Allan Stein. Matthew Stadler

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СКАЧАТЬ looks like you’re either going or backing out.”

      “I can back out easily enough. Hank won’t mind. I would just appreciate it, Madame Assistant, if you would leave the whole affair alone for a while, the rest of the evening at least, and let things settle.”

      In the bar, the Grand Marble Bar (massive countertop hauled from Firenze, installed on broad cedar stumps with a rough fir trim, brass fixtures from Berlin—spoils of the last World War—all this from the napkin supplied with my drink), we found Hank, and voilà! Dogan, without his mom or dad. The pair was installed at a small round side table with two beers, Dogan’s in a tall pewter stein (Hank’s largesse, no doubt, plus a nimble bribe of the waiter). The boy watched me.

      “Look what the cat dragged in,” Hank announced. “Doogie’s here.” I smiled at “Doogie” and Herbert shook his hand, introducing himself as my new colleague. Sweet Herbert.

      Dogan sipped from the beer, leaving a mustache where no mustache could be. “I saw you eating.”

      “Yes, that was me. Hello, by the way.”

      “Hi. My mom and dad left.”

      “I saw you shopping.”

      “Yeah, Mom got her wig and they both had headaches.”

      “Well, long time.”

      “I guess so; I mean, a month.”

      “A month’s a long time, though you must be busy with studying and sports and all, so it wouldn’t seem so long to you.”

      “Doogie tells me the soccer squad has made it to the playoffs this year,” Hank put in, hoisting his beer. Herbert, utterly bored by the soccer squad, ordered himself an expensive scotch (Day-Glo money) and a Bombay for me.

      “Oh?” I was surprised. “That’s terrific. It’s hard for me to keep track, you know with all my work at the museum.” Meaningful glance at Dogan, met, puzzled, returned. “I’ll probably be seeing them on TV before long.” The round table was minuscule, built for crowding onto the tiny sidewalk of a Parisian back street, and we were rather large. Getting anywhere near the drinks meant navigating an intimate slalom of knees and chair legs; I paid no mind to the press of Dogan (left thigh and calf) and Herbert (right knee).

      “There was a picture in the newspaper,” Dogan announced, grimacing at the beer stein as he sniffed it and took a sip. “But I wasn’t in it.”

      “Hardly worth clipping.”

      “Are you gonna be in the yearbook?” my little waif asked.

      “You know”—Hank leaned in, disturbing almost everything—“I don’t know if you’re on the yearbook squad or anything, Doogie, but I recall in fifty-three, my senior year, when Professor Schmatza—you’re a senior, right?”

      “Sophomore.”

      “That’s right. Well, when Professor Schmatza left our school midyear to join the Lucy expedition, the kids got together and dedicated the yearbook to him, just as a kind of tribute.” Herbert accepted his scotch from the waiter and handed me my gin. “I’m sure someone’s already suggested it in this case, I mean, it’s probably a fait acompli.” Hank smiled at me.

      “I’m not on the yearbook staff,” Dogan said, but Hank wasn’t really listening to him.

      “My goodness, Professor Schmatza was surprised—and pleased, of course. It was a terrific surprise for everyone.”

      “As it would be for me,” I added. I clinked my glass to Herbert’s, Hank’s, and, with some prompting, Dogan’s nearly full beer stein.

      “They’re putting extra pages in for soccer, if we make it to finals.” Dogan spoke only of what he knew, a habit that always charmed me.

      “The I Love Lucy expedition?” Herbert asked. Like Hank, he didn’t seem to notice that the boy ever actually spoke. “Or was it The Lucy Show already?” He and Hank laughed at the joke.

      “What are you drinking?” Dogan asked me.

      “Gin. You wouldn’t like it.”

      “I don’t like this beer. It’s warm.” I looked into the tall stein and saw a dark well of stout, rimmed with scummy foam.

      “What is it?”

      “It’s called Guinness. Your friend said since I’m a soccer player I’d like it.” How cosmopolitan the Grand Marble Bar was, serving Irish stout in a German stein to an underage Turk.

      “You don’t have to drink it. Hank was just being friendly. He likes to buy things for his friends.”

      “I remembered him from the football game. He’s really nice.”

      “Did he see you shopping?”

      “No. I saw him so I said hi.”

      “That’s very nice of you, and nice of Hank to invite you along to the bar.”

      “He didn’t invite me.”

      “That’s not just Guinness, you know,” Hank pointed out, thinking I cared about the beer, “that’s a Guinness triple-X. This bar’s terrific. I haven’t seen triple-X since Hattie and I took Noah to Dublin for the horse races.”

      “He didn’t invite you?”

      “I told him I was supposed to meet you, and he said you were in the bar.”

      “You don’t mind, do you?” Hank asked rhetorically, taking the boy’s beer and lifting it up to my face. “Just look at that foam, thick enough to raise kids on. You could build a house with that foam.”

      “It’s remarkable, Hank.” Turning to the boy: “Is that what you told your parents?”

      “Oh, no way.” Dogan dismissed this lunacy. “They didn’t see you. I told them I ran into a friend from soccer camp who was staying at the hotel. They think I’m staying overnight with him. They don’t care.”

      “You don’t mind if Herbert tries it, do you? Go ahead, Herbie, after a sip of the scotch it’s a real high-class boilermaker.” Herbert sniffed the stein suspiciously and then tried it. I was surprised he seemed to like it.

      “Tastes kind of like oatmeal, Hank. I mean with dirt and alcohol in it. That’s very nice, a very fine beer.”

      “Well, that was kind of dumb,” I whispered to Dogan. “Now you can’t go home, plus there’s no ‘friend’ here to stay with.”

      The boy rolled his eyes, then just looked at me.

      So that now, to the delight of many of you and the horror of some, Dogan and I are going to spend the whole night together in the same bed (my bed, by the ill-paned window at home) for the last time, and in some detail. We’ll have unskilled, enthusiastic sex, minimal but valued conversation, and a snack at what was probably three in the morning. Those of you who can’t stomach any more of this sort of thing СКАЧАТЬ