Chapter 43 - At Another New Restaurant

For a limited period of time I'm capable of being halfwaycheerful and outgoing, so I accept Evelyn's invitation to dinnerduring the ɹrst week of November at Luke, a new superchicnouvelle Chinese restaurant that also serves, oddly enough,Creole cuisine. We have a good table (I reserved underWintergreen's name—the simplest of triumphs) and I feelanchored, calm, even with Evelyn sitting across from me prattlingon about a very large Fabergé egg she thought she saw at thePierre, rolling around the lobby of its own accord or somethinglike that. The oɽce Halloween party was at the Royalton lastweek and I went as a mass murderer, complete with a signpainted on my back that read MASS MURDERER (which was decidedlylighter than the sandwich board I had constructed earlier that daythat read DRILLER KILLER), and beneath those two words I hadwritten in blood Yep, that's me and the suit was also covered withblood, some of it fake, most of it real. In one ɹst I clenched ahank of Victoria Bell's hair, and pinned next to my boutonniere (asmall white rose) was a ɹnger bone I'd boiled the ɻesh oʃ of. Aselaborate as my costume was, Craig McDermott still managed towin ɹrst place in the competition. He came as Ivan Boesky, whichI thought was unfair since a lot of people thought I'd gone asMichael Milken last year. The Patty Winters Show this morningwas about Home Abortion Kits.The ɹrst ɹve minutes after being seated are ɹne, then the drinkI ordered touches the table and I instinctively reach for it, but Iɹnd myself cringing every time Evelyn opens her mouth. I noticethat Saul Steinberg is eating here tonight, but refuse to mentionthis to Evelyn."A toast?" I suggest."Oh? To what?" she murmurs uninterestedly, craning her neck,looking around the stark, dimly lit, very white room."Freedom?" I ask tiredly.But she's not listening, because some English guy wearing athree-button wool houndstooth suit, a tattersall wool vest, aspread-collar cotton oxford shirt, suede shoes and a silk tie, all byGarrick Anderson, whom Evelyn pointed out once after we'd hada ɹght at Au Bar and called "gorgeous," and whom I had called"a dwarf," walks over to our table, openly ɻirting with her, and itpisses me oʃ to think that she feels I'm jealous about this guy butI eventually get the last laugh when he asks if she still has the jobat "that art gallery on First Avenue" and Evelyn, clearly stressed,her face falling, answers no, corrects him, and after a fewawkward words he moves on. She sniʃs, opens her menu,immediately starts on about something else without looking atme."What are all these T-shirts I've been seeing?" she asks. "Allover the city? Have you seen them? Silkience Equals Death? Arepeople having problems with their conditioners or something?Am I missing something? What were we talking about?""No, that's absolutely wrong. It's Science Equals Death." I sigh,close my eyes. "Jesus, Evelyn, only you could confuse that and ahair product." I have no idea what the hell I'm saying but I nod,waving to someone at the bar, an older man, his face covered inshadow, someone I only half know, actually, but he manages toraise his champagne glass my way and smile back, which is arelief."Who's that?" I hear Evelyn asking."He's a friend of mine," I say."I don't recognize him," she says. "P & P?""Forget it," I sigh."Who is it, Patrick?" she asks, more interested in my reluctancethan in an actual name."Why?" I ask back."Who is it?" she asks. "Tell me.""A friend of mine," I say, teeth gritted."Who, Patrick?" she asks, then, squinting, "Wasn't he at myChristmas party?""No, he was not," I say, my hands drumming the tabletop."Isn't it ... Michael J. Fox?" she asks, still squinting. "Theactor?""Hardly," I say, then, fed up, "Oh for Christ sakes, his name isGeorge Levanter and no, he didn't star in The Secret of MySuccess.""Oh how interesting." Already Evelyn is back poring over themenu. "Now, what were we talking about?"Trying to remember, I ask, "Conditioners? Or some kind ofconditioner?" I sigh. "I don't know. You were talking to thedwarf.""Ian is not a midget, Patrick," she says."He is unusually short, Evelyn," I counter. "Are you sure hewasn't at your Christmas party"—and then, my voice lowered—"serving hors d'oeuvres?""You cannot keep referring to Ian as a dwarf," she says,smoothing her napkin over her lap. "I will not stand for it," shewhispers, not