by Brian Moore
“What part of America do you live in?” she asked him.
“New York. Greenwich Village.”
“That’s the Left Bank part, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I was born there, as a matter of fact. My father’s on the staff at Saint Vincent’s. It’s the big hospital in the Village.”
“He’s a doctor, then?”
“Yes.”
“My brother’s a doctor,” she said. She did not mention her husband.
At the Atrium, he led her to the rear of the café to tables used by the regulars. “Listen,” he said, “it’s your first day in Paris. Will you let me buy you some champagne?”
“Champagne? It’s far too expensive.”
“No, let me,” he said. “I feel like it. Please?”
“Buy me a Pernod.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m certain.”
He signaled the waiter. “Deux Pernod.”
“Je suis désolé,” the waiter said. “Il n’y a pas de Pernod. Je n’ai que du Ricard.”
“Ricard, ça va,” she said. “Au fait, je le préfère.”
“Deux Ricard, alors,” he told the waiter. And then said to her, “I don’t know why I’m ordering. Your French is better than mine.”
“It’s what I did at university.”
“Queen’s?”
“Yes. You were at Trinity, weren’t you? Under Hugh Greer.”
“Yes, do you know him?”
“I did, years ago.” She saw Hugh as she said it, stout, stammering, with trousers that always seemed too short for him. “Did you do Anglo-Irish Lit. with Hugh? His Joyce-Yeats show?”
“That’s right.”
“And what are you going to do now? Teach?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to take a year off to think about it.”
“A year off? You must be rich.”
“No, there’s a job. A friend of mine runs a small resort hotel in Vermont and he wants to go to Europe next year. I used to work for him summers, and now I’m going to manage his place for him while he’s gone. It’s a beautiful spot. Skiing in winter, a lake in summer.”
“It sounds great.”
“Why don’t you come and visit me? As acting manager I can offer you a special rate.”
She laughed. The waiter brought the Ricard and poured water in their glasses, turning the liquid from yellow to chalk. This boy, this stranger, picked up his glass and looked into her eyes.
“Sláinte,” he said, using the Irish toast.
“Sláinte,” she said, and, as they touched glasses, his hand touched hers, and she knew, at last, how it must be for the other person, for those men, over the years, who Kevin said had a crush on her. Now she shared it. In the past, so often, the crushes were a joke, like Pat Lawlor down at Mullen’s Garage who, when she drove in for petrol, would pull a comb out of his overalls and arrange his hair over his bald spot. Or the young butcher at Kennedy & McCourt’s who would bully his other customers to make up their minds so that he could get over to serve her. But there had been times when it wasn’t funny. She always felt shy when she talked to a strange man, especially if the man was brainy. She would make an effort to be nice and men would respond, and, sometimes, they would get a look in their eyes and begin to flirt with her. There had never seemed much harm to it, until, two years ago, suddenly Kevin accused her of “making eyes at men without even knowing you’re doing it.” “That’s a rotten thing to say,” she had replied. “And even if it were true, what’s wrong with a little harmless flirtation?” “Harmless, my eye,” Kevin said. “Brian Boland is a case in point. Anyone with an eye in their head can see the play you make for him the minute he comes into a room. Why, your voice even changes, you start aping his bloody Oxford accent. Poor Bridget Boland loathes your guts, and I don’t blame her one bit. You make an absolute fool of yourself.” “I do not,” she said. “I like Brian, I don’t imitate his accent but he has been abroad, he’s interesting to talk to, he can talk about something else besides Paisley and the Provos. But if that’s the way you feel about it, I won’t even speak to him any more. The Bolands are supposed to be your friends, so if you’re worried, just don’t invite them.” Beginning to cry as she said it, but Kevin kept after her, mimicking her, mimicking Brian’s English accent, showing how she got excited when Brian talked about books, and then Kevin started to sing “Dancing in the Dark,” making fun of her, and it was the most awful, hateful, hurtful row, malicious he was, he wouldn’t stop. But afterward she lay awake in the night wondering if Kevin was right; was it true that what she thought of as just being nice was leading a man on? And, after that, she went out of her way to avoid Brian Boland, and if by any chance a man started flirting with her, she would at once make some excuse and move away. She did not want to give Kevin a chance to start in all over again.
