Acts of God by Ellen Gilchrist Page B

seeking us. A black-sailed unfamiliar. In its wake, no billows breed and break . . . Philip Larkin . . .”
    Charles has a PhD in English literature from the University of Virginia and has published poetry all over the world. Plus, he plays piano and paints and he thinks the world is good and for some reason he likes me. Plus he has a law degree.
    â€œStanding in line at eleven forty-five in the morning is patently absurd” is the first thing he said to me. We were behind him in the line to Galatoire’s, a restaurant that does not take reservations for anyone except the president of the United States. “I swear I won’t do it anymore but here I am. Everyone comes here on Friday. I’m Charles Foret.” He extended his hand and I took it. It was powerful and soft with long fingers and he let the handshake linger, didn’t just stick out his hand and pull it right back.
    â€œWe’re from Los Angeles,” I said. “I’m David Haver. This is Dean Reyes. We came for the paramedical convention but we’re playing hooky. Why won’t they take reservations here?”
    â€œA new way to be snotty in the world’s snottiest town, with the possible exception of Charleston, South Carolina.”
    â€œI’ve never been in South Carolina. My parents are Lutherans from Minnesota. They don’t take children to visit the South.”
    â€œI was in Charleston once,” Dean puts in. “I liked it very much. Those squares are so beautiful. I really liked them.”
    A white-coated black man with beautiful gray and black hair came out the door and ushered Charles into the restaurant. He was followed by a younger waiter who took Dean and me around crowded tables and to the back where I could just make out the back of Charles bending over a table to kiss an older woman on the forehead.
    â€œWas that an apparition?” I asked.
    â€œI imagine so,” Dean answered. “What do you want to drink?”
    IT WAS NOT my imagination that made me think Charles was looking at me the whole time he was in the restaurant, and certainly not my imagination that saw and returned a long, wonderful smile right before he went out the door. Dean and I were deep into trout almandine and deep fried potatoes and a Piesporter Goldtröpfchen but I still caught that smile.
    ON SATURDAY CHARLES was in line again at Casamento’s, the oyster place I told you about earlier. This line was even longer as the mayor was calling for evacuations and half the restaurants in town were already closed. Casamento’s was serving until two.
    â€œHello, again,” Charles said. He was with an older man he introduced as his cousin.
    â€œHello, indeed,” I answered.
    â€œHas your visit been good?”
    â€œExcept for this hurricane business. Do we really have to leave?”
    â€œI’m going to my house in Mandeville,” the cousin said. “I never stay for these things. If the electricity goes off it’s a mess in this heat. You should leave this afternoon if you’re leaving.”
    â€œI never leave,” Charles said. “I live in the Pontalba on Jackson Square. It’s right inside the tallest levee on the river. It’s completely safe.”
    â€œDon’t be a fool,” the older man said. “I can’t believe you’d take that chance.” They argued all the way into the restaurant and to their table. Casamento’s is walled with blue and white Italian tiles and it isn’t that big. I could hear the cousin’s voice until we were seated two tables away from them. All the while Charles was looking at me with his eyebrows raised in the most seductive and beautiful way. Dean was laughing at me. Adventure, imagination, exaltation, storm: we bipedal, carbon-based life forms know a good thing when we see it, and strangely enough I had no desire to copulate with the man. I wanted to talk to him for days and days and days.
    I got to,