Benjamin's Crossing

by Jay Parini

  The knock came again, this time louder.

  “Another minute, if you please!” he cried. “I am coming.”

  WALTER BENJAMIN

  All close relationships are lit up by an almost intolerable, piercing clarity in which they are barely able to survive. For on the one hand, money stands ruinously at the core of every vital interest, but on the other, this is the very barrier before which almost all relationships halt; so, more and more, in the natural as in the moral sphere, trust, calm, and health are quickly disappearing.

  15

  MADAME RUIZ

  This loneliness is hard to describe, hard even to confess. I often feel like a cloud, translucent, blown sideways across the high, purple skies of history. I feel the wind of time rushing in my hair and hear it in the tops of trees that sway and sometimes snap: the rustle of days, the clatter of branches falling. Always, I fly above the tumult; I am not really a participant in life, but one of life’s perpetual observers.

  I see the other mothers in the village as they pass through the square before dinner, especially on Sundays after mass, with their children perfectly dressed and scattering pigeons ahead of them like dirty snow. They are not alone, like me; they go home to the fathers of those children, who shadow them, bolster them, buoy them up. It is not their duty to act as mother and father, as nurturer and disciplinarian.

  I notice the strain on Suzanne at times. She cries easily, sits alone in the garden for long periods, refuses to speak for days on end. Today, for example, she became horribly petulant. She has obviously been disturbed by these Germans, who emerged from nowhere, gritty and exhausted. They are no different from the last ones, or the ones before that. I don’t understand. In particular, she is obsessed by the “old man,” as she calls him, this Dr. Benjamin.

  He is not fifty, but the coloring of his skin, its texture—like old cardboard that has been soaked by rain and dried many times—is telling. It shows in his eyes that he has suffered, and suffering affects the quality of one’s skin; it advertises to the world that one has not had an easy life. From what I gather, he has lived in Paris for many years, doing research of some kind, literary or philosophical. The woman who travels with him, Frau Gurland, took some trouble to boast of his accomplishments and connections when I checked them in. She said, “He is a very important man in the literary world, a contributor to journals and newspapers in several countries.”

  Once I saw him, I took pity; I have a soft heart, and he reminded me, in a most disturbing way, of my father: the same formality of gesture, the exaggerated manners, the sorrow in his eyes. The whole world rested, invisibly, on his shoulders, making him slump. Dr. Benjamin has not been destroyed by life, but he is crumbling, like one of those Roman structures near Paestum that my husband and I once visited, in southern Italy: a relic, a reminder of the glory that was, and that cannot be restored.

  Upon his arrival this evening, Dr. Benjamin sat by himself for an hour in the garden, then limped into the villa. He was quite a sight, with a cut on his face, his suit rumpled and torn, his shoes scuffed; his hair was greasy, unkempt. His glasses fogged as soon as he stepped indoors, but he stared straight at me, seeing nothing.

  “Your daughter,” he said, “she is quite beautiful, her dark eyes.”

  “Yes, her eyes are lovely.” I did not, of course, have to add that Suzanne’s eyes are eerily like my own.

  “She reminds me of a girl I once knew,” he said, “in childhood.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “A peculiar, resolute girl.”

  I said nothing. My daughter is neither peculiar nor resolute. Determined, perhaps, like me; insistent at times. I would have accepted insistent. But resolute?

  “I will come down in a little while,” he said, just before a swirl of coughing disabled him.

  “As you like,” I said. “Can I get you some water?”

  “No, thank you.”

  When he looked up at me again, I noticed that his lips were a sickly blue, and his cheeks reddish-purple. This is not a sign of health. My father, before he died of heart failure, assumed a similar coloring.

  Dr. Benjamin hobbled down the hall, favoring one leg, then climbed, stair by stair, to the next floor. He carried a battered briefcase, which (as I learned from Frau Gurland) contained an important manuscript. It took perhaps ten or fifteen minutes for him to ascend only a dozen steps, and I fully expected him to topple over backward at several points. One of our maids, Lucia, stood at the bottom of the staircase and watched nervously.