But tonight was different. Tonight, for the first time, she realized what Kevin had been talking about. She felt her face flush and she stared into this boy’s eyes. She knew she should not lead him on, but she wanted to do it. Besides, Kevin was hundreds of miles away tonight and tomorrow she would be hundreds of miles south of here. In the meantime, there was this excitement, this joy.
So they began to talk, animated, eager to know each other, and she asked him about his student days in Dublin and he told about digs and landladies and made it all fun, so that the time passed in no time until Peg walked in, looking a bit tossed and very pleased with herself, saying she was sorry to be so late. “What about a nightcap?” Tom asked. “No thanks,” Peg said, and so all three of them went out of the café and stood for a moment, irresolute, on the street.
“Let me walk you both home,” Tom Lowry said. “I’d like some fresh air.”
“All right, then,” Peg said, and suddenly he was between them, taking each of them by the arm, urging them forward along Boulevard Saint-Germain, where the crowds were queueing for a midnight film. As they passed the queue he released his grip on Peg’s arm and eased her ahead on the crowded pavement, remaining behind himself, linked to Mrs. Redden. She noticed that. She felt elated. She noticed that he held tight to her all the way to the Place Saint-Michel, where, still talking eagerly to each other, they caught up with Peg and paused, all three, at the traffic light. In the square, four police wagons filled with French riot police sat, waiting for trouble. She thought of home.
And when at last they reached Peg’s building, while Peg searched for the key to the street door, Tom Lowry moved close again and said in a voice that was almost a whisper, “Listen, if you’d like to go shopping tomorrow, maybe I could come along and carry parcels?”
“Oh, it’s not serious shopping,” she said and found herself whispering, too.
Peg had opened the street door and now turned to them, waiting.
“I could pick you up at ten,” he said. “Maybe we can have a coffee?”
“All right. Ten.”
And Peg heard her, for she said, “Are we going to have lunch together, Sheila?”
“Oh, Peg, I don’t think we’d have time. My plane leaves at one-fifteen.”
“Too bad,” Peg said. “Tom, when’s Debbie going home, is it tomorrow?”
“I think so.”
“Because if she can’t get a flight out, she can have the spare room again, once Sheila is gone.”
“Oh, thanks. I’ll tell her.”
Debbie. Mrs. Redden saw the pretty girl in the see-through blouse. Why did I say yes to him about the coffee?
Together, she and Peg began the long climb up to the sixth floor. “I think you made a conquest,” Peg said.
“Who?” She tried to look surprised.
“Tom.”
“Don’t be silly. I just didn’t know what to say when he asked me about a coffee. Yanks are funny that way, aren’t they?”
“I work with them,” Peg reminded her. “And they’re no different from other people. Actually, I always thought Tom was shy.”
“I like him, he’s very nice,” Mrs.
Redden said hurriedly and moved on ahead, not stopping until she reached the third-floor landing, where she waited for Peg, who followed more slowly. When Peg came abreast, Mrs. Redden, trying to sound amused, asked, “That girl with no bra, is she my rival, then?”
“Who?” Peg stopped, a little out of breath.
“Debbie.”
“Who knows, with that generation,” Peg said. “I don’t think so, though.”
And went on up to the top floor, taking out her keys again to open the apartment door. As she turned the key in the lock, both women heard the phone ring inside the flat.
“Is that your phone?”
“Yes, but I don’t know who it could be at this hour of the night,” Peg said, pushing the door open and hurrying down the hall. The ringing stopped just before she picked the receiver up. “Hello? Hello?” She listened, then replaced the receiver. “Too bad. I wonder, was that for you, Sheila?”
