“You are invited to a dinner party Friday night,” said my friend Turk, “and you’re going to enjoy it, it’s at a friend’s house - he’s French, a teacher, an art collector and runs a gallery out of his house, he’s just the type of person you should meet, you’ll love him, Ahna and I will pick you up at six and don’t even think about saying no.”
I didn’t think of saying no, it would be futile anyway. Once Turk gets hold of an idea he is relentlessly domineering. My only thought was what I was going to wear and what I would bring: Frenchmen rate a more lucid politesse as a rule, they follow a protocol when it comes to entertaining. Should I bring wine or leave that to him - if he is a connoisseur I might show ignorance by my selection - or should I, as is customary in France, bring chocolates or flowers? I decided on a dessert when I was later informed it would be a barbecue on the deck and the food would be Middle Eastern. I was so glad I ran into Ahna before I did anything too pretentious.
My friend Turk and his wife Ahna, now and again decide to play matchmaker and I am obliged to meet whatever man they have taken up with. This is no problem as it usually involves dinner at their house with no strings attached either way but I had a feeling they were more caught up in this venture, whatever it was, I could not be sure. They never allude to anything as prosaic as a date but Turk has quite a crush on me himself so Ahna takes an interest in placing me with someone. Her husband is my friend because we both review books and records and write poetry but I am not attracted to him. This slope I have to scale with caution - I would be shunned by both if I said this aloud, so touchy are they about their attractiveness, individually and as a couple.
I played it casual though I put on what would be the most French-style garments I own. Then I realized I would look obvious and went with what I normally wear to backyard parties - jeans. I made lemon mousse and bought shortbread cookies to go with it. Turk and Ahna picked me up exactly at six and she was dressed as she usually was, in stiletto heels and a business suit, having come from work. “I can’t wait for you to meet Jules,” said Turk excitedly. “He’s so knowledgeable about all the things you are interested in. He's just great, you’re going to love him. He’s a little older than you, but not so much to matter.”
“What does he teach?”
“High school French.”
“And what kind of art does he like?”
“Definitely abstract, no representational elements or any kind of narrative. He read the article on Pollock you wrote and was impressed.”
“Hmm.”
When we arrived at Jules's, I was introduced to great fanfare and was shown his gallery on the second floor though I didn’t see anything resembling a collection. There were a few pieces in the hallway and in the living room but I couldn’t discern a “passion.” He was in his fifties, gray hair worn longish, large gray mustache and a beret, if you can believe it. I was glad I left mine home. He looked like a caricature of what a French teacher or an art teacher should look like. Corduroys, blocky shoes, scarf askew, a stoop from regular use of the immortal Gallic shrug though no cigarette. He was almost a cliché - a language-course cartoon drawing of a Frenchman.
But he appealed to me well enough to make me glad I’d come and was thinking that yes, I could go out with this man, his manners were agreeably upbeat and he did have much to say on many interesting topics, conversation fluid, rather than portentous. The food consisted of lamb kebobs with hummus, baba ganouch and pita bread. My lemon mousse was the perfect dessert and I received compliments from the seven people present. I began to feel friendly to this amusing Frenchman and was already thinking of how I would thank Ahna for introducing me on the way home and how pleased they both would be that I approved of their new friend. I could picture Jules and I attending local art events and hanging out in cafes and bars. The wine, which was good but not that of a connoisseur, was warming my spirit. He was a little old but as Turk said, it wouldn’t matter.
After the sun had set on the deck, we went to the living room for coffee when a young girl was shown in. She was pleasingly plump with a beautiful complexion and a cheerful demeanor. My first thought was she had come for the one single guy there and when she announced “I just got off work,” and hugged Jules. I assumed she was his daughter. Come to think of it he did have rather a suburban-style house - having a family would explain that. She sat on the sofa and he took her coat and offered to fix her a plate. “No, I’ll fix my own plate after I come down a little,” she said.
