TWO DAYS LATER - Part II
In the years he acted as Batman, Bruce Wayne had seen astonishing things. He'd witnessed madness, vision, cruelty, greed, nobility, triumph and tragedy in countless forms and on such a scale that he modestly believed he was beyond being surprised.
This evening many things would surprise him.
He had deftly maneuvered himself into this dinner with all the strategic brilliance of Wile E Coyote stepping into his Acme Road-Runner's-Can't-Resist-Catapult and tossing himself off a cliff. Before realizing who she was, he had hired Selina Kyle, a.k.a. The Catwoman, to catalogue the vast assortment of art and antiques at Wayne Manor. Her visit tonight was to view the collection and talk terms.
Alfred had been eerily silent since Bruce told him about the arrangement. At first Bruce wasn't sure the butler even heard him, but at 5:15 he appeared in the Batcave and gave a soft cough. "I was about to go into town to pick up Miss Kyle, Sir, as you requested. You will wish to return upstairs no later than six to change. I have laid out the gray cashmere and heather-mixture lounge."
Bruce blinked.
Alfred always maintained a certain degree of formality, but he was still Alfred: Alfred who had served his parents, who put up with his antics as an energetic youngster, who raised him after his parents' violent deaths. Why was he suddenly acting like- a butler?
"I also have dinner preparations under way in the kitchen. Please do not touch anything."
Bruce decided the best way to acknowledge this performance was to give a little back, so he began a gruff "Thank you, Pennyworth" but knew the word would catch in his throat. Too much, something lighter:
"Thank you, Jeeves" said Bruce, turning with a smile to show it was said in fun.
Nothing.
"Jeeves" had vanished - silently, instantly, in a way Commissioner Gordon and half the criminal-snitches in Gotham City would have found oddly familiar.
As he changed for dinner, Bruce decided Alfred's odd behavior was simply a butler's way of registering disapproval. Of course, whenever Alfred disapproved of something Batman proposed (and he frequently did) he said so openly and directly. Or sometimes with a scathing irony that masked his concern for a young man he loved risking life and limb on a regular basis. But this, Bruce told himself, was different - it wasn't life and death. It was a girl. It was a girl that was going to be installed in the house for two weeks or more, breaking Alfred's routine, needing access to storage closets and old documents, possibly wanting to pick his brain about where a certain painting was hung 30 years ago. It was a butler's disapproval and he was expressing it in a butlery fashion. "Well, well" thought Bruce to himself, "so this is the kind of thing I've been missing out on all these years by not living a 'normal' life."
His conclusion couldn't have been farther from the truth. Bruce's clumsy effort to identify the woman at the museum was the first sign of humanity he had shown in some time, and Alfred was glad for it. He had seen Bruce becoming more and more intense, withdrawn, and obsessive since Dick Grayson had left for college. It had been like this before Dick came to live with them, and Alfred knew it could not be healthy. The odd behavior Bruce attributed to disapproval was an awkward attempt to mask amusement and relief.
***
"Is it possible to burn soup?"
Alfred had never entirely understood the American sense of humor, but he smiled politely at what he assumed was a joke on the part of Master Bruce's dinner guest.
"Um, Alfred," Bruce began sheepishly, "this might be my doing. I passed through the kitchen while you were out and it looked like that big pot would never heat up in time so I turned the burner up a notch, and then I felt guilty because you told me not to touch anything no matter what, so I went back and turned it back down, and just to set things right I gave it a good stir."
Alfred tried not to visibly sigh as he lifted the ladle to his nose and sniffed... burnt milk. He would never understand how a man who could disarm a bomb, analyze soil samples, neutralize toxic chemicals, and reprogram a Cray computer, can turn right around and not only scorch the crème base for the Crab Bisque, but "give it a good stir" to make sure the revolting flavor was spread evenly throughout the mixture.
Selina Kyle took a sip of wine and laughed off the episode with a good humor Bruce began to realize was genuine. This woman sitting across from him was a real person, not a role the way his vapid socialite or busy executive were roles. God that must be nice, Bruce thought, to be able to just pull off the mask and the costume and...
"...be a real person" the left side of his brain finished the thought, while the right side was stopped cold at the image of Catwoman "pulling off the mask and costume..."
Bruce hid his blush behind a napkin and reflected that the evening might prove more perilous than he thought.
