The Spectator Bird by Wallace Stegner Page B

Césare is good company, and it’s been a long time.
    â€œWe could take them out somewhere,” I said.
    â€œNo, we should have him here. I’d like to see him, wouldn’t you? But I’d hate to lose the whole afternoon. I’d like to get in a walk if it clears up. Ask her if they could be here by twelve-thirty.”
    â€œLooks fine,” I said into the telephone. “Could you lunch with us? About twelve-thirty?”
    â€œOh, that will be lovely!” said Ms. McElvenny. “He’ll be so pleased. But are you sure it’s not a ...”
    â€œNot a bit. We’d be hurt if he didn’t give us a chance at him.”
    â€œOh, here he is now, just going by the door. Would you like to say hello?”
    â€œSure, put him on.”
    There he was, shouting in my ear. “Giuseppe! Come va? And what are you doing out here? I looked for you in New York, and they told me, and I didn’t believe it. I thought you owned New York. Cos’ é successo?”
    â€œCésare,” I said, “you ought to subscribe to Publishers Weekly. I retired and we moved out here eight years ago.”
    He still refused to believe it. Retired? A giovane like me? Now what was it, really? Chased some girl out here, had I?
    It amuses Césare to talk as if, every time we get together, we do nothing but pinch bottoms, follow Lollabrigidas and Lorens down alleys, and live the dolce vita with accommodating starlets, whereas in plain fact we have spent nearly every hour we ever had together sitting at a table at Downey’s, where Césare will be most visible, conducting monologues with him as monologuist and me as monologuee, and consuming drinks for which, naturally and gracefully, he lets me pay. He always understood what agents are for, even though he was never more than briefly my client.
    I held the telephone four inches from my ear and let him shout for a while. When he lulled, I said, “Well, that’s great, it’s great to hear your voice. We’re delighted you called, and tickled you’re coming for lunch. I know you’re at a party now, so I won’t hold onto you. We’ll spill it all tomorrow, shall we? But better let me tell Ms. McElvenny how to get you here.”
    D’accordo. Va benissimo. A domani . Ciao, ciao, Giuseppe, ar rivederla. He put her back on, and I gave her directions. She couldn’t thank me enough. She knew it would make Mr. Rulli’s trip, just to see us.
    â€œGalloping sociability this week,” I said as I put the telephone back.
    â€œIs that so bad?” Ruth said. “I thought you liked Césare.”
    â€œNo, it’s not bad, and I do like C6are. I was just commenting on the way the calendar fills up.”
    â€œIt’s just as well,” Ruth said. “You’re getting such an automatic way of evading people. I should think you’d like seeing Césare. He’s the liveliest person we know. He’ll come into our quiet little backwater like a waterspout, and stir us up.”
    â€œAnd that’s exactly what we need.”
    â€œWhat you need.”
    â€œAnd am perfectly happy to accept,” I said. “I’ll probably have more fun out of tomorrow’s visitors than you will, since you have to cook.”
    â€œYes,” she said absently, already far ahead, already planning, forgetful of what she had started to say to me. “He’s such. an amusing man. He loves himself so he makes you love him too. But I hope they have sense enough to leave by three-thirty or so. Then Minnie can get us cleaned up before she goes.” In a couple of minutes she got out of bed. “Maybe I’ll just go and clear out that bedroom right now,” she said. “Then Minnie’ll have more time to...”
    Exit, murmuring and thinking ahead.

TWO

1
    Pazienza.
    The day that started hectic ends morose. I sit here grumbling to myself, while Ruth recuperates with a couple