he yelled:
“Harry Stadler!”
“Leonard Douglas,” I shouted, inanely.
“I know.” He waved and vanished in the mob. “I know …”
My God! I thought, staring at my massaged and abandoned hand. Who was that?
My butcher.
Now I saw him at his counter grinding hamburger, a tiny white toy-boat cap capsizing on his thin blond hair, Germanic, imperturbable, his cheeks all pork sausage as he pounded a steak into submission.
My butcher, yes!
“Jesus!” I muttered for the rest of the day. “Christ! What made me accept? Why in hell did he ask? We don’t even know each other, except when he says, That’s five bucks sixty, and I say, So long! Hell!”
I rang his hotel room every half hour all afternoon. No answer.
“Will you leave a message, sir?”
“No thanks.”
Coward, I thought. Leave a message: sick. Leave a message: died!
I stared at the phone, helpless. Of course I hadn’t recognized him. Whoever recognizes anyone away from their counter, desk, car, piano, or wherever someone stands, sits, sells, speaks, provides, or dispenses? The mechanic free of his grease-monkey jumpsuit, the lawyer devoid of his pinstripes and wearing a fiery hibiscus sport shirt, the club woman released from her corset and crammed in an explosive bikini—all, all unfamiliar, strange, easily insulted if unrecognized! We all expect that no matter where we go or dress, we will be instantly recognized. Like disguised MacArthurs we stride ashore in far countries crying: “I have returned!”
But does anyone give a damn? This butcher, now—minus his cap, without the blood-fingerprinted smock, without the fan whirling above his head to drive off flies, without bright knives, sharp tenterhooks, whirled bologna slicers, mounds of pink flesh or spreads of marbled beef, he was the masked avenger.
Besides, travel had freshened him. Travel does that. Two weeks of luscious foods, rare wines, long sleeps, wondrous architectures and a man wakes ten years younger to hate going home to be old.
Myself? I was at the absolute peak of losing years in gaining miles. My butcher and I had become quasiteenagers reborn to collide in Florentine traffic to gibber and paw each other’s memories.
“Damn it to hell!” I jabbed his number on the touch-phone, viciously. Five o’clock: silence. Six: no answer. Seven: the same. Christ!
“Stop!” I yelled out the window.
All of Florence’s church bells sounded, sealing my doom.
Bang! Someone slammed a door, on their way out. Me.
When we met at five minutes after seven, we were like two angry lovers who hadn’t seen each other for days and now rushed in a turmoil of self-pity toward a supper with killed appetites.
Eat and run, no, eat and flee, was in our faces as we swayed in mid-lobby, at the last moment seized each other’s hands. Might we arm-wrestle? From somewhere crept false smiles and tepid laughter.
“Leonard Douglas,” he cried, “you old son of a bitch!”
He stopped, red-faced. Butchers, after all, do not swear at old customers!
“I mean,” he said, “come on!”
He shoved me into the elevator and babbled all the way up to the penthouse restaurant.
“What a coincidence. Middle of the street. Fine food here. Here’s our floor. Out!”
We sat to dine.
“Wine for me.” The butcher eyed the wine list, like an old friend. “Here’s a swell one. 1970, St. Emilion. Yes?”
“Thanks. A very dry vodka martini.!”
My butcher scowled.
“But,” I said, quickly, “I will have some wine, of course!”
I ordered salad to start. He scowled again.
“The salad and the martini will ruin your taste for the wine. Beg pardon.”
“Well then,” I said, hastily, “the salad, later.”
We ordered our steaks, his rare, mine well-done.
“Sorry,” said my butcher, “but you should treat your meat more kindly.”
“Not like St. Joan, eh?” I said, and laughed.
“That’s a good one. Not like St. Joan.”
At which moment the wine arrived to be uncorked. I offered my glass quickly and, glad that my martini had been delayed, or might never come, made the next minute easier by sniffing, whirling, and sipping the St. Emilion. My butcher watched, as a cat might watch a rather strange dog.
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