The dinner date
London Thameson had been in utter distraught for several hours now. He was pacing on the carpet between the bed and the bathroom. He quite consistently dismissed сhambermaids who knocked on his door several times. First, his tuxedo was lost in the cleaning, then found but returned to him damp and unironed. A quarter of an hour later the hotel's chief concierge apologised and personally delivered champagne, cognac and a fruit basket to his room. But at that moment, Thameson wanted his tuxedo more than anything else: clean, pressed, with cuffs and a stiff starched collar.
He brushed his teeth several times, sniffed all his colognes without finding a suitable fragrance, and pomaded his hair so it felt like a helmet on his head. All while pacing around the room in underwear, socks and garters, enrobed in a dressing gown for the sake of the maids.
Yesterday morning, upon arriving in Paris on a business matter, he had a strong desire to carp at every cobblestone, lantern and inhabitant, especially foreigners who came here after the war in search of joie de vivre. What could they possibly find in that tourbillon of indulgence, in the mad chaos of endless spree? But later that evening, this strong opinion was shattered by meeting one Patty Delaseine – or Paris.
The penultimate time he had a glimpse of her was during the war. Back then, his face had been covered by bandages, so she had no chance of recognising him. The next time they both accompanied a delegation that concluded an armistice with Germany, but they hadn’t had a chance to talk. In addition, because of the war, Thameson had not communicated with his kind for a long time and was somehow pining for such meetings.
Either he had already forgotten her appearance, or maybe the brilliance of the evening suited her much more than a soldier's uniform or a nurse's apron, but meeting her this time left an impression on him. Perhaps even a stronger one than he was ready to admit to himself. Without realising what he was doing, he followed her until she noticed him. When, upon having sent away her companions, she allowed him to capture all her attention, Thameson lost his eloquence. He started to say something several times, and she waited patiently and smiled gently. He was thinking—maybe even hoping?—that she would try to leave, but she was in no hurry and did not urge him. There, on a dim-lit balcony, for him, she stopped time.
And then, bypassing all other elements of conversation, attributes of social tone and compliments, he invited her to a restaurant, and this was the sole thing he managed to vocalise. His invitation transformed Patty, if such a thing was possible at all, and Thameson was left completely speechless. They stood there for a while, looking at each other in silence. Then someone came looking for her, and she quickly named a place and time and flew away smiling most happily.
Despite all his worries, his tuxedo arrived on time. After freshening up and putting it on, London felt a surge of confidence, as if the tuxedo served as armour for him (and mainly shielded him from self-reproaches). He emerged from the room, leaving doubts and unnecessary emotions behind its door.
He arrived at the restaurant ahead of time and walked up and down the street. He stared at the freedom-loving, independent flappers and gentlemen who were inferior in everything in comparison to them. Someone was wearing a vase of flowers on their head in the manner of a hat, another was reading poems without drawing breaths, which sounded like an accelerated tongue twister; a lamp flashed, accompanying camera clicks; dialects of the whole world spoke to each other. The rain washed the pavements, adding a slight sheen to the streets, and the low winter sky bowed down to have a better look at the city, which was boiling with life, shining in the night.
At the appointed hour, Thameson was already seated at the table. The restaurant contrasted with the street in terms of liveliness and noise: despite distant piano notes and quiet conversations accompanied by tinkling silverware, the atmosphere was serene. He suddenly realised that Patty’s choice of place wasn’t accidental.
Besides, she was late. And of course, she was excusable. But soon London began to take her lateness personally. Undoubtedly, Patty was so surprised by the scarcity of their last conversation that she failed to decline the invitation. Or, even worse, she agreed just to laugh at him and was spending her evening in a different company.
The maître d' appeared in the hall. He was escorting a lady, and at first Thameson didn't even realise who she was. Upon noticing lavender eyes and a familiar smile, he jumped and almost knocked his chair over.
As much as London hated this highly saccharine comparison, it was the most accurate: an angel was approaching him. The diamond hoop adorning her white head resembled a halo, and the collar of her fur coat resembled a magnificent cloud. And maybe Thameson’s eyes deceived him, but when the fur slid down, allowing a thousand sequins to sparkle on her dress, Patty herself had become a source of light. Other guests noticed her, too.
