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ords。 It's not a big boost； and not really necessary to successful thinking （although most confirmed cigarette junkies believe differently）； but when you take it away； you're left with a feeling…a pervasive feeling； in my case…that the world has taken on a decidedly dreamy cast。 There were many times when it seemed to me that people and cars and the little sidewalk vignettes I observed were actually passing by me on a moving screen； a thing controlled by hidden stagehands turning enormous cranks and revolving enormous drums。 It was also a little like being mildly stoned all the time； because the feeling was acpanied by a sense of helplessness and moral exhaustion； a feeling that things had to simply go on the way they were going； for good or for ill； because you （except of course it's me I'm talking about） were just too damned busy not…smoking to do much of anything else。
I'm not sure how much all this bears on what happened； but I know it has some bearing； because I was pretty sure something was wrong with the ma？tre d' almost as soon as I saw him； and as soon as he spoke to me； I knew。
He was tall； maybe forty…five； slim （in his tux； at least； in ordinary clothes he probably would have looked skinny）； mustached。 He had a leather…bound menu in one hand。 He looked like battalions of ma？tre d's in battalions of fancy New York restaurants； in other words。 Except for his bow…tie； which was askew； and something on his shirt that was a splotch just above the place where his jacket buttoned。 It looked like either gravy or a glob of some dark jelly。 Also； several strands of his hair stuck up defiantly in back； making me think of Alfalfa in the old Little Rascals one…reelers。 That almost made me burst out laughing…I was very nervous； remember…and I had to bite my lips to keep it in。
'Yes； sir？' he asked as I approached the desk。 It came out sounding like Yais sair？ All ma？tre d's in New York City have accents； but it is never one you can positively identify。 A girl I dated in the mid…eighties； one who did have a sense of humor （along with a fairly large drug habit； unfortunately）； told me once that they all grew up on the same little island and hence all spoke the same language。
'What language is it？' I asked her。
'Snooti；' she said； and I cracked up。
This thought came back to me as I looked past the desk to the woman I'd seen while outside…I was now almost positive it was Diane…and I had to bite the insides of my lips again。 As a result； Humboldt's name came out of me sounding like a half…smothered sneeze。
The ma？tre d's high； pale brow contracted in a frown。 His eyes bored into mine。 I had taken them for brown as I approached the desk； but now they looked black。
'Pardon； sir？' he asked。 It came out sounding like Pahdun； sair and looking like Fuck you； Jack。 His long fingers； as pale as his brow…concert pianist's fingers； they looked like…tapped nervously on the cover of the menu。 The tassel sticking out of it like some sort of half…assed bookmark swung back and forth。
'Humboldt；' I said。 'Party of three。' I found I couldn't take my eyes off his bow…tie； so crooked that the left side of it was almost brushing the shelf under his chin； and that blob on his snowy…white dress shirt。 Now that I was closer； it didn't look like either gravy or jelly； it looked like partially dried blood。
He was looking down at his reservations book； the rogue tuft at the back of his head waving back and forth over the rest of his slicked…down hair。 I could see his scalp through the grooves his b had laid down； and a speckle of dandruff on the shoulders of his tux。 It occurred to me that a good headwaiter might have fired an underling put together in such sloppy fashion。
'Ah； yes； monsieur。' （Ah yais； messoo。） He had found the name。 'Your party is…' He was starting to look up。 He stopped abruptly； and his eyes sharpened even more； if that was possible； as he looked past me and down。 'You cannot bring that dog in here；' he said sharply。 'How many times have I told you you can't bring that dog in here！'
He didn't quite shout； but spoke so loudly that several of the diners closest to his pulpit…like desk stopped eating and looked around curiously。
I looked around myself。 He had been so emphatic I expected to see somebody's dog； but there was no one behind me and most certainly no dog。 It occurred to me then； I don't know why； that he was talking about my umbrella； that perhaps on the Island of the Ma？tre D's； dog was a slang term for umbrella； especially when carried by a patron on a day when rain did not seem likely。
