The headwaiter delivered our steaks.
Stadler’s was so rare you could run blood tests on it. Mine resembled a withered black man’s head left to smoke and char my plate.
My butcher growled at my burnt offering.
“My God,” he cried, “they treated Joan of Arc better than that! Will you puff it or chew it?”
“But yours,” I laughed, “is still breathing!”
My steak sounded like crunched autumn leaves, every time I chewed.
Stadler, like W. C. Fields, hacked his way through a wall of living flesh, dragging his canoe behind him.
He killed his dinner. I buried mine.
We ate swiftly. All too soon, in a shared panic, we sensed that we must talk once more.
We ate in a terrible silence like an old married couple, angry at lost arguments, the reasons for which were also lost, leaving irritability and muted rage.
We buttered bread to fill the silence. We ordered coffee, which filled more time and at last settled back, watching that other stranger across a snowfield of linen, napery, and silver. Then, abomination of abominations, I heard myself say:
“When we get home, we must have dinner some night to talk about our time here, yes? Florence, the weather, the paintings.”
“Yes.” He downed his drink. “No!”
“What?”
“No,” he said, simply. “Let’s face it, Leonard, when we were home we had nothing in common. Even here we have nothing except time, distance, and travel to share. We have no talk, no interests. Hell, it’s a shame, but there it is. This whole thing was impulsive, for the best, or at the worst, mysterious reasons. You’re alone, I’m alone in a strange city at noon, and here tonight. But we’re like a couple of grave-diggers who meet and try to shake hands, but their ectoplasm falls right through each other, hmm? We’ve kidded ourselves all day.”
I sat there stunned. I shut my eyes, felt as if I might be angry, then gave a great gusting exhalation.
“You’re the most honest man I’ve ever known.”
“I hate being honest and realistic.” Then he laughed.
“I tried to call you all afternoon.”
“I tried to call you!”
“I wanted to cancel dinner.”
“Me, too!”
“I never got through.”
“I missed you.”
“My God!”
“Jesus Christ!”
We both began to laugh, threw our heads back, and almost fell from our chairs.
“This is rich!”
“It most certainly is!” I said, imitating Oliver Hardy’s way of speaking.
“God, order another bottle of champagne!”