As in a dream, without fully realising his actions, he pulled out a chair for her, and she gracefully sank onto it, throwing off her fur coat with a movement of a delicate shoulder. He searched for the appropriate words for an inappropriately long time, but everything that came to mind seemed, in many ways, not enough for her.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Not really. Are you?’
‘I don't know,’ he replied. At once, he felt ashamed of himself.
Patty, however, didn’t seem discouraged.
‘Le chef here is my friend. He makes the best pâté in the whole city. What would be your preference in wine tonight?..’
He brushed his teeth several times, sniffed all his colognes without finding a suitable fragrance, and pomaded his hair so it felt like a helmet on his head. All while pacing around the room in underwear, socks and garters, enrobed in a dressing gown for the sake of the maids.
Yesterday morning, upon arriving in Paris on a business matter, he had a strong desire to carp at every cobblestone, lantern and inhabitant, especially foreigners who came here after the war in search of joie de vivre. What could they possibly find in that tourbillon of indulgence, in the mad chaos of endless spree? But later that evening, this strong opinion was shattered by meeting one Patty Delaseine – or Paris.
The penultimate time he had a glimpse of her was during the war. Back then, his face had been covered by bandages, so she had no chance of recognising him. The next time they both accompanied a delegation that concluded an armistice with Germany, but they hadn’t had a chance to talk. In addition, because of the war, Thameson had not communicated with his kind for a long time and was somehow pining for such meetings.
Either he had already forgotten her appearance, or maybe the brilliance of the evening suited her much more than a soldier's uniform or a nurse's apron, but meeting her this time left an impression on him. Perhaps even a stronger one than he was ready to admit to himself. Without realising what he was doing, he followed her until she noticed him. When, upon having sent away her companions, she allowed him to capture all her attention, Thameson lost his eloquence. He started to say something several times, and she waited patiently and smiled gently. He was thinking—maybe even hoping?—that she would try to leave, but she was in no hurry and did not urge him. There, on a dim-lit balcony, for him, she stopped time.
And then, bypassing all other elements of conversation, attributes of social tone and compliments, he invited her to a restaurant, and this was the sole thing he managed to vocalise. His invitation transformed Patty, if such a thing was possible at all, and Thameson was left completely speechless. They stood there for a while, looking at each other in silence. Then someone came looking for her, and she quickly named a place and time and flew away smiling most happily.
Despite all his worries, his tuxedo arrived on time. After freshening up and putting it on, London felt a surge of confidence, as if the tuxedo served as armour for him (and mainly shielded him from self-reproaches). He emerged from the room, leaving doubts and unnecessary emotions behind its door.
He arrived at the restaurant ahead of time and walked up and down the street. He stared at the freedom-loving, independent flappers and gentlemen who were inferior in everything in comparison to them. Someone was wearing a vase of flowers on their head in the manner of a hat, another was reading poems without drawing breaths, which sounded like an accelerated tongue twister; a lamp flashed, accompanying camera clicks; dialects of the whole world spoke to each other. The rain washed the pavements, adding a slight sheen to the streets, and the low winter sky bowed down to have a better look at the city, which was boiling with life, shining in the night.
At the appointed hour, Thameson was already seated at the table. The restaurant contrasted with the street in terms of liveliness and noise: despite distant piano notes and quiet conversations accompanied by tinkling silverware, the atmosphere was serene. He suddenly realised that Patty’s choice of place wasn’t accidental.
Besides, she was late. And of course, she was excusable. But soon London began to take her lateness personally. Undoubtedly, Patty was so surprised by the scarcity of their last conversation that she failed to decline the invitation. Or, even worse, she agreed just to laugh at him and was spending her evening in a different company.
The maître d' appeared in the hall. He was escorting a lady, and at first Thameson didn't even realise who she was. Upon noticing lavender eyes and a familiar smile, he jumped and almost knocked his chair over.
As much as London hated this highly saccharine comparison, it was the most accurate: an angel was approaching him. The diamond hoop adorning her white head resembled a halo, and the collar of her fur coat resembled a magnificent cloud. And maybe Thameson’s eyes deceived him, but when the fur slid down, allowing a thousand sequins to sparkle on her dress, Patty herself had become a source of light. Other guests noticed her, too.
As in a dream, without fully realising his actions, he pulled out a chair for her, and she gracefully sank onto it, throwing off her fur coat with a movement of a delicate shoulder. He searched for the appropriate words for an inappropriately long time, but everything that came to mind seemed, in many ways, not enough for her.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Not really. Are you?’