“I doubt it. Kevin wouldn’t call this late,” Mrs. Redden said, but there in the half-dark hall, her elation sank to a sudden fear. In her mind she saw the two Saracen armored cars barricading the lower end of Clifton Street, no one in the street, and just above the Army and Navy Club, Kevin’s surgery. There was a blue van parked in front of the Army and Navy Club. There was no one in the van. You never left a vehicle unattended. A soldier in battle dress ran out (she had not noticed the soldiers) and beckoned hurriedly with his automatic rifle, ordering her into the shelter of a doorway. She saw, still as a painting, the empty street, rain wet on the pavement, the van unattended. Then, all at once, splinters in the air, the noise coming after the dust and smoke as the van blew itself up. She saw the huge dusty hole where the Army and Navy Club had been, the shattered windows and rubbled wall of Kevin’s surgery. The soldiers had warned him in time. He and the patients had been moved out.
“Would you like a cup of tea before you go to bed?” Peg asked.
“Not unless you would.”
“Well, let’s go to sleep now and have an early breakfast before I go to work. Is a quarter to eight too soon for you?”
“No, no.”
Peg moved toward her, her arms out, coming to kiss her good night, but now, in the half-dark hall, Mrs. Redden saw, not Peg, but that other woman, blonde, with dust on her hair, blood on her face, running out of the Queen’s Arcade, shaking her fist. “Fucking Fenian gets!”
“You’re shivery,” Peg said, embracing her. “Are you cold?”
“No, no. I wonder who that was on the phone.”
“Probably a wrong number.”
Chapter 2
• Croissants, coffee, chatter, screams of laughter, two women in the ease of no child to get off to school, no husband to be fed, no boy friend to be watched for signs of a morning mood, talking, charting the movements and marriages of former friends, calling out anecdotes to each other as Peg hurried to do her hair and put on her suit, the chat so good and the time so quick and easy until the moment came when they kissed each other, hugged, promised to keep in touch, and then, suddenly, Peg was gone.
The hall door shut. Alone, Mrs. Redden felt the emptiness of being left behind. Turning, she went into the living room, opened the windows, and stepped out onto the balcony, craning down, hoping to catch sight of Peg below, on the street. She had hardly seen Peg, had hardly seen Paris; this part of the holiday was already ending.
Then, far below, Peg stepped out, hurrying along the edge of the pavement in her ice-cream suit, going to the corner to the Métro. “Peg?” Mrs. Redden called down, “Peg!” but it was foolish—with six floors and the noise of traffic, there was no chance. Peg was gone. Unaccountably she felt guilty about Peg, so decent and generous, and why didn’t I stay over and have lunch with her, bad manners of me, because I wanted to see Tom Lowry again, not Peg, but I should have done both, I should have taken a later flight.
The phone rang. She stood, irresolute, as its tone gonged through the empty flat. It might be Tom Lowry phoning to say he can’t meet me. She went to answer, but the moment she picked up the receiver, she sensed it wasn’t him.
Kevin’s receptionist said, “Is Mrs. Redden there?”
“Speaking. Is that you, Maureen?”
“Yes, Mrs. Redden. Hold on, the doctor wants to talk to you.”
“Hello, Sheila.” His voice always sounded strange on the phone. “How are you getting on? Did you have a good flight?”
“Yes, lovely,” she said. “How are things at home?”
“Well, that’s why I’m ringing. John McSherry’s mother-in-law died yesterday afternoon. The funeral’s the day after tomorrow. It’s a bloody nuisance.”
McSherry was one of the doctors in his group. “But you don’t have to go to the funeral of McSherry’s mother-in-law,” she said.
“Wait a minute.” She heard the familiar irritation in his voice. “John’s wife is laid up, she has a heart condition, you know. Anyway, I offered to hold on here for three more days to let him get things squared away at home.”
“But why does it have to be you? What about Con Cullen, he could do McSherry’s work, couldn’t he?”