looking at me.I can't restrain myself from snickering."It isn't funny, Patrick," she says."You cut the conversation short," I point out."Did you expect me to be ɻattered?" she spits out bitterly."Listen, baby, I'm just trying to make that encounter seem aslegitimate as possible, so don't, uh, you know, screw it up foryourself.""Just stop it," she says, ignoring me. "Oh look, it's RobertFarrell." After waving to him, she discreetly points him out to meand sure enough, Bob Farrell, whom everyone likes, is sitting onthe north side of the room at a window table, which secretlydrives me mad. "He's very good-looking," Evelyn conɹdesadmiringly, only because she's noticed me contemplating thetwenty-year-old hardbody he's sitting with, and to make sure I'veregistered this she teasingly chirps, "Hope I'm not making youjealous.""He's handsome," I admit. "Stupid-looking but handsome.""Don't be nasty. He's very handsome," she says and thensuggests, "Why don't you get your hair styled that way?"Before this comment I was an automaton, only vaguely payingattention to Evelyn, but now I'm panicked, and I ask, "What'swrong with my hair?" In a matter of seconds my rage quadruples."What the hell is wrong with my hair?" I touch it lightly."Nothing," she says, noticing how upset I've gotten. "Just asuggestion," and then, really noticing how ɻushed I've become,"Your hair looks really ... really great." She tries to smile but onlysucceeds in looking worried.A sip—half a glass—of the J&B calms me enough to say,looking over at Farrell, "Actually, I'm horriɹed by his paunch."Evelyn studies Farrell too. "Oh, he doesn't have a paunch.""That's deɹnitely a paunch," I say. "Look at it.""That's just the way he's sitting," she says, exasperated. "Ohyou're—""It's a paunch, Evelyn," I stress."Oh you're crazy." She waves me oʃ. "A lunatic.""Evelyn, the man is barely thirty.""So what? Everyone's not into weight lifting like you," shesays, annoyed, looking back at the menu."I do not 'weight lift,'" I sigh."Oh go over and sock him in the nose, then, you big bully," shesays, brushing me oʃ. "I really don't care.""Don't tempt me," I warn her, then looking back at Farrell Imutter, "What a creep.""Oh my god, Patrick. You have no right to be so embittered,"Evelyn says angrily, still staring into her menu. "Your animosityis grounded on nothing. There must be something really thematter with you.""Look at his suit," I point out, unable to help myself. "Look atwhat he's wearing.""Oh so what, Patrick." She turns a page, ɹnds it has nothing onit and turns back to the page she was previously studying."Hasn't it occurred to him that his suit might inspire loathing?"I ask."Patrick you are being a lunatic," she says, shaking her head,now looking over the wine list."Goddamnit, Evelyn. What do you mean, being?" I say. "Ifucking am one.""Must you be so militant about it?" she asks."I don't know." I shrug."Anyway, I was going to tell you what happened to Melaniaand Taylor and ..." She notices something and in the samesentence adds, sighing, "... stop looking at my chest, Patrick.Look at me, not my chest. Now anyway, Taylor Grassgreen andMelania were ... You know Melania, she went to Sweet Briar. Herfather owns all those banks in Dallas? And Taylor went toCornell. Anyway, they were supposed to meet at the Cornell Cluband then they had a reservation at Mondrian at seven and he waswearing ..." She stops, retraces. "No. Le Cygne. They were goingto Le Cygne and Taylor was ..." She stops again. "Oh god, it wasMondrian. Mondrian at seven and he was wearing a Piero Dimitrisuit. Melania had been shopping. I think she'd been to Bergdorf s,though I'm not positive—but anyway, oh yes ... it was Bergdorf'sbecause she was wearing the scarf at the oɽce the other day, soanyway, she hadn't been to her aerobics class for something liketwo days and they were mugged on one of—""Waiter?" I call to someone passing by. "Another drink? J&B?"I point to the glass, upset that I phrased it as a question ratherthan a command."Don't you want to ɹnd out what happened?" Evelyn asks,displeased."With bated breath," I sigh, totally uninterested. "I can hardlywait.""Anyway, the most amusing thing happened," she starts.I am absorbing what you are saying to me, I'm thinking. Inotice her lack of carnality and for the ɹrst time it taunts me.Before, it was what attracted me to Evelyn. Now its absenceupsets me, seems sinister, ɹlls