He demanded an extra buck for tipping us off. Osiecki wanted to argue the point. Why? I wondered. What matter an extra buck? Come on, I said, we’re losing time. This looks like the real thing.
It’s not the place I had in mind, said Osiecki, staring at the departing cab and that extra buck.
«What’s the difference? It’s your birthday, remember?
We rang the bell, the doorman appeared, we presented the card. (Just like two suckers from the steppes of Nebraska.) He led us to the elevator and up we went—about eight or ten stories. (No jumping out of windows now!) The door slid open noiselessly, as if greased with glee. For a moment I was stunned. Where were we—in God’s blue heaven? Stars everywhere—walls, ceiling, doors, windows. The Elysian fields, so help me. And these gliding, floating creatures in tulle and gauze, ravenous and diaphanous, all with arms outstretched to welcome us. What could be more enchanting? Houris they were, with the midnight stars for background. Was that music which caught my ear or the rhythmic flutter of seraphic wings? From afar it seemed to come—discreet, subdued, celestial. This, I thought to myself, this is what money can buy, and how wonderful it is to have money, any kind of money, anybody’s money. Money, money … My blue heaven.
Escorted by two of the most Islamic of the houris—such as Mahomet himself might have chosen—we boopy-dooped our way to the place of merriment, where everything swam in a dusky blue, like the light of Asia coming through a splintered fish bowl. A table was waiting for us; over it was spread a white damask tablecloth in the very center of which stood a vase containing pale pink roses, real ones. To the sheen of the cloth was added the gleaming reflection of the stars above. There were stars in the eyes of the houris too, and their breasts, only lightly veiled, were like golden pods bursting with star juice. Even their talk was starry—vague yet intimate, caressing but remote. Scintillating mush, flavored with the carobs and aloes of the book of etiquette. And in the midst of it I caught the word champagne. Some one was ordering champagne. Champagne? What were we then, dukes? I ran a finger lightly over my frayed collar.
Of course! Osiecki was saying. Champagne, why not?
And perhaps a little caviar? murmured the one on the left of him.
Of course! And caviar too!
The cigarette girl now appeared, as if from a trap door. Though I still had a few loose cigarettes in my pocket, and though Osiecki smoked only cigars, we bought three packs of gold-tipped cigarettes because the gold matched the stars, the soft lights, the celestial harps playing somewhere behind or around us, God only knew where, it was all so dusky and husky, so discreet, so ultra-ethereal.
I had only had a taste of the champagne when I heard the two of them ask simultaneously, as if through the larynx of a medium—Won’t you dance?
Like trained seals we rose to our feet, Osiecki and I. Of course we would dance, why not? Neither of us knew which foot to put forward first. The floor was so highly polished I thought I was moving on castors. They danced slowly, very slowly, their warm, dewy bodies—all pollen and star dust—pressed tight to ours, their limbs undulating like rubber plants. What an intoxicating perfume emanated from their smooth, satiny members! They weren’t dancing, they were swooning in our arms.
We returned to the table and had some more of the delicious bubbling champagne. They put a few polite questions to us. Had we been in town long? What were we selling? Then—Wouldn’t you like something to eat?
Instantly, it seemed, a waiter in full dress was at our side. (No snapping of fingers here, no beckoning with head or fingers: everything worked by radar.) A huge menu now stared us in the face. He had put one in each of our mitts, then stood back at attention. The two damosels also surveyed the menu. They were hungry, apparently. To make us more comfortable, they ordered for us as well as themselves. They had a nose for food, these soft-spoken creatures. Delicious looking comestibles, I must say. Oysters, lobsters, more caviar, cheeses, English biscuits, seeded rolls—a most inviting spread.
Osiecki, I noticed, had a strange look on his face. It grew even stranger when the waiter reappeared with a fresh bucket of champagne (ordered by radar) but which was even more refreshing, more sparkling, than the first magnum.
Was there anything else we would like? This from a voice to the rear. A suave, cultured voice trained from the cradle.
