The Bonfire Of The Vanities Part 32

"And what about the bill?" asked Judy, as if delighted to be in on this story about Sherman's incomparable father.

"It was sensational! It was astonis.h.i.+ng, that bill!" Hack hack hack hack hack Hack hack hack hack hack. Vesuvius, Krakatoa, and Mauna Loa erupted with laughter, and Sherman felt himself swept up in the explosion, in spite of himself. It was irresistible-Gene Lopwitz loves you!-your incomparable father!-your aristocratic lineage!-what euphoria you arouse in my bony breast!

He knew it was irrational, but he felt warm, aglow, high, in Seventh Heaven. He eased the revolver of his Resentment back into his waistband and told his Sn.o.bbery to go lie down by the hearth. Really a very charming woman! Who would have thought it, after all the things one hears about the Bavardages! A social X-ray, to be sure, but one can't very well hold that against her! Really very warm-and quite amusing!

Like most men, Sherman was innocent of the routine salutatory techniques of the fas.h.i.+onable hostesses. For at least forty-five seconds every guest was the closest, dearest, jolliest, most wittily conspiratorial friend a girl ever had. Every male guest she touched on the arm (any other part of the body presented problems) and applied a little heartfelt pressure. Every guest, male or female, she looked at with a radar lock upon the eyes, as if captivated (by the brilliance, the wit, the beauty, and the incomparable memories).

The butler returned with the drinks for Judy and Sherman, Sherman took a long deep draught of the gin-and-tonic, and the gin hit bottom, and the sweet juniper rose, and he relaxed and let the happy buzz of the hive surge into his head.

Hack hack hack hack hack hack hack went Inez Bavardage. went Inez Bavardage.

Haw haw haw haw haw haw haw haw went Bobby Shaflett. went Bobby Shaflett.

Hah hah hah hah hah hah hah hah went Judy. went Judy.

Heh heh heh heh heh heh heh heh went Sherman. went Sherman.

The hive buzzed and buzzed.

In no time Inez Bavardage had steered him and Judy over to the bouquet where the Golden Hillbilly held forth. Nods, h.e.l.los, handshakes, under the aegis of Sherman's new best friend, Inez. Before he quite realized what had happened, Inez had steered Judy out of the entry gallery, into some inner salon, and Sherman was left with the celebrated Appalachian fat boy, two men, and an X-ray. He looked at each of them, starting with Shaflett. None returned his gaze. The two men and the woman stared, rapt, at the huge pale head of the tenor as he recounted a story of something that had happened on an airplane: "-so I'm settin'up'eh waitin' fuh Barb'ra-she's supposed to be ridin' back to New York with me?" He had a way of ending a declarative sentence with a question that reminded Sherman of Maria...Maria...and the huge Hasidic Jew! The great blond ball of fat before him was like that huge sow from the real-estate company-if that was where he was from. A cold tremor...They were out there circling, circling..."And I'm in my seat-I got the one by the window? And from back'eh, here come 'is un unbelievable, out outrageous black man." The way he hit the un un and the and the out out and fluttered his hands in the air made Sherman wonder if this hillbilly giant was, in fact, a h.o.m.os.e.xual. "He's wearin' this'eh ermine overcoat?-down to here?-and 'is'eh matchin' ermine fedora?-and he's got more rings'n Barb'ra's got, and he's got three re and fluttered his hands in the air made Sherman wonder if this hillbilly giant was, in fact, a h.o.m.os.e.xual. "He's wearin' this'eh ermine overcoat?-down to here?-and 'is'eh matchin' ermine fedora?-and he's got more rings'n Barb'ra's got, and he's got three retainers with 'im?-right outta Shaft Shaft?"

The giant bubbled on, and the two men and the woman kept their eyes on his huge round face and their grins fixed; and the giant, for his part, looked only at them, never at Sherman. As the seconds rolled by, he grew increasingly aware that all four of them were acting as if he didn't exist. A giant fairy with a hillbilly accent, thought Sherman, and they were hanging on his every word. Sherman took three deep gulps of his gin-and-tonic.

