Boys and Girls Come Out to Play

by Nigel Dennis

  “I couldn’t have said any of these things to you if we’d been in New York. I don’t even know if I’ll believe them when I’m back. I expect you think that sounds cowardly; that’s only because you don’t know yet how terrible it is to say what you think of people of your own type. You’ll be taught that capitalism and capitalists are your enemy; but if you have any brain at all, you’ll know that it’s your friends who keep you down to the size of a dwarf. Anyone can kick his mother and father in the teeth, but just try doing that to your class in college. Anyone can shout at Mussolini; but try contradicting your own dictators. You’ll find you’ll do anything rather than not be liked—you’ll betray everything you’ve ever thought and felt, and sell the people who never laughed at you down the river to get approval from a person who may laugh at you. From then on it’ll be a habit. That’s why I say I don’t know if I’ll believe these things when I get back. It makes me sick to think what will happen if I do.”

  “But you are going back—soon?”

  “I think I am.” He added glumly: “Talking about a thing is always bad in the long run. It makes you feel you’ve already done it, and so you won’t need your courage anymore. When I started talking to you, I was full of courage. Now, half my courage is gone.”

  He shook his head contemptuously, and bent it down into his hands.

  Morgan glanced quickly at his watch.

  Divver stood up. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “That I’m too much of a coward to act on what I said.”

  “How could I think that, Max? I really don’t even know who you are.”

  “Haven’t I the right to come to Europe if I want to? Why should I be so ashamed? I’m not in love with my wife at all. You can forget everything I said. I’m not going back until I have to … O.K., you go now. If you’re around the bar in an hour or so, drop in. I may be down. I may even get stinking drunk.”

  “I certainly will, Max,” said Morgan. He rose from the bed, and stood hesitating politely.

  “Go on!” cried Divver. “I’ve just filled you up with a lot of hooey; go on and have yourself a good time before you start talking like me.”

  *

  He found that he had let his eagerness run away with him; he had come down much too early, at precisely the hour when only a few elderly people chose to sit in the lobby. Many of the tourists were still in their summer-suits, dawdling in the bar, postponing the delicate but decisive step from day-time into evening. The rest were up in their rooms, lazily bathing, drinking, and changing their clothes. The ballroom floor was a lake without a single sail; Morgan could see right across it to the bare metal stands on the musicians’ stage. Even the dining-room was only spotted with people. The rockets he had seen flying out of the square apparently had been some private freak.

  Morgan went up to the desk-clerk and, examining his watch with the hauteur of one who has many appointments, asked him: “Ah; when do the fireworks start?”

  “You have plenty of time, sir. Maybe two hours, three … Do not be alarmed.”

  With enormous respect for the creases in his trousers, he perched himself in the biggest and best lounge-chair and lit up a Sublime Sultana. From this throne in an almost-empty court he could observe half a dozen doorways and entrances which might at any moment expel the person who would change the whole course of his life. The old lady nearest to him looked up from her crocheting and gave him a most affectionate smile, which caused every wrinkle in her face to become a rivulet of sympathy. “It has been a glorious day, hasn’t it?” she said, in a thin, English voice.

  “Yes, hasn’t it?” he replied politely.

  “And I think, by the look of you, that you are going to have a very merry evening.” She smiled again, showing a double row of old and rather endearing false teeth. “I pride myself on always being able to recognize a young American,” she said.

  He gave her a very polite smile, and then, with nervous determination edged his eyes away from her, and glanced hastily at the various doorways, fearful that he might have missed someone who mattered. Patience, absolute patience, he told himself sternly: you’re not a child any more. He selected an illustrated American weekly from an international stockpile of magazines and began to leaf through it with great resolution. But all at once he began to feel disturbed—why? There was a cute picture captioned “Poor Boy Gives Own Electric Train to Incurable Lad.” Then there was a long editorial which said that the Sermon on the Mount was the most substantial answer to Hitler. Next came a huge picture of a shrieking woman, a child in her arms, both in flames, jumping from a burning hotel window to a red-hot sidewalk. Why did all this seem so familiar, so homey? Then he remembered that he had been looking over this same issue in the living-room of his home, while he waited for the car to take him to the station; and it had crossed the Atlantic with him, in the same boat, as though it were his ghost. He so much disliked this idea that he changed to a German magazine of the same type, which showed a half-developed girl, stark-naked, about to be attacked under a cypress tree by a gorilla. I be damned, he said to himself; this is certainly another culture. More nudes followed, and he followed the nudes: he hid his extreme pleasure by turning the pages with sharp flips and giving a bored hiss. Over the top of the magazine, he watched the passers-by: they all seemed intent on reaching some other place.

  He thought of going to the local movie, and dismissed the thought as unworthy of him.

  After half an hour, he began to wonder if some of the things Divver had said about Europe were true; the bad things.

  For the first time since he left home, he dared to think: perhaps nothing is going to happen. Perhaps nothing in my life will ever change.

