Charlie, and she did not want to compromise her privacy; she chose instead the Old Firehouse, a large, traditional-looking place in Georgetown which the reliable Lauren Williams had recommended, and booked a table for one o’clock.
It was a day of early spring sunshine; there was some high, broken cloud, a light breeze and an almost-forgotten sensation of warmth in the air as Mary walked down 33rd Street from where she had parked the car, past the period houses with their shiny paintwork and the village shops where nothing of vulgar, corporate America had been allowed to penetrate. In the front gardens there were the shoots of croci and a swelling in the twig that presaged buds on the magnolia and cherry trees. There was something false about the houses, part colonial, part neo-Georgian, their period style enforced by statute after some adventurer had bought a plot and built a home from cinder blocks; but you would have to be a grudging person, Mary thought, not to feel uplifted by this island of civility, particularly when you turned onto the lively sidewalks of M Street.
She arrived a little early at the restaurant and handed her coat to the hatcheck girl. She was wearing a beige cashmere sweater and a navy woolen skirt; her dark hair was pushed back from her face by two tortoiseshell combs. A waiter showed her to the back of the room: the table was in a booth with bench seats, one of half a dozen such on a raised platform;the napkins were white and starched, but the mahogany surface itself was bare. She lit a cigarette and sipped a glass of water as she waited; she began to read a copy of the
Post
, trying to interest herself in an article about the economic outlook, which told her that with a falling GNP and the highest unemployment since the Depression, some urgent rejuvenating action was required.
“I hope I didn’t keep you.”
Mary looked up from the paper in surprise, having neither seen nor heard his approach.
“Not at all,” she said, untruthfully, as Frank slid in opposite.
When his drink came, he stirred it quickly with the plastic swizzle stick, which he then knocked twice on the rim of the glass and flicked into the ashtray; it was a swift, practiced movement with a defined sequence of sound.
He smiled as he took a long pull from the drink. “Did you look at the menu?”
“Yes, I thought I’d have the chicken sandwich.”
The waiter was standing by the table. Frank looked up. “We’ll have one chicken sandwich here. And can I get the French onion soup, then the steak and salad? I’ll have a beer with that. Do you have Schaeffer on tap?”
“Sure. And for the lady?”
“I’ll just have a glass of water.”
“Glass of water,” Frank repeated.
Mary suddenly laughed. “God, I sound like Franny.”
“What?”
“Franny. She’s a character in a story I read in a magazine. I think it was
The New Yorker
. It doesn’t matter.”
“The Salinger story?”
“Yes.” Mary was unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. “You’ve read it?”
“Sure. It was a big thing a couple of years back. You like it?”
“Yes, I did. I thought it was very touching.”
“You think the kid’s pregnant?”
“Franny?” Mary thought Franny was a dim but likeable college girl on the edge of a nervous breakdown caused by her insensitive boyfriend. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Maybe not. Anyway, she has the chicken sandwich, right?”
“Yes, and he has snails and frogs’ legs.”
“Son of a bitch.”
Frank questioned her about Washington and how they lived; he opened his notebook and laid it beside his plate. He scribbled a couple of lines in it, left-handed, then laid down the pencil.
“We were in London before we came here and before that in Tokyo.”
“Tokyo?”
“Yes, in Japan. It’s—”
“I know where it is. What was it like?”
“I enjoyed it, in a way. Before that we were in London and before that Moscow.”
“And that’s in Russia, right?”
Mary found
It was a day of early spring sunshine; there was some high, broken cloud, a light breeze and an almost-forgotten sensation of warmth in the air as Mary walked down 33rd Street from where she had parked the car, past the period houses with their shiny paintwork and the village shops where nothing of vulgar, corporate America had been allowed to penetrate. In the front gardens there were the shoots of croci and a swelling in the twig that presaged buds on the magnolia and cherry trees. There was something false about the houses, part colonial, part neo-Georgian, their period style enforced by statute after some adventurer had bought a plot and built a home from cinder blocks; but you would have to be a grudging person, Mary thought, not to feel uplifted by this island of civility, particularly when you turned onto the lively sidewalks of M Street.
She arrived a little early at the restaurant and handed her coat to the hatcheck girl. She was wearing a beige cashmere sweater and a navy woolen skirt; her dark hair was pushed back from her face by two tortoiseshell combs. A waiter showed her to the back of the room: the table was in a booth with bench seats, one of half a dozen such on a raised platform;the napkins were white and starched, but the mahogany surface itself was bare. She lit a cigarette and sipped a glass of water as she waited; she began to read a copy of the
Post
, trying to interest herself in an article about the economic outlook, which told her that with a falling GNP and the highest unemployment since the Depression, some urgent rejuvenating action was required.
“I hope I didn’t keep you.”
Mary looked up from the paper in surprise, having neither seen nor heard his approach.
“Not at all,” she said, untruthfully, as Frank slid in opposite.
When his drink came, he stirred it quickly with the plastic swizzle stick, which he then knocked twice on the rim of the glass and flicked into the ashtray; it was a swift, practiced movement with a defined sequence of sound.
He smiled as he took a long pull from the drink. “Did you look at the menu?”
“Yes, I thought I’d have the chicken sandwich.”
The waiter was standing by the table. Frank looked up. “We’ll have one chicken sandwich here. And can I get the French onion soup, then the steak and salad? I’ll have a beer with that. Do you have Schaeffer on tap?”
“Sure. And for the lady?”
“I’ll just have a glass of water.”
“Glass of water,” Frank repeated.
Mary suddenly laughed. “God, I sound like Franny.”
“What?”
“Franny. She’s a character in a story I read in a magazine. I think it was
The New Yorker
. It doesn’t matter.”
“The Salinger story?”
“Yes.” Mary was unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. “You’ve read it?”
“Sure. It was a big thing a couple of years back. You like it?”
“Yes, I did. I thought it was very touching.”
“You think the kid’s pregnant?”
“Franny?” Mary thought Franny was a dim but likeable college girl on the edge of a nervous breakdown caused by her insensitive boyfriend. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Maybe not. Anyway, she has the chicken sandwich, right?”
“Yes, and he has snails and frogs’ legs.”
“Son of a bitch.”
Frank questioned her about Washington and how they lived; he opened his notebook and laid it beside his plate. He scribbled a couple of lines in it, left-handed, then laid down the pencil.
“We were in London before we came here and before that in Tokyo.”
“Tokyo?”
“Yes, in Japan. It’s—”
“I know where it is. What was it like?”
“I enjoyed it, in a way. Before that we were in London and before that Moscow.”
“And that’s in Russia, right?”
Mary found
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