The story seemed to revolve about the fact that the regal black man, who had sat down next to Shaflett on the airplane, was the cruiser-weight champion of the world, Sam (a.s.sa.s.sin Sam) a.s.sinore. Shaflett found the term "cruiser weight" vastly amusing-haw haw haw haw haw haw haw-and the two men went into excited screams of laughter. Sherman labeled them h.o.m.os.e.xual, too. a.s.sa.s.sin Sam hadn't known who Shaflett was, and Shaflett hadn't known who a.s.sa.s.sin Sam was. The point of the entire story seemed to be that the only two people in the first-cla.s.s section of the airliner who hadn't known who both these celebrities were...were Shaflett and a.s.sinore themselves! Haw haw haw haw haw haw haw haw-hee hee hee hee hee hee hee- Haw haw haw haw haw haw haw haw-hee hee hee hee hee hee hee-and-aha!-a conversational nugget about a.s.sa.s.sin Sam a.s.sinore popped into Sherman's brain. Oscar Suder-Oscar Suder!-he winced at the memory but pressed on-Oscar Suder was part of a syndicate of Midwestern investors who backed a.s.sinore and controlled his finances. A nugget! A conversational nugget! A means of entry into this party cl.u.s.ter!

As soon as the laughter had receded, Sherman said to Bobby Shaflett, "Did you know that a.s.sinore's contract, and his ermine coat, for all I know, is owned by a syndicate of businessmen in Ohio, mostly from Cleveland and Columbus?"

The Golden Hillbilly looked at him as if he were a panhandler. "Hmmmmmmmm," he said. It was the hmmmmmmmm hmmmmmmmm that says, "I understand, but I couldn't care less," whereupon he turned back to the other three and said, "So I asked him if he'd sign my menu. You know, they give you this menu?-and-" that says, "I understand, but I couldn't care less," whereupon he turned back to the other three and said, "So I asked him if he'd sign my menu. You know, they give you this menu?-and-"

That was all for Sherman McCoy. He pulled the revolver of Resentment back out of his waistband. He wheeled away from the cl.u.s.ter and turned his back on them. Not one of them noticed. The hive raged in his head.

Now what would he do? All at once he was alone in this noisy hive with no place to roost. Alone! He became acutely aware that the entire party was now composed of these bouquets and that not to be in one of them was to be an abject, incompetent social failure. He looked this way and that. Who was that, right there? A tall, handsome, smug-looking man...admiring faces looking up at his...Ah!...It registered...an author...His name was Nunnally Voyd...a novelist...he'd seen him on a television talk show...snide, acerbic...Look at the way those fools doted on him...Didn't dare try that bouquet...Would be a repeat of the Golden Hillbilly, no doubt...Over there, someone he knew...No! Another famous face...the ballet dancer...Boris Korolev...Another circle of adoring faces...glistening with rapture...The idiots! Human specks! What is this business of groveling before dancers, novelists, and gigantic fairy opera singers? They're nothing but court jesters, nothing but light entertainment for...the Masters of the Universe, those who push the levers that move the world...and yet these idiots wors.h.i.+p them as if they were pipelines to the G.o.dhead...They didn't even want to know who he was...and wouldn't even be capable of understanding, even if they had...

