Cosmopolitan

Chapter 7

Spring had unfolded in all its glory over London. Blossoms sprouted from the earth on every corner, white cloud sheep played tag in the deep blue sky, and humanity seemed to have shed all its cares. Admittedly, in bright sunshine the Cosmopolitan lost a little of its glamorous twilight, but when the already quite warm pre-summer evening arrived, it seemed all the more magnificent.
Alex, like Clarence of course, had become a regular at the Cosmopolitan. He felt perfectly comfortable under the magnificent chandeliers, both the guests and the waitresses were beautiful and the liquor affordable.
It is safe to say at this point that Alex had developed into a pretty decent drunk. In the morning, even before he had breakfast or even got dressed, he drank at least two glasses of champagne, sometimes, when no glasses were at hand, he even drank directly from the bottle. But when he was in the Cosmopolitan that evening, he tipped one whiskey after another or whatever was within his reach. And he was a typical English drunkard. He hardly changed during the course of the evening as his consumption of alcohol increased, perhaps becoming a little more silly and absent-minded, and, on particularly violent days, at some point he sank silently under the table. However, throughout the entire process he was never in any way disgusting or repulsive to look at. Outwardly he kept his form and never did things like throwing up, that was beneath his dignity. His hair might have been a bit disheveled at the end or his bow tie might have slipped, but he never let himself go.

When Alex, and with him Clarence, who had in a way become his factotum, entered the Cosmopolitan on a particularly beautiful July evening, they noticed already from the balustrade that someone was sitting at their usual table in the back right-hand corner. Unpleasantly surprised, Alex raised an eyebrow and said to the young thing at the reception: "Listen, child, who is this person who has the nerve to sit at our table?
The girl stared at him from huge green eyes and whispered: "That's Ivor Novello, the composer of 'Arlette'! You know 'Arlette', don't you?"
In astonishment, Alex stretched his neck. He couldn't see the man down there very well, but he could see for sure that he wasn't a fat geezer (like most composers in Alex's imagination) but about his age.
"Still, nothing gives him the right to sit at our table just because he is famous. All people are equal, don't you know that, child?"
The girl nervously bit her lip.
Since it was obvious that she wouldn't do anything to scare the uninvited guest away from her table, he gave Clarence a sign. "Follow me, my dear friend," he said pathetically and winked at the coat check girl.

Arriving at the table, Alex hesitated a little, but then cleared his throat decisively and assumed an upright posture. Ivor Novello looked up in surprise and looked at him waiting.
"Listen," he started and made every effort not to be distracted by the breathtakingly beautiful face of his counterpart, "this is our regular table and um-", he made a helpless noise and looked around for Clarence, in search of support.
Clarence took the matter in hand confidently and said: "What my friend wants to say is whether we could sit down with you. As you may have noticed, the other tables are all taken, that's what you wanted to ask, isn't it, Alex?"
Alex gave him an angry look and smiled sourly in the direction of Mr. Novello.
"Why are you so polite?" he hissed angrily. "Don't let him think he's better than everyone else just because he's a composer."
He uttered the word like an insult.
"Oh, please do! It is terrific to have company. I was getting a little lonesome" said Ivor Novello and pointed invitingly to the free seats.
He clearly spoke the language of the theatre and rolled the R in the typical, pretentious way. Alex looked at him slightly mockingly and, sighing, surrendered to Clarence's hand, which pulled at his sleeve. He sat down and looked emphatically bored in another direction.