‘I don't know,’ he replied. At once, he felt ashamed of himself.
Patty, however, didn’t seem discouraged.
‘Le chef here is my friend. He makes the best pâté in the whole city. What would be your preference in wine tonight?..’
~
‘Do you like theatre?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me too. I simply love ballet and… Have you had a chance to see Nijinski?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, such a shame! He stopped performing due to illness… But would you look at him as Daphnis or Petrouchka!.. And have you met...?’
She drew him into the conversation slowly, tactfully. She asked questions, he replied somewhat unenthusiastically, and then she echoed with a reply of her own. Perhaps, at first it looked rather strange. But gradually, she managed to cheer him up a bit and bring him out of his stupefaction. He began to ask questions, too, and the wine noticeably softened him, and he even laughed at her jokes. Dieu merci, it was possible to joke with him at all!
It was noticeable that monsieur Thameson had never courted anyone and was not keen on dating, as well as women and entertainment in general. He needed time to open up and prove himself, but fortunately, Patty had known him for several centuries and did not consider this a disadvantage at all. Remembering their very first meeting, she smiled. Monsieur Thameson's face changed immediately, and she, seeking to reassure him, reached over. He looked at her hand apprehensively, didn't understand her gesture and recoiled.
Eh bien, pas de problème. He needed time, and Patty had indefinite patience; otherwise one goes slightly mad in over two thousand years. She was also not embarrassed by his reserve or snobbery. She knew for a fact that he needed this shell to keep his sensitive heart safe inside.
He spoke about his work. He told her how first he became an assistant to the president of the Board of Trade, Mr Ashfield, not yet a baron back then, and then his successor Mr Geddes. Then he told her how the Board allocated entire departments for new industries, and adjusted to the industrial age, scientific discoveries, and even fashion. Monsieur Thameson's voice was soft, pensive and measured, and when he spoke in a lower tone, it acquired a gentle rasp. Once Patty had seen him smoking at the hospital gate – he’d had to slip a cigarette between the bandages on his face. He was probably still smoking… She wanted to absorb the sound of his voice so that it would speak to her outside these walls, in her head, in her dreams.
With a movement of her fingers, the light in the dining hall dimmed, but just above their table, it changed as if lamps had been slightly rearranged. It gleamed in the facets of crystal glasses and Patty's jewellery, sparkled on cutlery, and in monsieur Thameson’s eyes.
‘And what do you do?’ he asked, and Patty, who had been looking at his face dreamily all this time, blinked in surprise. The corners of his lips suggested a smile.
‘Nothing unusual. I…’ Then she stopped and corrected herself. ‘We are in love with all kinds of art. Nothing new here, oui, oui. But now not only do we organise salons and exhibitions, but we also help artists sell their work.’
Of course, monsieur Thameson was very curious: he was interested in all kinds of trade.
‘You own a company?’
‘Not yet. Our circle of acquaintances is quite extensive, you see. So I try to go out every night: I'm looking for buyers and clients for several artists at once.’
‘Doesn't it tire you?’
‘Not at all! We do this for the sake of people whose art we love so much. And we do it free of charge. But I wish their art to be known by not just my friends, not limited to Paris alone. With assistants, it would be possible to open bureaux throughout Europe and America. And first of all, in London, if you don't mind. But this will require hiring people, paying salaries, and, well, yes, starting a company.’
Monsieur Thameson looked puzzled.
‘Then who do you mean by ‘we’? Don't you already have an assistant?’
Patty froze. She did not dare to speak about it, because London loathed her alter ego very much. Most likely, since it was a man’s face, although there were probably a number of other reasons. But still, it would be silly to back away now.
'Patrice. He arranges papers and finances, and I'm involved in making connections…'
No, she shouldn’t have. However, she gave Thameson credit for handling it calmer than expected. He did not make any comment, nodded once and buried his nose in his glass. Patty mirrored him and changed the subject. He gratefully clung to a resumed conversation, and a few minutes later it seemed he already forgot about Patrice. Well, he would always forget about him…
At some point, Freud's name was mentioned. Patty hadn't read his latest book and didn't really believe in his theories at all, but she was surprised to learn that monsieur Thameson, perhaps the most sceptical man in all Europe that he was, had read it.