He found himself standing by another cl.u.s.ter...Well, at least no one famous in this one, no smirking court jester...A fat, reddish man was talking, in a heavy British accent: "He was lying in the road, you see, with a broken leg..." The delicate skinny boy! Henry Lamb! He was talking about the story in the newspaper! But wait a minute-a broken leg- The delicate skinny boy! Henry Lamb! He was talking about the story in the newspaper! But wait a minute-a broken leg-"...and he kept saying, 'How very boring, how very boring.' " No, he was talking about some Englishman. Nothing to do with me... Nothing to do with me...The others in the cl.u.s.ter were laughing...a woman, about fifty, with pink powder all over her face...How grotesque...Wait!...He knew that face. The sculptor's daughter, now a stage designer. He couldn't remember her name...But then he did...Barbara Cornagglia...He moved on...Alone!...Despite all, despite the fact that they they were circling-the police!-he felt the pressure of social failure...What could he do to make it appear as if he were circling-the police!-he felt the pressure of social failure...What could he do to make it appear as if he meant meant to be by himself, as if he were moving through the hive alone by choice? The hive buzzed and buzzed. to be by himself, as if he were moving through the hive alone by choice? The hive buzzed and buzzed.

Near the doorway through which Judy and Inez Bavardage had disappeared was an antique console bearing a pair of miniature Chinese easels. Upon each easel was a burgundy velvet disk the size of a pie, and in slits in the velvet, little pockets, were stuck name cards. They were models of the seating arrangement for dinner, so that each guest would know who his dinner partners were going to be. It struck Sherman, the leonine Yale man, as another piece of vulgarity. Nevertheless, he looked. It was a way of appearing occupied, as if he were alone for no other reason than to study the seating arrangement.

There were evidently two tables. Presently he saw a card with Mr. McCoy Mr. McCoy on it. He would be sitting next to, let's see, a Mrs. Rawthrote, whoever she might be, and a Mrs. Ruskin. on it. He would be sitting next to, let's see, a Mrs. Rawthrote, whoever she might be, and a Mrs. Ruskin. Ruskin! Ruskin! His heart bolted. It couldn't be-not Maria! His heart bolted. It couldn't be-not Maria!

But of course it could be. This was precisely the sort of event to which she and her rich but somewhat shadowy husband would be invited. He downed the rest of his gin-and-tonic and hurried through the doorway into the other room. Maria! Had to talk to her!-but also had to keep Judy away from her! Don't need that on top of everything else! Don't need that on top of everything else!

He was now in the apartment's living room, or salon, since it was obviously meant for entertaining. It was enormous, but it appeared to be...stuffed...with sofas, cus.h.i.+ons, fat chairs, and ha.s.socks, all of them braided, ta.s.seled, banded, bordered and...stuffed...Even the walls; the walls were covered in some sort of padded fabric with stripes of red, purple, and rose. The windows overlooking Fifth Avenue were curtained in deep folds of the same material, which was pulled back to reveal its rose lining and a trim of striped rope braid. There was not so much as a hint of the twentieth century in the decor, not even in the lighting. A few table lamps with rosy shades provided all the light, so that the terrain of this gloriously stuffed little planet was thrown into deep shadows and mellow highlights.

The hive buzzed with the sheer ecstasy of being in this mellow rosy stuffed orbit. Hack hack hack hack hack hack Hack hack hack hack hack hack, the horse laugh of Inez Bavardage rose somewhere. So many bouquets of people...grinning faces...boiling teeth...A butler appeared and asked him if he wanted a drink. He ordered another gin-and-tonic. He stood there. His eyes jumped around the deep stuffed shadows.

Maria.

She was standing by one of the two corner windows. Bare shoulders...a red sheath...She caught his eye and smiled. Just that, a smile. He answered with the smallest smile imaginable. Where was Judy?

In Maria's cl.u.s.ter was a woman he didn't recognize, a man he didn't recognize, and a bald-headed man he knew from somewhere, another of the...famous faces this zoo specialized in...a writer of some sort, a Brit...He couldn't think of his name. Com this zoo specialized in...a writer of some sort, a Brit...He couldn't think of his name. Completely bald; not a hair on his long thin head; gaunt; a skull.

Sherman panned the room, desperately searching for Judy. Well, what difference would it make if Judy did meet someone in this room named Maria? It wasn't that unusual a name. But would Maria be discreet? She was no genius, and she had a mischievous streak-and he was supposed to sit next to her!