  There was a rumbling of voices, and a group of people of about his own age came in from the dining-room and took over the corner nearest him. But they were the last people in the world to satisfy his hopes; they were obviously college students, and dressed like budding thinkers; they at once made him feel that he was a small boy masquerading as an adult. They came from different countries, but they all talked English, loudly and volubly. Remembering what Divver had said to him about college compeers, he listened curiously and rather fearfully to their conversation. It was crude and fairly shocking. The students appeared not to know that Mell was a place where people came to avoid horrors, and they thrashed over the whole international situation, speaking with coarse contempt about all the principal characters. Then they went on to something that Morgan couldn’t understand at all: each began to speak about his own country in the most savage manner, insisting that its instincts were the most fiendish, its liberties the least real, its institutions the most socially backward, its prostitution the most venereally advanced. Each managed so well to undercut his neighbour in self-belittlement, that soon all were joined in the cosy unity of mutual degradation, like a parliament of midgets. After that, a sort of loving-cup was passed around, in the form of an equally degrading comparison of shabby pages from national histories: prominent foul acts such as Nelson’s bombardment of Copenhagen, the annexation of Schleswig-Holstein, the amputation of the South Tyrol, the occupation of the Ruhr, the exploitation of Latin America were denounced bitterly by the envoys of the countries responsible—and promptly capped by the gratified victims, who insisted that no fate could have been too bad for their filthy motherlands. Only one boy had nothing to contribute to this matching of bad pennies; he was sulking, and felt persecuted by the stronger nations, because he came from Lichtenstein and could think of no comparably hideous crime to pin on his minikin birthplace. He was thinking: Some people have all the luck. Whatever will they think of me? Oh, shame, shame! Oh, why was I not born an Englishman!

  The first signs of romance now appeared from the elevator in evening-dress—a young and lovely blonde escorted by two heavy-weight contenders with crew-cuts. The girl moved straight to the radio, which stood in a big cabinet beside the table of magazines. “The short-waves come from Boston, don’t they?” she asked. “Let’s try for some
news before we eat.”

  “It’s never any good,” said the first escort.

  “Atmospheric conditions just don’t permit,” said the second.

  They began to twist the knobs. Screams and grunts came from the cabinet.

  “I tell you, it’s no use,” said the first escort.

  “No, go on … there … a little more … there,” cried the girl.

  Sure enough, faintly from behind the barrage of the Atlantic waves and the furious elements, a faraway little voice was mumbling to itself. The girl clasped her hands and opened her eyes. “Do you think maybe it’s the President?” she said. “I’m sure it is. I’m sure I recognize his voice. Or is it Boake Carter?”

  “Too early for him,” said the first escort, looking at his watch.

  “They all sound just the same from here,” said the second: “I think I can hear Gilbert and Sullivan … Oh, let’s eat.”

  “I don’t think either of you cares the least bit what happens in the world,” said the girl.

  Oh, to hell with you and your games! Morgan said to himself, suddenly feeling disgusted and depressed. More people were beginning to come into the lobby from all sides, but he only got up nervously and crossed to a chair in the opposite corner.

  As he sat down, he saw a little gold cage appear suddenly in an alcove; out stepped a woman in evening-dress. She went quickly to the nearest chair, and was smoothing out her long skirt before she discovered that she was not alone.

  “Perfectly all right,” he said in a profound voice.

  “American? How nice.”

  He whisked his cigarette case in front of her.

  “Why, thank you. I don’t think I know these,” she said, touching them curiously.

  “They’re not bad,” he said.

  They exchanged names.

  “I knew a Mr. John Streeter, a friend of my mother’s, in Connecticut.”

  “John—let me see now—tall, very dark, brown eyes?”

  “No, shortish, light-haired.”

  “My husband’s family is very widespread.”

  “Was that an elevator you came down in?”

  “That’s our special one.”

  “Oh, I know; I’ve seen the top part of it.”

  “Oh, are you near there?”

  “Just through the baize door next to it.”

  “We’re neighbours then. We are in what’s called the Special Annex.”

  “I’m with a friend on just a short trip. He’s a political authority.”

  “How nice. That must be very interesting.”

  “Yes, it is; foreign politics is his field.”

  “Then I suppose you know a lot about it too.”

  “Not really. I’m not so interested.”

  “How nice to be able to say that, these days! My husband’s very interested.”

  “So’s my mother.”

  “My husband’s in charge of the mines here.”

  “So’s my … that must be interesting too.”

  “Yes, it is; but so much dashing around! He always has to be in Tutin, or somewhere.”

  “This morning I saw someone go down in the same elevator as you came down in.”

  “Was he wearing old workclothes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, that’s my husband.”

  “Well, well!” He felt very pleased; it made it more intimate, to have seen her husband. “Would you like to have something to drink?” he asked.

