Short Stories
Page 42
“Sportsman,” he said. “Sportsman is the best.”
“You agree, gentlemen?” Johnson asked the other porters. The one porter nodded. The other said in French, “I don’t know them personally but I’ve often heard speak of Sportsman. It’s good.”
“A bottle of Sportsman,” Johnson said to the waitress. He looked at the price on the wine card: eleven francs Swiss. “Make it two Sportsmen. Do you mind if I sit here with you?” he asked the porter who had suggested Sportsman.
“Sit down. Put yourself here, please.” The porter smiled at him. He was folding his spectacles and putting them away in their case. “Is it the gentleman’s birthday?”
“No,” said Johnson. “It’s not a fête. My wife has decided to divorce me.”
“So,” said the porter. “I hope not.” The other porter shook his head. The third porter seemed a little deaf.
“It is doubtless a common experience,” said Johnson, “like the first visit to the dentist or the first time a girl is unwell, but I have been upset.”
“It is understandable,” said the oldest porter. “I understand it.”
“None of you gentlemen is divorced?” Johnson asked. He had stopped clowning with the language and was speaking good French now and had been for some time.
“No,” said the porter who had ordered Sportsman. “They don’t divorce much here. There are gentlemen who are divorced but not many.”
“With us,” said Johnson, “it’s different. Practically everyone is divorced.”
“That’s true,” the porter confirmed. “I’ve read it in the paper.”
“I myself am somewhat in retard,” Johnson went on. “This is the first time I have been divorced. I am thirty-five.”
“Mais vous êtes encore jeune,” said the porter. He explained to the two others. “Monsieur n’a que trente-cinq ans.” The other porters nodded. “He’s very young,” said one.
“And it is really the first time you’ve been divorced?” asked the porter.
“Absolutely,” said Johnson. “Please open the wine, mademoiselle.”
“And is it very expensive?”
“Ten thousand francs.”
“Swiss money?”
“No, French money.”
“Oh, yes. Two thousand francs Swiss. All the same it’s not cheap.”
“No.”
“And why does one do it?”
“One is asked to.”
“But why do they ask that?”
“To marry someone else.”
“But it’s idiotic.”
“I agree with you,” said Johnson. The waitress filled the four glasses. They all raised them.
“Prosit,” said Johnson.
“A votre santé, monsieur,” said the porter. The other two porters said “Salut.” The champagne tasted like sweet pink cider.
“Is it a system always to respond in a different language in Switzerland?” Johnson asked.
“No,” said the porter. “French is more cultivated. Besides, this is la Suisse Romande.”
“But you speak German?”
“Yes. Where I come from they speak German.”
“I see,” said Johnson, “and you say you have never been divorced?”
“No. It would be too expensive. Besides I have never married.”
“Ah,” said Johnson. “And these other gentlemen?”
“They are married.”
“You like being married?” Johnson asked one of the porters.
“What?”
“You like the married state?”
“Oui. C’est normale.”
“Exactly,” said Johnson. “Et vous, monsieur?”
“Ça va,” said the other porter.
“Pour moi,” said Johnson, “ça ne va pas.”
“Monsieur is going to divorce,” the first porter explained.
“Oh,” said the second porter.
“Ah ha,” the third porter said.
“Well,” said Johnson, “the subject seems to be exhausted. You’re not interested in my troubles,” he addressed the first porter.
“But, yes,” said the porter.
“Well, let’s talk about something else.”
“As you wish.”
“What can we talk about?”
“You do the sport?”
“No,” said Johnson. “My wife does, though.”
“What do you do for amusement?”
“I am a writer.”
“Does that make much money?”
“No. But later on when you get known it does.”
“It is interesting.”
“No,” said Johnson, “it is not interesting. I am sorry, gentlemen, but I have to leave you. Will you please drink the other bottle?”
“But the train does not come for three quarters of an hour.”
“I know,” said Johnson. The waitress came and he paid for the wine and his dinner.
“You’re going out, sir?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Johnson, “just for a little walk. I’ll leave my bags here.”
