Entertaining

Five varieties of heirloom zucchini were used in the preparation of what the chef refrained from referring to as a variant of peasant ratatouille. The guests were advised by courier that no one was permitted to speak during the meal and to arrive on time and leave as soon as they were finished eating. The journalist who had been invited to document the very rare appearance of the host in what might guardedly be called public society kept quiet only by keeping leafy greens in the mouth at all times. Every guest was seated by a personal waiter in an adjustable-height wing-backed armchair so that even the view of the other guests in the dimly lit dining hall was made difficult. This was a relief to the journalist who liked to eat with gusto even at the risk of offending the host with poor table manners. The journalist ate heartily and washed every mouthful down with wine from a glass that was perpetually replenished so unobtrusively by a personal waiter that after the fifth portion the journalist began to imagine the glass was in fact a cornucopia of wine and its operation was entirely the result of highly sophisticated magic.

Due to this indulgence and other factors, the host had already thanked all the other guests when the journalist staggered to a standing stop.

"That was delicious."
"Thank you. I used to have these dinner parties more often but talk was more interesting then."
"We weren't allowed to speak, how do you know we'd have been boring?"

The journalist could imbibe any quantity and still sound sober and yet, the question was entirely the product of drunk reasoning. There was no possible way any conversation tonight could have been interesting. The entire table had been made up of personages too august to ever let someone into their unguarded, hence interesting, thoughts. The journalist had been at dinner parties elsewhere with this entourage. All they had discussed were topical issues of the present state of the world, the lost biodiversity and the heated climate. Serious topics worthy of serious action, hence boring to the extreme. No, there would not have been better than that tonight. All those reputations who'd sat at this table had persona's to conjure and maintain in glamorous glittering brittle affected perfection. The journalist knew the truth of course, not that any editor would publish the truth. The truth was that none of the people who ate the ratatouille tonight were still living their lives. They had long ago surrendered to a public performance of living.

All except the host.

"I knew the talk would have been boring because I have been bored by talk for a long time. No one has said anything in my presence with any real effort behind the words. There is a word in french, do you know it? Gaspiller. It means to waste although it doesn't really capture the ache of the sentiment. I often find the word on my lips. Still, I wanted a dinner party, I wanted the world to remember me but at the same time I wanted the world to leave me alone."

"So you forbade talking."
"Only during the meal."
"We were told to leave as soon as we finished."
"You were."
"I didn't."
"I am never bored you see? Alone, I am never bored, I like the company of others but they make me tired and when I am tired I am irritable and when they talk they make me tired faster. I wish it were otherwise but I can't help myself."
"Why tell me? I was just leaving."
"I cannot burden my family with my troubles. You are a nobody."
"I'm a journalist."
"I deny everything. What I said was for your ears alone."
"Are you so weary of life?"
"Not in the least, I personally prepared your meal tonight."

The journalist's eyes widen reflexively.

"I don't believe you."
"Neither will anyone believe you."
"I am surely not the best person to unload your weariness on."
"Why did I take the trouble to arrange this dinner after so long out of the public eye?"
"Why take the trouble to cook the meal yourself?"
"I needed to care and I needed you to care."
"To be honest, I don't."
"I know."
"The meal was delicious and the wine and the service..." the journalist trailed off.
"superlative, yes. I did it all for myself. I am in the curious position of being the writer, producer, director, distributor and audience of my own micro-cultural content. Entertainment one-to-one."
"I think that's a sad way to go through life."
"My life is rich and full beyond words, I have everything."
"So why are you so unhappy?"
"Am I?"
"Happy people are banal, they don't do things like full-service silent dinner parties in purpose-built settings."
"The chairs? I wanted everyone to be exactly the same height."
"Yet in lighting so dim at a table so wide with wings on the chairs that we were literally isolated?"
"When you've tried everything within reason, the only options remaining are unreasonable."

The journalist turned without a further word and walked to the hall where a porter handed over a coat.
"A car is waiting to take you home," said a porter.

The journalist was too full, too drunk, too tired, to refuse the car. There was no backward glance. The host was clearly on a track too personal to make any sense of.

The night had certainly been entertaining.