me with a nameless dread. At ourlast session—yesterday, in fact—the psychiatrist I've been seeingfor the past two months asked, "What method of contraception doyou and Evelyn use?" and I sighed before answering, my eyesɹxed out the window on a skyscraper, then at the painting abovethe Turchin glass coʃee table, a giant visual reproduction of agraphic equalizer by another artist, not Onica. "Her job." Whenhe asked about her preferred sexual act, I told him, completelyserious, "Foreclosure." Dimly aware that if it weren't for thepeople in the restaurant I would take the jade chopsticks sittingon the table and push them deep into Evelyn's eyes and snapthem in two, I nod, pretending to listen, but I've already phasedout and I don't do the chopsticks thing. Instead I order a bottle ofthe Chassagne Montrachet."Isn't that amusing?" Evelyn asks.Casually laughing along with her, the sounds coming out of mymouth loaded with scorn, I admit, "Riotous." I say it suddenly,blankly. My gaze traces the line of women at the bar. Are thereany I'd like to fuck? Probably. The long-legged hardbody sippinga kir on the last stool? Perhaps. Evelyn is agonizing between themâché raisin and gumbo salade or the gratinized beet, hazelnut,baby greens and endive salad and I suddenly feel like I've beenpumped full of clonopin, which is an anticonvulsive, but it wasn'tdoing any good."Christ, twenty dollars for a fucking egg roll?" I mutter,studying the menu."It's a moo shu custard, lightly grilled," she says."It's a fucking egg roll," I protest.To which Evelyn replies, "You're so cultivated, Patrick.""No." I shrug. "Just reasonable.""I'm desperate for some Beluga," she says. "Honey?""No," I say."Why not?" she asks, pouting."Because I don't want anything out of a can or that's Iranian," Isigh.She sniʃs haughtily and looks back at the menu. "The moo foojambalaya is really ɹrst-rate," I hear her say.The minutes tick by. We order. The meal arrives. Typically, theplate is massive, white porcelain; two pieces of blackenedyellowtail sashimi with ginger lie in the middle, surrounded bytiny dots of wasabi, which is circled by a minuscule amount ofhijiki, and on top of the plate sits one lone baby prawn; anotherone, even smaller, lies curled on the bottom, which confuses mesince I thought this was primarily a Chinese restaurant. I stare atthe plate for a long time and when I ask for some water, ourwaiter reappears with a pepper shaker instead and insists onhanging around our table, constantly asking us at ɹve-minuteintervals if we'd like "some pepper, perhaps?" or "more pepper?"and once the fool moves over to another booth, whose occupants,I can see out of the corner of my eye, both cover their plates withtheir hands, I wave the maître d' over and ask him, "Could youplease tell the waiter with the pepper shaker to stop hoveringover our table? We don't want pepper. We haven't orderedanything that needs pepper. No pepper. Tell him to get lost.""Of course. My apologizes." The maître d' humbly bows.Embarrassed, Evelyn asks, "Must you be so overly polite?"I put down my fork and shut my eyes. "Why are you constantlyundermining my stability?"She breathes in. "Let's just have a conversation. Not aninterrogation. Okay?""About what?" I snarl"Listen," she says. "The Young Republican bash at the Pla ..."She stops herself as if remembering something, then continues,"at the Trump Plaza is next Thursday." I want to tell her I can'tmake it, hoping to god she has other plans, even though twoweeks ago, drunk and coked up at Mortimer's or Au Bar, I invitedher, for Christ sakes. "Are we going?"After a pause, "I guess," I say glumly.For dessert I've arranged something special. At a powerbreakfast at the '21′ Club this morning with Craig McDermott,Alex Baxter and Charles Kennedy, I stole a urinal cake from themen's room when the attendant wasn't looking. At home Icovered it with a cheap chocolate syrup, froze it, then placed it inan empty Godiva box, tying a silk bow around it, and now, inLuke, when I excuse myself to the rest room, I make my wayinstead to the kitchen, after I've stopped at the coatcheck toretrieve the package, and I ask our waiter to present this to thetable "in the box" and to tell the lady seated there that Mr.Bateman called up earlier to order this especially for her. I eventell him, while opening the box, to put a ɻower on it, whatever,hand him a ɹfty. He brings it over