He put on his muffler, his coat, and his hat.
Outside the snow was falling heavily. He looked back through the window at the three porters sitting at the table. The waitress was filling their glasses from the last wine of the opened bottle. She took the unopened bottle back to the bar. That makes them three francs something apiece, Johnson thought. He turned and walked down the platform. Inside the café he had thought that talking about it would blunt it; but it had not blunted it; it had only made him feel nasty.
Part III
The Son of a Fellow Member at Territet
In the station café at Territet it was a little too warm; the lights were bright and the tables shiny from polishing. There were baskets with pretzels in glazed paper sacks on the tables and cardboard pads for beer glasses in order that the moist glasses would not make rings on the wood. The chairs were carved but the wooden seats were worn and quite comfortable. There was a clock on the wall, a bar at the far end of the room, and outside the window it was snowing. There was an old man drinking coffee at a table under the clock and reading the evening paper. A porter came in and said the Simplon-Orient Express was an hour late at Saint Maurice. The waitress came over to Mr. Harris’s table. Mr. Harris had just finished dinner.
“The Express is an hour late, sir. Can I bring you some coffee?”
“If you like.”
“Please?” asked the waitress.
“All right,” said Mr. Harris.
“Thank you, sir,” said the waitress.
She brought the coffee from the kitchen and Mr. Harris put sugar in it, crunched the lumps with his spoon, and looked out the window at the snow falling in the light from the station platform.
“Do you speak other languages besides English?” he asked the waitress.
“Oh, yes, sir. I speak German and French and the dialects.”
“Which do you like best?”
“They are all very much the same, sir. I can’t say I like one better than another.”
“Would you like a drink of something or a coffee?”
“Oh, no, sir, it is not permitted to drink in the café with the clients.”
“You wouldn’t take a cigar?”
“Oh, no, sir,” she laughed. “I don’t smoke, sir.”
“Neither do I,” said Harris, “I don’t agree with David Belasco.”
“Please? “
“Belasco. David Belasco. You can always tell him because he has his collar on backwards. But I don’t agree with him. Then, too, he’s dead now.”
“Will you excuse me, sir?” asked the waitress.
“Absolutely,” said Harris. He sa
t forward in the chair and looked out of the window. Across the room the old man had folded his paper. He looked at Mr. Harris and then picked up his coffee cup and saucer and walked to Harris’s table.
“I beg your pardon if I intrude,” he said in English, “but it has just occurred to me that you might be a member of the National Geographic Society.”
“Please sit down,” Harris said. The gentleman sat down.
“Won’t you have another coffee or a liqueur?”
“Thank you,” said the gentleman.
“Won’t you have a kirsch with me?”
“Perhaps. But you must have it with me.”
“No, I insist.” Harris called the waitress. The old gentleman took out from an inside pocket of his coat a leather pocketbook. He took off a wide rubber band and drew out several papers, selected one, and handed it to Harris.
“That is my certificate of membership,” he said. “Do you know Frederick J. Roussel in America?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“I believe he is very prominent.”
“Where does he come from? Do you know what part of the States?”
“From Washington, of course. Isn’t that the headquarters of the Society?”
“I believe it is.”
“You believe it is. Aren’t you sure?”
“I’ve been away a long time,” Harris said.
“You’re not a member, then?”
“No. But my father is. He’s been a member for a great many years.”
“Then he would know Frederick J. Roussel. He is one of the officers of the society. You will observe that it is by Mr. Roussel that I was nominated for membership.”
“I’m awfully glad.”
“I am sorry you are not a member. But you could obtain nomination through your father?”
“I think so,” said Harris. “I must when I go back.”
“I would advise you to,” said the gentleman. “You see the magazine, of course?”
“Absolutely.”
“Have you seen the number with the colored plates of the North American fauna?”
“Yes. I have it in Paris.”
“And the number containing the panorama of the volcanoes of Alaska?”
“That was a wonder.”
“I enjoyed very much, too, the wild animal photographs of George Shiras three.”
