The End of the Book (Yellow Shoe Fiction) by Porter Shreve

Author:Porter Shreve
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Non-Fiction
ISBN: 9780807156223
Publisher: LSU Press
Published: 2014-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Back at home that evening, George was greeted with a surprise. Margaret had hired a string trio to play just for the two of them, and had borrowed Nettie McCormick’s chef to lay out a dinner fit for crowned heads. Course after course arrived—broiled squab and supreme of guinea fowl, asparagus tips and Paris Sugar Corn, Russian caviar and a raft of imported cheeses, Golden Gate peaches and chocolat blancmange. After dinner the string trio took their leave, the servers retired to the kitchen to clean up, and Margaret led George to the parlor, where she unveiled a brand-new stereopticon and a set of slides of paintings from the Louvre.

“We can’t let another summer pass without a trip to Europe.” She kissed his cheek and peered into the viewfinder. “You can look at the Mona Lisa every day without leaving the house, but in nine months we could be standing this close to da Vinci’s own hand.”

“I can only imagine,” George said.

“You don’t have to imagine. We can go. Promise me you won’t reach thirty without seeing Europe?”

In fact, George had never been farther east than Cleveland, farther west than the Union Stockyards. “The world has come here,” he said. “We’re becoming a great cultural center.”

“You needn’t be so provincial.”

“What about work? I can’t just drop everything and set sail for a month or two.”

“Father won’t mind.” Margaret changed a slide in the magic lantern and urged George to peer into it: a large group scene of men and women in red, yellow, and blue garments in an ancient open courtyard.

“Veronese’s Wedding Feast at Cana. You should see what an enormous canvas it is. It would take up the entire wall of our living room,” Margaret said. “Some of the trip could be business. You could meet prospective clients in Paris, help grow the agency overseas. Who knows? If all goes well, we could live there for a while.”

Lazar would never let George do such a thing. If he were to ask, Lazar might say it’s a fine idea, but he’d send Kennison instead. George never confided in his wife his frustrations at work, and though Margaret must have known, must have heard details from her mother, they rarely talked about the office. It was the horse in the corner.

Then again, Margaret did have a talent for getting her way, and her father spoiled her. Perhaps she could convince Lazar to make an arrangement overseas. George’s arc at the agency was on the descent, so what harm would it do? He could start over, in Paris of all places. What would people back home think of him then? What would Helen White think?

She wouldn’t be impressed, he decided. She’d think he’d lost his way. It was when he put on airs this afternoon that she gave him a certain look—of having seen through him, of disappointment, perhaps. He couldn’t go to Paris. What good would it do him to idle about European capitals and depend on his wife to translate the language and customs? He wasn’t a college man, wasn’t born to be a gentleman of leisure.

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