once a suitable amount of timehas elapsed, after our plates have been removed, and I'mimpressed by what a big deal he makes over it; he's even placed asilver dome over the box and Evelyn coos with delight when helifts it oʃ, saying "Voi-ra," and she makes a move for the spoonhe's laid next to her water glass (that I make sure is empty) and,turning to me, Evelyn says, "Patrick, that's so sweet," and I nod tothe waiter, smiling, and wave him away when he tries to place aspoon on my side of the table."Aren't you having any?" Evelyn asks, concerned. She hoversover the chocolate-dipped urinal cake anxiously, poised. "I adoreGodiva.""I'm not hungry," I say. "Dinner was ... ɹlling."She leans down, smelling the brown oval, and, catching a scentof something (probably disinfectant), asks me, now dismayed,"Are you ... sure?""No, darling," I say. "I want you to eat it. There's not a lotthere."She takes the ɹrst bite, chewing dutifully, immediately andobviously disgusted, then swallows. She shudders, then makes agrimace but tries to smile as she takes another tentative bite."How is it?" I ask, then, urging, "Eat it. It's not poisoned oranything."Her face, twisted with displeasure, manages to blanch again asif she were gagging."What?" I ask, grinning. "What is it?""It's so ..." Her face is now one long agonized grimace maskand, shuddering, she coughs. "... minty." But she tries to smileappreciatively, which becomes an impossibility. She reaches formy glass of water and gulps it down, desperate to rid her mouthof the taste. Then, noticing how worried I look, she tries to smile,this time apologetically. "It's just"—she shudders again—"it's just... so minty."To me she looks like a big black ant—a big black ant in anoriginal Christian Lacroix—eating a urinal cake and I almost startlaughing, but I also want to keep her at ease. I don't want her toget second thoughts about ɹnishing the urinal cake. But she can'teat any more and with only two bites taken, pretending to be full,she pushes the tainted plate away, and at this moment I startfeeling strange. Even though I marveled at her eating that thing,it also makes me sad and suddenly I'm reminded that no matterhow satisfying it was to see Evelyn eating something I, andcountless others, had pissed on, in the end the displeasure itcaused her was at my expense—it's an anticlimax, a futile excuseto put up with her for three hours. My jaw begins to clench,relax, clench, relax, involuntarily. There is music playingsomewhere but I can't hear it. Evelyn asks the waiter, hoarsely, ifperhaps he could get her some Life Savers from the Korean deliaround the block.Then, very simply, dinner reaches its crisis point, when Evelynsays, "I want a ɹrm commitment."The evening has already deteriorated considerably so thiscomment doesn't ruin anything or leave me unprepared, but theunreasonableness of our situation is choking me and I push mywater glass back toward Evelyn and ask the waiter to remove thehalf-eaten urinal cake. My endurance for tonight is shot thesecond the melting dessert is taken away. For the ɹrst time Inotice that she has been eyeing me for the last two years not withadoration but with something closer to greed. Someone ɹnallybrings her a water glass along with a bottle of Evian I didn't hearher order."I think, Evelyn, that ..." I start, stall, start again. "... thatwe've lost touch.""Why? What's wrong?" She's waving to a couple—LawrenceMontgomery and Geena Webster, I think—and from across theroom Geena (?) holds up her hand, which has a bracelet on it.Evelyn nods approvingly."My ... my need to engage in ... homicidal behavior on amassive scale cannot be, um, corrected," I tell her, measuringeach word carefully. "But I ... have no other way to express myblocked ... needs." I'm surprised at how emotional this admissionmakes me, and it wears me down; I feel light-headed. As usual,Evelyn misses the essence of what I'm saying, and I wonder howlong it will take to ɹnally rid myself of her."We need to talk," I say quietly.She puts her empty water glass down and stares at me."Patrick," she begins. "If you're going to start in again on why Ishould have breast implants, I'm leaving," she warns.I consider this, then, "It's over, Evelyn. It's all over.""Touchy, touchy," she says, motioning to the waiter for morewater."I'm serious," I say quietly. "It is fucking over. Us. This is nojoke."She looks back at me and I