House of All Nations by Christina Stead

like a dozen, or even a baker’s dozen, tonight. It was remembering the one hundred and twenty-five thousand guilders I made in the General Strike. Ah, Margaret, I was walking down the street this afternoon: I looked in the gutter and saw an empty purse. Think of it, I said to myself. It is a month since I was in love; since I felt in love. That’s a terrible feeling, Margaret. Do you know what I mean? I need romance. Let me have romance tonight. Be nice to me. Bear with me.’ He begged so nicely of them that they all softened and even Aristide left off toying with a coffee spoon and his foggy eyes smiled for a moment, or at least lightened faintly. The women even settled themselves more easily and accepted each other.
    â€˜Love is usually a caricature and a bad joke,’ said Aristide.
    â€˜I have gypsy blood,’ said Léon: ‘I went to the White Rabbi in—my home—last year, and he said to me, “Olim (my name), you’re a wicked man, but your star is lucky. You are rich and you will go on getting richer.” It is my gypsy blood: it is with me. There is a rose in my blood: wherever I go, stones glittering underneath my shoes. Did I ever tell you my first experiment in agriculture? No. My father died. My poor mother lived by herself with four children. One day my uncle came and drove his cows into our yard. After that we sowed cucumbers. We always sowed cucumbers. We make wonderful pickles,’ he beseeched Madame Verneuil who was bored but pretended to devour him with interest. ‘Pickled cucumbers, what do you call them? When the cucumbers came up, the whole yard was covered with cucumbers: you couldn’t walk without mashing them. I never saw so many. Good, we thought: the yard is good for cucumbers. But next year there were no cows; when we sowed, there were only two or three stringy things. My first lesson in agriculture, you see. At first I thought it was perhaps our gypsy blood, luck. My grandmother—’ he stopped abruptly. ‘Waiter: Aristide! See that girl over there! Aristide: go and get her. It’s a friend of mine. I met her—in the Westminster Hotel. She is a very fine lady. She was worth—millions.’ His eyes danced. ‘Millions of—pesetas: her husband was a Spaniard. Now look at her. Isn’t it sad? We’ll all have a good time. We’ll drink the wine and then we’ll go to the Scheherazade.’
    Aristide sat up and said, ‘I really think we have enough company, Léon. The Scheherazade is really very small and the company is small; you can’t take a big party there unless you arrange—’
    â€˜Nonsense. You’re afraid: don’t be afraid, my boy. Go and get the girl. She’s a dear old friend of Mr. Rhys of Rotterdam. When the Spanish husband died, Rhys was very kind to her. Poor girl. Do me a favor, Aristide, and go and ask her.’
    â€˜What is your friend’s name?’ said Aristide sternly.
    â€˜Ask her! She’s probably married now. You don’t want to offend the ladies—wrong names? You can make mistakes, eh, Marianne?’
    The two women who had started the evening with a good lead were perspiring with embarrassment, irritation, and doubt. No one could believe Léon’s tales but here he was chattering in a sort of French with the Mme. Verneuil and there was no telling that he did not really know her. Besides, the Scheherazade was a first-class cabaret and they rarely had an opportunity to go to it. Marianne decided to hold out for the sake of the champagne which they would presently get.
    Léon cried, ‘And afterwards we’ll go to Mitchell’s on the Rue Pigalle and have bacon and eggs, four o’clock in the morning. First to the Brasserie Moulin Rouge, then to Mitchell’s: first an omelet, then a raft of eggs. Good, eh? But first we’ll have some fun. How are you, Madame? What is your married name now? This is Madame