The hell with it! I called the bookstore, instead, and ordered a tome on carcinoma of the throat.
I put the phone back on the table.
Clean shirt. The jacket of a ribbed, cotton suit, blue and white. I hadn't sweated through my trousers—yet. They'd do as slacks.
I rang for the elevator.
2
One of the two restaurants in the Astolat Hotel, where we stay whenever we are in New York, is called the Knight's Bar. It has been extended and refurbished recently. King Arthur's retinue, armed, armored, gaudily caparisoned, and mounted on some of the most unlikely steeds in mural art, charge, joust and canter on the walls. The place has indirect lighting, banquettes and chairs upholstered in red leather, and air conditioning. The food is excellent.
A pre-chilled atmosphere enveloped me when I came in and I felt it without gratitude. I like hot weather.
Jay, the headwaiter, saw me, glanced about at the tables—which were by now less than a third occupied—and beckoned me toward a place near the bar with a definitiveness unwarranted by the wide choice. I wondered why as I came forward—obediently, and hardly aware of the trifling inquiry in my mind.
Then I saw, around to the right, a pretty girl, sitting alone, reading a book. On each side of her were empty tables. Did Jay, out of subconscious loyalty to my wife, intend to rush me past this pitfall? Or had the girl asked for solitude? She wasn't one of the Knight's Bar regulars—or one of the hotel residents. I knew all of them, at least by sight.
Ordinarily, I would have meekly followed Jay to the table he had selected. But now I thought—why should I? Rather, I thought, there is very little time left for me on this earth. Why shouldn't I use it as I please?