Avery Broussard
It was Friday evening and they were having a barbecue and beer party at the apartment. The afternoon sun had already died in the west as he walked down Dauphine, and the old stucco buildings and the iron-railed balconies stood out against the acetylene-blue glow of the sky after dusk. He had gotten a haircut and a shoeshine at the barbershop, and he felt good after the day’s work on the pipeline. He walked under the green colonnade in front of a corner grocery store and went inside and bought twelve bottles of beer in a paper bag. An old man was selling the Picayune, and there was a hurdy-gurdy playing on the other side of the street. Avery carried the beer in the sack down to the apartment and went through the gate under the willow tree into the courtyard.
Suzanne was cooking chickens on a small portable barbecue pit she had set up on the flagging. She wore a blue and white summer dress, and there were drops of perspiration around her temples. She had borrowed some Japanese lanterns from a friend and had strung them over the court. There was a large tin tub of crushed ice and beer by the stone well. Several other people sat in deck chairs or on the steps, sipping highballs and drinking beer and talking. Wally was telling a couple that the Paris Review had accepted two of his poems and that the Atlantic Monthly was considering one of his short stories. He was drinking Scotch and soda, and his face was flushed and his English accent kept becoming more pronounced. Avery went over to Suzanne and smiled at her and put the bottles in the crushed ice. She had washed her hair the night before and it was loose and soft around her shoulders.
“I was waiting for you,” she said.
“We worked overtime today.”
“You look nice.”
“I had a haircut.”
“Taste the sauce.”
He tasted it with the wooden spoon.
“C’est pas trop chaud pour toi?” she said.
“I thought you had forgotten French.”
“Dis moi de la sauce.”
“It’s good.”
The light of the paper lanterns, which swung slowly in the breeze, flickered on her face. Her dark eyes were bright and cheerful. Her arm brushed against him and he wished they were alone and not at the party. He opened a beer and drank out of the bottle. She took a sip and turned the chickens on the grill. The grease dripped down into the fire and sputtered on the coals. Wally came over with a highball glass in his hand.
“Hi, fellow. What did you bring?” he said.
“Dago red. Would you like some?”
“There’s a bottle of Vat 69 upstairs in the cabinet,” Suzanne said.
“Were you speaking French?”
“I don’t know any French,” Avery said.
“Seriously. Can you speak French?”
“We were practicing our Church Latin. We’re thinking of taking holy orders,” Avery said.
“That’s right. You are a Catholic, aren’t you? Denise told me. I say, have you read any of Joyce?”
“Why don’t you get another highball, Wally?” Suzanne said.
“What do the Jesuits think of Joyce?”
“I didn’t go to school under the Jesuits,” Avery said.
“You look like a Jesuit. Melancholy eyes and that sort of thing.”
“For heaven’s sake, Wally. Get a highball,” Suzanne said.
“I’ve been doing some work on the Trinity theme in Ulysses. I think Joyce was actually orthodox in his Catholicism. Tell me, do Catholics really have to accept all of the Nicene Creed?”
“I’m not Catholic,” Avery said.
“Suzanne’s roommate told me you were.”
“Wally, go upstairs and get the Scotch. I’d like a drink, too,” Suzanne said.
“I’m sure there’s a relation between the Trinity and the Bloom family.”
“Who is the Bloom family?” Avery said.
“Isn’t it true that you’re Catholic?”
“No.”
“You are, aren’t you, Suzanne?” Wally said. “Once in a while.”
“Well, do you have to accept all the Nicene Creed?”
“I suppose. What does that have to do with anything?”
Wally forgot why he had asked. He began talking about Baudelaire.
“I’ve been reading him in French. You lose a lot in the translation,” he said. “Have you read The Flowers of Evil in French?”
“I read Ring Lardner and Rudyard Kipling my last year in high school,” Avery said.
“You don’t consider Lardner a serious writer, do you?”
“I’d like a highball. Would you fix me one, Wally?” Suzanne said.
“Do you really compare Lardner with someone like Baudelaire?”
“I liked his short stories,” Avery said.
“Tell me if you think Lardner could be compared with any French writer of worth.”
“You’re tight,” Suzanne said.
“I just want to know if anybody can believe Ringgold Lardner was a good writer.”
“If you won’t get the Scotch, open a beer for me, please,” she said.
“Lardner never wrote a decent page of prose in his life,” Wally said.
“Wally, will you please be quiet.”
“And Kipling, for God’s sake. Can you tell me of anyone more undeserving who has received as much attention?”
Avery looked at his whiskey-red face and didn’t say anything. A young man came over from the steps and put his arm on Wally’s shoulder. He winked at Suzanne.
“Come talk to us, old sock,” he said. “We want to hear about your poems.”
“They’re completely worthless.”
“Also about your short story in the Atlantic,” the young man said.
“It’s worthless, too. The Atlantic has a policy of not publishing anything of merit.”
“Come sit down and have a Scotch with us,” the young man said. He was a portrait painter who had done well with the Saint Charles Avenue upper class. His hair was black and he had a good suntan and his teeth were white when he smiled.
“Stop this goddamn patronizing attitude,” Wally said. “If there is anything I can’t stand, it’s to be patronized when I’m drunk.”
The others in the courtyard stopped talking and looked at Wally. The young portrait painter felt that attention was being focused on him, also. He smiled and put his hand on Wally’s shoulder again. His teeth shone, and he gave an appearance of composure and easiness of manner.
“I’m not patronizing you,” he said in a low voice, smiling.
“Do you know one thing about the amount of work that goes into a good piece of fiction?”
“Come over and tell us about it.”
“Do you think that painting some aristocratic pig on Saint Charles is art?”
“Now look, Wally.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ll discuss it with you when you’re not crosseyed.”
“You don’t know anything about art, whether I’m sober or not.”
“Let’s have a drink. This is rather pointless, isn’t it?”
“Hell it’s pointless. I want to know right now if you think painting these pigs is art.”
Suzanne turned to Avery and spoke quietly. “Take him outside for a while. I’ll serve dinner.”
“I’m going out for cigarettes. Do you want to come?” Avery said to Wally.
“How am I in any way involved with your smoking habits?”