No one spoke. Our mouths were stuffed. The voice retreated into the Pythagorean shadows.
In the midst of this dainty repast one of the girls excused herself. She had a number to do. She reappeared in the center of the floor under an orange spot-light. A human jack-knife. How she managed it, the contortions, with the lobster, the caviar and the champagne rolling around in her tripe basket, I couldn’t figure out. She was a boa constrictor devouring itself.
While this performance was going on the one at the table plied us with questions. Always in that soft, subdued, milk and honey voice, but each question more direct, more succinct, I observed. What she was gunning for, apparently, was the key to our wealth. What did we do, precisely, for a living? Her eyes wandered tellingly over our apparel. There was a discrepancy which intrigued her, if one could put it that way. Or was it that we were too blissfully content, too heedless of the mundane factors which entered into the situation? It was Osiecki, his grin (non-committal), his casual, off-hand replies that nettled her.
I devoted my attention to the contortionist. Let Osiecki handle the question-and-answer department!
The act had now reached that crucial point where the orgasm had to be simulated. In a refined way, of course.
I had the goblet of champagne in one hand and a caviar sandwich in the other. Everything was proceeding smoothly, even the orgasm on the floor. Same stars, same dusky blue, same smothered sex from the orchestra, same waiter, same tablecloth. Suddenly it was over. A faint sound of applause, another bow, and here she was returning to the festive board. More champagne, no doubt, more caviar, more drum sticks. Ah, if only life could be lived this way twenty-four hours of the day! I was perspiring freely now. Had an urge to remove my tie. (Mustn’t do that! said a wee small voice inside me.)
She was standing at the table now. Won’t you excuse me? she said. I’ll be back in a moment.
Naturally we excused her. After a number like that she undoubtedly had to make wee-wee, powder her face, freshen up a bit. The food would keep. (We weren’t wolves.) And the champagne. And us.
The music started up again, somewhere in the blue of midnight, discreet, intimate, a haunting, whispering appeal. Spectral music wafted from the upper reaches of the gonads. I half rose to my feet and moved my lips. To my surprise she didn’t budge, our lone angel. Said she wasn’t in the mood. Osiecki tried his charm. Same reply. Even more laconic. The food too had lost its appeal for her. She lapsed into a dead silence.
Osiecki and I continued to eat and drink. The waiters had ceased to bother us. No more buckets of champagne appeared out of nowhere. The tables about us were gradually deserted. The music died away completely.
The silent one now rose abruptly and dashed off, without even excusing herself.
The bill will be coming soon, Osiecki remarked, almost as if to himself.
Then what? I said. Have you enough on you to pay?
That depends, he said, smiling through his teeth.
Sure enough, just as he had said, the waiter in full dress now appeared, the bill in his hand. Osiecki took it, looked at it long and lingeringly, added it aloud several times, then said to the waiter: Where can I find the manager?
Just follow me, said the waiter, his expression unchanged.
I’ll be back in a minute, said Osiecki, waving the bill like an important dispatch from the front.
In a minute or in an hour, what difference did it make? I was a partner in the crime. No exit. The jig was up.
I was trying to figure out how much they had soaked us. Whatever it was, I knew Osiecki didn’t have it. I sat there like a gopher in his hole, waiting for the trap to be sprung. I got thirsty. I put an arm out to reach for the champagne when another waiter, in shirt sleeves, came along and started clearing the table. He grabbed the bottle first. Then he cleared away the remnants. Not so much as a crumb did he overlook. Finally he snatched the table-cloth away too.
For a moment I wondered if some one would whisk the chair from under me—or put a broom in my hand and command me to get to work.
When you’re stumped take a leak. A good idea, I told myself. That way, maybe I’d catch a glimpse of Osiecki.
I found the toilet at the end of the hall, just beyond the elevator. The stars had faded out. No more blue heaven. Just plain, everyday reality—with a growth of beard. On the way back I caught a glimpse of four or five chaps huddled together in a corner. They looked terror-stricken. Towering above them was a hulk of a brute in uniform.
