She tore it off and flung it into the wastebasket. She looked around for something to smash, but she didn’t want to break the mirror and everything else in the bathroom was solid marble. The conceited, vain, heartless, cocky, sarcastic, selfish, vulgar brat! She stamped her foot, hurting herself a little. He and his obsession with the bovine—there were plenty of people who liked her just the way she was. She was fed up with these little billets-doux in the mirror. She had been getting them for years now. It wasn’t funny. He could take his glossy card, his sense of humor, and the whole business and stick it—he even made her vulgar, that was the worst of it.
She started to go into her bedroom to dress, then changed her mind. Opening her dresser drawer, she found a large safety pin and went back through the bath into Fred’s room. She jerked open the top drawer of his dresser where he kept his underwear, handkerchiefs, and neckties, all in a jumble. She found a pair of underpants and stuck the pin into them, point inward, leaving it unfastened. She craftily set the underpants on top of the other garments in the drawer, rumpled them a little to make them look as though they had been dropped casually, and shut the drawer. Then she flounced away into her own room to get dressed.
This wicked and ingenious trap remained in the drawer until the next day. Fred had things to do on that Monday morning, all of them business for Herma, of course. He was preoccupied with thinking about them and planning his day. He came out of the bathroom naked, found a pair of socks on the floor and put them on first (they had only been worn once), and solemnly put on a soft felt hat and then knotted a cravat around his naked neck. He couldn’t resist going into the bathroom to look at himself in this rig. Great. Any number of his lady friends would swoon with desire. He went back into his room, took off the hat, necktie, and socks (they did smell a little and he was meeting somebody important at noon), and opened the dresser for a pair of underpants.
Sitting on the bed, he pulled the underpants up over his legs, still thinking about something else. When he stood up and hoisted them the last inch he felt a sharp and excruciating pain. He doubled up and stifled a cry.
Gingerly he lowered the underpants and looked at himself. There was a drop of blood on the thing all right. Right near the end too, the most sensitive part. He gritted his teeth. There was blood on the underpants too. He took them off, removed the open safety pin, and threw them both into the corner of the room. He sat down on the bed again. He felt moisture welling into his eyes and he took a corner of the sheet and wiped them. He felt funny. He didn’t know what it was exactly. It wasn’t the pain, it was something else. It was a sense of prickling and shrinking—of nebulous anxiety, of loss. Looking down and opening his legs again, he found that what he vaguely feared was happening—the thing was gone, disappeared, drawn up inside—in indignation, or fear of the vagina dentata, the great male-devouring monster of femaleness that hung over the world like an incubus, the all-seeing, all-punishing Mother-Beast who threatened in an awful voice to “cut it off if you go on playing with yourself.” And now she had done it. It still hurt like the devil. But the hurt was inside now, along with the rest of it. He (now she), her eyes still brimming with tears, went into her own room, put on her nightgown, and lay face down on the bed. After a while she noticed she was sobbing softly.
She had to get up. Fred had an appointment at noon. She lay there perhaps an hour. Then she pushed herself up from the bed, dried her eyes on the corner of her own bed sheet, and went to the escritoire across the room. Sitting down, she took a piece of pink notepaper and a fountain pen.
“To My Buddy,” she wrote. “The world is full of pain. There is too much of it. Why should we hurt each other? I am sorry if I hurt you. But you hurt me too, in my mind. That’s what you can’t understand. But I forgive you, we must forgive each other, and somehow we must reach across the mirror to each other and be friends, instead of seeking over the world like two lost and lorn creatures looking for something we can never find, suspicious of each other and always fighting. Fred, je t’aime. You are my brother, you are Myself. What is to become of us? Why must Male and Female always hate? We cannot be saved, Fred, unless we love each other as we love ourselves. We both know a great deal about love. You know how to love women, and I know how to love men. Why then can’t we love each other? If not, we are lost. You have made me feel very sad. And I have hurt you in a delicate place. I am sorry. And I wish you too could be sorry for me once in a while.”
She read this over. Then she took it into the bathroom and slipped it into the frame at the side of the mirror. She glanced back through the open door at the ormolu clock in her bedroom. It was after eleven-thirty. Backing away from the mirror, she lowered her arms to her sides and began the exercise of will that had become so familiar now that it was almost a reflex—to force out of her that magic organ of transformation that made her self into two selves, her world into two worlds, her consciousness into a battleground where the two most primitive forces in the universe were pitted against each other—one conscious and waking, the other lurking furtively in the shadows. At the very last moment, as an afterthought, she applied a little lavender perfume to the tip of her finger and touched it to the note on the mirror.
15.
Fred’s engagement was a lunch with a journalist who proposed to write an article on Herma for L’lllustration, except that he wanted to be bribed to do it—the way he put it was that the editor had to be bribed to accept the article, since it was not really news but advertising—“and in wartime,” he added, the son of a bitch. And he, the writer, was only passing along the sum in question to the real culprit, that unprincipled thief of an editor. After taking his cut, no doubt. Never mind, an article in L’Illustration was worth the money. They agreed on two hundred francs, and Fred would supply some photographs. Would Fred care for a drink? No, he wouldn’t. He wasn’t in a very good mood. He wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong with him.
