A-Splendid-Ruin(42)
Yet, Ellis Farge was here, and had brought me with him, and Goldie had not raised a brow at the mention of it.
“Come, come, LaRosa, you’re monopolizing our guest,” objected Gelett Addison.
“Just getting acquainted.” Dante LaRosa flicked the ash from his cigarette into the glass serving as his ashtray. “Given how odd it is for our friend here to bring such a woman to Coppa’s.”
Ellis Farge’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”
“Just a joke.”
Again that palpable tension between them. Then Wence rose and Blythe Markowitz asked, “Whence goes Wence?”
“To order some food. I’m starving.”
After that, the conversation began again, and Ellis Farge relaxed. LaRosa put out his second cigarette, only half-smoked. “Well, I’m off.”
“Nose to the ground, as always,” said Addison. “What scent are you following today, oh, newshound? And why haven’t you written a piece about us? Aren’t we interesting enough?”
“If I wrote about you, people would actually read your reviews, and you’d lose your bohemian bona fides.” Then Dante LaRosa said something in Italian that made Blythe laugh.
“What? What did he say?” Addison demanded. “Damn you, LaRosa! It’s not fair when you speak that peasant tongue.”
“A little respect please, Addison. That ‘peasant tongue’ once ruled the world.”
“I do respect your people. I give thanks every day for spaghetti and a glass of good chianti.” Addison raised his glass in salute.
“Tell us what Dante said, Blythe,” urged Edith.
Blythe said, “It was quite vulgar. Something along the lines of not shitting where you eat.”
“Language!” LaRosa admonished her, but he was laughing. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Kimble.” Then he was gone, and Edith Jackson moved to take his place.
The conversation raced along; at some point plates of spaghetti came; everyone treated them as communal dishes, and certainly there was enough on the two plates to feed a crowd. The entrée of roasted chicken, the salad, the loaf of crusty French bread—it all disappeared almost before I could do more than taste it. The play of their talk and laughter, and my excitement over my new role as my uncle’s liaison with Ellis Farge, made it hard for me to pay much heed to my revelation about who they were and their place in society. This was the most engaging crowd I’d encountered since I’d been in San Francisco. I told myself my mother’s warning was just another one of her old-fashioned ideas. I was vaguely aware that the crowd was waning, then waxing again, and the light outside fading, windows darkening, streetlights being lit. It only made our company feel more cozy and intimate, and I hated to see the evening end. I had enjoyed myself, which was so refreshing after the balls and entertainments I’d attended, and I didn’t want to leave. Or perhaps it was only my giddiness at possibility and purpose that put such a roseate light on the gathering.
The others, one by one, were drawn away by other obligations, until only Wence and Mr. Farge and I remained at the pushed-together tables at the back of the restaurant.
“I’ll order another bottle of wine,” Wence said, but as he raised his hand to summon the waiter, Farge said softly, “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Wence?”
Wenceslas Piper lowered his arm and glanced hastily at me. “Actually, I do, and I just realized I’m late. Good evening, May. I hope you will return.”
I was alone with Ellis Farge again. He grinned. “I’m sorry for all that.”
“Don’t be. I had a wonderful time.”
“They’re scoundrels and wastrels, most of them. And they’ve left me with the bill, again.”
“You obviously enjoy them.”
“Sometimes. It’s nearly nine. Let me see you to your carriage.”
“Nine?” Later than I’d thought. “How quickly it went. I suppose because everyone was so interesting.”
“You’ll grow tired of Coppa’s soon enough once we’ve started work on your uncle’s building.” Farge put money on the table to pay the bill and rose. “Do you mind leaving your sketches with me? I’ll look at them tomorrow.”
“Not at all. But I would like to hear your opinion.”
“I’ll be glad to tell you. Soon, I hope.”
It wasn’t until I left the table that I realized how much wine I’d drunk. Ellis Farge said goodbye at the carriage, and I watched him walk off, my bag of sketchbooks bouncing at his thigh, and the night seemed so beautiful. I wasn’t tired at all, but invigorated.
And so, when the buggy began its slow way home, and we came again to the street in Chinatown where I thought I’d spotted Goldie earlier, it did not seem foolish at all to ask Petey to stop. Inspired by the evening spent with artists and a glimpse of a new future for myself—and by a bit of drunkenness too, more than a bit—I felt brave and daring enough to jump down. I ignored Petey’s protest as I passed the store on the corner with its carvings and clothing in the windows, the closed market stalls, and the smiling Buddha at the neighboring joss house. I paused at the door where Goldie/not Goldie had disappeared.
I saw nothing to indicate what this place was. The door, dark and heavily carved, was just a door. It was not menacing. The woman who might have been Goldie had walked inside without a knock, without hesitation. But then again, it was hours ago that I’d seen that woman going through this door. What did I want? To learn that it was not Goldie? Or to learn that it was? What would I do once the question was answered? What did I hope for?