“They were damned fine.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“They were excellent. That fellow Shiras —”
“You call him that fellow?”
“We’re old friends,” said Harris.
“I see. You know George Shiras three. He must be very interesting.”
“He is. He’s about the most interesting man I know.”
“And do you know George Shiras two? Is he interesting too?”
“Oh, he’s not so interesting.”
“I should imagine he would be very interesting.”
“You know, a funny thing. He’s not so interesting. I’ve often wondered why.”
“H’m,” said the gentleman. “I should have thought anyone in that family would be interesting.”
“Do you remember the panorama of the Sahara Desert?” Harris asked.
“The Sahara desert? That was nearly fifteen years ago.”
“That’s right. That was one of my father’s favorites.”
“He doesn’t prefer the newer numbers?”
“He probably does. But he was very fond of the Sahara panorama.”
“It was excellent. But to me its artistic value far exceeded its scientific interest.”
“I don’t know,” said Harris. “The wind blowing all that sand and that Arab with his camel kneeling toward Mecca.”
“As I recall, the Arab was standing holding the camel.”
“You’re quite right,” said Harris. “I was thinking of Colonel Lawrence’s book.”
“Lawrence’s book deals with Arabia, I believe.”
“Absolutely,” said Harris. “It was the Arab reminded me of it.”
“He must be a very interesting young man.”
“I believe he is.”
“Do you know what he is doing now?”
“He’s in the Royal Air Force.”
“And why does he do that?”
“He likes it.”
“Do you know if he belongs to the National Geographic Society?”
“I wonder if he does.”
“He would make a very good member. He is the sort of person they want as a member. I would be very happy to nominate him if you think they would like to have him.”
“I think they would.”
“I have nominated a scientist from Vevey and a colleague of mine from Lauzanne and they were both elected. I believe they would be very pleased if I nominated Colonel Lawrence.”
“It’s a splendid idea,” said Harris. “Do you come here to the café often?”
“I come here for coffee after dinner.”
“Are you in the University?”
“I am not active any longer.”
“I’m just waiting for the train,” said Harris. “I’m going up to Paris and sail from Havre for the States.”
“I have never been to America. But I would like to go very much. Perhaps I shall attend a meeting of the society some time. I would be very happy to meet your father.”
“I’m sure he would have liked to meet you but he died last year. Shot himself, oddly enough.”
“I am very truly sorry. I am sure his loss was a blow to science as well as to his family.”
“Science took it awfully well.”
“This is my card,” Harris said. “His initials were E. J. instead of E. D. I know he would have liked to know you.”
“It would have been a great pleasure.” The gentleman took out a card from the pocketbook and gave it to Harris. It read:
DR. SIGISMUND WYER, PH.D.
Member of the National Geographic
Society, Washington, D. C., U. S. A.
“I will keep it very carefully,” Harris said.
A Day’s Wait
He came into the room to shut the windows while we were still in bed and I saw he looked ill. He was shivering, his face was white, and he walked slowly as though it ached to move.
“What’s the matter, Schatz?”
“I’ve got a headache.”
“You better go back to bed.”
“No. I’m all right.”
“You go to bed. I’ll see you when I’m dressed.”
But when I came downstairs he was dressed, sitting by the fire, looking a very sick and miserable boy of nine years. When I put my hand on his forehead I knew he had a fever.
“You go up to bed,” I said, “you’re sick.”
“I’m all right,” he said.
When the doctor came he took the boy’s temperature.
“What is it?” I asked him. “One hundred and two.”
Downstairs, the doctor left three different medicines in different colored capsules with instructions for giving them. One was to bring down the fever, another a purgative, the third to overcome an acid condition. The germs of influenza can only exist in an acid condition, he explained. He seemed to know all about influenza and said there was nothing to worry about if the fever did not go above one hundred and four degrees. This was a light epidemic of flu and there was no danger if you avoided pneumonia.
Back in the room I wrote the boy’s temperature down and made a note of the time to give the various capsules.