“Puts us in an embarrassing way. Can’t go to party without liquor,” Wally said.
“Dago red.”
“Never drink it.”
“It’s cheap.”
“Unconventional to go to party with dago red,” Wally said.
“There’s an Italian place with good wine.”
“A little restaurant off Bourbon?”
“Yes.”
“Have to wait outside. Can’t go in,” Wally said.
“Why not?”
“Broke some glasses they say. Don’t remember it. Was inebriated at the time.”
“They have good wine,” Avery said.
“I’ll wait for you. It’s always awkward to have scenes with Italian restaurant owners.”
Avery walked down two blocks and bought a large two-liter bottle of red wine in a straw basket. He met Wally at the corner.
“I forgot to get a corkscrew,” he said.
He cut out the top part of the cork with his pocketknife and pushed the rest through the neck into the wine.
“Good man,” Wally said.
They each had a drink. They could taste the cork when it floated up inside the neck. They walked along, Avery holding the bottle by the straw loops of the basket. They came to an apartment building with a Spanish-type courtyard that had an iron gate and an arched brick entrance. The courtyard was strung with paper lanterns, and there was a stone well with a banana tree beside it in the center. The walls were grown with ivy, and there were potted ferns in earthenware jars on the flagging. People moved up and down the staircase, and laughing girls called down from the balcony to young men in the court.
“Hello!” Wally said.
“It’s Wally,” someone said.
“I say, is there a party here?”
“Come in. You look shaky on your feet,” another said.
“Does anyone know if there’s a party here?” he said.
“Someone help Wally in,” a girl said.
“We’re agrarian romanticists. This is Freneau Crèvecoeur Broussard.”
“Avery.”
“That’s not agrarian enough. You’ll have to change your name,” Wally said.
Everyone turned and looked at Wally.
“Do you remember my party last Saturday?” a girl said.
“I was helping out at the mission last Saturday. We’re starting a campaign to make New Orleans dry.”
“He said he was somebody out of War and Peace,” she told the others. “He stood backwards on the edge of my balcony and tried to drink a fifth of Scotch without falling.”
“Couldn’t have been me. I’ve never read Chekhov.”
“You would have broken your neck if you hadn’t fallen in the flower bed,” she said.
“Don’t like those Russian chaps, anyway. A bunch of bloody moralists,” Wally said.
“Sit down, fellow. You’re listing,” someone said.
“Won’t be able to get up.”
“Tell Freneau Crèvecoeur to sit down. He doesn’t look well,” the girl said.
“Avery.”
“Beg your pardon?” she said.
“My name is Avery.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Avery.”
“We’re agrarian romanticists,” Wally said.
“Avery is my first name.”
“Who wants to read a bunch of bloody Russians when they can have the agrarian romanticists?”
“What does your friend have in his bottle?” the girl said.
“The best Italian import that a pair of unwashed feet could mash down in a bathtub. I say, let’s have a drink.”
He took the bottle from Avery and turned it up.
“Your turn, old pal.”
Avery sat down on the well and drank.
“Damn good man. Wonderful capacity,” Wally said. “Everyone take a swallow. Pass it around. I insist. Each of you must take a swallow. I never drink alone. It’s a sign of alcoholism.”
“You’re impossible, Wally,” the girl said.
“I cannot stand people who do not drink.”
A man took the bottle and held it for his girl to drink. She laughed and a few drops went down her chin. The bottle was passed from one couple to another.
“I refuse to go to parties where everyone is not smashed,” Wally said.
“Do you live in the Quarter, Mr. Crèvecoeur?” another girl said.
“No writer would live in the Quarter,” Wally said.
“Are you a writer?”
“Work on the pipeline,” Avery said.
“What did he say?”
“He’s a disillusioned agrarian,” Wally said.
“Have you really written anything?”
“We’ve made an agreement with a publisher to write dialogue for comic books,” Wally said.
“Be serious.”
“He did his thesis on Wordsworth’s sonnets to the dark lady.”
“I’m interested in writing myself,” she said to Avery.
“She’s a copy reader for the Picayune.”
“Where is the wine?” Avery said.
“All gone.”
“Have to get more.”
“I’ve written a few poems and sent them off,” the girl said.
“We had a full bottle when we came in,” Avery said.
“It’s a lovely trick. You let everyone have a sip of yours, and then you drink out of theirs for the rest of the night.”
“Do you publish often?” she said.
“I’m a welder’s helper.”
“You said you were a writer.”
“He is.”
“I almost failed high school English,” Avery said.
“Why did you say you were a writer?”
“I tell you he is,” Wally said.
“We need another bottle.”
“Let’s go upstairs.”
“I wouldn’t have told you about my poems,” the girl said.
“Crèvecoeur will be happy to read your poetry and give you a criticism.”
“You take things too far,” the girl said.
“Oh I say.”
“It’s true.”
“Apologize to her, Crèvecoeur.”
“I’m going down to the package store.”
“These other chaps owe us a round. Let’s toggle upstairs.”
They went up the staircase and entered the living room of an apartment. It was crowded and they had to push their way through to the kitchen where the liquor was kept. Wally took a bottle of Scotch off the sideboard and two glasses from the cabinet. There was a sack of crushed ice in the sink. He fixed the drinks and handed one to Avery. They went back into the living room. There was a combo playing in one corner. The guitar player was a Negro. It was very loud in the room. Someone dropped a glass on the coffee table. Someone was saying that a girl had passed out in the bathroom. Avery tripped across a man and a girl sitting on the floor. The glass doors to the outside balcony were open to let in the night air. He started to go out on the balcony but he heard a girl whisper and laugh in the darkness. The piano player in the combo was singing an obscene song in Spanish. Avery couldn’t find Wally in the crowd. Two men who looked like homosexuals were talking in the corner by the bookcase. One of them waved girlishly at someone across the room. The girl who had passed out in the bath was brought out to the balcony for some air.
Avery moved through the groups of people. He finished his drink and put his glass on a table. He could feel the blood in his face. The noise in the room seemed louder. He wanted to get outside. He remembered that he had to be out on the job at seven in the morning. He looked up and saw a girl watching him from the other side of the room. She smiled at him and excused herself from the people she was with. It was Suzanne. She wore a wine-colored dress, and there was a gold cross and chain around her throat. She looked even better than when he had seen her last.
“I couldn’t tell if it was you or not,” she said.
“Hello, Suzanne.”