One Last Lunch

by Erica Heller

  We’re in seats by the window, with a full view of the lush, blooming garden. Maurice places menus before us. He fills our water glasses, leaving the carafe on the table.

  Maurice says, “Puis-je vous commencer avec des rafraîchissements?”

  “Yes,” says Jimmy, and we order an excellent dry Sauvignon Blanc. Maurice returns with the bottle and expertly uncorks it, pouring a tiny bit in each of our glasses for our approval.

  Jimmy sips; I sip. He nods his approval, and so do I. Dry and slightly sweet, it’s an excellent wine. Maurice pours more wine into each glass, bows slightly, then in English says, “We’re not so busy right now, so today, I will be your waiter. It’s always a pleasure to serve you, Monsieur Baldwin.”

  Maurice bows slightly and leaves.

  “Are you still teaching at the University of California at Davis?” Jimmy asks me.

  “No, I’m retired from teaching. I’m writing and painting fulltime now.”

  “I remember when you were teaching there. I remember you telling me about your students, many of them from North Africa, how smart they were and how much you were learning from them. Teaching is always better when you too are learning. We had some good times back then. You finished your novel My Amputations here in Nice, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right, and I wrote it on manual typewriter. Hard to imagine nowadays, after so many years of working on a computer, how I ever managed to write novels back then on a manual typewriter.”

  “I still write in longhand,” says Jimmy, leaving me to quietly wonder just where and how he does this.

  “There’s a lot to be said for the tactile assurance of longhand. You’re in touch with each word on a more intimate basis,” I tell him.

  Jimmy says, “That’s true.” He pauses for a sip of wine. “Listen! Things everywhere have changed a lot; not just the widespread use of computers and mobile phones. For example, a lot of European countries are turning against foreigners. Think of all the terrorist killings. I’m sure you’ve seen it all on TV. They’ve been rampant in Paris and many of the other major cities of Europe. Over here you never know where the next disaster will happen. It keeps everyone on edge.”

  Jimmy sighs and shakes his head, then continues. “It’s depressing: the frequent police killings of unarmed black men; the constant anti-gay killings; the school shootings, with hundreds of kids dead; the rise of so many new hate groups. The growing mania of the gun culture in America; and, of all people, Donald Trump as president. Don’t think I don’t follow what’s going on.”

  “I’m sure you do, Jimmy.” I pause. “What about gay marriage now being legal?”

  Jimmy says, “That’s a good thing. It surprised me. If it had happened years ago, I would have taken advantage of it.” He drinks his wine. “Seems every time something positive happens in America there’s a negative counteraction.”

  “Such as positive Obama, then Trump?”

  “Yes, excellent example. It’s the same old backlash every time.”

  “And were you surprised to see the country elect a black president?”

  “Shocked! I admit, I never thought such a thing could ever happen. Most Americans truly believe race is a real thing. But I tell you, Obama will go down in history as one of our best presidents, certainly one of our most intelligent.”

  “I agree.”

  Jimmy picks up his menu. “Maybe we should order, huh? What looks good to you?”

  I pick up the menu, scanning it. “Remember, Jimmy, lunch is on me.”

  “Okay, baby,” Jimmy says, “Why don’t we just order a lot of good stuff and share it?”

  “I like that idea.”

  For appetizers we decide on tapenade with olives, garlic, anchovies, and capers, as well as onion tarts. For the two main courses we select bouillabaisse and lobster with fettuccine Alfredo and fresh green beans in butter. Our two desserts are a ripe fig dish with fresh feta and petite tomatoes, and socca crepes, with whipped cream and almonds.

  Maurice returns, and we order.

  Jimmy goes on. “As I was saying, things back in your country look grim.”

  I say, “There’s all kinds of delusional thinking. A disturbing number of people in America, for example, don’t believe in climate change, don’t believe we’ve messed up the atmosphere of our planet.”

  Jimmy says, “I know. It’s sad. Do we all have to perish before they see the light?”

  “Did you hear about the Bush administration’s response to Hurricane Sandy?”

  “Sure did: depressing and shameful.”

  I say, “I found it depressing that Congress refused to work with President Obama for the good of the country, even when they agreed with what he wanted to do. They started out saying they wanted him to fail.”

