Читать книгу Mrs. Bridge - Evan S. Connell - Страница 18

12 • AGREEABLE CONVERSATION

The Van Metres were no more Egyptian than Douglas was, but in a sense they were quite foreign to Mrs. Bridge. She thought them very odd. The Van Metres, Wilhelm and Susan, were about fifteen years older than the Bridges; they were rather pompous—particularly Wilhelm—and they were given to reading literary magazines no one had ever heard of and attending such things as ballet or opera whenever a company stopped in Kansas City. Mrs. Bridge could not quite recall how she and her husband became acquainted with the Van Metres, or how they got into the habit of exchanging dinners once in a while. Nevertheless this situation had developed and Mrs. Bridge was sure it was as awkward for the Van Metres as it was for them—each couple felt obligated to return the other’s hospitality.

On those occasions when the Van Metres were hosts they drove over to the east side of the city to a country club that had gone out of fashion ten years before. Wilhelm Van Metre never drove faster than about fifteen miles an hour, and he sat erect and tense with both hands firmly on the wheel as though expecting a fearful crash at any instant. He came to a dead stop at almost every intersection, ceased talking, and examined the street in both directions. Then, unless his wife had something to say, he would proceed, the result of all this being that they seldom reached the club before nine o’clock. Once there he would drive the old automobile cautiously around the circular gravel drive and switch off the engine at the front entrance.

“Ladies,” he would say, suggestively, in his rumbling and pontifical monotone, whereupon Mrs. Bridge and Mrs. Van Metre got out and walked up the steps to the club. He did not start the engine again until he had seen them pass safely into the clubhouse; then, driving in low gear, he went on around the gravel circle to the parking lot.

“I see there are no other autos this evening, Walter,” he said. “I wonder where everyone can be.”

Mr. Bridge, already bored and thinking of an important case at the office, made no attempt to answer.

The women were waiting for them in the deserted lobby.

“It seems,” Van Metre chuckled, “we have the place to ourselves this evening.”

“I do get so sick of crowds sometimes,” Mrs. Bridge answered brightly.

The four of them began to walk along the corridor toward the rear of the building, where the dining room was. There was a series of rugs along the length of the corridor so that they would be walking in silence, then on the hardwood floor, then in silence, and so on. Whenever their heels struck the floor the noise echoed ahead of them and behind them as though they were being preceded and followed.

When the silence became unbearable Mrs. Bridge looked over her shoulder, smiling, and said, “Everyone says the chef here is the best in the city.”

“We feel he’s competent,” said Wilhelm Van Metre, who was walking directly behind her with his head slightly bowed.

On they went, two by two, down the long corridor. Small tables of various shapes had been set against the wall at intervals in a desperate attempt to conceal the length of the corridor. On one of the tables was a wreath, on another was an unlighted candle, on another was a silver bowl, another held a telephone book in a gray leather binding. There were half a dozen mirrors along the wall. Mrs. Bridge did not dare look into any of the mirrors, and as the four of them marched along she wondered if she was about to lose control of herself. Where are we going? she thought. Why are we here?

“What lovely tables,” she said.

Van Metre cleared his throat. “Tables are appropriate here.”

“We really should get together more often,” she said.

“Yes. Susan and I often say, ‘We really should stop by to visit Walter and India.’ ”

Finally they came to the frosted glass doors of the dining room.

“Ladies,” Van Metre said, holding open the door.

There were two people in the dining room.

“Susan, I believe that’s young Blackburn over there with his father.”

“He must be home from the university.”

“I believe I’ll go speak to them. Walter and India, I’m certain you will excuse me.” He walked slowly across the dining room, said something to them, and they looked around at Mr. and Mrs. Bridge.

In a few minutes he returned, rubbing his hands. “Now, let’s have a look. Which table shall we sit at? Anyone feeling particular?”

“I don’t think it makes a bit of difference,” said Mrs. Bridge. All the tables had been set. There was a candle burning on each table as though a great crowd of people was expected.

“As you probably know, the club was designed by Crandall.”

Mrs. Bridge had never heard of this architect, but she thought his tone implied she should have. “Let me think,” she said, touching her cheek, “is he the City Hall man? I really should know, of course. His name is so familiar.”

Van Metre turned to stare at her. He smiled bleakly. “I’m afraid Crandall is not the City Hall man, India. No, I’m afraid not.” After a pause he said, “In what connection have you heard of him?”

“He was mixed up in that USHA mess,” said Mr. Bridge unexpectedly.

“You’re correct about that, Walter,” Van Metre said, “although that was hardly what I had in mind. Crandall also designed the famous Penfield house.” He studied the empty tables, deliberated, and selected one, saying with a courtly gesture, “And now, ladies, if you will.”

