Selected Cronicas

SOCIAL COLUMN

It was a ladies’ luncheon. Not only the hostess but every one of her guests seemed to be pleased that it was turning out so well. As if there were always the danger of suddenly discovering that the reality of dumb-waiters, flowers, and all this elegance was a little above them — not in terms of social status but simply: above them. Perhaps because they were simply women and not just ladies. But if they were all entitled to this ambience, they still seemed apprehensive about committing some faux-pas. A faux-pas is that moment when a certain reality comes to light.

The lunch was elegantly served with no hint of the anxious preparations in the kitchen beforehand. When the guests arrived, all the tell-tale signs of frantic activity had been carefully removed.

Which did not prevent each of the guests from having some little reservation or other about the luncheon while pretending everything was perfect. One lady in particular had to show forbearance every time the waiter served her neighbour and lightly brushed against her coiffure, giving her the kind of fright which presages catastrophe. There were two waiters. The one who was serving this lady remained invisible as he served her from behind. And there is no reason to believe he caught a glimpse of her expression. Without any likelihood of their ever getting to know each other, a relationship was established through those periodic brushes with her coiffure. And he could sense it. Through that coiffure he could feel her mounting hatred until he himself began to feel enraged.

One must assume that every one of the guests had her own little moment of crisis during this formal gathering. Each of them must have sensed, however momentarily, this acute and imminent danger of their coiffure coming apart and throwing the luncheon into chaos.

The hostess exuded an air of calm authority which rather suited her. From time to time, however, she would forget she was being observed and adopt some surprising expressions: a sudden look of weariness or annoyance. And at one point — who knows what vague and anguished thought was passing through her mind — she stared quite blankly at her neighbour on the right who was speaking to her. The woman remarked: ‘The landscape there is wonderful!’ And the hostess, in a dreamy tone of voice mingling disquiet and complacency, heartily replied:

– ‘Yes, you’re right … isn’t it lovely?’

The lady who enjoyed herself most of all was Mrs X, the guest of honour, who received so many invitations that she simply treated any luncheon party as lunch. With delicate gestures and completely at her ease, she devoured everything on that French menu with relish — spooning the food into her mouth and then looking round with avid curiosity — the vestiges of childhood.

But all the other guests felt ill at ease. Perhaps if they had tried a little less hard to appear so relaxed, they might have looked more natural. None of them had the courage. Every one of them felt very unsure of herself, as if capable of making the most awful social blunder should she drop her guard. No: they were determined this should be the perfect luncheon.

Nor had they any way of being themselves without the odd moment of silence. And that was not allowed. For no sooner was some topic casually raised than they all pounced ferociously, prolonging the discussion until they all became reticent. And since they exploited every topic in the same fashion — for all of them were up to date with the latest topics — and since they agreed about everything, each topic renewed the possibility of further silence.

Mrs X, a huge woman, healthy as an ox and wearing flowers in her corsage, was fifty years old and recently married. Her ready, excitable laughter was that of a woman who had married late in life. All the others appeared to be of one mind in finding her absurd. And this relieved the tension a little. But she was too obviously absurd for comfort and there had to be something more to her — if only one’s chatty neighbour would stop talking and give one time to examine Mrs X more closely. But no such luck. The chatter went on and on.

The worst part of it was that one of the women invited spoke only French. This created difficulties for Mrs Y. She took her revenge when the foreign lady uttered one of those expressions which can be repeated word for word by way of reply with only the slightest change of intonation. ‘Il n’est pas mal’, said the foreigner. Whereupon Mrs Y, confident that she was pronouncing it correctly, repeated the expression aloud, with all the surprise and satisfaction of someone who has suddenly discovered: ‘Ah, il n’est pas mal, il n’est pas mal.’ For as another guest, who was not foreign and discussing something else, remarked: ‘C’est le ton qui fait la chanson.’

As for Mrs K, dressed all in grey, she was ever ready to listen and make conversation. She did not mind in the least being somewhat passée. She had discovered that discretion was her most effective weapon and exercised it with a certain freedom. ‘I’m not going to change my little ways for anyone’, those smiling maternal eyes of hers were saying. She had even established a dress code to highlight her discretion, as in the story about the spies who wore badges to show they were spies. And so she dressed in what were unmistakably discreet colours. And her jewellery was no less discreet. Discreet women form a kind of sisterhood. They recognize each other at a glance, and in praising each other, they are praising themselves.

The opening discussion was about dogs. And when the conversation ended with liqueurs after lunch, as if constrained by some mysterious force to close the circle, they were still discussing dogs. Their kind hostess had a dog called José. A name no member of the sisterhood of discreet women would ever have dreamed of giving her dog. They would have chosen a name like Rex, and, even then, at some discreet moment, hasten to explain: ‘My little son gave the dog its name.’ Members of the sisterhood of discreet women frequently refer to their children as if they were adorable little tyrants around the house. ‘My son thinks I look terrible in this dress.’ ‘My daughter has booked seats for a concert but I don’t think I’ll go. She can always take her father.’ As a rule, the members of the sisterhood of discreet women are only invited because of their husband, almost certainly some influential business man, or their late father, who was probably a famous lawyer.

They rise from the table. Some of the guests fold their napkins before getting to their feet as they were taught to do as children. Those who just leave them lying there unfolded have a theory about leaving them unfolded.

A cup of coffee is welcome after all that rich food, but the liqueurs begin to mix with the wines imbibed earlier, making the guests feel slightly breathless and hazy. Those who smoke, smoke. Those who do not, do not. But they all smoke. The weary hostess never stops smiling. At long last, the guests take their leave. It is already late. Some of the women return home, their afternoon spoiled. Others decide, since they are all dressed up for the occasion, to visit a friend. Who knows, perhaps to offer their condolences. It’s the same the world over, people eat and people die.

On the whole, the luncheon was perfect. My turn to offer lunch next time? Not on your life.