The Steady Running of the Hour

by Justin Go

  I shut the sketchbook and grab my jacket, following a path that crosses a field behind the house. The trail is damp and spotted with puddles from the rain last night. At the end of the field I meet Mireille coming from the opposite direction. She looks surprised to see me.

  —I thought you were reading, I didn’t know you wanted to come—

  —I didn’t either.

  Mireille smiles. She leads me on a one-lane footpath into the forest and we cross a narrow stream. I ask her what the beech trees are called in French and soon she is telling me the names of oak and sweet chestnut and maple trees, of the white flowers on the ground and the black birds flapping overhead, fleeting silhouettes against an iron sky.

  —Ce sont de ardéidés, je crois. Comment dit-on en anglais?

  —I don’t know. They looked pretty big. Were they crows?

  She laughs and shakes her head. —They weren’t crows.

  —Don’t laugh at me. I didn’t grow up near a forest. I never learned the names of these things.

  —Well, Mireille says. You’re learning them now.

  After that Mireille never leaves the house without inviting me. There is no television here, no computer and no books except those we brought with us. So we talk the rest of the day into the night, in the house and on the trails that wind throughout the forest. Our conversation alternates between French and English. Mireille loves her language and she lends me that appreciation, reminding me of the days when I was infatuated with its thick exotic sounds. We both want to practice the foreign language, but when the words come quickly we revert to our native tongues, especially if we are arguing a point.

  We talk about war and Mireille tells me about her grandfather who became a résistant at the age of seventeen, killing Germans when he was only a child himself. We talk about death and Mireille says she isn’t afraid to die, that she is curious to see any world other than this one. But I say she will be scared enough when the time comes.

  —You can be scared for both of us, Mireille teases. You worry enough for two people.

  —I know. Maybe you should take your share.

  We go on talking all through dinner, and though I mean to work on a new research plan, I never do. Mireille uncorks a bottle of wine and pours it into a pair of empty jars. I ask her why she decided to go to art school.

  —If I study design, she says, I can get some kind of job later. I’m getting older, I need to find some kind of career—

  —I didn’t know you were so practical.

  Mireille looks down into her wine. —Of course there’s more than that. To create things that are beautiful, I think it’s important. Even to make something ugly, as long as it’s true. After the last few years—it’s the thing I can still believe in.

  —What did you believe in before?

  —A mistake. Thinking you could fix anything if you cared enough about it. That may be true for art. But not for people.

  She looks up at me.

  —Anyway, you know what I’m talking about. You take pictures, it’s the same thing—

  I shake my head. —I’m not making anything special. Usually I barely look at my pictures after I print them.

  —Then why do it?

  —I just like taking pictures. When you carry a camera, it’s a different way of seeing things. You notice more, you have to look for details.

  —What about the pictures you took of me and Claire in front of the Seine? Did you take those just to notice more?

  —No. I took them because I’m a tourist.

  Mireille smiles. —Come on, let’s sit outside.

  I pick up the bottle of wine and Mireille gets a couple of wool blankets from the living room. We sit on the back steps. The night is cold but the stars hang bright above the treetops in the yard.

  —You know when I first met you, Tristan, I didn’t know what to think. Maybe I still don’t.

  Mireille lights a cigarette. I see the silhouette of her face turn away and then back to me.

  —On the train here, everything you told me about the northern railway and the Rothschilds. How do you know that?

  —I don’t know. I read some books about railroads.

  —And in Amiens, Mireille adds, you knew about the Hortillonnages even though you’ve never been there before. Or at the cathedral, all the statues in the doorway and your story about the head of Jean le Baptiste. How did you know all that?

  —I took a class on it. Plenty of people know that stuff—

  —Not like that. They might tell you one or two things, but most people wouldn’t know enough to talk for hours, because they’re not that interested. Tristan, you don’t look in the mirror before you leave the house, but you spend ten minutes worrying about what to carry in your bag. You keep changing your mind, taking out your jacket and putting it back in. And you’re so strange about money. You’d rather walk an hour than pay two euros for the bus, but when I ask you about this inheritance, you don’t want to talk about the money.

  —It just makes me feel weird.

  —I believe you. But anyone but you, it’d be the only thing they’d think about. I know it must be hard for you, all this pressure, and I want to help. But I don’t really know you. I don’t know anything about your real life—

  —Then ask.

  Mireille taps her cigarette against the steps. She looks at me.

  —What happened to your mother?

  —She died three years ago.

  —From what?

  —Colon cancer.

  There is a long pause. Then Mireille says, —I’m sorry.

  We sit in silence. Mireille pours more wine into the jars.

  —Is that why the money bothers you? Because it comes through your mother?

  —Maybe.

  I take a sip of wine, flipping up the collar of my jacket.

  —The way she lived, it wouldn’t have made much difference to her. But I think part of me really wants it.

  —That’s normal. Why should it bother you?

  —It’s just money. There are better things to care about. What else do you want to know?

  Mireille hesitates. —Do you have a girlfriend in California?

  —No.

  She takes a drag from her cigarette. A car passes on the road and she turns to follow its headlights.

