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“Well, do you have to accept all the Nicene Creed?”
“I suppose. What does that have to do with anything?”
Wally forgot why he had asked. He began talking about Baudelaire.
“I’ve been reading him in French. You lose a lot in the translation,” he said. “Have you read The Flowers of Evil in French?”
“I read Ring Lardner and Rudyard Kipling my last year in high school,” Avery said.
“You don’t consider Lardner a serious writer, do you?”
“I’d like a highball. Would you fix me one, Wally?” Suzanne said.
“Do you really compare Lardner with someone like Baudelaire?”
“I liked his short stories,” Avery said.
“Tell me if you think Lardner could be compared with any French writer of worth.”
“You’re tight,” Suzanne said.
“I just want to know if anybody can believe Ringgold Lardner was a good writer.”
“If you won’t get the Scotch, open a beer for me, please,” she said.
“Lardner never wrote a decent page of prose in his life,” Wally said.
“Wally, will you please be quiet.”
“And Kipling, for God’s sake. Can you tell me of anyone more undeserving who has received as much attention?”
Avery looked at his whiskey-red face and didn’t say anything. A young man came over from the steps and put his arm on Wally’s shoulder. He winked at Suzanne.
“Come talk to us, old sock,” he said. “We want to hear about your poems.”
“They’re completely worthless.”
“Also about your short story in the Atlantic,” the young man said.
“It’s worthless, too. The Atlantic has a policy of not publishing anything of merit.”
“Come sit down and have a Scotch with us,” the young man said. He was a portrait painter who had done well with the Saint Charles Avenue upper class. His hair was black and he had a good suntan and his teeth were white when he smiled.
“Stop this goddamn patronizing attitude,” Wally said. “If there is anything I can’t stand, it’s to be patronized when I’m drunk.”
The others in the courtyard stopped talking and looked at Wally. The young portrait painter felt that attention was being focused on him, also. He smiled and put his hand on Wally’s shoulder again. His teeth shone, and he gave an appearance of composure and easiness of manner.
“I’m not patronizing you,” he said in a low voice, smiling.
“Do you know one thing about the amount of work that goes into a good piece of fiction?”
“Come over and tell us about it.”
“Do you think that painting some aristocratic pig on Saint Charles is art?”
“Now look, Wally.”
“Tell me.”
