by Gore Vidal
“It’s ten cents more if you take it with the breakfast.”
“All right, I’ll take a double orange juice, some toast and coffee. Do you have any marmalade?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, bring some of that, too.”
The other woman said, “The same for me.” Marjorie Ventusa picked up their menus. As she was turning to go she saw Robert Holton come into the restaurant and she was suddenly happy. She smiled at him and he, seeing her, smiled back. She pointed to one of her tables and he sat down at it. Quickly she went back to the kitchen to give her orders. She pushed her hair back from her face and promised herself that she would get a snood the next day.
Marjorie Ventusa liked Robert Holton. For a year he had been coming into the restaurant; he always spoke pleasantly to her and they would joke together. She had never seen him anywhere except in the restaurant. She knew that he never really noticed her but she was always glad to see him and she was delighted when he talked to her and smiled at her; his smile was pleasant and he had nice teeth. She thought him handsome.
“Good morning, Mr. Holton,” she said, putting a glass of water and some silverware on his table.
“How’re you today, Marjorie? You look perfect.”
“Sure, sure, I do; I’m a real beauty.” Marjorie always felt awkward with him, as though she couldn’t think of the right words to say. She was older than he was, too. Marjorie was thirty-seven; she had known a lot of men and still she was awkward with him.
“What you going to have this morning?” she asked.
“Well....” He drawled the word as he looked at the menu and she had a strong urge to touch the short dark hairs on the back of his neck. She tried to think of some excuse to do so. Then she was angry with herself for having thought of such a thing.
“I guess I’ll have some orange juice and scrambled eggs and bacon.”
“Is that all you going to eat? Why, how you ever going to get big and strong?”
He laughed. “Not sitting at a desk and eating your cooking.”
“Oh, is that so?” Marjorie Ventusa walked slowly back to the kitchen. She felt strained as she walked for she could feel he was watching her. She wished suddenly that her hips weren’t so big and that her legs were slimmer.
She shouted his order to the cooks, then she took the two secretaries’ breakfasts out to them. They complained bitterly about the size of the orange juice and one said that it was too sour and the other said that there were seeds in it.
“I’m sorry,” said Marjorie, “would you like something else?”
They said they would not and acted as if she had grown the oranges badly and had put seeds in the juice. One of her other tables was full now and she went and took their order.
Out in the kitchen his breakfast was ready and she put it on her tray. There were some seeds in the orange juice which she carefully removed with a spoon.
He was reading his paper when she came back. He didn’t look up as she arranged the dishes on his table.
“Well, here’s your breakfast,” she said. “You better eat it while it’s hot.”
“Oh, sure.” Robert Holton folded his paper and laid it on the table. She watched him as he drank the orange juice.
“Sour, isn’t it?” she asked.
“A little bit, maybe.”
“I’m glad you’re not going to complain. The rest, they all complain all the time. I get so tired sometimes I could get sick; I get so tired of listening to them.”
“Just don’t take them seriously. Everybody feels awful in the morning. You’ve just been awake longer and you feel better than they do, that’s all.”
Marjorie Ventusa laughed admiringly. “I wouldn’t have ever thought of that,” she said. “You might be right. Anyway a girl gets pretty tired of being shouted at all the time like it’s her fault.”
“Well, just relax. I like the food and the service.”
“Thank you,” she said, trying to sound elegant and funny at the same time.
“When you going to go out dancing with me?” Robert Holton asked, sawing a piece of bacon in half with a blunt knife.
“I’m pretty busy,” she said; she always said that when he asked her that question. He would say it because he thought it was funny and she would answer him as though she thought it was funny too. She wished that he meant it now. She had always wished that he meant it. “I’m pretty busy,” she said. “I got so many people asking to go out with me. You’d have to wait couple of weeks, maybe.”
“I can wait,” he said, smiling at her; smiling the way he would to a child, she thought suddenly. She watched him eat.
“Marjorie,” said a voice behind her.
“Yes, Mrs Merrin, I’m coming. I’ll be right with you. I was just cleaning this table.”
Mrs Merrin was tall and stout with a wide loose mouth which she could make look stern and harsh when she wanted to. She made it look that way now.
“Marjorie,” she said in a low voice, “you stop your hanging around and talking to the customers. I tell you I won’t stand for it.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Merrin. I was just cleaning the table.” Mrs Merrin smiled warmly at Robert Holton and walked away.
“She’s an awful bitch,” said Marjorie Ventusa.
“What did she say?” asked Robert Holton. “I didn’t hear her.”
“She was just running off at the mouth, that’s all. She thought I was talking too much to you.”
One of her tables called for a check and she walked over quickly and put their used plates on her tray. Then she went back to the kitchen. More orders were ready for her. She loaded her tray and went back to work.
As she worked she watched Robert Holton. It was twenty minutes past eight and she knew that he had to be at his office at eight-thirty. She hoped that he would stay as long as possible. His office was only a block away and he would be able to stay until eight-thirty. He ate slowly, she knew, and he would read his paper as he ate.