I did not know what she needed to come down from but we were just about to leave, so this late guest had no real interest for us; the party was breaking up. I shook hands with the other guests and then took Jules’s arm and began my thank-you-for-the-delicious-dinner routine as he was leading us toward the door. Then he stopped, turned back and these were the words he said to me: “Oh Jill, I’d like you to meet my fiancee, Maggie. I can’t quite introduce her as my fiancee, ha, ha, yet because she hasn’t turned eighteen, in fact, ha, ha, ha, she has just turned sixteen this past week, we are keeping a low profile until she graduates. Maggie, this is Jill. I think you’ve already met Turk and Ahna.” He hugged her and she blushed the blush of a sixteen-year-old who has been made center-stage and sheepishly put her arms around him. Then he walked us to the door and out to the driveway. Ahna and I settled into the car and Turk and Jules shook hands again, kissed on the cheeks. He stood waving to us, all smiles, as we pulled out of the driveway.
“He is going with a high school student! Are you kidding me? You guys could have given me a warning. Come on, Ahna, you’re the feminist; a high school student, one of his own students, no doubt? Do her parents have any say in this? Oh. My. God. I am embarrassed for them both.”
Turk was laughing so hard he could barely hold the steering wheel. “Honestly, I didn’t know she was going to be there. I actually didn’t know he called her his fiancee. Can you believe that old goat? He’s a riot.”
“That's one thing you could call him,” I said. I decided that would be my last sentence on Jules. I wanted to delete him and this dinner party from my mind immediately. Ahna continued with absolute silence - they had a thirteen-year-old daughter and it probably brought up more than a few incongruous thoughts I would imagine.
The Frenchman was soon out of favor with the couple and I never heard his name mentioned again. Turk and Ahna have a revolving set of friends, no one ever lasts too long, in fact I could tell I might be beginning to lose cachet and my days were numbered, that is until Turk asked if I might be interested in a threesome. I declined and then they dropped me too.
I missed Turk’s energy, his excitement over a new record release and his reverence for certain authors. His rapid-fire sarcasm and quick rejoinders kept my wit up to speed, my imaginative powers roiling. He was always in the know on what was cool before any one else had a clue, he praised my accomplishments all over the place, insisting to every one that I was the sun and the moon and must be included in every thing. This was his modus operandi and it worked. His praise was like a drug that kept you happily twirling in his orbit.
He could always be counted on for the unexpected, the unruly, and never failed to justify the terrible things people said about him. Occasionally someone would take a punch at him in public - it was all pretty intoxicating. He was the least boring friend I’ve ever had and his poetry was quite good. I felt a little let down after I was given the heave-ho. Someone once said to me, How can a nice person like you hang out with an asshole like that? I think I’ve explained my reasons. No regrets at all.
I didn’t think of saying no, it would be futile anyway. Once Turk gets hold of an idea he is relentlessly domineering. My only thought was what I was going to wear and what I would bring: Frenchmen rate a more lucid politesse as a rule, they follow a protocol when it comes to entertaining. Should I bring wine or leave that to him - if he is a connoisseur I might show ignorance by my selection - or should I, as is customary in France, bring chocolates or flowers? I decided on a dessert when I was later informed it would be a barbecue on the deck and the food would be Middle Eastern. I was so glad I ran into Ahna before I did anything too pretentious.
My friend Turk and his wife Ahna, now and again decide to play matchmaker and I am obliged to meet whatever man they have taken up with. This is no problem as it usually involves dinner at their house with no strings attached either way but I had a feeling they were more caught up in this venture, whatever it was, I could not be sure. They never allude to anything as prosaic as a date but Turk has quite a crush on me himself so Ahna takes an interest in placing me with someone. Her husband is my friend because we both review books and records and write poetry but I am not attracted to him. This slope I have to scale with caution - I would be shunned by both if I said this aloud, so touchy are they about their attractiveness, individually and as a couple.
I played it casual though I put on what would be the most French-style garments I own. Then I realized I would look obvious and went with what I normally wear to backyard parties - jeans. I made lemon mousse and bought shortbread cookies to go with it. Turk and Ahna picked me up exactly at six and she was dressed as she usually was, in stiletto heels and a business suit, having come from work. “I can’t wait for you to meet Jules,” said Turk excitedly. “He’s so knowledgeable about all the things you are interested in. He's just great, you’re going to love him. He’s a little older than you, but not so much to matter.”
“What does he teach?”
“High school French.”
“And what kind of art does he like?”
“Definitely abstract, no representational elements or any kind of narrative. He read the article on Pollock you wrote and was impressed.”
“Hmm.”