  Jimmy smiles. “Baby, you have to keep the faith; you know that.”

  “Yes, I do know that. And I try, I try.”

  “You know, Clarence, I’ve said it many times: my country was America, and I still love my country, and for that reason I reserve the right to criticize it.”

  “As well you should. You always felt that it’s the business of the writer to disturb the peace.”

  I’m looking at Jimmy. After all these years I still think of him as a mentor, a big brother, and a father figure, but long before I knew him as a person, I knew him as an ideal writer, and as such, he was for me a beacon and a mainstay.

  “I remember one time when I was living here, Jimmy, you left for one of your visits to the States, and at the same time, I also left France. I went to Africa on a lecture tour with stops in Liberia, Ghana, Ivory Coast, and Algeria.”

  “I remember that. When you came back you told me all about that trip. It reminded me of my first trip to Africa. I wrote an article about it for The New Yorker. I had conflicting feelings. I knew I was not returning home. Africa was the land of my ancestors, but America was my home.”

  I say, “That’s what I felt, too.”

  At this point, Maurice brings out our appetizers and refills our water and wine glasses. There is a pause in our conversation while we start eating.

  When we are done with the appetizers, the main course arrives, and Jimmy and I eat for a while, still without talking, just enjoying the food, the music (now the frisky, playful Eine kleine Nachtmusik), the ambience and atmosphere of Tolentini’s, and of course, each other’s company.

  Then Jimmy says, “What’re you working on these days?”

  “A novel.”

  “Is it going well?”

  I say, “Yes, except that I have to keep stopping to do other things, such as take out the garbage, make dinner, and write an essay for a magazine or a foreword to a book I like; you name it. It’s life.”

  Jimmy says, “I remember writing my first novel and discovering in each paragraph things I really didn’t want to face, but something in me was driving me to face those hidden realities anyway, and I discovered things about myself by writing that book. I discovered not so much who I was at the time but who I was not. A lot of it I improvised.”

  “I hear you.”

  I notice Maurice watching us from across the room, waiting for his cue.

  “Jimmy, your fiction is realistic, it’s true, but when I read your novels I can see how you were improvising every step of the way, like a jazz musician riffing. The ostinato is there. The repeated chord is there. There is a pattern to your prose. How is that not improvisation?”

  “Sure, but in the end you hide all of that to let the story rise to the surface. That is the important thing. The story! If you leave your workings, your improvisations, on the surface, you are likely to be bored, and if it bores you, it’s going to bore your reader.”

  “Touché!” I tell Jimmy. “I’ve stopped writing things and torn them up because they bored me. Sometimes it was the story, other times, the writing. But I knew there was no point in going on.” I pause for a sip of wine. “I got serious about writing when I was quite young, so over time I’ve learned a lot by practice and
by instinct. I’ve learned to trust my gut feelings and to rely on them to drive what I’ve learned about technique.”

  Jimmy says, “As you know, my father’s death was a turning point for me. That was the moment I got really serious about focusing all my energy on writing, on making a career of it. At that point I was now the male head of my family, and I was not going to let them down. And more importantly I was not going to let myself down.”

  “I hear you.” Jimmy is referring to going to his father’s funeral through the 1943 riot–torn streets of Harlem. He was nineteen at the time.

  Maurice places our desserts before us. We stop talking and dive into them with unapologetic bravado.

  When our plates have been fully ravaged, Maurice returns and asks, “How was your lunch, gentlemen?”

  Jimmy beams. “As usual, Maurice, everything was delicious, and you were splendid.”

  I say, “Absolutely delicious!”

  “Merci, messieurs!” he says, “Would you like a little digestive drink?”

  “I’m up for it; how about you, Clarence?”

  “Sure. How about cognac?”

  Jimmy says, “Cognac is an excellent choice.”

  Maurice says, “Cognac it is.”

  Maurice leaves us and sends a busboy to clear away the dishes, then delivers our cognac. Jimmy and I linger another half hour over it, enjoying the moment, the music, our friendship.

  When it’s time, I fish out my credit card and pay.

  “Thanks for the lunch, baby.”