He could feel his heart kicking up in his chest. Christ! Was it possible that Inez Bavardage knew about the two of them and put them together on purpose? Wait a minute! That's very paranoid! Wait a minute! That's very paranoid! She'd never risk having an ugly scene. Still- She'd never risk having an ugly scene. Still- Judy.

There she was, standing over near the fireplace, laughing so hard her new party laugh-wants to be an Inez Bavardage- her new party laugh-wants to be an Inez Bavardage-laughing so hard her hair was bouncing. She was making a new sound, hock hock hock hock hock hock hock hock hock hock hock hock hock hock. Not yet Inez Bavardage's hack hack hack hack hack hack hack hack, just an intermediary hock hock hock hock hock hock hock hock. She was listening to a barrel-chested old man with receding gray hair and no neck. The third member of the bouquet, a woman, elegant, slim, and fortyish, was not nearly so amused. She stood like a marble angel. Sherman made his way through the hive, past the knees of some people sitting down on a huge round Oriental ha.s.sock, toward the fireplace. He had to push his way through a dense flotilla of puffed gowns and boiling faces...

Judy's face was a mask of mirth. She was so enthralled by the conversation of the barrel-chested man she didn't notice Sherman at first. Then Then she saw him. Startled! But of course!-it was a sign of social failure for one spouse to be reduced to joining another in a conversational cl.u.s.ter. she saw him. Startled! But of course!-it was a sign of social failure for one spouse to be reduced to joining another in a conversational cl.u.s.ter. But so what! Keep her away from Maria! But so what! Keep her away from Maria! That was the main thing. Judy didn't look at him. Once again she beamed her grinning rapture at the old man. That was the main thing. Judy didn't look at him. Once again she beamed her grinning rapture at the old man.

"-so last week," he was saying, "my wife comes back from Italy and informs me we have a summer place on 'Como.' 'Como,' she says. It's this Lake Como. So all right! We'll have a summer place on 'Como.' It's better than Hammamet. That was two summers ago." He had a rough voice, a brushed-up New York street voice. He was holding a gla.s.s of soda water and looking back and forth, from Judy to the marble angel, as he told his story, getting vast effusions of approval from Judy and the occasional wriggle of the upper lip when he looked directly into the angel's face. A wriggle; it could have been the beginning of a polite smile. "At least I know where 'Como' is. I never hearda Hammamet. My wife's gone gaga about Italy. Italian paintings, Italian clothes, and now 'Como.' "

Judy went off into another automatic-weapon burst of laughter, Hock hock hock hock hock hock Hock hock hock hock hock hock, as if the way the old man p.r.o.nounced "Como," in mockery of his wife's love of things Italian, was the funniest thing in the world-Maria. It came over him, just like that just like that. It was Maria he was talking about. This old man was her husband, Arthur Ruskin. Had he mentioned her by name yet, or had he been talking only about "my wife"?

The other woman, marble angel, just stood there. The old man suddenly reached toward her left ear and took her earring between his thumb and forefinger. Appalled, the woman stiffened. She would have jerked her head away, but her ear was now between the thumb and forefinger of this ancient and appalling ursine creature.

"Very nice," said Arthur Ruskin, still holding on to the earring. "Nadina D., right?" Nadina Dulocci was a highly mentionable jewelry designer.

"I believe so!" said the woman in a timorous, European voice. Hurriedly she brought her hands to her ears and unfastened both earrings and handed them to him, most emphatically, as if to say, "There, take them. But be so kind as not to rip my ears off my head."

Unconcerned, Ruskin took them in his hairy paws and inspected them further. "Nadina D., all right. Very nice. Where'd you get 'em?"

"They were a gift." Cold as marble. He returned them to her, and she quickly put them in her purse.