think that maybe someone isactually comprehending what I'm trying to get through to them,but then she says, "Let's just avoid the issue, all right? I'm sorry Isaid anything. Now, are we having coʃee?" Again she waves thewaiter over."I'll have a decaf espresso," Evelyn says. "Patrick?""Port," I sigh. "Any kind of port.""Would you like to see—" the waiter begins."Just the most expensive port," I cut him oʃ. "And oh yeah, adry beer.""My my," Evelyn murmurs after the waiter leaves."Are you still seeing your shrink?" I ask."Patrick," she warns. "Who?""Sorry," I sigh. "Your doctor.""No." She opens her handbag, looking for something."Why not?" I ask, concerned."I told you why," she says dismissively."But I don't remember," I say, mimicking her."At the end of a session he asked me if I could get him plusthree into Nell's that night." She checks her mouth, the lips, inthe mirror of the compact. "Why do you ask?""Because I think you need to see someone," I begin, hesitantly,honestly. "I think you are emotionally unstable.""You have a poster of Oliver North in your apartment andyou're calling me unstable?" she asks, searching for somethingelse in the handbag."No. You are, Evelyn," I say."Exaggerating. You're exaggerating," she says, riɻing throughthe bag, not looking at me.I sigh, but then begin gravely, "I'm not going to push the issue,but—""How uncharacteristic of you, Patrick," she says."Evelyn. This has got to end," I sigh, talking to my napkin. "I'mtwenty-seven. I don't want to be weighed down with acommitment.""Honey?" she asks."Don't call me that," I snap."What? Honey?" she asks."Yes," I snap again."What do you want me to call you?" she asks, indignantly."CEO?" She stiɻes a giggle."Oh Christ.""No, really Patrick. What do you want me to call you?"King, I'm thinking. King, Evelyn. I want you to call me King.But I don't say this. "Evelyn. I don't want you to call meanything. I don't think we should see each other anymore.""But your friends are my friends. My friends are your friends. Idon't think it would work," she says, and then, staring at a spotabove my mouth, "You have a tiny ɻeck on the top of your lip.Use your napkin."Exasperated, I brush the ɻeck away. "Listen, I know that yourfriends are my friends and vice versa. I've thought about that."After a pause I say, breathing in, "You can have them."Finally she looks at me, confused, and murmurs, "You're reallyserious, aren't you?""Yes," I say. "I am.""But ... what about us? What about the past?" she asks blankly."The past isn't real. It's just a dream," I say. "Don't mention thepast."She narrows her eyes with suspicion. "Do you have somethingagainst me, Patrick?" And then the hardness in her face changesinstantaneously to expectation, maybe hope."Evelyn," I sigh. "I'm sorry. You're just ... not terriblyimportant ... to me."Without missing a beat she demands, "Well, who is? Who doyou think is, Patrick? Who do you want?" After an angry pauseshe asks, "Cher?""Cher?" I ask back, confused. "Cher? What are you talkingabout? Oh forget it. I want it over. I need sex on a regular basis. Ineed to be distracted."In a matter of seconds she becomes frantic, barely able tocontain the rising hysteria that's surging through her body. I'mnot enjoying it as much as I thought I would. "But what about thepast? Our past?" she asks again, uselessly."Don't mention it," I tell her, leaning in."Why not?""Because we never really shared one," I say, keeping my voicefrom rising.She calms herself down and, ignoring me, opening her handbagagain, mutters, "Pathological. Your behavior is pathological.""What does that mean?" I ask, oʃended."Abhorrent. You're pathological." She ɹnds a Laura Ashleypillbox and unsnaps it."Pathological what?" I ask, trying to smile."Forget it." She takes a pill that I don't recognize and uses mywater to swallow it."I'm pathological? You're telling me that I'm pathological?" Iask."We look at the world diʃerently, Patrick." She sniʃs."Thank god," I say viciously."You're inhuman," she says, trying, I think, not to cry."I'm"—I stall, attempting to defend myself—"in touch with ...humanity.""No, no, no." She shakes her head."I know my behavior is ... erratic sometimes," I say, fumbling.Suddenly, desperately, she takes my hand from across thetable, pulling it closer to her. "What do you want me to do? Whatis it you want?""Oh Evelyn," I groan, pulling my hand away, shocked that I'veɹnally gotten