Matters of Honor (14 page)

XII

W
E MADE A SHORT FORAY
into Baja California and would have liked to continue there, but time was growing short. After two days, one spent at the beach, we began to make our way home following a route that took us through Arizona and New Mexico to Houston. Our next stop was to be New Orleans, where a certain Walter Trowbridge, who had been at school with George’s father, maintained an apartment on Toulouse Street in the French Quarter for the use of guests, most of them fellow oilmen. May and Cousin Jack had stayed there, and May described it as sinfully luxurious. August not being a month when the apartment was in demand, it was offered to us for as long as we liked. Urged by May, we signed up for five days, thinking we would use it for exploring the Quarter, the Garden District, and the bayou country. We were also tempted by the Mississippi delta, if a boat trip could be arranged. By the time we were leaving Houston, we felt we urgently needed to be pampered. The heat had been brutal, and ever since we had stopped camping we had shared rooms in very modest motels and hostels, most recently in the Houston YMCA. George had in his possession a lordly letter of credit issued by the Morgan Bank, and I had a suitable amount in traveler’s checks I had bought with the sum advanced by Mr. Hibble. We could have afforded better accommodations. The Standish code of conduct, however, called for young men to travel on the cheap. I wanted to be as good a Standish as George at least in this respect, and the idea of transgressing against the code didn’t cross his mind. The code did permit occasional intentionally extravagant gestures, if they were justified by the occasion. We had read Frances Parkinson Keyes’s novel,
Dinner at Antoine’s,
and perused the section on New Orleans in our guidebook. It seemed clear that the fabled pleasures of New Orleans were justification enough. We would dine at Antoine’s and Brennan’s and visit the best jazz joints on Bourbon Street.

We had passed Shreveport when George advanced another idea. Once we got settled in Toulouse Street—which was just an apartment with a cleaning lady who came in during the day but no concierge or anyone like that to watch our comings and goings—we would pick up a couple of girls and bring them home. Not the first night, but perhaps after the dinner at Antoine’s. The prospect filled me with disquiet, but I thought I had better be a good sport about it.

The apartment was reached from a cobbled courtyard along the walls of which various potted tropical plants were disposed in great profusion. May had not exaggerated. Everything in the apartment was huge and agreeable: the four-poster beds, the oversize bathtubs, the soft leather sofas and armchairs in the living room. Next to the telephone directory we found a volume bound in leather entitled
Information for Use of Toulouse Street Guests.
George went through it quickly in the hope that it would contain a hint about where to look for girls. Either there wasn’t one or the reference to that activity was phrased too subtly. He learned, however, that in order to get a good table and be treated right at Antoine’s one should ask to speak to Michel, a waiter mysteriously attached to the person of Mr. Trowbridge. George called at once and made a reservation for the following evening. We spent most of the day brushing off mosquitoes aboard a boat that toured the bayous and were late getting to Antoine’s. It didn’t seem to matter. Michel greeted us like celebrities traveling incognito but known to him, and we ate our way through crayfish, Gulf fish, and shrimp. When George called for the check it turned out that we were Mr. Trowbridge’s guests. He had also left strict instructions to have us taste the Cognac kept in his private locker. We did more than taste. The snifters were very large, and Michel filled them generously.

Henry must be at the van Damme château by now, said George.

I said that was right. The course at Grenoble ended in early August. I suppose it’s pretty fancy, George observed. The parents say that no one eats like the Belgians. All the same, I’d be surprised if he was eating any better than this.

I nodded, thinking I had just eaten the best meal of my life.

I still can’t get over Margot, he continued. Why is she sleeping with that Belgian? What has he got over me? Or over Henry? Or you? Why did she make such a fuss just because I got a little pushy? Lord knows she had asked for it.

I said I wasn’t a contender and speculated that van Damme had snowed her. He is older, drives a fast car, and has that family château up his sleeve.

We drank the last of the Cognac and went out into the night.

There were approved Bourbon Street addresses in Mr. Trowbridge’s book. We tried them all. In truth, the music was no better than what one could hear most nights on Tremont Street in Boston, perhaps not as good. We’d have a weak Scotch and soda and move on.