"Very nice, very nice. My wife-"

Suppose he said "Maria"! Sherman broke in. "Judy!" To the others: "Excuse me." To Judy: "I was wondering-" Sherman broke in. "Judy!" To the others: "Excuse me." To Judy: "I was wondering-"

Judy instantly transformed her startled expression into one of radiance. No wife in all of history had ever been more charmed to see her husband arrive at a conversational bouquet.

"Sherman! Have you met Madame Prudhomme?"

Sherman extended his Yale chin and put on an expression of the most proper Knickerbocker charm to greet the shaken Frenchwoman. "Howja do?"

"And Arthur Ruskin," said Judy. Sherman shook the hairy mitt firmly.

Arthur Ruskin was not a young seventy-one. He had big ears with thick rinds and wire hairs sprouting out. There were curdled wattles under his big jaws. He stood erectly, rocking back on his heels, which brought out his chest and his ponderous gut. His heft was properly swathed in a navy suit, white s.h.i.+rt, and navy tie.

"Forgive me," said Sherman. To Judy, with a charming smile: "Come over here a moment." To Ruskin and the Frenchwoman he flashed a smile of apology and moved off a few feet, Judy in tow. Madame Prudhomme's face fell. She had looked to his arrival in the bouquet as a salvation from Ruskin.

Judy, with a fireproof smile still on her face: "What is it?"

Sherman, a smiling mask of Yale Chin charm: "I want you to...uh...to come meet Baron Hochswald."

"Who?"

"Baron Hochswald. You know, the German-one of the Hochwalds."

Judy, the smile still locked on: "But why?"

"We rode up in the elevator with him."

This obviously made no sense to Judy at all. Urgently: "Well, where is he?" Urgently, because it was bad enough to be caught in a large conversational cl.u.s.ter with your husband. To form a minimal cl.u.s.ter with him, just the two of you- Sherman, looking around: "Well, he was here just a minute ago."

Judy, the smile gone: "Sherman, what on earth are you doing? What are you talking about, 'Baron Hochswald'?"

Just then the butler arrived with Sherman's gin-and-tonic. He took a big swallow and looked around some more. He felt dizzy. Everywhere...social X-rays in puffed dresses s.h.i.+mmering in the burnt-apricot glow of the little table lamps...

"Well-you two! What are you you trying to cook up!" trying to cook up!" Hack hack hack hack hack hack hack Hack hack hack hack hack hack hack. Inez Bavardage took them both by their arms. For a moment, before she could get her fireproof grin back onto her face, Judy looked stricken. Not only had she ended up in a minimal cl.u.s.ter with her husband, but New York's reigning hostess, this month's ring-mistress of the century, had spotted them and felt compelled to make this ambulance run to save them from social ignominy.

"Sherman was-"

"I was looking for you! I want you to meet Ronald Vine. He's doing over the Vice President's house, in Was.h.i.+ngton."

Inez Bavardage towed them through the hive of grins and gowns and inserted them in a bouquet dominated by a tall, slender, handsome, youngish man, the aforesaid Ronald Vine. Mr. Vine was saying, "...jabots, jabots, jabots. I'm afraid the Vice President's wife has discovered jabots." A weary roll of the eyes. The others in the bouquet, two women and a bald man, laughed and laughed. Judy could barely summon up even a smile...Crushed...Had to be rescued from social death by the hostess...

Such sad irony! Sherman hated himself. He hated himself for all the catastrophes she didn't yet know about.

