CHAPTER XIV
His meditations had not made him averse to food. It would be pleasant to get into communication with the kind of reality that could be chewed with the teeth. Spike reflected as he slowly descended the stairs that Belash, who could prove the world was an illusion, never missed a meal. There was something profoundly unconvincing about Belash when he sat mathematically proving the world a hoax and at the same time ate a Chateaubriand running over with butter and red juice.
In the dining room were only the priest, reading the London Times, the big Swede, whose tragedy was now so far away he could permit himself a smile and an appetite, the other American who sat polishing black-rimmed glasses, preparing to read a letter. Flecker felt that they all glanced dubiously at him.
Hors d'œuvre, to Flecker's surprise, was one shirred egg in a little frying pan of its own. Its Cyclopean regard, yellow as a sunset, fixed him steadily. He sprinkled it with black pepper, stuck it with the sharp edge of bread crust. The egg taste was smooth and non-exclamatory and healthy; the butter's was cold, rich, suave. The bread crust had a noisy, scratchy, autumnal taste. He wondered could he paint a picture of a flavor?
Berthe took the débris of the first course away, nudging him with her knee as she reached over his shoulder. The sour, dark wine puckered his mouth. It exploded all recollection of the hors d'œuvre, and made his teeth hungry for what might come next.
On a blue plate the hearts of three artichoke, baked in a golden batter. They were crisp on the outside, soft in the center; their perfume, winged with a memory of garlic, sent Flecker's rapturous blue eyes to the ceiling. Coming down they met the eyes of the priest also suffused with emotion. Flecker swerved his glance quickly to the window; the priest, as politely, looked at the kitchen door. They began almost shyly to eat.
And after this came a little hill of cold haricots verts with oil and vinegar and, comme decor, a disk or two of sliced carrots, glowing like coral against the solemn green of the beans. And then there was a wait. Finally a heavy, aromatic, dark red perfume swirled into the dining room ahead of Berthe.
"Fraises des bois," sighed the priest.
Flecker inhaled slowly, the aroma of the first wild strawberries of the season. He heaped them up and put a cap of sugar on them. Why, he wondered, was nature mort so often bowls, napkins, cups, bottles, newspapers, shoes, furniture, fruit—and so seldom food—never a shirred egg! And why not a shirred egg? Why not a bowl of French fried potatoes with a stalk of celery standing up in a glass?
He directed his thoughts to lima beans, considered the unctuous curve of their fat bodies, their honest flavor. There was a way of eating them with olive oil and a drop of vinegar and pepper, and things. It would be good to paint a round cream-and-gilt plate with lima beans and, in a background of dark color, a slender glinting bottle of green-gold oil and a silver vinegar cruet.... He would try for the spirit of the bean. Those with palates and eyes capable of profound experience would look with wonder. His portrait of the beans would provide a fleeting glimpse of the One, of beauty,—for edible lima beans, qua edible lima beans, are themselves a manifestation of reality and should therefore be reverently painted in their mysterious lima-beanness. People would look at his lima beans and see not only "significant form," but catch a glimpse of the significance; they would think of the nameless mystery of flavor, of human desire, famine and plenty, of farmers, of soldiers, of the world turning in the dark heavens! Spike could never understand why those who talked so much of "significant form" were so averse to having form mean something.... "Black coffee," bitter, redolent of the pot—disgusting. He drank his tiny cupful. It was like the moral tacked on to a beautiful story.
As he left the dining room, he winked at Berthe who stood beaming at him from the kitchen door.
The concierge said, "Y a rien pour vous!"
No letter, no money from Waterville! He wondered if his uncle's grocery store had gone into bankruptcy!
In the street the sun was again too bright, the trees too green. Tomorrow he must go back to the witch in the Café de Lilas.