She hurried back to the kitchen. Two waitresses were talking and laughing together in a corner. They were young and pretty and would probably marry in another year and never work again; in another year Marjorie Ventusa would still be waiting on tables.
She stopped in front of the mirror behind the swinging doors. Mrs Merrin always said that neatness was an important thing.
Marjorie Ventusa rubbed the kitchen steam from the mirror. Her hair was back in her face again. She pushed it viciously out of her eyes. She hated its color. It was pale blonde, a real pale blonde. But because she was getting older and because she was part Italian everyone thought that she dyed her hair. She wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t have it colored black. Her eyebrows were dark, thin and dark, and that made the color of her hair look even more suspicious.
A sailor she had seen several times during the war had told her that she had a beautiful figure and she had tried to believe him. She was too heavy, though. Well, she hadn’t been heavy at that time. At least not quite so heavy as she was now. She wondered what kind of women Robert Holton liked.
“Marjorie,” said Mrs Merrin. That was all Mrs Merrin said as she walked by. Marjorie Ventusa was glad. One day she would lose her temper and get fired.
The mirror had steamed up again. She took her tray and went out into the dining room. More customers had come. She put glasses of water and silverware on their tables and took their orders and gave them instructions in how to order and how to avoid paying extra for what they wanted.
Robert Holton was halfway through his breakfast. She looked at the clock over the kitchen doors. It was twenty-seven minutes after eight o'clock. She would work very hard now to get her orders taken care of and then she would have a few minutes to talk to him before he left. She usually couldn’t talk to him at lunch because he was always with someone else.
Marjorie Ventusa traveled quickly back and forth from kitchen to dining room and back again. Her hair was hopelessly out of shape now and she was perspiring.
&
nbsp; Finally her last customer was satisfied for the moment. She wandered casually over to Robert Holton’s table.
“Breakfast good?” she asked.
“Never better.”
“That don’t make it so good.” They laughed. He was always so polite with her. That was why she liked him, she thought. He was very kind. He was handsome, too, but that wasn’t as important as being polite. A lot of fine people were not handsome.
“What’s in the paper?” she asked. She never quite knew what to talk about when she was with him.
“Not much. The same old stuff. Election stuff mostly.”
“Seems like there’s always an election.”
“There’re a lot of them.”
“I almost don’t read any newspapers. I don’t seem to get time to read them. I’ll bet you read a lot of them.”
“I have to. I read all about the market.”
“That’s right, you’re in Wall Street. That must be exciting. Working there where all those big deals are made.”
“They don’t make them where I am.” He laughed. “I’m just another worker.”
“I thought you were way up in one of the big houses.”
“Well, sort of a clerk which doesn’t pay much. It’s a good way to starve.”
“You ought to do something different. Suppose you marry some girl....”
“I’m not getting married for a long time.”
“I suppose,” said Marjorie Ventusa calmly, “that you got some nice society girl all lined up.”
Robert Holton shook his head. “I haven’t any girl anywhere.”
“Isn’t that like life. All the handsome men don’t have girls and they wonder why so many of us are old maids.”
“You’re not an old maid yet, Marjorie. By the way, what’s your last name? As long as I’ve known you I’ve never known your last name.”
“Ventusa.” She spelled it for him.
“Italian name?”
“My father was Italian, my mother was Irish.”
“That’s a good combination. I knew a lot of pretty girls when I was in Italy.”
“Were you there in the war?”
“I was there over a year.”
“I always wanted to travel. I guess I’d rather travel than do anything. My father, he used to tell me stories about Italy. He came from Sicily. Were you ever in Sicily?”
“Yes, I was in Sicily.”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful.”
“Must be real messed up now.”
“Not too bad. The scenery’s still there.”
“I’m going to go there someday,” said Marjorie Ventusa, knowing that she never would.
“You’ll like it.”
Mrs Merrin was looking at her and she pretended to be busy at his table.
“Let me get you some more coffee,” she said. She picked up the plates from his table and put them on her tray. Her arm touched his hand. He pulled away unconsciously, and she walked back to the kitchen.
She got a cup of coffee for him. Two other orders were ready for her. She put them on her tray and returned to the dining room.
She noticed a girl was walking over to Robert Holton’s table. She had seen the girl often before. She worked in Robert Holton’s office. Occasionally they would have lunch together. She was a pretty girl. Her hair was dark and her skin white. Her lips were full and painted a deep red. She had a slim figure and slim legs and her eyes were blue, a deep vivid blue that Marjorie Ventusa envied. The girl spoke to Robert Holton. He stood up. Then they both sat down.
Marjorie Ventusa took care of two tables and then she went to Robert Holton’s table and placed his cup of coffee before him.
“Good morning,” she said to the pretty girl.
“Good morning,” said the pretty girl absently. “I’ll have some grapefruit juice. That’s all I want. I’m reducing,” she said to Robert Holton and she patted her slim waist.
“What on earth are you reducing for?”
“You think I look all right this way?” she asked, pretending surprise.
