sk.everythingseventual-第70节

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ords。　It's　not　a　big　boost；　and　not　really　necessary　to　successful　thinking　（although　most　confirmed　cigarette　junkies　believe　differently）；　but　when　you　take　it　away；　you're　left　with　a　feeling…a　pervasive　feeling；　in　my　case…that　the　world　has　taken　on　a　decidedly　dreamy　cast。　There　were　many　times　when　it　seemed　to　me　that　people　and　cars　and　the　little　sidewalk　vignettes　I　observed　were　actually　passing　by　me　on　a　moving　screen；　a　thing　controlled　by　hidden　stagehands　turning　enormous　cranks　and　revolving　enormous　drums。　It　was　also　a　little　like　being　mildly　stoned　all　the　time；　because　the　feeling　was　acpanied　by　a　sense　of　helplessness　and　moral　exhaustion；　a　feeling　that　things　had　to　simply　go　on　the　way　they　were　going；　for　good　or　for　ill；　because　you　（except　of　course　it's　me　I'm　talking　about）　were　just　too　damned　busy　not…smoking　to　do　much　of　anything　else。
　　I'm　not　sure　how　much　all　this　bears　on　what　happened；　but　I　know　it　has　some　bearing；　because　I　was　pretty　sure　something　was　wrong　with　the　ma？tre　d'　almost　as　soon　as　I　saw　him；　and　as　soon　as　he　spoke　to　me；　I　knew。
　　He　was　tall；　maybe　forty…five；　slim　（in　his　tux；　at　least；　in　ordinary　clothes　he　probably　would　have　looked　skinny）；　mustached。　He　had　a　leather…bound　menu　in　one　hand。　He　looked　like　battalions　of　ma？tre　d's　in　battalions　of　fancy　New　York　restaurants；　in　other　words。　Except　for　his　bow…tie；　which　was　askew；　and　something　on　his　shirt　that　was　a　splotch　just　above　the　place　where　his　jacket　buttoned。　It　looked　like　either　gravy　or　a　glob　of　some　dark　jelly。　Also；　several　strands　of　his　hair　stuck　up　defiantly　in　back；　making　me　think　of　Alfalfa　in　the　old　Little　Rascals　one…reelers。　That　almost　made　me　burst　out　laughing…I　was　very　nervous；　remember…and　I　had　to　bite　my　lips　to　keep　it　in。
　　'Yes；　sir？'　he　asked　as　I　approached　the　desk。　It　came　out　sounding　like　Yais　sair？　All　ma？tre　d's　in　New　York　City　have　accents；　but　it　is　never　one　you　can　positively　identify。　A　girl　I　dated　in　the　mid…eighties；　one　who　did　have　a　sense　of　humor　（along　with　a　fairly　large　drug　habit；　unfortunately）；　told　me　once　that　they　all　grew　up　on　the　same　little　island　and　hence　all　spoke　the　same　language。
　　'What　language　is　it？'　I　asked　her。
　　'Snooti；'　she　said；　and　I　cracked　up。
　　This　thought　came　back　to　me　as　I　looked　past　the　desk　to　the　woman　I'd　seen　while　outside…I　was　now　almost　positive　it　was　Diane…and　I　had　to　bite　the　insides　of　my　lips　again。　As　a　result；　Humboldt's　name　came　out　of　me　sounding　like　a　half…smothered　sneeze。
　　The　ma？tre　d's　high；　pale　brow　contracted　in　a　frown。　His　eyes　bored　into　mine。　I　had　taken　them　for　brown　as　I　approached　the　desk；　but　now　they　looked　black。
　　'Pardon；　sir？'　he　asked。　It　came　out　sounding　like　Pahdun；　sair　and　looking　like　Fuck　you；　Jack。　His　long　fingers；　as　pale　as　his　brow…concert　pianist's　fingers；　they　looked　like…tapped　nervously　on　the　cover　of　the　menu。　The　tassel　sticking　out　of　it　like　some　sort　of　half…assed　bookmark　swung　back　and　forth。
