Birds of America by Mary McCarthy

Author:Mary McCarthy [McCarthy, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4804-3826-2
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2013-07-09T22:59:00+00:00

Round Table, with the Damsel Parcenet

A HARUSPEX PEERING INTO the entrails of the sacrificed traditional bird would have warned one Petrus Levi to beware of divisive controversy on the feast of Thanksgiving. Holidays, as he ought to know, were unlucky for him anyway. Instead of obeying the summons to partake of turkey ’n’ trimmings with the other waifs assembled by the general’s wife, he would have done better to stay home with the door bolted holding no communications. Holidays brought out the worst in everybody; the Last Supper, terminating with the Agony in the Garden, was par for the course. As they handed over their coats to the Spanish maid in the vestibule of the general’s pad in Neuilly, the motley crew viewed each other with a natural suspicion. Besides the male strays, readily identifiable in their unwonted ties and sports jackets, there were a functionary from the Embassy and his family who had inescapably put the finger on Peter in the close confinement of the elevator (“I guess we all want the fifth, don’t we?”), a tall fresh-faced girl with long American feet, an Air Force wife minus a husband, and some middle-aged French reactionaries, military, with their unattractive daughter, who were supposed to be getting a free glimpse of real American hospitality. After the vast repast, preceded by bourbon and laced with sparkling Vouvray, they all had to go and play softball in the Bois.

There were fourteen at table, which led Peter to speculate that one of their number had been recruited at the last minute to take the jinx off. The general normally was a fairly affable guy, with a white fat baby face, black eyebrows, and a peculiar haircut, shaved on the sides and standing up on top in short black bristles, which made him look like a convict. He was attached to NATO, Peter gleaned today, and was an expert on supply and procurement. His wife, named Letitia (pronounced Leteetia by her husband), was small, Southern, and friendly. “Can I sweeten your drink, honey?” was her usual soft refrain. None of the guests, it appeared, had met each other before, and some were meeting the host for the first time. His daughter led them up. “Dad, this is Jay Williams. Dad, this is Roberta Scott.” “Good to know you, Jay. Good to know you, Roberta. Glad to have you with us.” Peter he greeted by his last name, which perhaps indicated a promotion. “How’s it going, Levi? Have you sold that motorbike yet?”

If this had been an All-American get-together, conversation might have found its natural level, albeit low. But during the cocktail period, just as people were starting to relax, daughter Jean, prodded by the Frenchwoman, initiated a tour of the art in the apartment from which, like lifeboat drill, nobody was excused. Freighted with drinks and cigarettes, searching furtively for ashtrays or frankly using a trouser-cuff or the wall-to-wall carpeting, the straggling troops inspected Korean graphics and Puerto Rican oils, Japanese ivories, Taiwan scrolls,

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