  —How did you know those letters would be in Sweden?

  —Dumb luck. I was looking for something else, but I found them instead.

  —You don’t think it’s strange?

  —Of course I think it’s strange.

  Mireille nods, drinking the last of her wine. I rub my hands together under my blanket.

  —It’s freezing out here.

  —We can go inside.

  We stand up, gathering the jars and the empty bottle. Mireille turns back to me.

  —One more question. Do you really believe in all this? The lawyers, the money, the English couple?

  —You’ve asked me that before.

  —Do you believe in it or not?

  —I do.

  Mireille pulls the door open for me, the yellow light pouring out from the living room.

  —I just wanted to be sure.

  We are setting the table for breakfast. Mireille puts down two cups of coffee and begins to butter a long tartine of baguette. I stir milk into my coffee, shaking my head.

  —She came all the way to France to see him. And whatever happened, whatever she told him was so bad it broke them up—

  Mireille puts the bread on the table.

  —Maybe it was what he told her.

  —Maybe. But I bet it’s the key. I just don’t know how to get at it. I could go to every place the Berkshires went to, but there’s probably no point. I’m not allowed to ask anyone for help—

  —You could ask the lawyers.

  —They’ll just tell me to come back to England.

  —Maybe they won’t. Or maybe you should talk to your family. The lawyers will never find out. Why don’t you call your father?

/>   I shake my head.

  —He’d just tell me to hire somebody.

  Mireille sits across from me.

  —Your stepbrother then. Why don’t you talk to him?

  —He’s a scientist, he’d think the way I was doing this was crazy—

  —What kind of scientist?

  —Bioinformatics, he’s doing a PhD. I know what he’d say, I don’t even need to ask.

  —What would he say?

  I shrug. —Don’t trust people you don’t know. Especially not lawyers who promise you money.

  —And what about the English couple?

  —Adam thinks history’s pointless—

  —So what would he say?

  We start eating breakfast, chewing the bread and taking sips of coffee in silence. I look up at Mireille.

  —Don’t worry about things that’ve already happened. They’re not your problem. Don’t worry about money that doesn’t belong to you and probably won’t make your life any better. Don’t think everything in Europe’s better, because you always liked Europe and it’s messing with your head. Don’t trust French girls you met in a bar.

  Mireille smiles. —That’s good advice.

  She cuts a pear and puts a few slices on my plate. I lift my cup and set it down again, shaking my head.

  —Last year I was trying to decide if I should to move to LA after graduation. I talked to Adam about it for a couple hours. In the end all he said was that I always ask for advice so I can worry about it. Then I go and do the thing I was going to do anyway, because knowing it’s a bad idea never stopped me.

  —It never stops anyone.

  —You think staying here is a bad idea?

  Mireille shrugs. —You have to follow your instincts. If you think the evidence is around here, maybe it is. But you can’t expect it to fall in your lap. That may have worked before, but it won’t always work.

  —Then what should I do?

  We clear the table and Mireille fills the sink with hot water. She turns to me, holding the sponge in her hand.

  —C’est facile. You decide what you’re looking for. Then you’ll find it.

  19 November 1916

  No. 17 Stationary Hospital Albert

  Somme, France

  It is the hour in the garden each day that makes life tolerable. There are no flowers, of course, for the planters are all empty, their contents long ago carted away and stored, whether for winter or for the whole duration of the war. But there is grass. There is a whole lawn of unkempt green grass, whitecapped with hoarfrost in the mornings when Ashley’s slippered feet crunch upon the field, or thawed and damp in the afternoon gloom under ominous skies. But Ashley seldom looks at the sky. It aches to raise his chin too high.

  The doctors say Ashley’s recovery has been swift, but to him it feels interminable. A day confined to bed is an eternity. He gets through the nights only by his imagination. At eight o’clock each night, when the lights are switched off and the curtains drawn in the long gallery, Ashley shuts his eyes dutifully. Two hours later he is staring at the carved flowers in the coffered ceiling and following the stony ridgeline at dusk, the long descent down into valleys and pasture, Price asking for a drink from a herder who loans his wineskin, the wine cold and tasting of rawhide. They say they aren’t hungry, but the herder feeds them polenta from an iron pot and they sleep in a vast chalet with the herders and their black cattle, Price curled under a railway rug, Ashley watching the stars through the open doorway. Somehow Ashley likes ordinary memories best. They seem the easiest to go back to. Other nights he might remember the needle point of the Aiguille du Dru, or the crystal water of the Seelisbergsee he dived under, kicking and sinking into the cold blue heart of the lake. All the while Ashley lies perfectly still in bed. If he shifts his head on the pillow, the pain will make him wince.

  When he was admitted to the hospital Ashley could not raise his head two inches, nor utter a word, nor even swallow a sip of water. But by his second week he can speak in a hoarse whisper and is well enough to be wheeled into the garden for the ten minutes it does not rain that Sunday. The red-haired VAD puts Ashley under heavy woolen blankets, two over his lap and one pulled up to his chin. When they reach the garden doors the sky begins misting, but the VAD knows how badly Ashley wishes to be outside. She puts two fingers to her lips and smiles.