He left the restaurant and after walking aimlessly for a while found himself in place St.-Augustin. It had started to rain again. He wasn’t far from the café in rue d’Astorg where he used to meet Agostinelli. He found it after a little searching, went in, and ordered a cup of coffee. He had never noticed before but it was called the Café des Americains, perhaps because of the many shops for tourists in the Grands Boulevards nearby. When the coffee came he left it untouched, lit a cigarette, and sat there for some time looking out through the steamy window at the people passing in the street. There was an odor in the place, as in all cafés in the winter, of stale beer, fried potatoes, and cigarette smoke. It wasn’t unpleasant. After a while he became aware of another faint scent, and it was only after a time that he identified it. He crushed out his cigarette, took the pink notepaper out of his pocket, and read it again.
She had the style of a sentimental schoolgirl. Yet she got to him somehow, damn her. “Fred, je t’aime. You are my brother, you are Myself. What is to become of us?” He felt a little twinge as though his eyes were going to film over and start blurring again. It was stupid. Who was he having this fight with anyhow? After all, he was only one person. Just as some people are happy one day and sad the next, he was a man one day and a woman the next. It was a simple enough matter, no more than a glove turned inside out. A lot of people would think it was queer, but there was no need to let them know about it. To believe that you are two people is only a dream, the kind of a dream where you are at a funeral and you walk up to the coffin and look in and the corpse is yourself. That was sick. He was not interested in dreams, he was wide awake, and he knew who he was. When she asked him to feel sorry for her, she was only asking him to feel sorry for himself. And that wasn’t his game. He was the American go-getter, the boy who could do anything, the confidence kid. He could handle his own affairs—he always had—his and hers too. That was what manager meant. He was the one who ran things. So no more of this stupid sentimentalism.
He started to crumple up the note, then he decided he didn’t want to leave it on the café table or
in the ashtray. He straightened it out, folded it again, and put it back in his pocket. What was to become of them? she wanted to know. There was no need for anything to become of them. They had already arrived. They were here. They were in Paris and Herma’s name was on every poster column. Next week she would be in L’lllustration. He was good at what he did. She would have to admit that. (There he was again, thinking about himself as two people.) There was a slang term for it, for all this talking people up, persuading restaurants to serve Fraise Herma, bribing journalists, getting articles in L’lllustration, and buying drinks for critics. It was called puffing. That was his life. Puffing in the daytime, fornication at night. And sometimes in the afternoon.
A pair of soldiers went by the window, one glum and the other laughing at something and punching the glum one on the shoulder. They were on leave probably and in a week they would be back in the trenches. He remembered the Zeppelins. The war for him, as it was for Marcel, was a spectator sport. He chased skirts, ate lunch with journalists, and visited Sodomite brothels, while what was perhaps the greatest drama of European history was being played out only a short distance away, so near that on still nights you could hear the faint sound of guns in the distance. He hadn’t flown for almost two years. It was the spring before the war began, he remembered, when he flew at Antibes with Agostinelli. The whole business of Agostinelli left him in an unsettled state of mind. It was like an unfinished story, or a song that stuck in your head because you couldn’t remember the last line. There was still something to happen about Agostinelli, something final. He lit another cigarette but he didn’t smoke it either; he set it in the ashtray and watched it. It was odd that Marcel, after it was all over, had never resented the business of Agostinelli—he had never shown any sign that lie, Fred, was guilty of anything or responsible for what had happened. And he wasn’t, of course. Agostinelli wasn’t a child. He was a man, a free agent. Flying was dangerous. Everybody knew that.
Perhaps, after the war was over, he could go back to flying again. That was his life—it was their life. She made the money, and he spent it on aeroplanes. Fred, je t’aime. You are my brother, you are Myself. What is to become of us? It was a funny way for her to put it, he thought. There was no question what was to become of her. She would be an international prima donna; she already was. He saw that what she had meant was: what is going to become of you? He looked at what he had done, and what he would go on doing the rest of his life. Sitting around in cafés, and flying on weekends. It wasn’t enough. In the end you had to do something for yourself—that wasn’t it exactly—something for someone besides yourself. Something that—Herma would admire. Like Tancrède, Herma’s soldier-boy. What was he supposed to do, go out in the trenches and bayonet a Boche? He wasn’t really strong enough for that. He wasn’t in good enough shape; he smoked too many cigarettes and didn’t get enough sleep. Besides it was their war, the French. And then he remembered something he had read in the Figaro a few days before. Something about Americans. He sat bolt upright in his chair and stared out into the street. Another pair of Frenchmen went by the café window in uniform. One of them was an aviator; he had wings in gold embroidery sewn onto his leather coat.
He got up, went to the cashier’s desk, set a franc in the saucer by her elbow, and picked up the telephone. “When the operator came on he gave her the number of Lucienne de Mainboche’s apartment. The maid answered, and after a moment Lucienne came on the wire. He asked her if she would like to go to the tea dance at Maxim’s. She would.
“I’ll come by for you at five.”
“No, dear boy, I’ll be out shopping. I’ll meet you there.”