‘Just so I can prove how wrong Mr Freud is!’ he declared.
‘But how would you prove it?’ Patty asked with a laugh. All of a sudden, he became very serious.
‘Can I trust you?’ he asked. Patty's eyes widened with excitement, and she nodded.
He carefully looked around, leaned forward and in a barely audible whisper said:
‘I've learned to read minds.’
Freud, the Board of Trade, theatres, art — everything faded compared to this. She waited for Thameson to tell her how, when, was it difficult. But he kept silent.
‘Eh bien, what are those two thinking? To your left, there in the back.’
‘Alas. I can only read through a touch.’
Patty offered her hand with no hesitation.
‘Me then?’
With an effort, he moved his gaze from her open palm to her face. Then his long trembling fingers squeezed her wrist as if to take her pulse.
Patty sat paralysed in her chair. She breathed deeply, marvelling at the shades of grey in his eyes, his frowning eyebrows barely touched by silver and two thin wrinkles between them. A pleasantly tickling, teasing warmth spread from her hands to her shoulders, her heart and her head. Their first meeting came to mind again, and then all the others flashed in a revelation like a kaleidoscope.
Still holding her wrist, monsieur Thameson moved closer, and Patty did the same. They were still in the restaurant, in plain sight, she reminded herself. But it’s okay: when she would close her eyes, she’d simply turn off the light—
Almost touching her nose with his, suddenly Thameson sharply exhaled.
‘What are you even thinking?’ he said, letting go.
Patty leaned back. A drop of sweat ran along her spine, caught between her skin and dress. At least half a dozen heads turned to them curiously.
‘I only invited you to dinner, and you already have ideas.’
She looked at London, not knowing how to respond to such atrocious hypocrisy. Sweat glistened on his temples. There must have been a change in her face because he looked terrified.
She smiled slowly, venomously.
‘I recommend learning to read minds at a distance, monsieur Thameson. I think you would find it rather useful right now.’
She splashed a half-finished wine on his face. Then she got up, put on her fur coat and left the restaurant without another look at him. Thankfully, London had nothing to say in her wake.
‘Yes.’
‘Me too. I simply love ballet and… Have you had a chance to see Nijinski?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, such a shame! He stopped performing due to illness… But would you look at him as Daphnis or Petrouchka!.. And have you met...?’
She drew him into the conversation slowly, tactfully. She asked questions, he replied somewhat unenthusiastically, and then she echoed with a reply of her own. Perhaps, at first it looked rather strange. But gradually, she managed to cheer him up a bit and bring him out of his stupefaction. He began to ask questions, too, and the wine noticeably softened him, and he even laughed at her jokes. Dieu merci, it was possible to joke with him at all!
It was noticeable that monsieur Thameson had never courted anyone and was not keen on dating, as well as women and entertainment in general. He needed time to open up and prove himself, but fortunately, Patty had known him for several centuries and did not consider this a disadvantage at all. Remembering their very first meeting, she smiled. Monsieur Thameson's face changed immediately, and she, seeking to reassure him, reached over. He looked at her hand apprehensively, didn't understand her gesture and recoiled.
Eh bien, pas de problème. He needed time, and Patty had indefinite patience; otherwise one goes slightly mad in over two thousand years. She was also not embarrassed by his reserve or snobbery. She knew for a fact that he needed this shell to keep his sensitive heart safe inside.
He spoke about his work. He told her how first he became an assistant to the president of the Board of Trade, Mr Ashfield, not yet a baron back then, and then his successor Mr Geddes. Then he told her how the Board allocated entire departments for new industries, and adjusted to the industrial age, scientific discoveries, and even fashion. Monsieur Thameson's voice was soft, pensive and measured, and when he spoke in a lower tone, it acquired a gentle rasp. Once Patty had seen him smoking at the hospital gate – he’d had to slip a cigarette between the bandages on his face. He was probably still smoking… She wanted to absorb the sound of his voice so that it would speak to her outside these walls, in her head, in her dreams.
With a movement of her fingers, the light in the dining hall dimmed, but just above their table, it changed as if lamps had been slightly rearranged. It gleamed in the facets of crystal glasses and Patty's jewellery, sparkled on cutlery, and in monsieur Thameson’s eyes.