  —I won’t tell if you won’t tell.

  She props open the doors and pushes Ashley out in the wheelchair. The air dazzles him, brisk and fresh. The VAD wheels him into the paltry shelter of a leafless wych elm and they wait for the weather to break. Ten minutes later the sky begins to shed an icy rain.

  —And I thought English weather was rubbish, the VAD says.

  Soon Ashley is among the fittest men in the hospital. The doctors say a scar will remain on the interior of his trachea, but this does not seem to affect him negatively. One of the surgeons remarks that Ashley is a man of extraordinary regenerative power. Ashley supposes this means they will return him to the front sooner than he expected.

  His voice has changed and this is obvious even to Ashley. It remains slightly hoarse and he speaks more softly out of a protective instinct, and in a tone he seldom used before. All his life Ashley never thought of his voice, never considered how it grew and matured with him since boyhood, how the pitch and timbre told others that it was Ashley who was speaking to them, in words tender or vengeful. He realizes what it means only when it is gone.

  —My old voice, Ashley asks the doctor. I shan’t get it back?

  —I doubt it.

  Ashley looks out the window. The doctor frowns, writing something on Ashley’s chart.

  —You sound perfectly well and manly. You ought to take pride in your wounds, honorably acquired. A man who has held His Majesty’s commission in battle—he ought to sound different thereafter. For he is a different man. It’s rather fitting, isn’t it?

  —Certainly.

  He thinks of Imogen always. Over and over he replays the slim newsreel that is his memory of her, a set of gestures or sensations derived from less than a week together. He can remember the places well, how they felt—the field in Sutton Courtenay where she lay upon his chest, her body warm, the cool neck of the champagne bottle against his leg. But Ashley cannot picture her face. He knows what Imogen looks like, of course, as well as anyone can call back a face they have last seen two months ago. The photograph she sent him suffices for this, bent slightly but otherwise preserved by a waxed envelope inside his tunic. The picture is on his nightstand now.

  But Ashley wants more than this photograph, a fixed image impossible to translate into a lover of flesh and spirit. He wants to remember how she had looked in particular moments, to bring back her scent and the sound of her voice, the feel of her voile skirt between his fingers. He wants to see her face in Regent’s Park, where they kissed in the darkness and his gaze went always beyond her shoulder. He wants to see her eyes the last time he saw her at Victoria, when all he can remember are her wet hands, clasping and unclasping in futile shapes.

  She must have had a terrible time in the confusion of these last weeks. Three days ago Ashley received a letter from Eleanor in response to his postcard, and although Ashley quickly telegrammed Imogen in reply, he received no answer. It all seemed very peculiar, and in weaker moments Ashley wondered if her affections had wavered or expired altogether with the news of his death. There could be many reasons for Imogen’s silence and Ashley wasted hours considering and dismissing them in turn. Finally he began a letter explaining everything—the battle, his wounds, the colonel’s mistake—but it took him several attempts to write anything coherent. He sent the letter yesterday. He has only to wait now, and to keep himself from speculating.

  In truth he knows so little of her. He had fallen for Imogen so quickly that there had not been time to decide what he truly thought of her, as if it mattered. He’d had no choice. Ashley had felt powerless to resist her magnetism, her peculiar beauty, her pervasive sense of certainty about
everything. That certainty had spread to Ashley too, until he believed in their destiny as much as she did.

  Still it feels strange to know so few facts about one’s lover. For Imogen had spoken always in abstractions, talking of beliefs or sentiments and sending any questions back toward Ashley. He can describe her habits or her interests, but when the other officers in the ward look at her photograph and ask the most basic questions, Ashley falters. She mentioned reading English at Somerville next year if she passed the exams. Was it true? Ashley never quite grasped why she hadn’t passed the first time, for she certainly seems clever enough. She had lived abroad, he knows that. She plays the piano. She had printed a few poems in little magazines. Ashley has not seen these poems, and though Imogen mentioned people like Mallarmé or Debussy with great familiarity, he would not be able to describe her preferences in any detail. He is not even certain whether she is nineteen or twenty, but when the other fellows ask, he always says nineteen to be consistent.

  So long as she cared for him, none of this mattered. In the first week Ashley had eagerly watched the VAD distribute letters, his eyes following the envelopes and parcels as she handed them out from the mail cart, some of the men grinning, others not even turning to look, their faces swathed in white bandages. The post was usually distributed in the afternoon, but the VAD knew Ashley was eager for a letter and it seemed to him that she deliberately gave out the mail while he slept, for he often woke from naps to find the young lieutenant next to him reading a letter, his lips moving swiftly and silently.

  By the second week Ashley ignored the distribution. He slept in the afternoons when he could, and if he heard the porcelain casters of the mail cart rolling down the hallway, he turned in bed and shut his eyes.

  At the end of the fortnight he finally gets his answer. The weather is clear in the morning and Ashley paces the garden in weaving formations, making figure eights among the shrubs and flower beds. He still limps slightly, favoring his right leg. When he returns to his ward there is a letter on his nightstand. There is no address or stamp on the cover, only his name in the familiar script.