When we arrived at Jules's, I was introduced to great fanfare and was shown his gallery on the second floor though I didn’t see anything resembling a collection. There were a few pieces in the hallway and in the living room but I couldn’t discern a “passion.” He was in his fifties, gray hair worn longish, large gray mustache and a beret, if you can believe it. I was glad I left mine home. He looked like a caricature of what a French teacher or an art teacher should look like. Corduroys, blocky shoes, scarf askew, a stoop from regular use of the immortal Gallic shrug though no cigarette. He was almost a cliché - a language-course cartoon drawing of a Frenchman.
But he appealed to me well enough to make me glad I’d come and was thinking that yes, I could go out with this man, his manners were agreeably upbeat and he did have much to say on many interesting topics, conversation fluid, rather than portentous. The food consisted of lamb kebobs with hummus, baba ganouch and pita bread. My lemon mousse was the perfect dessert and I received compliments from the seven people present. I began to feel friendly to this amusing Frenchman and was already thinking of how I would thank Ahna for introducing me on the way home and how pleased they both would be that I approved of their new friend. I could picture Jules and I attending local art events and hanging out in cafes and bars. The wine, which was good but not that of a connoisseur, was warming my spirit. He was a little old but as Turk said, it wouldn’t matter.
After the sun had set on the deck, we went to the living room for coffee when a young girl was shown in. She was pleasingly plump with a beautiful complexion and a cheerful demeanor. My first thought was she had come for the one single guy there and when she announced “I just got off work,” and hugged Jules. I assumed she was his daughter. Come to think of it he did have rather a suburban-style house - having a family would explain that. She sat on the sofa and he took her coat and offered to fix her a plate. “No, I’ll fix my own plate after I come down a little,” she said.
I did not know what she needed to come down from but we were just about to leave, so this late guest had no real interest for us; the party was breaking up. I shook hands with the other guests and then took Jules’s arm and began my thank-you-for-the-delicious-dinner routine as he was leading us toward the door. Then he stopped, turned back and these were the words he said to me: “Oh Jill, I’d like you to meet my fiancee, Maggie. I can’t quite introduce her as my fiancee, ha, ha, yet because she hasn’t turned eighteen, in fact, ha, ha, ha, she has just turned sixteen this past week, we are keeping a low profile until she graduates. Maggie, this is Jill. I think you’ve already met Turk and Ahna.” He hugged her and she blushed the blush of a sixteen-year-old who has been made center-stage and sheepishly put her arms around him. Then he walked us to the door and out to the driveway. Ahna and I settled into the car and Turk and Jules shook hands again, kissed on the cheeks. He stood waving to us, all smiles, as we pulled out of the driveway.
“He is going with a high school student! Are you kidding me? You guys could have given me a warning. Come on, Ahna, you’re the feminist; a high school student, one of his own students, no doubt? Do her parents have any say in this? Oh. My. God. I am embarrassed for them both.”
Turk was laughing so hard he could barely hold the steering wheel. “Honestly, I didn’t know she was going to be there. I actually didn’t know he called her his fiancee. Can you believe that old goat? He’s a riot.”
“That's one thing you could call him,” I said. I decided that would be my last sentence on Jules. I wanted to delete him and this dinner party from my mind immediately. Ahna continued with absolute silence - they had a thirteen-year-old daughter and it probably brought up more than a few incongruous thoughts I would imagine.
The Frenchman was soon out of favor with the couple and I never heard his name mentioned again. Turk and Ahna have a revolving set of friends, no one ever lasts too long, in fact I could tell I might be beginning to lose cachet and my days were numbered, that is until Turk asked if I might be interested in a threesome. I declined and then they dropped me too.
I missed Turk’s energy, his excitement over a new record release and his reverence for certain authors. His rapid-fire sarcasm and quick rejoinders kept my wit up to speed, my imaginative powers roiling. He was always in the know on what was cool before any one else had a clue, he praised my accomplishments all over the place, insisting to every one that I was the sun and the moon and must be included in every thing. This was his modus operandi and it worked. His praise was like a drug that kept you happily twirling in his orbit.
He could always be counted on for the unexpected, the unruly, and never failed to justify the terrible things people said about him. Occasionally someone would take a punch at him in public - it was all pretty intoxicating. He was the least boring friend I’ve ever had and his poetry was quite good. I felt a little let down after I was given the heave-ho. Someone once said to me, How can a nice person like you hang out with an asshole like that? I think I’ve explained my reasons. No regrets at all.
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