“Wollen Sie trinken?” he asked. One of them nodded and smiled.
“Oui, monsieur.”
“You speak French?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“What shall we drink? Connais-vous des champagnes?”
“Non, monsieur.”
“Faut les connaître,” said Johnson. “Fräulein,” he called the waitress. “We will drink champagne.”
“Which champagne would you prefer, sir?”
“The best,” said Johnson. “Laquelle est le best?” he asked the porters.
“Le meilleur?” asked the porter who had spoken first.
“By all means.”
The porter took out a pair of gold-rimmed glasses from his coat pocket and looked over the list. He ran his finger down the four typewritten names and prices.
“Sportsman,” he said. “Sportsman is the best.”
“You agree, gentlemen?” Johnson asked the other porters. The one porter nodded. The other said in French, “I don’t know them personally but I’ve often heard speak of Sportsman. It’s good.”
“A bottle of Sportsman,” Johnson said to the waitress. He looked at the price on the wine card: eleven francs Swiss. “Make it two Sportsmen. Do you mind if I sit here with you?” he asked the porter who had suggested Sportsman.
“Sit down. Put yourself here, please.” The porter smiled at him. He was folding his spectacles and putting them away in their case. “Is it the gentleman’s birthday?”
“No,” said Johnson. “It’s not a fête. My wife has decided to divorce me.”
“So,” said the porter. “I hope not.” The other porter shook his head. The third porter seemed a little deaf.
“It is doubtless a common experience,” said Johnson, “like the first visit to the dentist or the first time a girl is unwell, but I have been upset.”