“Au revoir.”
“Tata, cheri.”
He glanced at his watch. He still had a couple of hours. He had planned to go around to the photographer’s and make a selection of pictures for the L’Illustration article. Instead he went to the address he had jotted down on a slip of paper in his pocket. It was in the Hôtel Palais d’Orsay on the quay, not far from the Foreign Ministry. After checking with the porter, he went up to the second floor where an office had been installed in a suite overlooking the river. There was a low glass partition in the anteroom and behind it a spectacled girl was sitting typing.
“Escadrille Américaine?”
“Yes, but I’m American.”
He saw now she was wearing the uniform of the Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps.
“I want to join the Lafayette Escadrille.”
She put a piece of paper in her machine, lined it up, looked at it through her glasses, and began typing. “Are you a flyer?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a license?” She stopped typing with a look of vexation, got out her eraser, and corrected something.
“No.”
“Do you have a diploma or a certificate or something from a flying school?”
“No, but I have a lot of experience.”
A Frenchman stuck his head out of the inner office. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“Rien. Je m’en occuperai.”
Her accent was perfect. Perhaps, he thought, he could break his engagement with Lucienne. She wasn’t very pretty, but perhaps she would be prettier with her glasses off.
“If you don’t have a license, and you don’t have a school certificate,” she said, “then you can sign up, and if you pass the physical”—she glanced at his thin frame and his immature, rather intent face—“I can send you to the training school at Pau.”
“Training school?”
“Yes, it’s a basic five-week course in flying.”
“But I already know how to fly.”
“That’s what a lot of people say, but if you don’t have the papers you have to go to the training school.”
“I’m trying to tell you that I’m an experienced flyer. I’ve flown Blériots, Farmans, Bréguets, everything there is.”
“If you’re really good, you can go through the school in less time.”
“Can I see Mr. Prince?”
“No, he’s with the squadron.”
“Where is the squadron now?”
“At Luxeuil-les-Bains, in the Vosges.”
“Well, I want to be sent there directly.”
“That’s out of the question.” She made another mistake, said “Damn!” and got out her eraser again.
The Frenchman opened the door again. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“Alain, occupe-toi de tes oignons.” The door shut again.
“Isn’t there any way …”
“Not unless you have a license. Do you have a hearing defect, or what is your problem?”
Fred decided to try another tack. He crossed his legs and leaned on the counter. He put on his most boyish and winning manner. He made an offhand American-to-American smile.
“It would take a while to explain it. Are you free later this afternoon?”
“No, I’m not.”
“What about this evening?”
“I’m having dinner with my fiancé.”
“I suppose that’s Alain?”
“That’s none of your business.”
He turned away and stamped off. “Well then the hell with the whole thing. You can stuff it.”
“Thank you. I am glad we’ve been able to be of assistance.” She went back to her typing.
Lucienne was late at Maxim’s. Women always were. Actually Fred was a little early; he had nothing to do for the rest of the afternoon and the taxi from the Quai d’Orsay had taken only a quarter of an hour. He would have walked except that it was still raining a little. It was so dark that the street lights had come on at four, their yellowish glow making the gray air seem slightly sickly.
Inside Maxim’s the tables had been cleared away at one end of the main room and a small string orchestra was playing Strauss, Delibes, and Lehar. A few couples were dancing. Most of the men were French officers or foreigners. Fred ordered tea and sat with his feet on the chair opposite reading a Figaro. He estimated that she would a
rrive, perhaps, about a quarter after five.
He had met Lucienne de Mainboche through his negotiations with a committee of wives of government officials who were arranging for a benefit performance at the Odéon. It was the usual affair to buy bandages or provide hot cocoa for the poilus in the trenches, he had forgotten what. The committee met in a room at the École des Beaux-Arts. Most of the government wives were middle-aged. Lucienne was about forty perhaps. She reminded him somewhat of Ernestine in San Francisco; the same magnificent bosom, the same wise and penetrating, lightly ironic manner. But there was a vein of the aristocratic in her, exactly opposite to Ernestine’s healthy strain of the vulgar. She was more sedate and queenlike—something perhaps like a younger Madame Modjeska. She even wore her hair in the same diademlike coil, and held her chin slightly high, with a trace of hauteur, yet with a smile always lurking just under the surface of her expression. Twang! went the harp string inside Fred. It was not long before he was calling her Lucienne and they were saying tu and toi to each other.
Her husband, Évry de Mainboche, was something important in the Ministry of War. Perhaps he was an underminister. He was a thin active man about Lucienne’s age, with a frown and a hawklike nose. Fred had met him once or twice. He was very busy at the Ministry, often working late at night, and he seemed to have no objection to Fred taking Lucienne to tea dances or concerts or meeting her in cafés. Many of her friends had young men who took them places, some of them officers on leave, some diplomatic people or other foreigners. The English word flirt was fashionable just then. People said, “C’est son flirt de la semaine.” His flirt with Lucienne had lasted a little longer than a week now, although he had not yet succeeded in obtaining the heartfelt object of his desire. Lucienne was always in motion, always talking, always wanting to go to different places, always with her friends so that it was difficult to be with her alone.
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