through to her.She's crying. "What do you want me to do, Patrick? Tell me.Please," she begs."You should ... oh god, I don't know. Wear erotic underwear?"I say, guessing. "Oh Jesus, Evelyn. I don't know. Nothing. Youcan't do anything.""Please, what can I do?" she sobs quietly."Smile less often? Know more about cars? Say my name withless regularity? Is this what you want to hear?" I ask. "It won'tchange anything. You don't even drink beer," I mutter."But you don't drink beer either.""That doesn't matter. Besides, I just ordered one. So there.""Oh Patrick.""If you really want to do something for me, you can stopmaking a scene right now," I say, looking uncomfortably aroundthe room."Waiter?" she asks, as soon as he sets down the decaf espresso,the port and the dry beer. "I'll have a ... I'll have a ... a what?"She looks over at me tearfully, confused and panicked. "ACorona? Is that what you drink, Patrick? A Corona?""Oh my god. Give it up. Please, just excuse her," I tell thewaiter, then, as soon as he walks away, "Yes. A Corona. But we'rein a fucking Chinese-Cajun bistro so—""Oh god, Patrick," she sobs, blowing her nose into thehandkerchief I've tossed at her. "You're so lousy. You're ...inhuman.""No, I'm ..." I stall again."You ... are not ..." She stops, wiping her face, unable to ɹnish."I'm not what?" I ask, waiting, interested."You are not"—she sniʃs, looks down, her shoulders heaving—"all there. You"—she chokes—"don't add up.""I do too," I say indignantly, defending myself. "I do too addup.""You're a ghoul," she sobs."No, no," I say, confused, watching her. "You're the ghoul.""Oh god," she moans, causing the table next to ours to lookover, then away. "I can't believe this.""I'm leaving now," I say soothingly. "I've assessed the situationand I'm going.""Don't," she says, trying to grab my hand. "Don't go.""I'm leaving, Evelyn.""Where are you going?" Suddenly she looks remarkablycomposed. She's been careful not to let the tears, which actuallyI've just noticed are very few, aʃect her makeup. "Tell me,Patrick, where are you going?"I've placed a cigar on the table. She's too upset to evencomment. "I'm just leaving," I say simply."But where?" she asks, more tears welling up. "Where are yougoing?"Everyone in the restaurant within a particular aural distanceseems to be looking the other way."Where are you going?" she asks again.I make no comment, lost in my own private maze, thinkingabout other things: warrants, stock oʃerings, ESOPs, LBOs, IPOs,ɹnances, reɹnances, debentures, converts, proxy statements, 8-Ks,10-Qs, zero coupons, PiKs, GNPs, the IMF, hot executive gadgets,billionaires, Kenkichi Nakajima, inɹnity, Inɹnity, how fast aluxury car should go, bailouts, junk bonds, whether to cancel mysubscription to The Economist, the Christmas Eve when I wasfourteen and had raped one of our maids, Inclusivity, envyingsomeone's life, whether someone could survive a fractured skull,waiting in airports, stiɻing a scream, credit cards and someone'spassport and a book of matches from La Côte Basque splatteredwith blood, surface surface surface, a Rolls is a Rolls is a Rolls. ToEvelyn our relationship is yellow and blue, but to me it's a grayplace, most of it blacked out, bombed, footage from the ɹlm inmy head is endless shots of stone and any language heard isutterly foreign, the sound ɻickering away over new images: bloodpouring from automated tellers, women giving birth throughtheir assholes, embryos frozen or scrambled (which is it?),nuclear warheads, billions of dollars, the total destruction of theworld, someone gets beaten up, someone else dies, sometimesbloodlessly, more often mostly by riɻe shot, assassinations,comas, life played out as a sitcom, a blank canvas thatreconɹgures itself into a soap opera. It's an isolation ward thatserves only to expose my own severely impaired capacity to feel.I am at its center, out of season, and no one ever asks me for anyidentiɹcation. I suddenly imagine Evelyn's skeleton, twisted andcrumbling, and this ɹlls me with glee. It takes a long time toanswer her question—Where are you going?—but after a sip of theport, then the dry beer, rousing myself, I tell her, at the sametime wondering: If I were an actual automaton what diʃerencewould there really be?"Libya," and then, after a signiɹcant pause, "Pago Pago. Imeant to say Pago Pago," and then I add, "Because of youroutburst I'm not paying for this meal."