The Grumpy Count, page 9
I’m determined to use this occasion to send all the right signals to Peter. It doesn’t matter if Hyacinth and Jonas cozy up to each other or not. My intentions with regard to Peter are honorable. He may be a nudnik, but he’s a good man. And he deserves a chance.
We set out at a brisk pace. The restaurant is only a twenty-minute walk from Bloomsbury. We pass the University of London, cross Tavistock Square, and hotfoot it through Somers Town. This yet-to-be-gentrified neighborhood is composed of ugly public housing projects tucked into a triangle formed by three big stations—King’s Cross, St Pancras, and Euston. In the dark, Somers Town feels much dodgier than in daylight.
But then, what area bordered by railway tracks doesn’t?
Fortunately, the restaurant is on the “right” side of the tracks. And it isn’t dodgy at all. It’s pretty chic, actually.
When the six of us step in, the maître d’hôtel leads us to a table in the back. I look around as we make our way. Pastel-colored chairs and tables covered with crisp white tablecloths are arranged in intimate groupings. The ambiance is fresh, classy, and very continental. The uniformed waiters glide across the floor with purposeful elegance, as though they were performing a country dance revamped for Napoleon’s court.
We sit down and order a bottle of reasonably priced white wine that we’ll share.
Jonas squirms at our choice. “If I foot the bill tonight, can I pick the wine?”
“Absolutely!” Hyacinth beams.
“No way!” the rest of us say.
“The plan was to go Dutch,” I remind Jonas, “and we’re sticking to our plan. You’ll have to grin and bear the wine of our choosing.”
Phil shoots me a reproachful look before turning to Jonas. “Your continued generosity is greatly appreciated,” he says in a much kinder tone than mine. “But we have limits.”
Anand, the oldest and wisest among us, strokes his goatee. “How about a compromise? We split five ways. Jonas orders what he wants and pays separately.”
No one objects, so that’s what we do.
The commoners will have fried calamari rings followed by an affordable seafood platter to share and a side of potatoes. The toff picks the priciest options on the menu.
When our starters arrive, Anand slopes his head toward Jonas. “I’ve been thinking about your theory of women… It’s utter BS, obviously, but it’s entertaining. Do you have one on men though?”
“Maybe.” Jonas picks up a caviar mini sandwich.
“Let’s hear it,” Anand says.
The others cheer. I poke a calamari ring with my fork.
“It will make me even less popular with Margot,” Jonas says.
“That’s all right,” Hyacinth speaks for me. “Margot can handle it.”
Jonas sets his sandwich down. “My theory of men is that a masculine man, even if he’s ugly, will be desirable to women because greater masculinity gives men and, by extension, their families an edge. A low-testosterone, meek, effeminate man isn’t a winning bet for a woman.”
“Masculinity is toxic,” I say.
He arches an eyebrow at me. “According to who? Nuns? Eunuchs?”
“Battered girlfriends and wives.”
My reply chases away his smug smile.
Everybody stares at him expectantly, no doubt curious to see how he’s going to argue against the point I made.
He begins slowly, choosing his words. “Woman batterers aren’t masculine. They’re mindlessly violent, needlessly aggressive, ill-tempered, insecure men with no control over their urges.”
“Potato, potahto.” I level my gaze with his and hold.
“I won’t deny that it’s easy to confuse a pathologically violent man with a strong, masculine man,” he admits. “But they are very different beasts.”
I cock my head. “Are they?”
Peter stabs a slippery calamari ring with his fork. “Even if they were, it’s beside the point.”
“How do you mean?” Anand asks him.
“In our part of the world,” Peter argues, “few women want a he-man anymore. What they want is a sensitive man.”
Jonas twists his mouth in disagreement. “They still want a strong, masculine man, albeit more sensitive than in the past; I’ll give you that.”
“Masculine and somewhat sensitive… Oh, my!” I feign a dreamy expression. “You’re describing a myth.”
“I’m describing the man I’m raising my son to be.”
There’s something new, something deeply earnest in Jonas’s eyes as he continues, “I’d hate for Matteo to be a weak, harmless guy. I want him to be a strong, even dangerous man who can control his emotions.”
And just like that, the mood around the table changes. Everybody refocuses on their plates. When we’re done with the starters, the waiters bring out our mega platter of oysters, smoked salmon, clams, prawn, and mussels with lemon wedges all around. Jonas is served a spectacular lobster. He leans back while the tools required to eat it are laid out in front of him.
I lift a cold oyster shell to my mouth and slurp down the salty goodness inside. “What about us, women? Are we allowed to be dangerous? Can you tolerate it, or do badass women make you flee?”
“I have no issue with badass women,” he says, staring me in the eye.
Phil nods eagerly. “And I can prove he means it! Jonas here has been nothing but reverential with Sandra. She’s a woman, and he obeys her without discussion.”
“I don’t obey her because she’s a woman,” Jonas points out, “but because she’s a great director. And a good boss.”
“See? Didn’t I tell you so?” Hyacinth says to me.
I dig into my memory for the things she has told me on the subject of men, women, bosses, or Jonas—and come up empty. We have never discussed any of those.
