Free The Royal Family by William T. Vollmann Page A

anything. He did not know whether he was about to be rewarded or punished, and that uncertainty made him nauseous.
    At Boccaccio’s, which was right across the street from a women’s shoe store swarming with golden high heels, black high heels, sandals with double or triple straps, sexy boots, silver snakeskin affairs that came up to the knee, they sat at one of those uncomfortably “intimate” tables so beloved by those office dictators whose hobby it is to gaze into one’s anxious face. He saw that the full partners were planning to order wine. John ordered a beer just to show them that he was his own man. They nodded indulgently.
    What do we live for? declaimed old Mr. Singer in his best populist voice. Some fellows live for women. I live to eat. I’m not fat or anything, but I enjoy my food. Barton Rapp, now, there’s a man who lives for his operas and his wine rack.
    (John had heard all this before.)
    Mr. Singer leaned forward and fixed John with his eyes. —And what do you live for, John? he said.
    I live for my work, replied John, trying not to be irritated.
    Mr. Rapp frowned and waved a finger. —Not good enough! he said. Everybody works to live, but very few of us—not even full partners, John—can say the reverse. What about your wife? Don’t you live for her?
    Let’s leave Irene out of this, said John as his wife’s unlovely face hung before him.
    Have it your way, John, said Mr. Singer. Let’s put it like this: What are you about?
    John gulped at his beer and tried to smile.
    Mr. Rapp tapped his wineglass with a musical sound. —When you ask who a person is, what he’s about, you’re really asking what his fetishes are.
    I don’t have any fetishes, Mr. Rapp, just habits. Are you dissatisfied with my work?
    A tough guy, purred Mr. Rapp with a loopy smile. We like that. On the contrary, John. You’re doing an excellent job.
    I’ve got to take a leak, muttered Mr. Singer to himself. He got up and strode toward the back, his round bald dome accompanying him like something sacred—talk about the Music of the Spheres!
    What are your fetishes, Mr. Rapp? said John in his most level voice.
    You’ve got guts, John. There’s a fine line between guts and impertinence, and you’ve never crossed that line.
    Thanks, Mr. Rapp, said John.
    Are you ready to order, gentlemen? said the waiter.
    I’m going to have the warm spinach salad with chevre, said Mr. Rapp. And I believe that’s all I’ll have. John?
    I’ll take the same, said John. And another beer.
    John, John, go ahead and eat! Don’t let me stop you! I’m an old man.
    All right, said John. How’s the salmon today?
    Excellent, sir, said the waiter. It’s probably the best thing on the menu. That garlic aioli is to die for.
    Fine, said John. I’ll take the salmon.
    I’d like the terra cotta chicken, please, said Mr. Singer, now returned. And a small green salad. Do you understand that concept? A small green salad.
    Very good, sir, said the waiter. More wine?
    I understand you’re going to be a father, said Mr. Rapp, blinking sentimentally. Congratulations, John. No, thank you. We have enough for now.
    Thanks for the congratulations, said John, wondering who had told him about Irene’smistake. —It may be another false alarm. By the way, Mr. Budrys hasn’t gotten back to me yet with the amended tobacco brief.
    Oh, he hasn’t? Well, you know we’re getting pretty close to deadline on that one, John.
    I’ll lean on him, said John.
    Well said! cried Mr. Rapp, clapping his hands. John, you’ll go far.
    But you never did tell us what you’re about, said Mr. Singer. Or did I miss something when I peed?
    I’m about nothing, said John. Exactly nothing.
    Spoken like a full partner, chortled Mr. Singer.
    We think you have the makings of a full partner, echoed Mr. Rapp.
    Well, thanks, said John awkwardly.
     

| 23 |
    That afternoon there had been no message from Brady and no other work, so Tyler went back to Larkin Street to observe yellow