‘And what do you do?’ he asked, and Patty, who had been looking at his face dreamily all this time, blinked in surprise. The corners of his lips suggested a smile.
‘Nothing unusual. I…’ Then she stopped and corrected herself. ‘We are in love with all kinds of art. Nothing new here, oui, oui. But now not only do we organise salons and exhibitions, but we also help artists sell their work.’
Of course, monsieur Thameson was very curious: he was interested in all kinds of trade.
‘You own a company?’
‘Not yet. Our circle of acquaintances is quite extensive, you see. So I try to go out every night: I'm looking for buyers and clients for several artists at once.’
‘Doesn't it tire you?’
‘Not at all! We do this for the sake of people whose art we love so much. And we do it free of charge. But I wish their art to be known by not just my friends, not limited to Paris alone. With assistants, it would be possible to open bureaux throughout Europe and America. And first of all, in London, if you don't mind. But this will require hiring people, paying salaries, and, well, yes, starting a company.’
Monsieur Thameson looked puzzled.
‘Then who do you mean by ‘we’? Don't you already have an assistant?’
Patty froze. She did not dare to speak about it, because London loathed her alter ego very much. Most likely, since it was a man’s face, although there were probably a number of other reasons. But still, it would be silly to back away now.
'Patrice. He arranges papers and finances, and I'm involved in making connections…'
No, she shouldn’t have. However, she gave Thameson credit for handling it calmer than expected. He did not make any comment, nodded once and buried his nose in his glass. Patty mirrored him and changed the subject. He gratefully clung to a resumed conversation, and a few minutes later it seemed he already forgot about Patrice. Well, he would always forget about him…
At some point, Freud's name was mentioned. Patty hadn't read his latest book and didn't really believe in his theories at all, but she was surprised to learn that monsieur Thameson, perhaps the most sceptical man in all Europe that he was, had read it.
‘Just so I can prove how wrong Mr Freud is!’ he declared.
‘But how would you prove it?’ Patty asked with a laugh. All of a sudden, he became very serious.
‘Can I trust you?’ he asked. Patty's eyes widened with excitement, and she nodded.
He carefully looked around, leaned forward and in a barely audible whisper said:
‘I've learned to read minds.’
Freud, the Board of Trade, theatres, art — everything faded compared to this. She waited for Thameson to tell her how, when, was it difficult. But he kept silent.
‘Eh bien, what are those two thinking? To your left, there in the back.’
‘Alas. I can only read through a touch.’
Patty offered her hand with no hesitation.
‘Me then?’
With an effort, he moved his gaze from her open palm to her face. Then his long trembling fingers squeezed her wrist as if to take her pulse.
Patty sat paralysed in her chair. She breathed deeply, marvelling at the shades of grey in his eyes, his frowning eyebrows barely touched by silver and two thin wrinkles between them. A pleasantly tickling, teasing warmth spread from her hands to her shoulders, her heart and her head. Their first meeting came to mind again, and then all the others flashed in a revelation like a kaleidoscope.
Still holding her wrist, monsieur Thameson moved closer, and Patty did the same. They were still in the restaurant, in plain sight, she reminded herself. But it’s okay: when she would close her eyes, she’d simply turn off the light—
Almost touching her nose with his, suddenly Thameson sharply exhaled.
‘What are you even thinking?’ he said, letting go.
Patty leaned back. A drop of sweat ran along her spine, caught between her skin and dress. At least half a dozen heads turned to them curiously.
‘I only invited you to dinner, and you already have ideas.’
She looked at London, not knowing how to respond to such atrocious hypocrisy. Sweat glistened on his temples. There must have been a change in her face because he looked terrified.
She smiled slowly, venomously.
‘I recommend learning to read minds at a distance, monsieur Thameson. I think you would find it rather useful right now.’
She splashed a half-finished wine on his face. Then she got up, put on her fur coat and left the restaurant without another look at him. Thankfully, London had nothing to say in her wake.
Read next:
In the fog
When an old dear friend goes to the lasting rest, London can't help but answers the call.
Vulnerable
He was sick, he was waiting for someone, he was afraid of being weak; he fell asleep, clutching at other people's thoughts like a lifeline in the cold, sticky ocean of a nightmare. He waited, he learned to hear, he accepted the truth, he was jealous, but decided to let go — and now he was sick in a different way.
© 2015-2024 Sasha Burya
