Thus did the parade of fat women have its singular, entirely novel effect on Dionisio. He began by imagining himself in the arms of one of these immense women, lost in a leafiness like that of a forest of fleshy ferns, searching for secret jewels, diamond-hard points, hidden velvet, mother-of-pearl smoothness, invisible moistures of The Fat Woman. But Dionisio, being Dionisio (a discreet, elegant, recognized Mexican gentleman), did not dare to act simply on the impulse of his imagination and his body, to approach the obese object of his desire and thereby leave himself open to rejection or even — with luck — acceptance. Rejection, no matter how brutal, would be less painful than her consent to an afternoon of love: having never made love to a fat woman, he didn’t know which end to work from, what he should say, what he shouldn’t say, what the erotic protocol was when dealing with the very obese.
For instance, how could he offer them something to eat without, perhaps, offending them? What love talk would a fat woman expect that wouldn’t diminish or mock her? Come here, my little honey, what cute little eyes you have? “Little” would be offensive, but your great big eyes, your huge tits — augmentatives were equally verboten. Afraid he’d lose his unaffected style and, with it, his effectiveness, Dionisio resigned himself to not making a pass at any of the fat women leaving the Kentucky Fried Chicken, but the very abundance of those women whom he desired for the first time made him think — by way of obvious association— about food, about compensating for the erotic impossibility with culinary possibility, about eating what he couldn’t screw.
He was in a commercial neighborhood north of San Diego, perusing the Yellow Pages in search of a restaurant that wasn’t too vile. An O Sole Mio guaranteed him week-old pasta camouflaged by a Vesuvius tomato sauce. A Chez Montmartre promised horrible food and haughty waiters. A Viva Villa! would condemn him to detestable Tex-Mex with a moustache. He chose an American Grill, which would at least make excellent Bloody Marys and which, from outside, looked clean, even shiny, in its aggressive display of chrome tables, leather seats, a nickel-plated bar, and mirrors — a quicksilver labyrinth, in fact, designed so a diner could see his reflection without looking away from his dinner partner. Or could look at himself the whole time to compensate for the tedium of the food.
He sat down, and a handsome blond young man, dressed like a waiter from the 1890s, offered him a menu. Dionisio had chosen a secluded corner with a view of a skating rink, but shortly two cross bald men bent with age though still energetic, wearing seersucker caps, white cardigan sweaters, and blue pants, took the table next to his. They sat down noisily, shuffling their Nikes.
“Let’s see. To start off…” Dionisio read over the menu.
“Show me the proof,” said one of the bristling old men.
“I don’t have to. You know it isn’t true,” said his companion.
“A shrimp cocktail.”
“You didn’t make a dime on that deal.”
“I don’t know why I go on arguing with you, George.”
“No sauce. Just some lemon.”
“I told you you’d lose your shirt.”
“I told you, I told you, I’ll tell you — don’t you know any other songs?”
“What is the soup of the day?”
“You don’t know a thing.”
“I could see it coming a long way off, Nathan. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Vichyssoise.”
“I’m telling you, you don’t know anything.”
“I don’t know anything? Do you know that half the merchant ships in World War Two were lost?”
“Prove it. You just made that up.”
“A steak, but right away.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Sure. I always win when I bet against you. You’re ignorant, George.”
“Medium.”
“Do you know what gravity is?”
“No, and neither do you.”
“It’s a magnetic force.”
“No, skip the green stuff. Just the steak.”
“Let’s see now. Is there gravity right at the edge of the ocean?”
“No, it’s zero there.”
“Whoa! That’s real learning. No one’s going to pull a fast one on you.”
“Put up or shut up.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take the bet.”
“No, son, I don’t like baked potatoes, with or without sour cream.”
“We still have to charge you for it.”
“Charge me, but don’t put it on the same plate with the steak.”
“Look, they’re going to fire me if I don’t. It’s the rule.”
“Okay, okay, put it on the same plate.”
“They were going to charge you for it anyway. The steak costs twenty-two-ninety with or without potato.”
“Fine.”
“George, you know a little about a lot, but you don’t know anything important.”
“I know a bad deal when I see one, a deal that’ll end in failure, Nathan. You can’t deny I know that.”
“Well, I don’t know anything, but I’m an educated man.”
“Facts, Nathan, facts.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“With the patience of a saint.”
“I don’t know why we keep talking to each other.”
“A green salad.”
“After everything else?”
“Yes, my boy, salad comes at the end.”
“Are you a foreigner?”
“Yes, I’m a really strange foreigner with really strange quirks — like having salad after everything else.”
“In America, we eat it first. That’s the normal way.”
“Are you listening to me, George?”
“Give me facts, Nathan.”
“Do you know that the annual earnings of the publishing industry in America are the same as the earnings of the hot dog industry? Did you know that?”
“Where did you get that? Are you trying to insult me?”
“Since when have you become a book publisher?”
“I’m not. I make hot dogs, as you know perfectly well, Nathan. Are you listening to me?”
“And lemon meringue pie. That’s all.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Give me proof.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“I don’t know why we’re still eating together.”
“Bet.”
“I’ll make a bet. Is there gravity on the moon?”
“Facts, facts.”
“I told you that deal was headed for failure. No doubt about it. You’re broke, George.”
The one named George gave out a hoarse, tumultuous sob that didn’t seem possible coming from that impassive face.
There is no fascination that doesn’t also contain its pinch of repulsion. We scold ourselves when we allow ourselves to be seduced by the eye of Medusa, but in the case of this pair of dried-out, bald, long-nosed, arthritic, argumentative old codgers armed with unlit phallic cigars — No smoking, please — repulsion overcame fascination. Dionisio impatiently began to play with a bottle of sauce, rubbing it more and more nervously as the endless debate between George and Nathan went on and on, like insomnia, utterly engrossing for the two old men, unbearable for Dionisio. To save himself from them, the Mexican gastronome began to think about women as he rubbed the bottle, and as he rubbed it, he noticed what it was: Mexican sauce, jalapeño chile sauce. Suddenly, magically, something was unleashed from within, a volcano bursting the ancient crust over its crater and vomiting lava the more the man named after Bacchus rubbed it.