“I’ve already offered to do it.”
“But why? They take advantage of you, time and time again. You’re always the one who works extra days. Surely, just this once, they’ll have the decency to let you get away in peace.”
“Look, nobody forced me, it was my idea. And besides, it’s just for two more days.”
“But this is our holiday! We’ve been looking forward to it for ages.”
“You have,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, will you stop nagging me. I’ll be in Ville-franche on Friday. Just enjoy yourself and lie out in the sun. You don’t need me for that.”
“So you won’t be coming before Friday, is that it?”
“Let’s say Friday night. I’ll give you a ring.”
“Why bother?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you don’t want to come on this holiday, then don’t. You’ll be far happier sitting at home, stuck into the telly.”
“Oh, balls.” He was shouting now. “We can’t all live like you, ignoring the facts of life, dancing in the dark.”
It was his oldest jibe. Dancing in the dark. “Suit yourself,” she said.
“I’ll be there on Friday night. Look, I’m sorry it turned out like this.”
“You’re not one bit sorry,” she said, and hung up. But, of course, that was the worst thing she could have done. Now, if only she could ring back and apologize: but that wouldn’t work, he would take it as a further insult, a false contrition. She never should have hung up. She turned and wandered, upset, through the flat, going back out onto the balcony, where, in search of self-justification, her mind replayed the conversation. What did he think a woman did alone in the South of France? Eating solitary meals in the dining room, going alone to the beach, dragging around the streets of Nice—what sort of holiday was that?—and not only that, he never mentioned Danny. And then, with shame, remembered that neither had she.
Far below, from under the Pont Saint-Michel a long black cargo boat slipped into view, a Dutch flag flying at its stern, a clothesline bunting of sheets and underwear flapping over its holds. A man in a German riverman’s cap stood in the wheelhouse, the bowl of his pipe turned down. She looked at this passing barge, at this man who sailed his floating home through inland waterways to cities like Brussels, Amsterdam, and Hamburg, cities she had never seen, might never see. To sail away from all of the things that hold and bind me, to sail away, to start again in some city like Brussels or Amsterdam. Into her mind came the place Kevin always took them to for their summer holidays, a Connemara village with a fishing dock at the end of the single street, the fishermen’s boat coming in from the sea at dusk, sailing into that postcard view of the sea bay under the Dolmen peaks of the Twelve Bens, a few summer visitors watching the boat dock, and, then, two red-faced fishermen in greasy Aran sweaters and
black rubber Wellington boots coming up off the boat, walking along the quay carrying a flat wooden box filled with fish, she and Kevin and Danny following with the other summer visitors, going around to the back yard behind Cush’s pub where the fish would be sold. And later, in Cush’s, Kevin would stand pints for those same two fisherman, Michael Pat Lynch and Joe O’Malley. That’s Kevin’s idea of escape. That village is the only faraway place he ever wants to be.
The doorbell.
She went to answer, first thinking it was the cleaning woman Peg said might come, but then that it could be him. She saw herself in the mirror, hair blown about by standing out on the balcony, but no time to fix it, for the doorbell rang again. She opened.
This morning he was in a tweed jacket, a checked shirt, and a tie, the dressed-up look of someone who normally doesn’t think about what he puts on. She wished she had had time to fix her hair.
“Well, Tom,” she said, smiling. “You’re very punctual. Even early.”
“Sorry. Too soon for you?”
“No, no, I’m ready.”
“Where would you like to go?” he asked. “Rue Saint-Honoré?”
“Oh, I think the Galeries Lafayette is more in my line.”
“All right, let’s go there, then.”
Poking around in a department store with him trailing after me, men are bored stiff by shopping. “Why don’t we just go for a stroll? What about the Luxembourg Gardens?”
“That sounds good.”
Later, going up the Boulevard Saint-Michel, she said, unwisely, “It doesn’t change, does it? It’s just the way I remember it from my student days.”