I’m sick of these joints, said George.

I said, Amen! Let’s go home.

George shook his head. Thinking about Margot had made him horny. We’ve got to find some action.

The question was where. According to the conception I had of such things, garishly dressed women should have been leaning against lampposts or sauntering down the street, swinging large handbags. They should have been sidling up to us and asking in their dripping southern drawl, Hey honey, lookin’ for company? But no streetwalker or pimp, white or black, approached us. In fact, there was no one in the streets other than loud groups of men milling outside bars, couples strolling arm in arm or holding hands, and solitary figures hurrying somewhere. Accountants, I thought, going home after a long day.

I told George that in New Orleans people probably went to brothels. You had to know the address of the house and, since we didn’t, we might as well give up. We were wasting our time. George disagreed. He thought we had to check out the seedier bars that hadn’t made it onto Mr. Trowbridge’s list. That’s where the broads would be. We went up and down Bourbon again and then started walking into bars on side streets. Finally, off Chartres Street, we came upon Sonny Boy, which seemed deserted except for some men who could have been garage mechanics grouped at the bar and two busty women with vacant faces sitting alone at a corner table in the back.

George said, This is it.

The table next to the women’s was empty. As we were sitting down, they made a show of staring at us and whispering to each other. George stared back and said hi. They didn’t seem to mind; in fact, they giggled. When the waiter came over, George told him Scotch and soda for us and for those ladies anything they like. They didn’t mind that either, and what they liked was rum and Coke. By the time the drinks had arrived, we had moved over to their table. I sat next to Jonelle; George was next to Debbie. They were hospital ward nurses at Tulane, on a two-day break between shifts. Jonelle was from Baton Rouge and Debbie from Lake Charles. They had met in nursing school and were roommates at the hospital dormitory.

Are boys allowed in your dorm? asked George.

Now don’t get fresh, Debbie told him.

George amazed me by lying. He explained that we had just graduated from Harvard and were working in New York, on Wall Street. We were in New Orleans on a little vacation. A friend had lent us his apartment in the Quarter and said we could invite girls—nice girls like them.

Outbursts of Isn’t he fresh? followed, and we had another round. I knew that I had passed my limit, but I didn’t want George to think I was a wet blanket. Besides, the whiskey was helping me deal with a new sensation. Jonelle had put her plump forearm over mine and said, Hey, pleased to meet you. I was going to hold her hand as a gesture of appreciation, but it was no longer there. It had slipped off the table onto my lap where it busied itself. At the same time she was talking a blue streak into my ear, which apparently made it necessary to press her breast against my arm. I limited myself to neutral rejoinders such as You’re right, or Isn’t that amazing. The truth was that I didn’t understand most of what she was saying. George meanwhile had finished describing our apartment and said it was about time all four of us got going.

Going where? asked Debbie.

To Toulouse Street, George explained a little petulantly.

You mean you want us to come to your place, asked Debbie. You crazy or something? We don’t know you guys. Did you hear that jerk, Jonelle?

Yeah, I heard him, she replied. She didn’t take her hand away, but its activities ceased.

Come on, said George. It won’t take any time to get to know us. We’re nice guys. We like girls like you.

Oh yeah? Just because you’ve bought us a couple of lousy drinks? You’re real cheapskates. You could’ve asked us to dinner.

Wait a minute, George replied, don’t be like that. It’s too late for dinner tonight. We’ll take you out tomorrow.

Yeah, and what about tonight? We don’t even get a present?

Sure you do, said George.

I’m bushed, Jonelle interjected suddenly. I need to get back to the dorm.

Come on, George said, you’ll get to sleep in at our place.

Wait a minute! Let me just get this straight. You guys want to fuck? Jonelle asked, giving me a squeeze. It wasn’t clear whether the squeeze meant she was for it or against. What kind of gift you talking about?

How about fifty, if you stay the night? George answered.

Hey, said Debbie, you hear that? This guy thinks we’re cheap whores!

Then she got up on her feet and screamed: Did I hear that right? This creep thinks we’re whores! Joe, get over here and straighten him out.

