Vertigo by Joanna Walsh Page B

because the winter months are more likely to contain the letter “ r ” during which it is said oysters are best eaten, since during their spawning season, which is typically the months not containing the letter “ r, ” they become fatty, watery, and soft, less flavorful than those harvested in the cooler, non-spawning months when the oysters are more desirable, lean and firm, with a bright seafood flavor, so that, although all the tables in the restaurant will not be filled in those winter months during which the population of the island shrinks by—what?—forty-five—what?—eighty percent—we may hope that the number of serving staff employed by the restaurant will remain steady.
    Theories:
    * During the off-months for the visitors, which are the on-months for the oysters, are the oysters packed in ice or tinned, and shipped to Paris?
    * During the off-months for the visitors, which are the on-months for the oysters, do the serving staff shuck shells?
    Or
    * During the off-months for the visitors, which are the on-months for the oysters, are the restaurant, and the oysters, abandoned, and the staff laid off?
    The waitress passes our table again. She does not stop.
    He says, “I think these are summer staff. They don’t know what they’re doing.”
    In another country my husband may be sleeping with another woman. He may have decided, having the option, being for once in the same city as her, finally to sleep with the woman with whom I know he has considered sleeping, although he has not slept with her up to now. It is lunchtime. Where my husband is, it is not lunchtime yet. If my husband sleeps with the woman he will do so in the evening. As he has not yet done so, as he has not yet even begun to travel to the city where she lives, to which he is obliged to travel for work whether he sleeps with her or no, and as I am here in the oyster restaurant at lunchtime in another country, there is nothing I can do to prevent this.
    The man sitting opposite me, looking out at the sea the seaweed the rubbish the seagulls the stork the stones, all of which I cannot see but which I know is behind me, does not want to wait for his oysters any longer. He has come here to relax but the oysters are too relaxed for him. He says, “Do you want to leave?” He half gets up as though about to leave but does not.
    He wants to punish someone for the oysters’ slow pace. He wants to punish the waitress, who has not brought his order, by leaving. As he is facing the sea, he cannot signal to the waitress, so he wants to punish me by leaving. He does not leave. Because he does not leave, he wants to punish someone (the waitress? me?) by failing to enjoy his lunch.
    Already he has asked the waitress several things. In the queue for tables he asked the waitress for a table although he was not yet at the front of the queue. When he asked, he did not ask her but he said, Excusez-moi, which means, May I get through? , then he asked, Pardon?, which means, I’m sorry? , then he made a noise that sounded French and indicated the tables with his hand. Then he asked, Oui? Oui?, which means, Yes? Yes? Then he asked me to ask the waitress for a table.
    Each time a group of people passed along the path by the restaurant, on bikes or on foot, he looked at them anxiously in case they were able to join the queue, but be seated at a table before him. There are two entrances to the restaurant, both of which are visible from the door, and he watched both carefully to make sure no one bypassed the queue. When he arrived at the front of the queue, he made a false start toward a table, but the waitress did not respond. He did not repeat this movement so as not to abandon his position at the front of the queue. He stood squarely at the front of the queue so that no one could pass until another waitress arrived to give him a table.
    He has made an enemy of the first waitress. She will enjoy serving her enemy. Perhaps he too will enjoy this combat. I do not