***
Batman was worried. Dinner had gone well. Selina had made small talk and gossiped like any of a dozen debutantes he might have dated as Bruce Wayne. There was poor Dan Fendley, on trial for insider trading, they do say Mrs. Fendley wanted to leave him, but it would look bad if she divorced him when he was in prison, and that's why he wouldn't cut a deal with the prosecutors. The Pocci design house was going under, the brothers were quarreling again...
But now that they had begun the tour of the house she was looking at him strangely. Bruce wondered if she was sizing up the manor for a robbery, but no, the looks weren't directed at the paintings or the ornaments; they were aimed, unmistakably, at him.
They came to a Mary Cassatt placed next to a Monet, and Selina praised the juxtaposition of a female and male artist of the same period. This turned the discussion to women and men artists generally, and Bruce remembered a bit of trivia he had read: that the idea that women were more emotional than men derived from the fact that men compartmentalize their thinking, they'll use either their left brain or right, thinking either logically or creatively. Women's brains are more integrated, they're more likely to apply right brain principles to left brain tasks and vice versa.
"I guess that would make a big difference for an artist - balancing controlled technique with creative impulses"
He stopped. A pair of suspicious green eyes were boring into him. He had the gnawing feeling that for the first time this evening he was dealing with Catwoman.
"Okay. I give." She stated flatly. "Who are you and what did you do with that epic idiot I had dinner with."
Bruce half-shrugged.
"No No No, None of that 'who me' shit. I sat there and prattled on for an hour and a half about Mrs. Fendley and the goddamn Pocci brothers because you gave me every indication that if you were confronted with an actual IDEA you would collapse into a pile of very expensive dust."
Bruce swallowed hard. Selina continued her rant...
"Now it turns out, you're interesting! You read. You think. You even have taste."
"I'm sorry."
"I just don't get it. - Why?"
"Habit, I guess." Bruce decided a half-truth was better than a lie. "It's a business thing. In my work, it's best if people's first impression of Bruce Wayne is that he's a frivolous idiot."
Selina smiled and stifled a giggle. The storm had passed.
"You talk about yourself in the third person? Do you know how psychotic that sounds?"
"I never thought about it."
"Ever see the Bob Dole skit on Saturday Night Live?"
"Oh god."
"You know what your problem is, Mr Wayne. You take yourself too damn seriously."
And with that she kissed his cheek, pivoted and walked away.
"I'll start Monday morning at ten o'clock." She called over her shoulder. "I can see myself out."
***
In the years he acted as Batman, Bruce Wayne had seen astonishing things. He'd witnessed madness, vision, cruelty, greed, nobility, triumph and tragedy in countless forms and on such a scale that he modestly believed he was beyond being surprised.
This evening many things would surprise him.
He had deftly maneuvered himself into this dinner with all the strategic brilliance of Wile E Coyote stepping into his Acme Road-Runner's-Can't-Resist-Catapult and tossing himself off a cliff. Before realizing who she was, he had hired Selina Kyle, a.k.a. The Catwoman, to catalogue the vast assortment of art and antiques at Wayne Manor. Her visit tonight was to view the collection and talk terms.
Alfred had been eerily silent since Bruce told him about the arrangement. At first Bruce wasn't sure the butler even heard him, but at 5:15 he appeared in the Batcave and gave a soft cough. "I was about to go into town to pick up Miss Kyle, Sir, as you requested. You will wish to return upstairs no later than six to change. I have laid out the gray cashmere and heather-mixture lounge."
Bruce blinked.
Alfred always maintained a certain degree of formality, but he was still Alfred: Alfred who had served his parents, who put up with his antics as an energetic youngster, who raised him after his parents' violent deaths. Why was he suddenly acting like- a butler?
"I also have dinner preparations under way in the kitchen. Please do not touch anything."
Bruce decided the best way to acknowledge this performance was to give a little back, so he began a gruff "Thank you, Pennyworth" but knew the word would catch in his throat. Too much, something lighter:
"Thank you, Jeeves" said Bruce, turning with a smile to show it was said in fun.
Nothing.
"Jeeves" had vanished - silently, instantly, in a way Commissioner Gordon and half the criminal-snitches in Gotham City would have found oddly familiar.
As he changed for dinner, Bruce decided Alfred's odd behavior was simply a butler's way of registering disapproval. Of course, whenever Alfred disapproved of something Batman proposed (and he frequently did) he said so openly and directly. Or sometimes with a scathing irony that masked his concern for a young man he loved risking life and limb on a regular basis. But this, Bruce told himself, was different - it wasn't life and death. It was a girl. It was a girl that was going to be installed in the house for two weeks or more, breaking Alfred's routine, needing access to storage closets and old documents, possibly wanting to pick his brain about where a certain painting was hung 30 years ago. It was a butler's disapproval and he was expressing it in a butlery fashion. "Well, well" thought Bruce to himself, "so this is the kind of thing I've been missing out on all these years by not living a 'normal' life."