The Bavardages' dining room walls had been painted with so many coats of burnt-apricot lacquer, fourteen in all, they had the gla.s.sy brilliance of a pond reflecting a campfire at night. The room was a triumph of nocturnal reflections, one of many such victories by Ronald Vine, whose forte was the creation of glitter without the use of mirrors. Mirror Indigestion was now regarded as one of the gross sins of the 1970s. So in the early 1980s, from Park Avenue to Fifth, from Sixty-second Street to Ninety-sixth, there had arisen the hideous cracking sound of acres of h.e.l.lishly expensive plate-gla.s.s mirror being pried off the walls of the great apartments. No, in the Bavardages' dining room one's eyes fluttered in a cosmos of glints, twinkles, sparkles, highlights, sheens, s.h.i.+mmering pools, and fiery glows that had been achieved in subtler ways, by using lacquer, glazed tiles in a narrow band just under the ceiling cornices, gilded English Regency furniture, silver candelabra, crystal bowls, School of Tiffany vases, and sculpted silverware that was so heavy the knives weighed on your fingers like saber handles.

The two dozen diners were seated at a pair of round Regency tables. The banquet table, the sort of Sheraton landing field that could seat twenty-four if you inserted all the leaves, had disappeared from the smarter dining rooms. One shouldn't be so formal, so grand. Two small tables were much better. So what if these two small tables were surrounded and bedecked by a buildup of objets objets, fabrics, and bibelots bibelots so lush it would have made the Sun King blink? Hostesses such as Inez Bavardage prided themselves on their gift for the informal and the intimate. so lush it would have made the Sun King blink? Hostesses such as Inez Bavardage prided themselves on their gift for the informal and the intimate.

To underscore the informality of the occasion there had been placed, in the middle of each table, deep within the forest of crystal and silver, a basket woven from hardened vines in a highly rustic Appalachian Handicrafts manner. Wrapped around the vines, on the outside of the basket, was a profusion of wildflowers. In the center of the basket were ma.s.sed three or four dozen poppies. This faux-naif faux-naif centerpiece was the trademark of Huck Thigg, the young florist, who would present the Bavardages with a bill for $3,300 for this one dinner party. centerpiece was the trademark of Huck Thigg, the young florist, who would present the Bavardages with a bill for $3,300 for this one dinner party.

Sherman stared at the plaited vines. They looked like something dropped by Gretel or little Heidi of Switzerland at a feast of Lucullus. He sighed. All...too much. Maria was sitting next to him, on his right, chattering away at the cadaverous Englishman, whatever his name was, who was on her right. Judy was at the other table-but had a clear view of him and Maria. He had to talk to Maria about the interrogation by the two detectives-but how could he do it with Judy looking right at them? He'd do it with an innocuous party grin on his face. That was it! He'd grin through the whole discussion! She'd never know the difference...Or would she?...Arthur Ruskin was at Judy's table...But thank G.o.d, he was four seats away from her...wouldn't be chatting with her...Judy was sitting between Baron Hochswald and some rather pompous-looking youngish man...Inez Bavardage was two seats away from Judy, and Bobby Shaflett was on Inez's right. Judy was grinning an enormous social grin at the pompous man...Hock hock hock hock hock hock hock hock hock hock! Clear above the buzz of the hive he could hear her laughing her new laugh...Inez was talking to Bobby Shaflett but also to the grinning social X-ray seated to the Golden Hillbilly's right and to Nunnally Voyd, who was to the right of the X-ray. Clear above the buzz of the hive he could hear her laughing her new laugh...Inez was talking to Bobby Shaflett but also to the grinning social X-ray seated to the Golden Hillbilly's right and to Nunnally Voyd, who was to the right of the X-ray. Haw haw haw haw haw haw haw Haw haw haw haw haw haw haw, sang the Towheaded Tenor...Hack hack hack hack hack hack, sang Inez Bavardage...Hock hock hock hock hock hock hock hock hock, bawled his own wife...

Leon Bavardage sat four chairs to Sherman's right, beyond Maria, the cadaverous Englishman, and the woman with the pink powder on her face, Barbara Cornagglia. In contrast to Inez Bavardage, Leon had all the animation of a raindrop. He had a placid, pa.s.sive, lineless face, wavy blondish hair, which was receding, a long delicate nose, and very pale, almost livid skin. Instead of a 300-watt social grin, he had a shy, demure smile, which he was just now bestowing upon Miss Cornagglia.