She turns to Jonas. “Can we change the topic now? This conversation is growing dull.”
His dark eyes remain trained on me like he didn’t hear her request.
This conversation may very well be dull, but I’m not done with Count Jonas d’Alenq yet. In our battle of wits, a truce is not an option. One must prevail. The other must acknowledge how misguided he was.
I dip my final sea snail into the dollop of mayonnaise on my plate. Everybody else has now finished their main course. No one has ordered a dessert.
“Can all women be strong,” I ask Jonas, “or only the plain ones with a high IQ?”
The glint in his eye tells me he knows I’m referring to his dumb theory of women.
“All can,” he says, “but few are willing to put in the physical and mental effort it takes to be strong.”
I mull his words. “Do you mean things like learning a martial art? Lifting weights? Studying hard science or mathematics?”
“For example.”
“Those aren’t the only measurements of strength, even for men,” I say.
“I never claimed they were.” He flashes me a crooked smile. “It just so happens that the few women that bother with them are more often plain sages than pretty dimwits.”
I tug at my ear, thinking about his words and how to respond.
Hyacinth stands up and in a fit of pique, declares, “I’m heading back to the house. Enjoy your debate club!”
Given how pretty and extroverted she is, my guess is she isn’t used to men ignoring her the way Jonas has.
Phil springs up from his chair. “I’ll walk you back!”
“I’m wasted.” Anand levers himself up and waves to Peter, Jonas, and me. “See you tomorrow!”
After the three of them pay their shares at the counter and leave, the three of us remaining at the table shift in our seats, smiling awkwardly.
Peter draws in a breath and asks me, “Would you like to hit a pub for a quick drink before we go back?”
Whoa! When I made up my mind about giving him a chance, I didn’t expect it to be tonight. But what’s a point of deciding something and not following through? I ought to say yes. My hesitation is causing him discomfort and underserved embarrassment in front of Jonas… who’s eyeing me intently.
“With pleasure,” I say.
“Do you mind if I tag along?” Jonas asks at once.
Whatever for?
“Just so we can finish our fascinating exchange,” he answers my unspoken question.
“You’re welcome to join us,” Peter says with a canned smile.
I give Jonas my coldest look, desperate to hide how profoundly ashamed I feel at how thrilled I am.
CHAPTER 19
MARGOT
We find a pub four or five blocks down the street. Through the window, it looks simple but cozy with rough wooden tables, chairs upholstered in dark leather, waiters slaloming around with pints, and a jukebox by the wall. The smells of malt and the gentle hum of conversations greet us as we step inside.
We get our drinks at the bar and take them to a vacant table. Peter is having ale, I ordered a gin and tonic, and Jonas opted for a Scotch. Ha, I bet he wanted to have a more masculine drink than Peter’s!
The jukebox is playing classic rock tunes. Normally, music like that sets the mood for an evening of fun. But I’m not sure how fun it’ll be for Jonas after I’m done wiping the floor with him.
We raise our glasses in toast and draw our first swigs. While I flex my mental muscles for the debate ahead, I breathe in the lemony scent rising from my glass, a welcome contrast to the thick aromas of the pub. One of the black-and-white posters on the wall catches my eye. It’s a photograph of Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre.
What were the odds of seeing this in a random London pub?
Jonas follows my gaze. “Isn’t that Simone de Beauvoir, the founder of modern feminism? You must worship her.”
“I despise her.”
His eyebrows squish together. “Really? The cultural icon? One of the smartest women of her time? What did she do to earn your contempt?”
“She was the ultimate loser,” I say. “Her so very progressive open relationship with Sartre wasn’t progressive at all. It was nothing more than a new twist on the good old patriarchy.”
Peter nods. “I see what you mean.”
“Will anyone explain for the ignorant among us?” Jonas shifts his gaze from Peter to me.
“Sartre was a notorious womanizer,” Peter says.
“That’s just a small part of it.” I cross my arms. “De Beauvoir slept with her young female students, some underage, and then served them up to Sartre.”
Jonas’s eyebrows go up at that. “Are you sure?”
“Wait, it gets worse!” I lean forward. “In her liaisons with men, she was respectful and loving. But when it came to the young women she seduced, she was as exploitative and manipulative as the next bloke.”
“If that were true, how can she still be a feminist hero?”
“It’s all very well documented,” I say. “But for decades, the academic and media establishment—everybody, really—covered up for the legendary couple.”
Jonas squints at me. “Are you saying she was a glorified pimp who talked the talk but failed to walk the walk?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“She was a hypocrite,” Peter adds.
“She wrote a feminist manifesto that generations of women took as the red pill,” I say to Jonas. “But the things she put up with during her fifty-year-long relationship with Sartre, and the things she did, make a mockery of every line in that book.”
Jonas raises his glass, tittering. “Cheers! I love it when feminists trash their own. Makes my job of exposing the fraud so much easier!”
I glare at him. Don’t you get too smug yet, Mister Count d’Alenq! Margot Nolan is going to demolish you tonight.
Very apropos, the ice cubes in my gin and tonic clink against the glass.
I swirl them. “Feminism is gold surrounded by a lot of rubbish and grift.”
