sk.everythingseventual-第57章

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　　'As　a　lawyer…your　lawyer…I'm　telling　you　that　this　is　a　bullshit　move；　and　that　if　it　backfires　in　court；　I'll　call　a　recess　just　so　I　can　pull　you　out　into　the　hall　and　say　I　told　you　so。　Now　have　you　got　that？'
　　'Yes。　Say　hello　to　your　mother。'
　　'Maybe　tonight；'　Ring　said；　and　now　he　sounded　as　if　he　were　rolling　his　eyes。　'I　won't　get　a　word　in　until　then。　I　have　to　run；　Steven。'
　　'Okay。'
　　'I　hope　she　stands　you　up。'
　　'I　know　you　do。'
　　He　hung　up　and　went　to　see　his　mother；　out　in　Babylon。　When　I　saw　him　next；　a　few　days　later；　there　was　something　between　us　that　didn't　quite　bear　discussion；　although　I　think　we　would　have　talked　about　it　if　we　had　known　each　other　even　a　little　bit　better。　I　saw　it　in　his　eyes　and　I　suppose　he　saw　it　in　mine；　as　well…the　knowledge　that　if　his　mother　hadn't　fallen　down　the　stairs　and　broken　her　hip；　he　might　have　wound　up　as　dead　as　William　Humboldt。
　　
　　I　walked　from　my　office　to　the　Gotham　Café；　leaving　at　eleven…fifteen　and　arriving　across　from　the　restaurant　at　eleven…forty…five。　I　got　there　early　for　my　own　peace　of　mind…to　make　sure　the　place　was　where　Humboldt　had　said　it　was；　in　other　words。　That's　the　way　I　am；　and　pretty　much　the　way　I've　always　been。　Diane　used　to　call　it　my　'obsessive　streak'　when　we　were　first　married；　but　I　think　that　by　the　end　she　knew　better。　I　don't　trust　the　petence　of　others　very　easily；　that's　all。　I　realize　it's　a　pain…in…the…ass　characteristic；　and　I　know　it　drove　her　crazy；　but　what　she　never　seemed　to　realize　was　that　I　didn't　exactly　love　it　in　myself；　either。　Some　things　take　longer　to　change　than　others；　though。　And　some　things　you　can　never　change；　no　matter　how　hard　you　try。
　　The　restaurant　was　right　where　Humboldt　had　said　it　would　be；　the　location　marked　by　a　green　awning　with　the　words　GOTHAM　CAFé　on　it。　A　white　city　skyline　was　traced　across　the　plate…glass　windows。　It　looked　New　York…trendy。　It　also　looked　pretty　unamazing；　just　one　of　the　eight　hundred　or　so　pricey　restaurants　crammed　together　in　midtown。
　　With　the　meeting…place　located　and　my　mind　temporarily　set　at　rest　（about　that；　anyway；　I　was　tense　as　hell　about　seeing　Diane　again　and　craving　a　cigarette　like　mad）；　I　walked　up　to　Madison　and　browsed　in　a　luggage　store　for　fifteen　minutes。　Mere　window…shopping　was　no　good；　if　Diane　and　Humboldt　came　from　uptown；　they　might　see　me。　Diane　was　liable　to　recognize　me　by　the　set　of　my　shoulders　and　the　hang　of　my　topcoat　even　from　behind；　and　I　didn't　want　that。　I　didn't　want　them　to　know　I'd　arrived　early。　I　thought　it　might　look　needy。　So　I　went　inside。
　　I　bought　an　umbrella　I　didn't　need　and　left　the　shop　at　straight　up　noon　by　my　watch；　knowing　I　could　step　through　the　door　of　the　Gotham　Café　at　twelve…oh…five。　My　father's　dictum：　If　you　need　to　be　there；　show　up　five　minutes　early。　If　they　need　you　to　be　there；　show　up　five　minutes　late。　I　had　reached　a　point　where　I　didn't　know　who　needed　what　or　why　or　for　how　long；　but　my　father's　dictum　seemed　like　the　safest　course。　If　it　had　been　just　Diane　alone；　I　think　I　would　have　arrived　dead　on　time。
　　No；　that's　probably　a　lie。　I　suppose　if　it　had　just　been　Diane；　I　would　have　gone　in　at　eleven…forty…five；　when　I　first　arrived；　and　waited　for　her。
　　I　stood　under　the　awning　for　a　moment；　looking　in。　The　place　was　bright；　and　I　marked　that　down　in　its　favor。　I　have　an　intense　dislike　for　dark　restaurants　where　you　can't　see　what　you're　eating　or　drinking。　The　walls　were　white　and　hung　with　vibrant　Impressionist　drawings。　You　couldn't　tell　what　they　were；　but　that　didn't　matter；　with　their　primary　colors　and　broad；　exuberant　strokes；　they　hit　your　eyes　like　visual　caffeine。　I　looked　for　Diane　and　saw　a　woman　that　might　be　her；　seated　about　halfway　down　the　long　room　and　by　the　wall。　It　was　hard　to　say；　because　her　back　was　turned　and　I　don't　have　her　knack　of　recognition　under　difficult　circumstances。　But　the　heavyset；　balding　man　she　was　sitting　with　certainly　looked　like　a　Humboldt。　I　took　a　deep　breath；　opened　the　restaurant　door；　and　went　in。
　　
　　There　are　two　phases　of　withdrawal　from　tobacco；　and　I'm　convinced　that　it's　the　second　that　causes　most　cases　of　recidivism。　The　physical　withdrawal　lasts　ten　days　to　two　weeks；　and　then　most　of　the　symptoms…sweats；　headaches；　muscle　twitches；　pounding　eyes；　insomnia；　irritability…disappear。　What　follows　is　a　much　longer　period　of　mental　withdrawal。　These　symptoms　may　include　mild　to　moderate　depression；　mourning；　some　degree　of　anhedonia　（emotional　flat…line；　in　other　words）；　forgetfulness；　even　a　species　of　transient　dyslexia。　I　know　all　this　stuff　because　I　read　up　on　it。　Following　what　happened　at　the　Gotham　Café；　it　seemed　very　important　that　I　do　that。　I　suppose　you'd　have　to　say　that　my　interest　in　the　subject　fell　somewhere　between　the　Land　of　Hobbies　and　the　Kingdom　of　Obsession。
　　The　most　mon　symptom　of　phase…two　withdrawal　is　a　feeling　of　mild　unreality。　Nicotine　improves　synaptic　transferral　and　improves　concentration…widens　the　brain's　information　highway；　in　other　words。　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　si