  “Anytime, Jimmy. I feel so lucky that we could get together and talk again.”

  “I will always be here, baby. Never forget that.”

  I excuse myself to visit the restroom, but when I return, Jimmy has vanished.

  What will never leave me, however, is that spectacular smile, wide and warm.

  Clarence Major is a poet, painter, and novelist. He is the author of thirty-nine books, and among his awards are a National Book Award Bronze Medal, the National Council on the Arts Award, the Western States Book Award, PEN Oakland–Reginald Lockett Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Stephen Henderson Poetry Award for Outstanding Achievement.

  — 3 —

  A PLAY IN ONE ACT

  BROOK ASHLEY (GODDAUGHTER) AND TALLULAH BANKHEAD

  TIME:

  The present. Mid-day in a New York summer.

  CAST:

  The actress TALLULAH BANKHEAD (1902–1968). Tallulah’s famous voice sounds like a bass foghorn burbling through a barrel of warm molasses. That voice, along with her beauty and acting talent, has made her a stage, screen, radio, and television star for five decades. Her off-stage capers include prodigious alcohol consumption, a legion of straight and bisexual adventures, as well as a fiercely vocal opposition to the House Un-American Activities Committee and all forms of racial discrimination. Tallulah can outlast, outtalk, and, most often, intellectually surpass any company she finds herself in. Early in her career, Tallulah was draped with the mantel of “gay icon,” and she has worn it proudly ever since. She is a vortex spinning with the energy of dramatic gesturing, political commentary and nonstop theatrical anecdotes. Unlike the contemporaries with whom she is sometimes conflated—Crawford, Dietrich, Davis, Garbo—Tallulah is approachable, maternal, and always witty. Slim, and possessing great gams, Tallulah is surprisingly small but most definitely not elfin. Honey blond hair falls to her shoulders, and her constantly mobile mouth is defined in a deep crimson lipstick the color of Tiptree’s Little Scarlet strawberry jam.

  TALLULAH’s godchild, BROOK ASHLEY. Brook’s mother starred with Tallulah in The Little Foxes, and her father was Tallulah’s attorney and occasional lover. She grew up spending long stretches of time in Tallulah’s household, observing the panoply of guests and semipermanent residents. Brook has now lived longer than Tallulah, which is a statistic she finds somewhat disquieting. She was a young college student when Tallulah joined (as Noël Coward dubbed it) the “feathered choir.”

  DOLORES, TALLULAH’s four-pound Maltese. Dolores has long, silky fur covering her eyes, and it is sometimes challenging to tell which end one is looking at. She remains either at Tallulah’s side or in her arms, rather like a living Judith Leiber clutch bag.

  TEDDY, a waiter. Male, lithe, and slender. He moves with the grace of a dancer.

  SETTING:

  The interior of Sardi’s Restaurant in Manhattan’s Theatre District. Red leather banquettes line the periphery of the room, and brightly colored caricatures of assorted Broadway actors are stacked up the walls almost to ceiling height.

  OPENING:

  A spotlight shines on the corner banquette, illuminating MISS BANKHEAD, who is dressed in a beige shantung silk suit accessorized with a large strand of pearls. The perfectly tailored outfit is a custom design from the early 1960s and remains timelessly elegant. DOLORES, her tiny Maltese, is tucked in her left elbow, and that same hand holds a lit Craven A cigarette, from which TALLULAH inhales deeply. TALLULAH is looking stage left toward Sardi’s glass entry door, as it is pushed open by her godchild, BROOK ASHLEY. BROOK is wearing a classic, if unimaginative, New York summer outfit of slim black pants, a crisply ironed long white shirt, David Yurman cable bracelets, and black ballet flats. Background noises of street chatter, sirens, and horns are carried in on a warm blast of subway-scented air (exhaust, urine, pavement, and old hot dog water) before the door closes firmly behind her. BROOK crosses the stage to TALLULAH’s table as MISS BANKHEAD speaks without pausing between sentences.

