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.She remarked on a painting she had bought for Monsieur, saying something about its formal balances.She mentioned the price and Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat.The Argentinean critic agreed that the painting in question had perfect tonal components.I watched poor Tom become the chair.At midnight I decided to go ahead with dinner, even without Monsieur.The guests took their seats grudgingly.However, Tom, without my noticing, had grown terribly drunk.I had thought originally that he was nursing the one glass of wine all evening, but it seemed that the waiters in their petty spitefulness had been topping up his glass.Unused to the wine, Tom remained on the couch and proceeded to loudly regale the table with tales of a London soccer team nobody else was interested in.Mrs.Godstalk snorted while the men attempted to drown him out.Only the dancers seemed vaguely interested.I suggested to Tom that he take a seat at the table and I guided him across.The only available chair was next to Mrs.Godstalk.I tried to take his glass of wine but he held on to it and spilled a little on the leg of his trousers.He tucked a napkin into his shirt collar with great difficulty and one of the ballerinas giggled.I returned to the kitchen to serve the first courses.As the dinner went on Tom’s English accent grew stronger and louder as he waved his fork in the air, a piece of capon attached.I watched from a crack in the kitchen door and finally decided that I’d need to take action.Tom had reached a point in his anecdote where his team was about to take a penalty kick.I waited for the appropriate moment to come out from the kitchen saying: Mister Ashworth! Mister Ashworth!I quickly rattled off that the dishwasher had broken and, since Tom was a handyman, I would need his help, could the guests please excuse him from the table?—At your service, said Tom, knocking his knee against the edge of the table, almost dragging the cloth with him.He stumbled and I took his arm, sat him at the kitchen table, close to the wall in case he fell over.—Odile, he said, slightly slurring my name.Just then I heard the sound of Monsieur at the front door.Within moments there was some kind of altercation at the dinner table.Voices were being raised, Monsieur’s loudest of all.Someone shouted back at him.I knew trouble was imminent—it was always so when Monsieur was confronted.I told Tom to stay where he was and I left the kitchen.All the guests were standing, fingers were being pointed, nails being chewed, cuffs being buttoned, and Monsieur, in the middle of the fray, was dispatching them one by one.—Late? he was shouting.Me, late? Out! Out!Some were dawdling, trying to ingratiate themselves with Monsieur, but he was having none of it.Mrs.Godstalk whispered in his ear but he brushed her away.Horrified, she kept saying his name over and over again.She tried to touch his forearm but he shouted: Out! The Argentinean critic was muttering at the door and he even managed to get in a complaint about the capon, but I was too caught up with thoughts of poor Tom to be annoyed.I wanted to get back to the kitchen before he too suffered Monsieur’s wrath.I simply couldn’t imagine what might happen if Monsieur found Tom sitting there, drunk—the furies of Hades would surely be let loose.I hurried to get the guests’ hands through the armholes of their coats, straightened their collars, all the time straining to hear sounds from the kitchen.I finally shooed Mrs.Godstalk, the last of the guests, away.Imagine my surprise when I found Tom and Monsieur in the kitchen, both liberally sipping from large glasses of red wine.Tom was telling Monsieur about a special pair of shoes he had made for himself for his soccer games.Tom was explaining that he had put platforms in his shoes to see over the heads of fellow supporters.But he had built the shoes so the platforms were unnoticeable and his landlady had never figured out why he was taller on days when there were soccer matches.—My friend Victor could do with a pair of those, said Monsieur.They spent the next hour in laughter.Monsieur took out some photographs that he kept in his wallet, one of his mother and one of his young niece, Nuriya, who had been born a few years previously to his sister in Russia.Tom held back a belch and said they were wonderful photographs, that he’d always liked Russian women.He looked at me: Odile, even though you’re not Russian, you’re beautiful too.His body finally gave in to the alcohol and he fell asleep at the kitchen table, his head resting against a slab of cheese.Monsieur helped me move him into the spare bedroom.He even took off Tom’s shoes and socks and wished him a good night’s sleep.I rolled Tom over to his side and put a bucket beside him in case he should vomit.For some reason I was inspired to kiss him, very gently, on his forehead.And then I went to bed.The next morning broke with raindrops.I crawled from under the covers and went down the corridor.I was surprised to see the door of the guest room slightly open.I peeked inside.Tom was hunched over, trying to tie his shoelaces.His face was flush and his hair was askew.—Good morning, Tom, I said.He looked up, startled.His suit jacket hung precariously on the chair and his shirt was creased.—I’d be delighted to press your clothes for you, I said.—Thank you, but I really must be leaving.—It would be no trouble.—Many thanks, but no.There was a catch in his throat.I left him alone since he seemed embarrassed.In the kitchen I prepared tea and coffee and set the table.I was cleaning up the remnants of the night before when out of the corner of my eye I saw Tom trying to leave the apartment on tiptoe.—Mister Ashworth! I called out but he didn’t reply.—Tom! I said and he turned around.Never before have I seen such fear on a grown man’s face.His eyes were hooded and red, his lids were swollen, and he looked as if he was carrying the weight of an awful injury.He didn’t say a word, just fingered the buttons of his jacket.When he was sideways to the door I could see that his eyes were glassy with tears.I ran up to him but he was already stepping slowly down the curving staircase.I went after him.At the front door he hung his head, looked at his feet.—I shamed myself, he said.Shoemakers in my family for many hundreds of years and I shamed them.—There’s nothing to be ashamed of.—I made a fool of myself.—No no no.Monsieur had a wonderful time.—I’m a clown.—Of course not.—I have made my last shoe.—Pardon me? I asked.—Please give Mister Nureyev my apologies.With this Tom bowed slightly and was gone, out the front door, along the quays.I watched as he moved through the rain.He pulled his suit jacket up over his head and rounded the corner.Monsieur woke half an hour later and asked after Mister Ashworth.I told him what had happened.Monsieur stared into his tea and munched on a croissant.I stood at the sink and washed the last of the glasses.I couldn’t help but feel empty
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