Belatedly it occurred to Sherman that he should be talking to the woman on his left. Rawthrote, Mrs. Rawthrote; who in the name of G.o.d was she? What could he say to her? He turned to his left-and she was waiting. She was staring straight at him, her laser eyes no more than eighteen inches from his face. A real X-ray with a huge mane of blond hair and a look of such intensity he thought at first that she must know know something...He opened his mouth...he smiled...he ransacked his brain for something to say...he did the best he could...He said to her, "Would you do me a great favor? What is the name of the gentleman to my right, the something...He opened his mouth...he smiled...he ransacked his brain for something to say...he did the best he could...He said to her, "Would you do me a great favor? What is the name of the gentleman to my right, the thin thin gentleman? His face is so familiar, but I can't think of his name for the life of me." gentleman? His face is so familiar, but I can't think of his name for the life of me."

Mrs. Rawthrote leaned still closer, until their faces were barely eight inches apart. She was so close she seemed to have three eyes. "Aubrey Buffing," she said. Her eyes kept burning into his.

"Aubrey Buffing," said Sherman lamely. It was really a question.

"The poet," said Mrs. Rawthrote. "He's on the short list for the n.o.bel Prize. His father was the Duke of Bray." Her tone said, "How on earth could you not know that?"

"Of course," said Sherman, feeling that in addition to his other sins he was also a philistine. "The poet."

"How do you think he looks?" She had eyes like a cobra's. Her face remained right in his. He wanted to pull back but couldn't. He felt paralyzed.

"Looks?" he asked.

"Lord Buffing," she said. "The state of his health."

"I-can't really say. I don't know him."

"He's being treated at Vanderbilt Hospital. He has AIDS." She pulled back a few inches, the better to see how this zinger hit Sherman.

"That's terrible!" said Sherman. "How do you know that?"

"I know his best boyfriend." She closed her eyes and then opened them, as if to say: "I know such things, but don't ask too many questions." Then she said, "This is entre nous." But I've never met you before! entre nous." But I've never met you before! "Don't tell Leon or Inez," she continued. "He's their house guest-has been for the past two and a half weeks. Never invite an Englishman for a weekend. You can't get them out." She said this without smiling, as if it was the most serious advice she had ever offered free of charge. She continued her myopic study of Sherman's face. "Don't tell Leon or Inez," she continued. "He's their house guest-has been for the past two and a half weeks. Never invite an Englishman for a weekend. You can't get them out." She said this without smiling, as if it was the most serious advice she had ever offered free of charge. She continued her myopic study of Sherman's face.

In order to break eye contact, Sherman took a quick glance at the gaunt Englishman, Lord Buffing the Short-List Poet.

"Don't worry," said Mrs. Rawthrote. "You can't get it at the table. If you could, we'd all have it by now. Half the waiters in New York are gay. You show me a happy h.o.m.os.e.xual, I'll show you a gay corpse." She repeated this mot farouche mot farouche in the same rat-tat-tat voice as everything else, without a trace of a smile. in the same rat-tat-tat voice as everything else, without a trace of a smile.

Just then a good-looking young waiter, Latin in appearance, began serving the first course, which looked like an Easter egg under a heavy white sauce on a plateau of red caviar resting on a bed of Bibb lettuce.

"Not these," said Mrs. Rawthrote, right in front of the young man. "They work full-time for Inez and Leon. Mexicans, from New Orleans. They live in their place in the country and drive in to serve dinner parties." Then, without any preamble, she said, "What do you do, Mr. McCoy?"

