Ramon left them.
“Would you mind telling me whatinhell you’re trying to do?” Harison’s fury was intensified by frustration.
“Not at all, m’dear. Just having a decent meal.”
“Decent meal! With all that fat and salt and cholesterol? You can’t have forgotten you’ve got a heart condition!”
“That’s not the only condition I’ve got.”
“That can’t be helped.”
Ramon brought the drink and hors d’oeuvres.
Groendal took a long sip of the martini. He wanted the drink to provide a mellow glow before its power was diminished by food. “That’s precisely the point, dear Peter: It can’t be helped. So—eat, drink and be merry. For tomorrow . . .”
“That’s precisely the point.” Harison spread some Brie on a portion of matzo. “We want as many tomorrows as we can possibly have. But we’re not going to have many if you let your diet go to hell like this.”
“Patience, Peter. After all, tonight is a special night.”
Ramon returned. “Would the gentlemen care to order? I know you have a performance to attend.”
“Thoughtful, Ramon,” Groendal acknowledged. “Care to join me in the Caesar salad?” he asked Harison.
His companion simply shook his head.
“Very well,” Groendal continued, “I’ll have the Mediterranean salad. And . . . how’s the Yorkshire pudding?”
“Perfect.”
“Of course. Then the pudding with the prime rib, and cottage fries.”
“And for dessert?”
“The coconut cream pie?”
“Excellent as always.”
“Perfect.”
“And Monsieur Harison?”
“Dover sole and baked potato.” His voice was barely audible.
“I beg pardon?”
“The sole and a baked potato.”
“No salad or dessert for Monsieur?”
“That will be all, thanks.”
Ramon left.
“Suicide!” said Harison.
“Hmmmm?”
“You know you’re going to make yourself ill, Rid. But worse than that, you’re flirting with another coronary. And you know the doctor said you can’t take another one.”
“Life is a mystery, Peter. Death is a mystery. We never know what we will die from or when. We live each day to the fullest, no?” As he spoke, Groendal continued to heap portions of matzo alternately with pate, cheese, and caviar.
“That’s not you, Rid. You were never that way before. This fatalism has taken over your personality. It’s not healthy.”
“Life is not healthy . . . at least mine isn’t.”
Ramon brought the entrees, and Groendal’s salad as well. It was his custom to take salad and entree in the same course.
Before tasting either beef or potatoes, Groendal sprinkled salt generously on both. Harison winced and shook his head.
After servicing several other tables, Ramon returned to his station, from which vantage he could oversee the progress of his diners. He was joined by Vera, a waitress garbed, as was he, in black tie.
“Slow night,” Vera commented.
“Should pick up. It’s early,” said Ramon.
She nodded toward Groendal and Harison. “I see you’ve got the bastard.”
Ramon shrugged. “Rub kitty wrong, kitty scratches. Rub kitty right, kitty purrs. He’s not so bad.”
“He’s not so bad as long as he’s eating exactly what he wants. And from what I can see, he’s eating exactly what he wants. You should have seen him a couple of weeks ago when he was observing some kind of diet. I thought he was going to have me served with an apple in my mouth.”
Ramon suppressed a smile. “Have no fear: Harison keeps him on the straight and narrow.”
“Hmmph.” She pondered for a moment. “When was the last time anyone saw Groendal without Harison?”
Ramon winked. “Don’t be so coy. There are no closets anymore.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t care who’s screwing whom in this town. It’s just that there’s something to be said for discretion. As far as Groendal and Harison are concerned, flaunting their relationship doesn’t exactly show tact.”
“Don’t be so hard on them, Vera. As a matter of fact, it must be doing them some good: Look at all the weight Monsieur Groendal has lost in just the past few months . . . one of the fringe benefits of a
“There’s another name for it.”
Ramon waited.
“AIDS.”
“Oh, come now, Vera. That’s not nice.”
“Not nice, but probably true. Don’t tell me those surgical gloves you’ve been wearing are so transparent nobody’s noticed them.”
“No notice is taken when one is discreet.”
“So why do you wear them?”
“One cannot be too careful.”
“Well, if he does croak I can think of a lot of local artists who will not be at all sorry.”
Ramon smirked. “That’s not at all like you, Vera.” He noted that Groendal and Harison had finished. As he hastened to bring dessert and coffee while the table was being cleared, he pulled taut his thin rubber gloves.
Ramon’s habit of wearing gloves while serving at table had originated with the relatively recent proliferation of AIDS. He washed his hands so often that his skin was rough and raw, a condition which fostered the introduction of infection. Yet it was impossible to avoid handling used dinner utensils bearing diners’ saliva. And saliva, reportedly, might be one of the vehicles for the transmission of AIDS. One could not be too careful.
He had articulated that thought to Vera in seeming jest. But he was concerned. Especially when serving someone such as Ridley C. Groendal. Ramon would never forget the specter of Rock Hudson, a sometime visitor to the Chop House, in the later stages of what seemed then a newly discovered disease, Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. That substantial, rugged, handsome man reduced to a skeletal shadow of himself. One look at the ravaged Hudson had convinced Ramon he must take every precaution against AIDS. This was not something amenable to the so-called miracle drugs. This was a fatal illness that weakened and ravaged the body unmercifully.
So, while he wore the surgical gloves as a matter of routine, it was specifically from one such as Groendal that Ramon felt he needed protection. None of the diners ever had complained about the gloves, or even seemed to notice them. Whether or not any of the diners had actually contracted this dread disease, all understood the nature of the illness and the need for self-protection for one in Ramon’s position.
“You’re not going to do that too!” Harison said as Groendal lit a cigar.
Groendal tilted his head back and blew a series of smoke rings. “Peter, either I am having an unaccustomed problem making myself clear or you simply refuse to believe me. The fact is, in what time I have left I intend to enjoy myself to the fullest . . . that can’t be so difficult to understand.”
“But Rid, enjoying yourself to the fullest is shortening the time you have left.” His voice held a hint of desperation.