His conclusion couldn't have been farther from the truth. Bruce's clumsy effort to identify the woman at the museum was the first sign of humanity he had shown in some time, and Alfred was glad for it. He had seen Bruce becoming more and more intense, withdrawn, and obsessive since Dick Grayson had left for college. It had been like this before Dick came to live with them, and Alfred knew it could not be healthy. The odd behavior Bruce attributed to disapproval was an awkward attempt to mask amusement and relief.
***
"Is it possible to burn soup?"
Alfred had never entirely understood the American sense of humor, but he smiled politely at what he assumed was a joke on the part of Master Bruce's dinner guest.
"Um, Alfred," Bruce began sheepishly, "this might be my doing. I passed through the kitchen while you were out and it looked like that big pot would never heat up in time so I turned the burner up a notch, and then I felt guilty because you told me not to touch anything no matter what, so I went back and turned it back down, and just to set things right I gave it a good stir."
Alfred tried not to visibly sigh as he lifted the ladle to his nose and sniffed... burnt milk. He would never understand how a man who could disarm a bomb, analyze soil samples, neutralize toxic chemicals, and reprogram a Cray computer, can turn right around and not only scorch the crème base for the Crab Bisque, but "give it a good stir" to make sure the revolting flavor was spread evenly throughout the mixture.
Selina Kyle took a sip of wine and laughed off the episode with a good humor Bruce began to realize was genuine. This woman sitting across from him was a real person, not a role the way his vapid socialite or busy executive were roles. God that must be nice, Bruce thought, to be able to just pull off the mask and the costume and...
"...be a real person" the left side of his brain finished the thought, while the right side was stopped cold at the image of Catwoman "pulling off the mask and costume..."
Bruce hid his blush behind a napkin and reflected that the evening might prove more perilous than he thought.
***
Batman was worried. Dinner had gone well. Selina had made small talk and gossiped like any of a dozen debutantes he might have dated as Bruce Wayne. There was poor Dan Fendley, on trial for insider trading, they do say Mrs. Fendley wanted to leave him, but it would look bad if she divorced him when he was in prison, and that's why he wouldn't cut a deal with the prosecutors. The Pocci design house was going under, the brothers were quarreling again...
But now that they had begun the tour of the house she was looking at him strangely. Bruce wondered if she was sizing up the manor for a robbery, but no, the looks weren't directed at the paintings or the ornaments; they were aimed, unmistakably, at him.
They came to a Mary Cassatt placed next to a Monet, and Selina praised the juxtaposition of a female and male artist of the same period. This turned the discussion to women and men artists generally, and Bruce remembered a bit of trivia he had read: that the idea that women were more emotional than men derived from the fact that men compartmentalize their thinking, they'll use either their left brain or right, thinking either logically or creatively. Women's brains are more integrated, they're more likely to apply right brain principles to left brain tasks and vice versa.
"I guess that would make a big difference for an artist - balancing controlled technique with creative impulses"
He stopped. A pair of suspicious green eyes were boring into him. He had the gnawing feeling that for the first time this evening he was dealing with Catwoman.
"Okay. I give." She stated flatly. "Who are you and what did you do with that epic idiot I had dinner with."
Bruce half-shrugged.
"No No No, None of that 'who me' shit. I sat there and prattled on for an hour and a half about Mrs. Fendley and the goddamn Pocci brothers because you gave me every indication that if you were confronted with an actual IDEA you would collapse into a pile of very expensive dust."
Bruce swallowed hard. Selina continued her rant...
"Now it turns out, you're interesting! You read. You think. You even have taste."
"I'm sorry."
"I just don't get it. - Why?"
"Habit, I guess." Bruce decided a half-truth was better than a lie. "It's a business thing. In my work, it's best if people's first impression of Bruce Wayne is that he's a frivolous idiot."
Selina smiled and stifled a giggle. The storm had passed.
"You talk about yourself in the third person? Do you know how psychotic that sounds?"
"I never thought about it."
"Ever see the Bob Dole skit on Saturday Night Live?"
"Oh god."
"You know what your problem is, Mr Wayne. You take yourself too damn seriously."
And with that she kissed his cheek, pivoted and walked away.
"I'll start Monday morning at ten o'clock." She called over her shoulder. "I can see myself out."
***