  “The old man smells,” my daughter said, squeezing my hand for reassurance.

  “Please, darling. We do not talk about smells in this house. It is vulgar.” I brushed her hair—a way of tending to her that she always found soothing. “The poor man is not well. His coloring is all wrong. And the way he coughs and limps. It is very sad.”

  “I don’t care. He smells.”

  It is distressing to see Suzanne in this state, so fiercely common in her manners. The village mentality has been stealing upon her, and their grotesque, Catalonian way of speaking has even affected her French. Her verbs are all present tense now, and she pays no attention to grammar. When she wants something, she tends to grunt or mewl. I wish I could find a private school for her, perhaps in Madrid: a nice convent school, run by Carmelite nuns. They are strict with children and do not permit crudeness. There is only so much I can do for her at home.

  Frau Gurland came to see me in the kitchen, wild-eyed. Her hair is like a bush, wiry and flecked with gray. She has that guttural, Germanic way of speaking French that one encountered often in Nice. The Riviera was full of German visitors in the twenties, and several of them bought hotels along the coast.

  “May I help?” I asked, maintaining perfect neutrality of tone.

  “My son is hungry,” she said. “He has not eaten in a very long time.”

  I simply nodded, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a straightforward answer. I had already cleared the buffet table, in fact.

  “Will there be more food in the parlor?”

  “You’ll have to give me a few minutes,” I said. “We’re understaffed at the moment, as you can see.”

  Her behavior was outrageous. The woman is utterly devoid of sensitivity or culture. Her son, though pretty in the way of adolescent boys, has a loutishness about him. I saw him standing in the parlor, looking out the window with his finger in his nose. If he were my son, I would have slapped him for this. You must rein in children at this age, when their natural instincts are all wrong. If the work of discipline is neglected in early childhood, it must be corrected later, when everything is twice as difficult.

  It had been a long day, and my ankles were swollen from standing, but I replenished the buffet, then cleared and cleaned most of the dishes, with Lucia’s help. Later, I discussed with Suzanne her schoolwork, saw that she had a bath, then let her come into my bedroom to read. The storm made her nervous, as well it might. The rain continued to beat on the windows, the wind howled in the trees, and lightning flashed across the water. The shutters came loose somewhere and banged.

  “What is that?” Suzanne asked.

  “You mustn’t be frightened by the storm,” I said.

  “I’m not frightened.”

  “You might have bad dreams tonight, darling. When I was a child, we had terrible storms coming off the sea, especially in winter. Atlantic storms are the worst, of course.”

  “I never dream.”

  “This is untrue, Suzanne. How many times have you woken up crying? You’ve had many nightmares. We all do.”

  “I don’t,” she said.

  It was so frustrating. I began to wonder if, when she reached twelve or thirteen, she would become utterly impossible. If that happened without a father in the house to control her impulses, I could be forced to endure a hideous decade. It was the sort of thing m
y own mother, the poor woman, could not tolerate. The pressures of life were too much for her. She would simply take to her bed, feigning a headache. It was left to the maids to raise us, and after the collapse of my father’s investments, we were left to ourselves.

  I went outside to see what shutters were banging while Suzanne read, an oil lamp burning beside the bed for comfort as much as light. It was exhilarating to stand in the garden, with the ground steaming, the sea roiling; the surf spit and tangled, booming on the shingle below. I let the rain lash my face and did not flinch. It was tingling, but not too cold.

  The offending shutters were on the first floor, just above the parlor, in the room occupied by the mysterious Professor Lott. I had become more and more convinced that he was an agent of the French government, even though his visa was apparently in order. The fact that his room was littered with books by Simenon and Maugham had begun to worry me. Maugham had a house some miles from Nice, and my father said he was an English spy. Simenon, of course, was a scoundrel. One must be careful to note what books are read by one’s guests. It is always an indication of character.