  TALLULAH

  Hello, darling! I see you got my invitation. God, what a frightful trip. I think the Celestial Concierge routed me through the hinterlands of Uzbekistan. When I died, they gave me a lovely cloud-filled ascendancy with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir belting Handel’s Messiah. This little return visit was closer to traveling backward in one of those ancient pneumatic tubes that Loveman’s department store in Birmingham used for cash payments. And I swear I heard Florence Foster Jenkins screeching “Un Bel Di” in the background.

  TALLULAH takes a breath, stands up from the table, and pulls BROOK toward her with her free right arm. DOLORES lets out a small yip of welcome as the three of them embrace. Sitting back down, TALLULAH looks inquisitively at her godchild and asks with concern,

  TALLULAH

  Are you in mourning? Why are you wearing black in July?

  BROOK

  It’s just what people wear now, but you’re right—it’s a bit dreary. I miss the bright prints from the sixties. (continuing, a bit hesitantly) Tallulah, we’re talking as if you . . . umm . . . have just been on a brief vacation. There was a note in my mailbox—no stamp or return address—in your unmistakable handwriting asking me to show up at Sardi’s today. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since you . . . ?

  TALLULAH

  Passed over? Kicked the bucket? Bought the farm? No, not really.

  BROOK

  I was just a child!

  TALLULAH (dryly)

  I had noticed a few changes.

  BROOK (speaking rapidly)

  Can you stay for a while? Do you know what’s been happening in the world since you left? Would you like a drink?

  TALLULAH

  No, I can’t. . . . Somewhat . . . God, yes! (Touching the arm of a passing waiter, TALLULAH leans into his face and offers a gigantic smile.) Darling, a bourbon on the rocks, please. Brook will have her usual, and would you be an angel and light my cigarette?

  The waiter brings a lighter out of his pocket, takes the cigarette from TALLULAH’s fingers, and raises it to his own lips. After a few puffs to see that it’s lit, he hands it back to TALLULAH.

  BROOK (astounded)

  But that’s how you always liked your cigarettes lit! Mouth to mouth. How did he know that, and why is Sardi’s allowing smoking?

  TALLULAH

  Oh, that’s darling Teddy. He hitched a ride down with me and Dolores. There’s someone here he needs to meet up with—an issue that never got resolved before
the plague of the 1980s took him out. Yes, I know about all that. We welcomed so many beautiful young men in those terrible days. As for the smoking, do you see anyone else in the restaurant noticing us? It’s a bit of spiritual wizardry that gives us some privacy, and I do not want some tourist from Keokuk asking me for Bette Davis’s autograph.

  TEDDY arrives with a bourbon for TALLULAH and a Shirley Temple for her godchild. BROOK, with an amused glance at TALLULAH, picks the bouquet of maraschino cherries out of her ginger ale and deposits them on a butter plate. TALLULAH turns to TEDDY to order lunch.

  TALLULAH (to TEDDY)

  Teddy, we’ll both have the smoked salmon to begin with, then the Jumbo Shrimp Sardi in Garlic Sauce. It seems to have disappeared from the menu, but would you please ask the kitchen to make the Profiteroles Au Chocolat circa 1966? Brook always adored them. Dolores will have a small plate of finely chopped chicken breast with a spoonful of melted butter drizzled over it. Thank you, darling.

  BROOK

  Tallulah, I never got to say goodbye. I wanted desperately to let you know how much I loved you. You were so much larger than life that I couldn’t imagine you slipping away like an ordinary person. Did you know that your obituary made the front page of the New York Times?

  TALLULAH

  No, darling, I didn’t. My, my.

  BROOK

  May I ask what brought you back? I’ve always felt that you were still a part of me, that the extraordinary childhood you gave me left a bit of your DNA in my heart. Could the furniture and paintings you willed to me have been a connection as well? I sit in the dining chairs that Syrie Maugham designed when you were the toast of London in the 1920s and imagine your dear friends from that era—Winston Churchill, Lawrence of Arabia—settling their rumps into the same seats. One of the cushions is sprung, and I assume that was Churchill’s doing. Sometimes I trace the cigarette burns on your bedside table with my finger, and it conjures all the scorch marks that tracked your movements through my childhood. When I was very small and lying on your carpet with Dolores, I pretended that the pattern of cigarette burns across the living room marked the trail of an exotic animal.