Sherman was taken aback. He was speechless. He was as flabbergasted as he had been when Campbell asked the same question. A nonent.i.ty, a thirty-five-year-old X-ray, and yet...I want to impress her! The possible answers came thundering through his mind The possible answers came thundering through his mind...I'm a senior member of the bond division at Pierce & Pierce...No...makes it sound as if he's a replaceable part in a bureaucracy and proud to be one...I'm the number one producer...No...sounds like something a vacuum-cleaner salesman would say...There's a group of us who make the major decisions...No...not accurate and an utterly gauche observation...I made $980,000 selling bonds last year...That was the true heart of the matter, but there was no way to impart such information without appearing foolish...I'm-a Master of the Universe!...Dream on!-and besides, there's no way to utter it!...So he said, "Oh, I try to sell a few bonds for Pierce & Pierce." He smiled ever so slightly, hoping the modesty of the statement would be taken as a sign of confidence to burn, thanks to tremendous and spectacular achievements on Wall Street.

Mrs. Rawthrote lasered in on him again. From six inches away: "Gene Lopwitz is one of our clients."

"Your client?"

"At Benning and Sturtevant."

Where? He stared at her. He stared at her.

"You do know Gene," she said.

"Well, yes, I work with him."

Evidently the woman did not find that convincing. To Sherman's astonishment, she turned ninety degrees, without another word, to her left, where a jolly, florid, red-faced man was talking to the Lemon Tart who had arrived with Baron Hochswald. Sherman now realized who he was...a television executive named Rale Brigham. Sherman stared at Mrs. Rawthrote's bony vertebrae, where they popped up from out of her gown...Perhaps she had turned away for only a moment and would turn back to resume their conversation...But no...she had barged in on the conversation of Brigham and the Tart...He could hear her rat-tat-tat voice...She was leaning in on Brigham...lasering in...She had devoted all the time she cared to devote...to a mere bond salesman!

He was stranded again. To his right, Maria was still deep in conversation with Lord Buffing. He was facing social death once more. He was a man sitting utterly solo at a dinner table. The hive buzzed all around him. Everyone else was in a state of social bliss. Only he was stranded. Only he was a wallflower with no conversational mate, a social light of no wattage whatsoever in the Bavardage Celebrity Zoo...My life is coming apart!-and yet through everything else in his overloaded central nervous system burned the shame-the shame!-of social incompetence.

He stared at Huck Thigg's hardened vines in the center of the table, as if a student of floral arrangements. Then he put a smirk on his face, as if confidently amused. He took a deep gulp of wine and looked across to the other table, as if he had caught the eye of someone there...He smiled...He murmured soundlessly toward vacant spots on the wall. He drank some more wine and studied the hardened vines some more. He counted the vertebrae in Mrs. Rawthrote's backbone. He was happy when one of the waiters, one of the varones varones from the country, materialized and refilled his gla.s.s of wine. from the country, materialized and refilled his gla.s.s of wine.

The main course consisted of slices of pink roast beef brought in on huge china platters, with ruffs of stewed onions, carrots, and potatoes. It was a simple, hearty American main course. Simple Hearty American main courses, insinuated between exotically contrived prologues and epilogues, were comme il faut comme il faut, currently, in keeping with the informal mode. When the Mexican waiter began hoisting the huge platters over the shoulders of the diners, so that they could take what they wanted, that served as the signal to change conversational partners. Lord Buffing, the stricken English poet, entre nous entre nous, turned toward the powdered Madame Cornagglia. Maria turned toward Sherman. She smiled and looked deeply into his eyes. Too deeply! Suppose Judy should look at them right now! He put on a frozen social grin.

"Whew!" said Maria. She rolled her eyes in the direction of Lord Buffing. Sherman didn't want to talk about Lord Buffing. He wanted to talk about the visit from the two detectives. But best start off slowly, in case Judy is looking But best start off slowly, in case Judy is looking.

"Ah, that's right!" he said. A great social grin. "I forgot. You don't care for Brits."

"Oh, it's not that," said Maria. "He seems like a nice man. I could hardly understand what he was saying. You never heard such an accent."

Social grin: "What did he talk about?"

"The purpose of life. I'm not kidding."