  I woke Professor Lott, insisting that he latch his shutters. He seemed quite taken aback, but complied. Then I went back into the kitchen for a glass of milk. Its warm wood was softly lit by a lamp beside the sink, and the clean surfaces were soothing. Milk is good to drink before bed, so I poured a glass for Suzanne as well. As I was standing at the sink, I saw shadows in the garden—of men ducking and weaving. My heart began to thump, and I wondered if there were prowlers. Then I saw the huge cedar sway, and I realized it was probably just that.

  On a sudden impulse, I decided to call Sergeant Consuelo about the new guests. He had asked me only yesterday to alert him to any irregularities, and one can never be too careful where legal matters are concerned. In a foreign country, it is important to comply with local regulations. One must even intuit regulations that do not yet exist and prepare to satisfy their demands.

  Of course almost all refugees coming through Port-Bou will stay at the Fonda Franca. Where else would they go? I daresay a few of them, those without money, sleep in surrounding fields, in haylofts or cow barns. There is a small tavern, El Faro, seven miles south of the village. I believe the proprietor there has leftist leanings and is said to have sympathized with the loyalists during the Civil War. I do not know, nor do I care. I keep my nose well out of politics, probably because of my father. I know the pitfalls.

  But I want to help where I can. These are difficult times for Spain. Sergeant Consuelo understands and appreciates my concerns, and he welcomed my call. Within twenty minutes, he arrived with a young man called Rubio, who has just been hired as a policeman. I served them a glass of wine in the kitchen.

  “You say they are Germans?”

  “They have false passports,” I explained. “The man—a gentleman, I must say—speaks French extremely well, with a Parisian accent, but he is certainly a German. His visa was so water-stained I could barely read it.”

  “And the women?”

  “There is only one woman, a woman and her son. He is apparently Spanish. I don’t understand it, really. They have Czech passports.”

  “Czech?”

  “What else?” A Czech passport was worthless, of course. They are sold cheaply on the black market in France and Germany. Virtually everyone who is sans nationalité can claim Czech citizenship, although none of them speak the language and few of them could even find their supposed mother country on a map of Europe.

  “And when did they arrive?”

  “This evening…having crossed the mountains.”

  “We have no record of this.”

  “I’m sure you do not.”

  Sergeant Consuelo sipped his wine and smoked a cigar. He is a heavy man, with a large black mustache and darting eyes like a fox terrier’s. He combs his oily hair straight back, like the straking on a ship’s hull. He is perhaps thirty-five, although the lines of his face make him look older: deep grooves, multiplied when he smiles like the folds of a curtain pulled open. I find him a cheerful man, but like many people in this village, he lacks an appropriate dignity. A person in his position should behave with rectitude, yet he is often seen in a drunken state in one of the local bars. Were his daughter and Suzanne not good friends, and were he not in charge of the police for this district, I doubt that I would have befriended him. As it was, I have had no choice in the matter.

  “You see what problems we have, Madame Ruiz,” he said. “Anyone may cross our borders! Spain is filling up with vagabonds.”

  “Spies and criminals,” said Rubio.

  “You must eat something,” I said, pushing a plate of sliced pork in front of them.

  “Thank you, madame. I don’t mind,” he said, snuffing out his cigar in a glass. As he ate, he talked rapidly, the food dribbling on his chin: “They have just changed the laws. A letter came from Madrid on Monday. Nobody is allowed to pass through Spain without papers. We are cracking down.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  Rubio said, “The sergeant might be promoted.”

  “Is this true?” I asked.

  Sergeant Consuelo demurred, but he was obviously pleased to have me think this was a possibility.

  “It’s important to crack down,” he said, once again. “Don’t you think?”

  “Indeed,” I said, “and not a minute too early.” I explained to him that many of the refugees did not pay their bills. “This war will bankrupt me,” I said, “if something isn’t done quickly.” I reminded him that I employed several women from the town as maids, and one gardener—the sergeant’s cousin, in fact.