“Like what?” Jonas asks.
“Intersectionality, virtue signaling, useless programs and training courses, sterile battles that distract from the actual problems, fabricated issues that steal resources from the real ones… The list goes on.”
He smiles with a touch of mockery. “That’s a lot of rubbish and grift!”
“Haters like you use it to discredit the cause.”
His eyes tighten at the corners. “Which is…?”
“Equal rights and emancipation.”
“But you already enjoy that, don’t you?”
Frustrated, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We live in a world where women are attacked from all sides. Mullahs sell us into child marriage and bar us from studying and working. The woke reduce womanhood to a feeling and opened the door to all kinds of abuse.”
Both Jonas and Peter nod at that.
I keep going, “It’s the reason why the authentic feminists, and all rational women, must do the hard work of separating chaff from grain, for our own sake!”
“Uh-huh,” Jonas utters noncommittally.
Speaking of hard work… “Back at the restaurant, you said that most women are unwilling to put in the effort it takes to be strong. What sort of evidence do you have for that claim?”
“Observational,” he says. “Besides, men and women have developed different survival tactics. Women can afford to be weak.”
Peter and I wince at that.
“For millennia,” Jonas continues, “starting with humanity’s switch to a sedentary lifestyle, women were expected and incentivized to be weak.”
“Why?” Peter asks.
“Because it worked for premodern societies.” He shrugs an admission, “Less so in our day.”
I cock my head. “What about today’s men? Can they afford to become weaker as women become stronger?”
“No,” he says quickly. “Our society can’t afford that. When a big enough chunk of men become weak, the entire society goes down the toilet.”
“Was that another observational claim?” I ask, infusing irony into my voice.
“Indeed.”
Peter leans back. “I’m sorry, but you didn’t convince me, Jonas. I’m 100 percent with Margot on this.”
“That’s all right.” Jonas trains his gaze on the amber liquid in his glass.
“There’s a flaw in your reasoning,” I say.
“Please, show it to me.”
“For millennia, women were incentivized to pretend to be weak,” I begin. “But when the men were out at sea, or at war, or just away from home, do you really think those men didn’t pray that their wives took care of herself and the kids? That she was strong enough to do that?”
My argument gives him pause. As he mulls it, I watch him, peeved at how much I like what I see.
“What you described, that quality the men hope for in their wives who hold the fort…” He struggles like he’s out of his depth. “I wouldn’t call it strength.”
“Then what would you call it?” Peter asks.
“Resourcefulness. Pluck, if you must. But not strength.”
I smirk.
He turns to me. “Was it funny?”
“Not exactly funny, no. Pathetic would be a better word.”
“Pathetic?”
Ignoring him, I address Peter, “Would you have a more befitting term for a guy who just lost a debate but who resorts to semantics instead of conceding?”
“Pathetic covers it pretty well,” Peter says with a half-suppressed laugh.
Jonas clenches his jaws.
Peter and I high-five.
It’s decided, I’ll date Peter. His views on women are centuries ahead of Jonas’s antiquated notions. He’s a lot more fun when he lets me develop an idea without constantly interrupting me with his own examples and stories. We’re on the same page on lots of things. He truly respects me.
It occurs to me that Peter’s unusual behavior might’ve had less to do with me than with Jonas, that what I witnessed was an alpha and beta male dynamic. But I chase that thought away.
We finish off our drinks. Ordering more would be unwise, given that we must be fresh for tomorrow’s performance. As much as I’m enjoying sparring with Jonas… um, I meant to say, enjoying Peter’s company, it’s time to go home.
Outside, the night air that surrounds the pub’s entrance is murky with smoke. We step up our pace to get away from it. The air turns crispy. The sky is pitch-dark with no stars or moon to brighten it. Fortunately, the streetlamps cast orange haloes around us, illuminating our way ahead. But after we round the next corner, there’s a stretch that’s cloaked in darkness. All the lamps are out.
Breakdown? Vandalism?
I quicken my steps. Trains whir and screech nearby. The chilly wind makes me shiver.
Out of nowhere, two male figures appear from the shadows. Their faces are obscured by darkness. I can just make out their silhouettes and menacing stance.
They block our way.
CHAPTER 20
MARGOT
I grip my purse tighter. Peter moves closer to me. Jonas takes a step ahead, his posture aggressive, signaling he’s ready to fight. A cold dread creeps over me as the men pull out big, long, very mean-looking knives as they approach us. For a moment, no one says anything. The muffled noises of the tracks fade away, leaving only the sound of my own labored breathing.
Then one of the thugs breaks the silence, “Give us everything you have.”
His calm, oddly businesslike tone sends a chill down my spine.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Peter says. “Take what we’ve got, and let us be on our way.”
While Peter and I reach for our wallets, Jonas doesn’t budge.
“For fuck’s sake,” Peter hisses at him. “Just give them your valuables. Our lives are more precious.”
He’s right. This isn’t a time to play strong and dangerous or whatever. This is real.
“Please,” I urge Jonas. “Just do as he said.”
As if coming to his senses, he nods and empties his pockets.
Phew. Reason won.
