At first it feels awkward to J to ignore Elgar throughout the meal, as he, Sam, and Pam turn to talk to each other and, occasionally, the older man, who appears to be an old friend of either Imogen or Carl’s now-deceased grandparents. This conversational avoidance doesn’t stop Elgar from ridiculing the proceedings, from the bride and groom’s entrance (“I guess she finally wore him down”) to her father’s toast (“I hear he’s been married four times, so he’d know how to do this”) to the choice of music the string quartet is playing during the meal (“Ask not for whom the Pachelbel tolls, because it might just toll for you”). J has encountered men like this for years, usually in all-male spaces—men for whom a lack of love has turned malignant, with side effects of blame and hostility.
Pam and Sam are better at tuning Elgar out. They ask J about his singing, and after a digression about his career that gives him the opportunity to mention theNew Yorkeremail (“Their crossword is a joke”—Elgar), the discussion turns to love stories, and how everyone has a favorite story about love. It doesn’t take much prodding for Pam to volunteer her own.
“This was in the nineties, when I was a young doctor working for Médecins Sans Frontières. We were in Bosnia, and it was relentless work. Most rewarding work I’ve ever done, but relentless. There was such a shortage of doctors that we worked in shifts, and since I had always been a night owl, I always took the night shift. We all shared quarters, so while I was at the hospital, someone else wouldsleep in my bed. And then when that person went off to the day shift, I’d go and crash.
“I always went to the same bed, and when it was time to leave, I’d take my sheets and fold them into a box underneath. An hour or so later, the second person would come, take out their own sheets, and go to sleep. We never saw each other.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Elgar grumbles.
“Shush. I know this sounds like something I’m making up, but I swear it happened. From offhand comments by other people, I knew the man I shared the bed with was Belgian, and from the way the bed smelled when I returned, I knew he smoked. It wasn’t a fancy mattress, and sometimes I’d come back and his shape would still be there. It was like I was sleeping in his shadow. Naturally, I was intrigued.
“One day, probably three weeks in, I came back and his sheets were still on the bed. While I was folding them, the scent was enticing—I wasn’t much of a smoker, but the times I’d smoked had been memorable, and at that moment, I felt an actual craving. Lo and behold, when I went to put the sheets in his box, I found a pack of cigarettes there. At first, I felt he owed me a cigarette, because of the sheets. So I nicked one and had the best time smoking it. It was only after, when I was trying to fall asleep, that I felt a little guilty, like I had broken some kind of pact by going into his things. I wrote him this note, saying ‘I couldn’t resist taking one—I hope that was okay.’ When I got back from my shift there was a cigarette waiting for me, with a note that said, ‘Figuring you might need this.’ The next morning I left an apple on our pillow as a thank you and a note saying I hoped he’d had a good night, all things considered. He left me chocolate the next time, and more cigarettes.
“It went back and forth like this for about two weeks. It would have been so easy for us to find each other—all we’d have to do was slip out on break and go back to the house—but neither of us didthat. We just left each other presents and notes, until one morning I came back and there was a whole pack of cigarettes, and a note that said goodbye. It’s probably the sweetest, most passionate relationship I’ve ever had.”
“God, I love that story,” Sam says with a sigh.
Elgar just laughs.
J figures they’ll ignore him, but Pam says, “What? Say what you want to say, Elgar.”
“Well,of courseit’s the most romance you’ve ever had. You two never had to look at each other. Nothing will kill a romance like seeing what the other person looks like!”
“This is why you don’t have any friends,” Sam says.
“I’m talking about myself as much as I’m talking about you or him! Women look at me, they run. Because, let me tell you, you feminists like to say it’s men who objectify women, but women are just as bad.”
“You know as much about feminism as Bach did,” Sam says. “Probably less.”
Elgar is about to say something else, but he looks over J’s shoulder and stops. A few seconds later, the newly married couple is at the table.
“We’re so glad you’re here!” Imogen says to everyone.
“Even you,” Carl says to Elgar.
Small talk is made. When it’s done, Imogen asks J if she can talk to him for a second. Once they’re off in a corner, she tells him the few remaining things that will happen before the DJ set begins and confirms the first few songs J will play for the married couple. Once that’s settled, Imogen says, “I’m so sorry about your table. You are such a good sport. Carl had to invite them, for professional reasons. We didn’t think they’d actually come.”
“I’m enjoying Pam and Sam’s company,” J says.
“Well, that’s a first. But I’m glad to hear it.”
“Are we really the only single people at this wedding?”
“What a thing to say! I mean, you’re not...if you count the children. Unless I’m forgetting someone. Oh! Carl’s great-aunt! Her husband passed away before I met him. She never remarried.”
Don’t you have any single friends? J wants to ask. But it’s clear what the answer is. At this point, J doesn’t know if this is odd, or merely to be expected.
If V were here, she’d know.
When the time comes, J excuses himself from the table to DJ.
“Would one of you ladies like to dance?” Elgar asks the sisters.
In response, Sam hails the server for more wine. The old man looks up for the first time in an hour or so, mutters excuses, and steps away.
J loves being a DJ. If performing a wedding song is like midwifery, DJing a reception is like air-traffic control, trying to keep everything in seamless motion and spirits lifted. He starts with a favorite opening salvo, D Train’s “You’re the One for Me,” which jumps quickly into Diana Ross’s “My Own Piano.” Everything he puts into the air lands beautifully, and the dance floor becomes energetic.
A few people come over and make requests. A teen asks for some Kraftwerk, and J tells him that, lamentably, this doesn’t feel like a Kraftwerk crowd. To his surprise, the next request comes from a noticeably intoxicated Sam, who says she wants him to play “Dancing Queen.”
