The Conspiracy Club

15

Genevieve poured a white wine, and Laurent served a first course of fish mousse quenelles in a peppery reduction with citrus overtones.

Edgar Marquis tasted, licked his lips, pronounced, “Pike.”

“Pike and turbot,” said Arthur Chess.

“Scallops and lobster roe in the sauce,” added Norbert Levy.

Tina Balleron said, “Enough speculation,” and pressed a buzzer at her feet. Moments later, Laurent emerged.

“Madame?”

“Composition, sir?”

“Whitefish, turbot, and gar.”

“Gar,” said Edgar Marquis, “is basically pike.”

“I,” said Harrison Maynard, “am basically Homo sapiens.”

Tina Balleron said, “The sauce, Laurent?”

“King crab, crawfish, lemon grass, a splash of anisette, ground pepper, just a touch of grapefruit zest.”

“Delicious. Thank you.” As Laurent left, the judge raised her wineglass and the others followed suit.

No toast; a moment of silence, then crystal rims touched lips.

Edgar Marquis sipped faster than the others, and Genevieve was there, as if by magic, to refill his glass. The wine was pale and crisp, with a lemony nuance that harmonized with the delicate mousse.

The quenelle was so light it dissolved on Jeremy’s tongue. He found himself eating too quickly, made a conscious effort to slow down.

Take discreet bites. Chew inconspicuously but energetically. A young gentleman doesn’t gulp.

A young gentleman doesn’t tell anyone when upperclassmen creep into his bunk at night…

Jeremy drained his wineglass. Almost immediately, his head began to swim. He’d had breakfast but no lunch, and the fish mousse was substantial as crepe. The wine had gone to his head.

Laurent emerged again with a basket of flatbreads and slices of softer baked goods. Jeremy selected olive bread and something studded with sesame seeds. A few seeds rolled onto his tie. He flicked them off, unreasonably embarrassed.

No one had noticed. No one was paying attention to him, period.

Everyone concentrating on eating.

He’d seen that before in old people. Knowing time was short and every pleasure needed to be savored?

Jeremy’s forkful of buttery fish paused midair as he observed his companions. Listened to the clink of tines against china, the barely audible samba of determined mastication.

So single-minded. As if this could be their last meal.

Will I be that way, he wondered, when the passage of time hits me hard?

Arthur Chess had labeled the group “our grayed little assemblage,” but as Jeremy looked around the table, he saw alertness, self-satisfaction, self-sustainment. Were these people looking back on lives well lived?

A blessing… then he thought of Jocelyn, never afforded the luxury of a gradual fade.

Tyrene Mazursky.

He tried to salve the resultant flood of images with a greedy swallow of cool wine. The moment it emptied, his glass was refilled. In the next chair over, Tina Balleron glanced at him- was he being indiscreet? Had he betrayed his feelings?

No, she’d returned to the food. He’d probably imagined it.

He drank too much and ate more bread, cleaned his plate. Conversation resumed- floated around him. The old people talked steadily but at a leisurely pace. No conflict, nothing ponderous, just several light glosses over the day’s headlines. Then Norbert Levy said something about a hydroelectric dam project slated for the next state over, quoted facts and figures, talked about the Aswan disaster in Egypt, the futility of trying to conquer nature.

Tina Balleron cited a book she’d read about the inevitability of Mississippi floods.

Harrison Maynard pronounced the Army Corps of Engineers “Frankenstein monsters in khaki,” and quoted Jonathan Swift to the effect that if one learned to plant two ears of corn where one had grown previously, he had serviced mankind better than ‘the entire race of politicians.’ ”

Arthur Chess said, “Swift was one of the greatest thinkers of all time- his take on immortality is near biblical in its acuity.” The pathologist went on to describe a visit to Swift’s grave in Dublin, then segued to the pleasures of the reading rooms at the libraries of Trinity College.

Edgar Marquis said the Irish were finally getting it right: giving up on potatoes and embracing technology. “Unlike… other nationalities, they know how to cook, too.”

Norbert Levy spoke of a fabulous meal at a family-run restaurant in Dublin Harbor. Perfectly grilled black sole- the Irish would never deign to call it Dover sole because they hate the English. The husband the chef, the wife the sommelier.

Harrison Maynard said, “What do the kids do, bake?”

“Doctors and lawyers,” said Levy.

“Pity.”

Tina Balleron turned to Jeremy. “How’s your fish, dear?”

“Wonderful.”

“I’m so glad.”

The second course was a warm salad of pigeon breast and porcini mushrooms over field greens lubricated by a pancetta-laced dressing. Another white wine was poured- deeper in color, woody and dry and fine, and Jeremy swallowed it with joy and worried giddily if he’d pass out.

But he remained alert; his system seemed to be absorbing the alcohol better. The beautiful room was clearer, brighter, his taste buds were electric in anticipation of each new mouthful, and his companions’ voices were as soothing as poultice.

Arthur spoke of butterflies in Australia.

Edgar Marquis opined that Australia was the States in the fifties and New Zealand was England in the forties. “Three million people, sixty million sheep. And they don’t let reptiles in.”

Harrison Maynard described a spot in New Zealand where one could peer down on the Tasman Sea and the South Pacific simultaneously. “It’s the ultimate contrast. The Tasman roils constantly, the South Pacific’s glass. I found a crag where the gannet birds mate. Golden-headed, gull-like creatures. They’re monogamous. The mate dies, they go into seclusion. The crag reeked of frustration.”

Jeremy said, “Not too adaptive.”

Five pairs of eyes aimed at him.

“Reproduction-wise,” he said. “Is there a population control issue?”

“Good question,” said Maynard. “I just assumed they were moral little buggers.”

“It is a good question,” said Arthur.

Tina Balleron said, “It should be looked into.”

The third course was a pale pink sorbet of a flavor Jeremy couldn’t identify, accompanied by ice water.

As if sensing his curiosity, Norbert Levy informed him, “Blood orange and pomelo. The latter’s a cousin to the grapefruit. We seem to be in a citrus thing, here.”

“Larger than a grapefruit, no?” said Edgar Marquis. “I believe in Mexico they sell them at village markets.”

“Huge, misshapen things,” Levy agreed. To Jeremy: “Sweeter than grapefruit but unsuitable for commercial production because of a very low pulp-to-rind ratio.”

Harrison Maynard said, “Expediency trumps virtue.”

“Yet, again,” said Tina Balleron.

Arthur said, “How true.” He touched his bow tie.

Everyone stared at their food.

Silence.

As if all the energy had been sucked from the room. Jeremy turned to Arthur for clarification. The pathologist offered a long, searching glance in response. A sad glance.

“Well, then,” said Jeremy, “perhaps one should concentrate on virtue.”

The silence stretched. Crushing silence.

Arthur lowered his head, plunged his spoon into his sorbet.