The bartender sauntered over, a crowbar in his right hand. The men at the bar didn’t move but stopped talking and were following the action.

Get out, Joe said very calmly. Pay up and get out of here. I don’t want any college fuckups in my place.

We both got up. George looked in his wallet, hesitated, and put a ten down, saying keep the change.

It’s twice that, motherfucker.

George threw down another bill.

Get these guys out of here, said Debbie.

We’re going, I told her, and stupidly added, Take care!

We had just reached the door when George turned, faced the room, and at the top of his voice shouted, Fuck you, you redneck crackers!

I grabbed him by the arm and shoved him out the door. We started in the direction of Toulouse Street, not as fast as I would have liked because the liquor had gone to his head. Every few steps he’d stop and say, I want to go back there and talk to them. I just don’t get it. What are they sore about?

Nothing, I told him. Just keep walking.

We had covered several blocks when presentiment or the sound of footsteps that weren’t ours caused me to look back. Three big guys in jeans and T-shirts were gaining on us. They were some of the guys who had been standing at the bar.

We’ve got company, I told George, step on it. Maybe they had heard me. Right away there was a yell: Wait up. We want to talk to you.

Don’t stop, I told George, and don’t turn around. It’s a delegation from the Sonny Boy.

We might have tried to make a run for it, but a couple of others, just like the ones following us, appeared at the next intersection. They closed in on us. They had tattoos on their arms. I glanced down and saw that they were all wearing heavy army-surplus engineer’s boots. One of the men who had been following us pointed at George and said, That’s him.

Hey you there, boy, said another one, giving George a shove in the chest, did I hear you say you want to fuck my sister? I think I’m going to beat your head in.

Shit, Bill, give him a chance to say he’s sorry, said another one. Come on you son of a bitch, get on your knees and say you’re sorry.

Yeah, on your knees and kiss my hand.

George said, Look, we didn’t mean any harm. They’re nice girls. We were just kidding around. Anyway, I am sorry.

Are you deaf, shithead? yelled the one called Bill. I told you to get down on your fucking knees and kiss my fucking hand.

He followed up by hitting George in the mouth. George sat down on the sidewalk and didn’t move. The blow must have confused him.

I had wrestled for my school, and had done well on the Harvard freshman team, where the coach had judo ranking and taught it to me and a couple of others informally, judo not being a varsity sport. I was only a little taller than George but a good bit heavier and not as drunk as he, though drunk enough, I suppose, to think I could take care of myself. I stepped in between George and the man called Bill, saying, Lay off, he had too much to drink but he didn’t mean any harm. Bill’s response was to swing at me. I ducked, and grabbing his arm threw him at the plate-glass storefront window. There was the sound of breaking glass, a moment of silence, and then Bill began to moan. I saw that his face was in shreds. According to the coach, in martial arts if you stand alone against several adversaries you get to take them on one by one. I didn’t expect that this was the custom in New Orleans. Looking down at the army engineer’s boots, I realized that I’d had it. Sure enough, almost at once, someone slugged me hard on the ear, and someone else rammed me in the stomach. I went down and was trying to curl up like a fetus and cover my face with my arms before they began to kick.

There were dimly lit stations along the road of my return to consciousness. One was someone telling me to take it easy, I would be given something for the pain, another was a distant voice asking my name and the names of my parents and the president of the United States, and at last George’s voice telling me I was in recovery and not to worry. I tried to turn toward George, but I couldn’t and instead his face swam into my field of vision. For some reason it was hidden behind a thick textured veil. Then it was George’s voice again, telling me I had been moved into a regular room where I would stay until I was all better. I tried to say something but what came out of my mouth was a gurgle.

You’ve got a tube up your nose, George told me. The doctor says you can speak with it, but it takes getting used to. Then he said, You saved my life, you big ape. You goddamn saved my life.

I think I fell asleep almost immediately, but he was there when I woke up. It’s a private room, he explained, and he was going to be with me most of the time. Our mothers were on the way. At some point he told me about the beating. It was lucky you threw that guy into the store window, he said. When the glass broke an alarm went off at the precinct. It’s the sirens that made those guys stop, and then the cops were all over the place.