myself much more to English. Not that I speak well or anything—”
Robert’s protests were waved away.
“No, no, I know how badly I speak. But anyway. My daughter has never learned it properly, since like us she is French-mad. But now she finds that her sorry English is stopping her progress here. The tyranny of English reached us a long time ago, I am afraid to say. I am against it myself—but what can one do against a whole age? At least at the Royal we have Tournedos Rossini for lunch.”
“Ah.”
“Have you ever had them? Of course not, you are too young. You’ve been raised and brainwashed by
doctors.
You are all vegetarians now, or worse. Let me take you back in time then. Tournedos Rossini. Steak with foie gras riding on its back. I am a doctor eating such things. My wife does not know. Shall we have two orders of that? And no salads, please!”
“No salads,” Robert said, and they seemed to instantly agree on something—but it was not the undesirability of salads.
A waiter brought to the table what looked like a cologne bottle, with a label that read
Huile d’Olive.
He set it down.
“So I put out an ad,” Sar went on, his hands relaxing on the surface of the tablecloth. “I thought there must be a fair number of nice educated young foreign men in a city like this—and one of them might be the right person to teach my daughter perfect English. Between you and me, however, we want—how can I say it?—a gentleman. We are not going to hire someone in cargo shorts and flip-flops who wants a few months bumming around Cambodia.”
“I understand.”
“I interviewed a few fellows. They showed up in shorts.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
The doctor expelled a heavy sigh tinged with a kind of macabre hidden humor.
“This is the way it is these days. Well, I won’t have it in my house. Do you wear shorts, Mr. Beauchamp?”
“Never.”
“Not even at the beach?”
“I never go to the beach.”
“Excellent answer, by Buddha.” The doctor finally laughed. “I think that merits a glass of Sancerre, don’t you?”
“I do.”
The doctor’s hand rose and the ordering of the Sancerre consisted of two quick motions of his index finger but no click. A whole world of sly provincial wealth was expressed in that gesture, an authority whose true root was obscure to an outsider.
“They know me here. They know what I drink.”
He’s easy, Robert thought, and he relaxed. The doctor looked like he would give him some work. He just had to be a gentleman.
“Naturally,” Sar was continuing, “we need to know a little about you. My daughter has been rather ill lately so she is staying at home with us. Nervous exhaustion, I think.”
“Was she working here?”
“Not yet. She is looking. Her time in Paris didn’t do her much good. I don’t know what she got so exhausted from—I have scratched my head over it for weeks. My wife says—but she always has a theory. It’s easy to have a theory, isn’t it?”
“It is, yes.”
“I say there’s no point having a theory. Just give me an explanation and a plan of action. I thought working on her English would do her the world of good. The social scene here—”
He pulled a face which, unexpectedly, made his face much handsomer. The wine arrived and they made a silent toast, but the doctor had not let go of his train of thought.
“—I mean, for kids of good family. The high-society kids. Well, it’s appalling. They can do what they want. Sophal hangs out with the sons of air force generals and suchlike. The children of the rich. I can’t seem to talk any sense into her. They do a lot of drugs and do what they want and no one will touch them. The boys are utterly worthless. They can kill any homeless person they want and nothing will happen. It’s difficult to explain to you, you being a foreigner. I can’t stand the thought of her ending up with one of them. I thought if she got her English up to speed…”
The doctor emitted his
Robert’s protests were waved away.
“No, no, I know how badly I speak. But anyway. My daughter has never learned it properly, since like us she is French-mad. But now she finds that her sorry English is stopping her progress here. The tyranny of English reached us a long time ago, I am afraid to say. I am against it myself—but what can one do against a whole age? At least at the Royal we have Tournedos Rossini for lunch.”
“Ah.”
“Have you ever had them? Of course not, you are too young. You’ve been raised and brainwashed by
doctors.
You are all vegetarians now, or worse. Let me take you back in time then. Tournedos Rossini. Steak with foie gras riding on its back. I am a doctor eating such things. My wife does not know. Shall we have two orders of that? And no salads, please!”
“No salads,” Robert said, and they seemed to instantly agree on something—but it was not the undesirability of salads.
A waiter brought to the table what looked like a cologne bottle, with a label that read
Huile d’Olive.
He set it down.
“So I put out an ad,” Sar went on, his hands relaxing on the surface of the tablecloth. “I thought there must be a fair number of nice educated young foreign men in a city like this—and one of them might be the right person to teach my daughter perfect English. Between you and me, however, we want—how can I say it?—a gentleman. We are not going to hire someone in cargo shorts and flip-flops who wants a few months bumming around Cambodia.”
“I understand.”
“I interviewed a few fellows. They showed up in shorts.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
The doctor expelled a heavy sigh tinged with a kind of macabre hidden humor.
“This is the way it is these days. Well, I won’t have it in my house. Do you wear shorts, Mr. Beauchamp?”
“Never.”
“Not even at the beach?”
“I never go to the beach.”
“Excellent answer, by Buddha.” The doctor finally laughed. “I think that merits a glass of Sancerre, don’t you?”
“I do.”
The doctor’s hand rose and the ordering of the Sancerre consisted of two quick motions of his index finger but no click. A whole world of sly provincial wealth was expressed in that gesture, an authority whose true root was obscure to an outsider.
“They know me here. They know what I drink.”
He’s easy, Robert thought, and he relaxed. The doctor looked like he would give him some work. He just had to be a gentleman.
“Naturally,” Sar was continuing, “we need to know a little about you. My daughter has been rather ill lately so she is staying at home with us. Nervous exhaustion, I think.”
“Was she working here?”
“Not yet. She is looking. Her time in Paris didn’t do her much good. I don’t know what she got so exhausted from—I have scratched my head over it for weeks. My wife says—but she always has a theory. It’s easy to have a theory, isn’t it?”
“It is, yes.”
“I say there’s no point having a theory. Just give me an explanation and a plan of action. I thought working on her English would do her the world of good. The social scene here—”
He pulled a face which, unexpectedly, made his face much handsomer. The wine arrived and they made a silent toast, but the doctor had not let go of his train of thought.
“—I mean, for kids of good family. The high-society kids. Well, it’s appalling. They can do what they want. Sophal hangs out with the sons of air force generals and suchlike. The children of the rich. I can’t seem to talk any sense into her. They do a lot of drugs and do what they want and no one will touch them. The boys are utterly worthless. They can kill any homeless person they want and nothing will happen. It’s difficult to explain to you, you being a foreigner. I can’t stand the thought of her ending up with one of them. I thought if she got her English up to speed…”
The doctor emitted his
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