　　'Humboldt；'　I　said。　'Party　of　three。'　I　found　I　couldn't　take　my　eyes　off　his　bow…tie；　so　crooked　that　the　left　side　of　it　was　almost　brushing　the　shelf　under　his　chin；　and　that　blob　on　his　snowy…white　dress　shirt。　Now　that　I　was　closer；　it　didn't　look　like　either　gravy　or　jelly；　it　looked　like　partially　dried　blood。
　　He　was　looking　down　at　his　reservations　book；　the　rogue　tuft　at　the　back　of　his　head　waving　back　and　forth　over　the　rest　of　his　slicked…down　hair。　I　could　see　his　scalp　through　the　grooves　his　b　had　laid　down；　and　a　speckle　of　dandruff　on　the　shoulders　of　his　tux。　It　occurred　to　me　that　a　good　headwaiter　might　have　fired　an　underling　put　together　in　such　sloppy　fashion。
　　'Ah；　yes；　monsieur。'　（Ah　yais；　messoo。）　He　had　found　the　name。　'Your　party　is…'　He　was　starting　to　look　up。　He　stopped　abruptly；　and　his　eyes　sharpened　even　more；　if　that　was　possible；　as　he　looked　past　me　and　down。　'You　cannot　bring　that　dog　in　here；'　he　said　sharply。　'How　many　times　have　I　told　you　you　can't　bring　that　dog　in　here！'
　　He　didn't　quite　shout；　but　spoke　so　loudly　that　several　of　the　diners　closest　to　his　pulpit…like　desk　stopped　eating　and　looked　around　curiously。
　　I　looked　around　myself。　He　had　been　so　emphatic　I　expected　to　see　somebody's　dog；　but　there　was　no　one　behind　me　and　most　certainly　no　dog。　It　occurred　to　me　then；　I　don't　know　why；　that　he　was　talking　about　my　umbrella；　that　perhaps　on　the　Island　of　the　Ma？tre　D's；　dog　was　a　slang　term　for　umbrella；　especially　when　carried　by　a　patron　on　a　day　when　rain　did　not　seem　likely。
　　I　looked　back　at　the　ma？tre　d'　and　saw　that　he　had　already　started　away　from　his　desk；　holding　my　menu　in　his　hands。　He　must　have　sensed　that　I　wasn't　following；　because　he　looked　back　over　his　shoulder；　eyebrows　slightly　raised。　There　was　nothing　on　his　face　now　but　polite　enquiry…Are　you　ing；　messoo？…and　I　came。　I　knew　something　was　wrong　with　him；　but　I　came。　I　could　not　take　the　time　or　effort　to　try　to　decide　what　might　be　wrong　with　the　ma？tre　d'　of　a　restaurant　where　I　had　never　been　before　today　and　where　I　would　probably　never　be　again；　I　had　Humboldt　and　Diane　to　deal　with；　I　had　to　do　it　without　smoking；　and　the　ma？tre　d'　of　the　Gotham　Café　would　have　to　take　care　of　his　own　problems；　dog　included。
　　
　　Diane　turned　around　and　at　first　I　saw　nothing　in　her　face　and　in　her　eyes　but　a　kind　of　frozen　politeness。　Then；　just　below　it；　I　saw　anger；　or　thought　I　did。　We'd　done　a　lot　of　arguing　during　our　last　three　or　four　months　together；　but　I　couldn't　recall　ever　seeing　the　sort　of　concealed　anger　I　sensed　in　her　now；　anger　that　was　meant　to　be　hidden　by　the　makeup　and　the　new　dress　（blue；　no　speckles；　no　slit　up　the　side）　and　the　new　hairdo。　The　heavyset　man　she　was　with　was　saying　something；　and　she　reached　out　and　touched　his　arm。　As　he　turned　toward　me；　beginning　to　get　to　his　feet；　I　saw　something　else　in　her　face。　She　was　afraid　of　me　as　well　as　angry　with　me。　And　although　she　hadn't　said　a　single　word；　I　was　already　furious　at　her。　Everything　on　her　face　and　in　her　eyes　was　negative；　she　might　as　well　have　been　wearing　a　CLOSED　UNTIL　FURTHER　NOTICE　sign　on　her　forehead。　I　thought　I　deserved　better。