They seated themselves around an oval table in front of some French doors that opened onto the terrace. They could see a floodlighted, empty swimming pool, a number of canvas-backed chairs, the flagpole, and a winding gravel path lined with white-washed rocks. In the distance above the dark wall formed by the trees, the sky was suffused with a chill pink color from the downtown lights of the city.

“What a lovely view,” Mrs. Bridge exclaimed.

“I’m afraid you’re being kind,” Van Metre said, unfolding his napkin. “There isn’t much to look at.” He began to frown in the direction of the kitchen.

“I do think the pool looks awfully nice with the lights on it that way.”

“Those rocks are absurd,” said Susan Van Metre.

“Well, most places they would be a little too-too, but don’t you think they look nice out here in the country? They seem to give such a homey touch.”

“The club isn’t precisely in the country, India,” Van Metre said, and cleared his throat. Then he turned around in his chair and again frowned at the kitchen. “I am commencing to wonder if we have a waiter this evening.”

“We’re certainly in no hurry,” said Mrs. Bridge.

Van Metre snapped his fingers, at which the father and son looked across the room.

“Don’t we have any service?” Van Metre called with a note of joviality.

The father spoke to his son, who got up and walked to the swinging doors, pushed halfway through, and apparently spoke to someone in the kitchen. Presently a Filipino waiter came out with a napkin folded over one arm.

“What do you recommend this evening?” Van Metre asked him.

The waiter said the roast beef was especially nice.

“How does that sound? India? Walter? Susan? Roast beef, everyone?”

“Grand,” said Mrs. Bridge.

“Four roast beeves,” said Van Metre, and chuckled. “It sounds as though I’m ordering four beeves. Entire animals.” He took a sip of water, removed his glasses, and while examining them against the light he said, “Possibly I have told you of my experience in Illinois last summer on the way home from my annual fishing trip.”

“Why, no, I don’t believe you have,” Mrs. Bridge said attentively. “What happened?”

“I went fishing with Andrew Stoner,” he said, and lifted his bushy white eyebrows in what appeared to be an inquiring manner.

Mrs. Bridge thought quickly. “Stoner Dry Goods?”

“No, no,” he chuckled. “I should say not! Stoner Dry Goods, my Lord, no!” He continued to chuckle while he put on his glasses, and Mrs. Bridge noticed with a slight feeling of discomfort that the hair of his eyebrows actually touched his glasses.

“I’ve met that fellow,” he was saying. “No, India, not Stoner Dry Goods, not by a damn sight, no sir. Andrew Stoner, not John Stoner. My man is in the winter-wheat business. In fact, I expect you’ve met him.”

“A rather short man with quite an attractive wife?”

“You’re probably thinking of Dr. Max Hamm. He wears goldrimmed glasses and speaks with a German accent.”

“Oh—well, I don’t believe I know the Stoners.”

“I’m sure you must have met him somewhere.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it. I’m terrible about names.”

“However, you may not have met him.” Van Metre thoughtfully rubbed his chin and took another sip of water. “I believe, now that I think of it, Andrew’s wife died before you moved into the neighborhood. Andrew went away for several years.” He turned the water pitcher around; apparently he was inspecting the design etched into it. “At any rate, we were returning from our annual fishing expedition when we had occasion to put up for the night at a small hotel in Illinois. It was in the town of Gilman, as I recall. Not too far from Peoria.” His expression was inquiring again.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever been there. It must be nice.”

Van Metre put the napkin to his mouth and coughed. Then he continued. “Well, India, I shouldn’t care to live there. However, Andrew and I did stop there overnight, although at this moment I am unable to recall our reasoning. It was a mistake, you may be sure of that.”

“Sounds dreadful.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say it was quite that bad.”

“I didn’t mean that exactly, it’s just that those little farming towns can be awfully depressing.”

“I wouldn’t call Gilman a farming town.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that it was.”

“It’s quite a little city. Good bit of industry there. In fact, Gilman may have quite a future.”

“Is that so? I suppose it is altogether different than I imagine.”

Wilhelm Van Metre stared at the tablecloth for a while, as though something had annoyed him.

“We stopped there overnight. We got a room in the hotel, not a bad room, though small, and as we were walking downstairs for supper Andrew said, ‘Wilhelm, how about a drink?’ Well, India and Walter, I said, ‘That sounds like a good idea, Andrew. Let’s have a drink.’ We decided to have a martini. I’ve forgotten just why. We didn’t know if the bartender in that little hotel even knew what a martini was, but we decided we would try him out.”

Mrs. Bridge, thinking the story was about a terrible martini, said, “That certainly was taking a chance.”

“Well sir,” Van Metre said, leaning back in his chair and all at once slapping the table, “that martini was the finest I ever tasted.”

“What a surprise that must have been!”

The waiter was coming across the floor trundling a cart with the roast beef under a large silver bell. After he had served them and refilled their water glasses he returned to the kitchen. They began to eat.

“This beef isn’t quite done,” Van Metre observed.

Mrs. Bridge said it was just the way she liked it.