I looked back at the ma？tre d' and saw that he had already started away from his desk； holding my menu in his hands。 He must have sensed that I wasn't following； because he looked back over his shoulder； eyebrows slightly raised。 There was nothing on his face now but polite enquiry…Are you ing； messoo？…and I came。 I knew something was wrong with him； but I came。 I could not take the time or effort to try to decide what might be wrong with the ma？tre d' of a restaurant where I had never been before today and where I would probably never be again； I had Humboldt and Diane to deal with； I had to do it without smoking； and the ma？tre d' of the Gotham Café would have to take care of his own problems； dog included。
Diane turned around and at first I saw nothing in her face and in her eyes but a kind of frozen politeness。 Then； just below it； I saw anger； or thought I did。 We'd done a lot of arguing during our last three or four months together； but I couldn't recall ever seeing the sort of concealed anger I sensed in her now； anger that was meant to be hidden by the makeup and the new dress （blue； no speckles； no slit up the side） and the new hairdo。 The heavyset man she was with was saying something； and she reached out and touched his arm。 As he turned toward me； beginning to get to his feet； I saw something else in her face。 She was afraid of me as well as angry with me。 And although she hadn't said a single word； I was already furious at her。 Everything on her face and in her eyes was negative； she might as well have been wearing a CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE sign on her forehead。 I thought I deserved better。
'Monsieur；' the ma？tre d' said； pulling out the chair to Diane's left。 I barely heard him； and certainly any thought of his eccentric behavior and crooked bow…tie had left my head。 I think that even the subject of tobacco had briefly vacated my head for the first time since I'd quit smoking。 I could only consider the careful posure of her face and marvel at how I could be angry with her and still want her so much it made me ache to look at her。 Absence may or may not make the heart grow fonder； but it certainly freshens the eye。
I also found time to wonder if I had really seen all I'd surmised。 Anger？ Yes； that was possible； even likely。 If she hadn't been angry with me to at least some degree； she never would have left in the first place； I supposed。 But afraid？ Why in God's name would Diane be afraid of me？ I'd never laid a single finger on her。 Yes； I suppose I had raised my voice during some of our arguments； but so had she。
'Enjoy your lunch； monsieur；' the ma？tre d' said from some other universe…the one where service people usually stay； only poking their heads into ours when we call them； either because we need something or to plain。
'Mr。 Davis； I'm Bill Humboldt；' Diane's panion said。 He held out a large hand that looked reddish and chapped。 I shook it briefly。 The rest of him was as big as his hand； and his broad face wore the sort of flush habitual drinkers often get after the first one of the day。 I put him in his mid…forties； about ten years away from the time when his sagging cheeks would turn into jowls。
'Pleasure；' I said； not thinking about what I was saying any more than I was thinking about the ma？tre d' with the blob on his shirt； only wanting to get the hand…shaking part over so I could turn back to the pretty blonde with the rose…and…cream plexion； the pale pink lips； and the trim； slim figure。 The woman who had； not so long ago； liked to whisper 'Do me do me do me' in my ear while she held onto my ass like a saddle with two pommels。
'Where is Mr。 Ring？' Humboldt asked； looking around （a bit theatrically； I thought）。
'Mr。 Ring is on his way to Long Island。 His mother fell downstairs and broke her hip。'
'Oh； wonderful；' Humboldt said。 He picked up the half…finished martini in front of him on the table and drained it until the olive with the toothpick in it rested against his lips。 He spat it back； then set the glass down and looked at me。 'And I bet I can guess what he told you。'
I heard this but paid no attention。 For the time being； Humboldt was no more important than minor static on a radio program you really want to hear。 I looked at Diane instead。 It was marvellous； really； how she looked smarter and prettier than previous。 As if she had learned things…yes； even after only two weeks of separation； and while living with Ernie and Dee Dee Coslaw in Pound Ridge…that I could never know。
'How are you； Steve？' she asked。
'Fine；' I said。 Then； 'Not so fine； actually。 I've missed you。'
Only watchful