　　'Monsieur；'　the　ma？tre　d'　said；　pulling　out　the　chair　to　Diane's　left。　I　barely　heard　him；　and　certainly　any　thought　of　his　eccentric　behavior　and　crooked　bow…tie　had　left　my　head。　I　think　that　even　the　subject　of　tobacco　had　briefly　vacated　my　head　for　the　first　time　since　I'd　quit　smoking。　I　could　only　consider　the　careful　posure　of　her　face　and　marvel　at　how　I　could　be　angry　with　her　and　still　want　her　so　much　it　made　me　ache　to　look　at　her。　Absence　may　or　may　not　make　the　heart　grow　fonder；　but　it　certainly　freshens　the　eye。
　　I　also　found　time　to　wonder　if　I　had　really　seen　all　I'd　surmised。　Anger？　Yes；　that　was　possible；　even　likely。　If　she　hadn't　been　angry　with　me　to　at　least　some　degree；　she　never　would　have　left　in　the　first　place；　I　supposed。　But　afraid？　Why　in　God's　name　would　Diane　be　afraid　of　me？　I'd　never　laid　a　single　finger　on　her。　Yes；　I　suppose　I　had　raised　my　voice　during　some　of　our　arguments；　but　so　had　she。
　　'Enjoy　your　lunch；　monsieur；'　the　ma？tre　d'　said　from　some　other　universe…the　one　where　service　people　usually　stay；　only　poking　their　heads　into　ours　when　we　call　them；　either　because　we　need　something　or　to　plain。
　　'Mr。　Davis；　I'm　Bill　Humboldt；'　Diane's　panion　said。　He　held　out　a　large　hand　that　looked　reddish　and　chapped。　I　shook　it　briefly。　The　rest　of　him　was　as　big　as　his　hand；　and　his　broad　face　wore　the　sort　of　flush　habitual　drinkers　often　get　after　the　first　one　of　the　day。　I　put　him　in　his　mid…forties；　about　ten　years　away　from　the　time　when　his　sagging　cheeks　would　turn　into　jowls。
　　'Pleasure；'　I　said；　not　thinking　about　what　I　was　saying　any　more　than　I　was　thinking　about　the　ma？tre　d'　with　the　blob　on　his　shirt；　only　wanting　to　get　the　hand…shaking　part　over　so　I　could　turn　back　to　the　pretty　blonde　with　the　rose…and…cream　plexion；　the　pale　pink　lips；　and　the　trim；　slim　figure。　The　woman　who　had；　not　so　long　ago；　liked　to　whisper　'Do　me　do　me　do　me'　in　my　ear　while　she　held　onto　my　ass　like　a　saddle　with　two　pommels。
　　'Where　is　Mr。　Ring？'　Humboldt　asked；　looking　around　（a　bit　theatrically；　I　thought）。
　　'Mr。　Ring　is　on　his　way　to　Long　Island。　His　mother　fell　downstairs　and　broke　her　hip。'
　　'Oh；　wonderful；'　Humboldt　said。　He　picked　up　the　half…finished　martini　in　front　of　him　on　the　table　and　drained　it　until　the　olive　with　the　toothpick　in　it　rested　against　his　lips。　He　spat　it　back；　then　set　the　glass　down　and　looked　at　me。　'And　I　bet　I　can　guess　what　he　told　you。'
　　I　heard　this　but　paid　no　attention。　For　the　time　being；　Humboldt　was　no　more　important　than　minor　static　on　a　radio　program　you　really　want　to　hear。　I　looked　at　Diane　instead。　It　was　marvellous；　really；　how　she　looked　smarter　and　prettier　than　previous。　As　if　she　had　learned　things…yes；　even　after　only　two　weeks　of　separation；　and　while　living　with　Ernie　and　Dee　Dee　Coslaw　in　Pound　Ridge…that　I　could　never　know。
　　'How　are　you；　Steve？'　she　asked。
　　'Fine；'　I　said。　Then；　'Not　so　fine；　actually。　I've　missed　you。'
　　Only　watchful