Marjorie Ventusa hurried to the kitchen. She hated this pretty girl. All day long Robert Holton was with her. Perhaps even at night they were together. She pushed her blonde hair back out of her face. If only she had been pretty and young. Of course, she had been young but she had never been pretty. She was far from old now. They said that if one wanted something badly enough one would get it. That was foolish; Marjorie Ventusa had never gotten anything she wanted, except a yellow satin dress. When she was a child she had wanted a yellow satin dress and her father had bought her one. The dress was in a box in her closet now; she had not looked at it in fifteen years. She picked up a glass of grapefruit juice and put it on her tray.
The pretty girl was laughing when she came back to their table and Robert Holton was watching her. She wore a gray suit buttoned tightly across her small breasts.
“Here’s your grapefruit juice.”
“Thank you very much,” said the girl, paying no attention to Marjorie Ventusa, saying the words mechanically.
The waitress began to clean the table next to Robert Holton’s. She rubbed the gray damp cloth over the shiny black table-top and she listened to Robert Holton and the pretty girl as they talked.
“But Caroline” (her name was Caroline then), “I didn’t know you were expecting me last night.”
“Well, we weren’t really. I just thought you might come on over, that’s all. We had quite a gang. Jimmy Hammond, he was at Yale about the same time you were.”
“I went to Harvard.”
“That’s right, you did. Well, you would’ve liked Jimmy Hammond. He was in the army, too. And there were a whole lot of people around. I just thought you’d have liked to come.”
“I certainly would’ve but I didn’t remember your inviting me.”
“That’s all right,” said Caroline, drinking her grapefruit juice and making a face as she did. “God, but this stuff is sour.”
Marjorie Ventusa, having cleaned the shiny black tabletop cleaner than it had ever been before, turned to another table. She was still close enough to hear what they said.
“What did you do last night, Bobby?” She called him Bobby. Marjorie Ventusa wondered if she would ever be able to call him that.
“Not a thing. I went home to bed early.”
“Next time I’ll send you an engraved invitation when I want you to come to the house.”
“You do that. What time’s it getting to be?”
Caroline looked at the clock. “It’s not much after eight-thirty. Let’s take our time.”
“We don’t want to be too late.”
“You haven’t been around long. Nobody gets there on time. What’re you bucking for, Mr. Holton?”
He grinned at her. Robert Holton had dark blue eyes. Marjorie Ventusa had never noticed them before. They were beautiful eyes, she thought suddenly.
One of the waitresses came over to her and said, “Boy, you sure must like that guy in the corner.”
“What do you mean? What you talking about?”
“Nothing at all. You needn’t get so excited. I was just noticing you talking to him all the time. I couldn’t help noticing, Marjorie. You was there so long talking to him.”
“He comes in here a lot and we talk, that’s all. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all, Marjorie. I was just kidding you.”
Marjorie Ventusa picked up a cup of coffee and went back to the dining room. The waitress had irritated her. She didn’t want anyone to think that she would fall for a man at least ten years younger than she was. Well, perhaps not ten years. Robert Holton could be thirty. The difference between thirty and thirty-seven was not so great.
She walked over to Robert Holton’s table. They were talking.
“I don’t see what you have against Dick. He’s an awful nice fellow.”
“I don’t have anything against him. He just doesn’t like me. H
e thinks I’m trying to get his job.”
“Well, are you?”
Robert Holton smiled. “I don’t want anything; didn’t you know that?”
“Well, aren’t you the saint. You mean you wouldn’t like to take his job? Not even if it was offered to you?”
“I suppose if it were easier to take a job than refuse it I’d take the job. I’m easy to please.”
Caroline sighed. “You’re easy to please. I guess that’s what war does to you.”
“I was always like that. I was like that at college.”
“Just lazy?”
“Just lazy.”
“Good Lord, it’s almost nine! We have to get out of here.”
Robert Holton waved to Marjorie Ventusa. She came over to their table slowly. She didn’t want him to leave any sooner than he had to.
“Got my check, Marjorie?”
“I’ll get it for you.” She went to the cashier and had his check totalled for him. Then she brought it back and he paid her, leaving a ten-cent tip under his water glass.
Caroline stood up and put her gray coat about her shoulders. Robert Holton picked up his trench coat and slung it over his arm.
“I’ll see you at lunch, Marjorie,” he said.
“See you,” said Marjorie Ventusa and she watched them as they went out the door into the bright autumn morning.
“Say, Marjorie,” said one of her regular customers, “how about some more coffee.”
“O.K., O.K.” she said.
“When are you going to get those tables cleaned?” said Mrs Merrin who was back in Marjorie Ventusa’s corner. “I wish you’d try to get them done right after the customers leave. I wish you’d make some effort, Marjorie.”
“I’m sorry,” said Marjorie Ventusa.
She began to clear Robert Holton’s table.
“What about my coffee?” asked the customer. “When I going to get it?”
“Right away.” Marjorie Ventusa finished cleaning Robert Holton’s table. Almost sadly she pocketed the ten-cent tip which he had left under the water glass.
Chapter Three
THE ELEVATOR DOOR OPENED AND CAROLINE LAWSON AND ROBERT Holton stepped out of it and into the New York office of Heywood and Golden, members of the New York Stock Exchange and other organizations equally sound.