  “What I’d really like is something to eat. I suppose you’ve had dinner?”

  “No, I was just going to.”

  She’s sort of a matron, I suppose, he thought, as they went into the dining-room.

  Over dinner he saw that she looked rather like a Jap—a small woman, very dark, with smiling brown eyes. She wasn’t the girl he had been thinking of meeting, but he wasn’t too disappointed; she wasn’t so old that he was ashamed of her, and he was immensely thankful not to be alone any more. Perhaps, he thought, she’ll have friends she’ll introduce me to later—a blonde sister, say, unmarried and really young. Nonetheless, he remembered to break his breadroll open in the ruthless way he had seen Divver do it; he wished he had thick black hair on the back of his hands too.

  “Only an omelette?” she asked.

  “I’m not such a heavy eater,” he said. “I get by with very little, on the whole.”

  “Does that mean you drink a lot? Men drink so much these days.”

  “Yes, don’t we; too much. No, I’m pretty temperate, on the whole.”

  “It’s only just struck me—this is actually your first day in Europe?”

  “Well, yes, you might say that. Of course, I’ve travelled a good deal at home—I know Colorado, for example, extremely well.”

  “What do you feel about being here?”

  “Frankly, I like it. More than my friend Max does.”

  “What does he say?”

  Morgan found he was unable to remember a single one of Divver’s objections to Europe, so he simply said: “I think he just feels more at home in America.”

  “Do you two work together?”

  “Oh no. My mother—she lives in New York State—she has a magazine, and invites people up to talk about articles for it: at one of her conferences I happened to be up there when Max was, and we decided to come over together.”

  “Your mother lives with you then?”

  “Off and on; her husband’s dead.”

  “So your friend Max is sort of a brain-trust.”

  “He’s not entirely that type. He’s a very fine man; he works very hard; he has a very wide field of knowledge—or experience, I should call it perhaps: you see, he’s travelled so much.”

  “But he’s not a highbrow type, you mean.”

  “Not that, no. I don’t mean he’s not intelligent …”

  “But more of a plodder.”

  “That’s right, a very good plodder, though not an imaginative sort. I respect him greatly.”

  How quickly she senses what Max is, he thought, looking at her admiringly.

  “He’s also the type who gets very weighed down and depressed,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “Oh, his domestic life chiefly. Marriage, etcetera.”

  “Oh, well, that’s nothing unusual, is it?” she said, laughing.

  “I guess not,” he said, laughing back heartily.

  “I don’t know if you’re married, but …”

  “No, I’m still single. I have a notion I’m not the marrying type.”

  “Why?”

  “I need a great deal of freedom. I need to be able to come and go a lot.”

  He was suddenly frightened to think that she might ask him what his job was, but she only smiled understandingly. “Will you come out with me afterwards and see the fireworks?” he said, and added quickly: “It’ll probably all be pretty childish, but if it is we can just go to bed.”

  She started slightly, and then said: “I’d love to see them with you. We can see them from my balcony if you like. Everything’s so clear from there.”

  “That’s a swell idea!”

  “Of course, it’s only a tiny balcony.”

  “No, it sounds wonderful.”

  She’s not old; just intelligent, he decided.

  Now that the rest of the evening was solidly arranged, he breathed freely, and felt more self-confident. Once or twice, to his surprise, it struck him that some of his assurance was due to their having secretly agreed that Divver, that good man, was not a very interesting person—something that Morgan was now sure he had suspected all the time. But I must never forget that he is good, Morgan thought, even though I’m getting rather tired of remembering how much I owe him. His thoughts about Mrs. Streeter, too, were full of stabilizing vigour. This is the kind of woman a man enjoys being with. She is a fine type. She is a serious woman. She is a real woman. She is a woman in the best sense of the word.

  He was glad of these assurances, because certain troublesom
e doubts kept edging into his mind. Am I taking the initiative? What is the initiative; people just tell you to take it with women; why don’t they tell you what it is? Does it mean you suddenly grab them? What do you do with it when you’ve taken it? Do I want to take it? Do I plan to…? How can I, when I hardly know her? What on earth would she think if I asked her? How would I ask her? Say I did, in one way or another, and she called the manager and had me thrown out … I would like that, I think. “Dear Mother, I am very sorry to have to inform you that I have been ejected by the police from the Hotel Poland, on account of my uncontrollable rapacity.” On the other hand, I may turn out to be quite impotent: well, it takes all sorts to make a world; I shall never let my impotence scar my life and personality: on the contrary: “The stone which the builders rejected has become the head of the corner.” … But of course this is all nonsense. How could I imagine …? And those who do know, only write whole books telling you how to fill out your income tax and understand Hamlet … Lucky she can’t read my thoughts, poor woman. How comfortable I feel with her! Perhaps that means she’s not really very intelligent. Why don’t they make women take the initiative too? They want to be emancipated, don’t they? And it’s not just men who like it. Though I don’t see why women should.