’t they come back?” said Charlie. “I don’t want another cocktail before dinner. I want dinner.”
    They came back, though not soon enough. The starlet drew a thin tulle gauze over her shoulders, having felt the chill.
    The waiter wished to consult about the salad dressing. He had the manner of a culinary Metternich. In the concord of Europe, the problem of salad dressing looms large.
    Paul made a dart for independence. “Salad cream,” he said.
    Charlie’s monocle fell out. The waiter looked perturbed.
    “It’s something I learned about in England,” said Paul. “It saves trouble.”
    “I’ve been there,” said Charlie, who maintained very high standards, chiefly by piling his preferences by main force on top of other people’s whims. “It’s like boot polish, only yellow.”
    “Well then, Green Goddess salad dressing,” said Paul.
    “Heh?”
    “Green Goddess salad dressing.” Paul was being stubborn. These little scuffles for independence can be embarrassing. Lotte looked at the view.
    The starlet blinked her eyes. The salad cream dialogue had puzzled her, but now she knew where she was.
    “The Green Goddess,” said Charlie slowly, “is the name of a play. It is about a wicked rajah who is extremely nasty to some English people whose plane has just crashed. The plane has crashed because it ran out of salad cream. It is by Mr. William Archer, the admirer of Ibsen.”
    “You mean like A Doll’s House ,” said the starlet, unexpectedly.
    “I mean it is a doll’s house,” said Charlie. “I don’t care what they did in Kenya. Kenya’s doomed anyway. If you want to be pukka, you can go be pukka in the provinces. Here you have lemon juice, lots of vinegar, and very little oil. Probably the Americans will do it as a musical. Why not?”
    “Do what as a musical?” asked Lotte, seeing he was trying to duck back into nonsense, where he belonged.
    “A Doll’s House,” said Charlie bleakly. “Set in Kenya. With an all Negro cast. It’s either about Apartheid or the brotherhood of man, depending how you look at it.”
    Feeling benign, now he’d made them uncomfortable, he took Lotte off to dance. He needed air.
    “That was cruel,” she said.
    “Have you ever tasted salad cream?” he asked.
    “No, but …”
    “Then don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”
    Lotte