  “You have a wonderful establishment,” the sergeant said.

  I watched him eating and drinking with mild disgust. It is no wonder I have not been tempted to remarry.

  We talked briefly, boringly, about his wife and children, about the school, and—passingly—about the war. He seemed to think it likely that Spain would enter the war on the side of Germany, and soon; I suspected that General Franco, who is no fool, would attempt to remain neutral as long as possible, while leaning toward Germany in every other respect. There was no possibility that Spain would give much in the way of material help to Hitler; this is a poor country, decades (if not centuries) behind Germany in its habits; it is a medieval country, too. The modern world has not attracted its attention. Even the Spanish Communists seem to care little about Stalin, and they have certainly not read Marx or Lenin.

  “Now tell me about these guests, the suspicious ones,” the sergeant said. “We must have a good look at their papers.”

  Rubio smiled, a prominent gold tooth glinting. I realized at once that he was a rogue, entirely unfit for public duty.

  * * *

  —

  We knocked on Dr. Benjamin’s door first, partly because his light was on. After an interminable delay, during which time he was apparently dressing, he let us in. His face was expressionless, and the room smelled of stale clothing. The bed was unmade, and the doors of the wardrobe were swung wide. A few books lay scattered on the floor.

  “Good evening, Dr. Benjamin,” I said, stepping into the room. “This is Sergeant Consuelo, from the police in Port-Bou.”

  “How do you do, sir,” he said. He bowed slightly, his right hand touching his chest. It was strange.

  I quite liked this formality, the sense of composure. Here was a man of considerable breeding. A man unbowed by circumstances. Indeed, the contrast with the police sergeant and his lackey was such that I immediately regretted having called them, but I had, and there was no turning back now.

  Since Dr. Benjamin did not speak Catalan, I was forced to act as interpreter.

  “He would like to see your papers,” I said.

  “Most certainly. They will see, I think, that everything is in order.”

  “Did you check in with
a customs officer?”

  “The booth was empty,” he said. “We assumed it did not matter.”

  Rubio grinned at him, nodding eagerly, his gold tooth wet and long.

  We waited, shifting from foot to foot, while Dr. Benjamin searched through his briefcase for a clutch of documents. It was difficult to tell if he was purposely delaying, but it seemed to take forever. He moved slowly, deliberately, pausing to cough or blow his nose several times.

  He walked toward the sergeant with trembling hands, limping and wheezing as usual. The papers that he handed over were blue and pink, miserably faded, tied in a packet with a piece of string. Sergeant Consuelo sat at the table and scrutinized them under the light of one anemic bulb, which hung from the ceiling without a shade. I felt quite embarrassed, but one does not have the money these days to meet acceptable standards for a hotel. This room, in particular, I have let fall.

  “What is his country of origin?” the sergeant wondered, assuming a bureaucratic tone. It was a tone my father often adopted on the telephone when underlings called.

  Dr. Benjamin seemed to understand the question. “I am a French citizen,” he said. “I have an apartment in Paris, you see. My address is valid. My sister and I, we live there.” He fumbled in his pocket, producing a library card from the Bibliothèque Nationale. “I am doing some research, for a book. I’ve been living in Paris for many years.”

  “He is German, no?” the sergeant asked, looking at me.

  “Are you a German?” I asked him.

  “I consider myself French,” he said. “That is my point. I no longer recognize my own country.” He blew his nose into a white handkerchief. “I have disowned Germany.”

  “He is Jewish,” said Rubio.

  The sergeant glared at his assistant. It was not his place to comment.

  Dr. Benjamin, however, understood the remark and nodded.

  The sergeant ran his fingers through his slick hair. He was obviously uncomfortable. “I’m afraid that, as far as Spanish law is concerned, this man is sans nationalité.” He went on to explain to me that people without specific national affiliation and proper entry visas were no longer permitted to travel in Spain. There was no choice but to turn him over to the border police in the morning, “after breakfast, of course.”