My French Whore

by Gene Wilder

  A beautiful automobile was waiting for me. The backseat door was already open, and an elderly driver in a corporal’s uniform came to attention as I approached. He gave me a pleasant smile and saluted. I resisted my instinctive American salute and imitated his. Then we drove off.

  I sat in silence for ten or fifteen minutes, trying to overcome the increasing panic I was feeling about what would happen to me when we arrived. I wanted to talk to someone.

  “This is a swell car,” I said, without thinking.

  The driver turned his head. “Pardon me, sir?”

  “What a beautiful machine this is,” I said, recovering my senses. “Is it new?”

  “No sir, it’s a nineteen twelve Mercedes. But we try to keep it looking like new.”

  I could see, in his rearview mirror, that he was pleased with my comment. I supposed the “we” meant that he took care of the car himself and was proud of the way it looked. He seemed a little old to be only a corporal, with his bright silver sideburns disappearing into his hat, but he was a pleasant man and after a few more minutes I said, “May I ask your name?”

  “Tausk, sir,” he answered. “Cpl. Joseph Tausk.”

  “I’m glad to meet you, Corporal Tausk.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, slightly surprised, I think, that a colonel would deign to talk to him and even break the normal social barrier.

  More silence. I looked out of the window at the beautiful countryside we were passing, but I soon started thinking about Murdock and Wally, lying in the trench with their eyes open. How long can I keep this up? How could I have screamed at all those German soldiers and slapped their sergeant in the face?... and thrown beer in that stupid Captain Simmel’s face? I don V have the nerve to do things like that... I don’t... and yet I did.

  SEVEN

  WHEN WE ARRIVED AT COLONEL STEINIG’S magnificent castle I was overwhelmed: tall poplar trees, with wild flowers in bloom all across the lawns, and a small lake on one side of the castle with two swans floating in it.

  As we drove up, Joseph Tausk opened the door of the Mercedes, and I stepped out, almost tripping over the polished boots I’d been given. Two guards and an officer were waiting. The officer saluted and said, “An honor, sir. Please follow me.” I followed him into the castle.

  We went through an immense baronial hall, up a flight of stairs that looked like they were made of marble, then down a long corridor with an open door at the end. As I got closer to the open door I felt like—I don’t remember the expression, “A bull in a china shop?” or, “A pig in a bun shop?”—I just know that I felt ridiculous in this stupid, tight uniform I was wearing and the polished boots and the big hat. I took off the hat.

  The officer ushered me into the study and there sat Col. Viktor Steinig, midforties, sitting behind a highly polished mahogany desk. He was extremely handsome, with a full head of silver-and-blond hair, combed back so that his forehead was prominent. He had piercing blue eyes; and judging from the smooth skin on his unwrinkled face, I would bet that he got a massage every day.

  As he saw me enter, he got up quickly, nodded to the officer, who left the room immediately, and then walked toward me with a warm smile. We shook hands.

  “Harry!” he said.

  “Viktor!” I answered.

  He was either being very polite, or he was trying to put me off guard. After we shook hands, he never took those piercing blue eyes off me. Not for a moment. I had the feeling he was waiting for me to make some tiny slip. After staring at me for what seemed like ten or fifteen seconds, he said, “Deutsch oder Englisch?”

  “You speak English?”

  “Perfectly,” he answered.

  “Oh well, it doesn’t matter,” I said, wondering which choice was the trap. Then I said, “Deutsch!”

  “I prefer that we speak in English. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all,” I answered. Then why ask me? I suppose he just wanted to know which language I would choose.

  “So, we meet at last,” he said. “You can’t know how pleased I am.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You know, Harry, you’re shorter than I thought you would be,” he said, with a quizzical smile.

  “Well, actually, Viktor—you’re a little taller than I imagined you would be. I also thought you would be bald—don’t ask me why. Funny the way we draw pictures in our minds.”

  “You seem uncomfortable, Harry. Are you a little nervous?”

  “You would be uncomfortable, too, if you had to wear this ridiculously tight uniform.”

  “Of course, of course—Please forgive me. I’ll send my tailor to your room whenever you’re ready. Tell me—does duty permit you to rest for a little while or must you rush off somewhere and be brilliant?”

  “To tell you the truth, Viktor—I’m exhausted ... and a little lonely. I’ve been through so much recently. Actually, my superiors insisted that I relax for a while.”

  “Wonderful! Stay here and rest for a week or two. I’m sure you deserve a vacation. May I offer you some wine?”

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  “White or red, Harry?

  Trap ... Stroller said, “You don’t ever want to drink German red, Paul”

  “Some white would be wonderful,” I answered.

  “I’ll have some cold Champagne sent to your room, Harry. Do you mind if I ask where you learned to speak English?”

  “At home.”

  “From who?” he asked.

  “From whom” I answered. “I’m sorry—that was cheap. From my mother. She was American.”

  Good... Harry Stroller, you came through for me.

  “Oh, of course, I remember now. Harry, why don’t you take a little nap before dinner? I’m giving a small party tonight, just a few friends ... I’d love you to come. A little music and dancing and some delicious food ... it will do you good.” “Well ...”

  “I insist,” Steinig said, being very positive but very charming as well.

  Stroller would probably enjoy it. “Thank you. I’d be delighted,” I said.

  “Good for you.” Steinig took both my hands. “Harry, I hope we can become friends.” He shook my hand. “Go and get some rest now.”

  I couldn’t tell whether this was all an act on his part or if he actually meant it.

  A servant showed me into a luxurious bedroom. I’d never seen the likes of it—not even in any of the magazines that travelers left behind on my train. It had an enormous bed and a ceiling so high you would need a ladder to reach it. There was a silver bucket on the table next to the bed, with two glasses on a tray. The bucket was filled with ice and it held a bottle of already opened Champagne. There was also a bowl of fruit next to it. And only a few hours ago, I was running for my life.

  “Would you care for a glass of Champagne, sir? the servant asked.

  “Thank you, I would.”

  The servant poured a glass of bubbles, which soon calmed down. “Sir—” he said, offering it to me. He waited to see if I liked it.

  “Delicious!” I said.

  How would I know if it was delicious? This was only the second time in my life that I’d drunk Champagne. The first time was when Elsie and I got married.

  The servant said, “Thank you, sir,” and left.

  I wandered around the room, sipping Champagne, feeling wonderful and ridiculous at the same time. It’s true what I heard about the bubbles tickling your nose. I had to keep remembering not to take too big a sip.

  I took off my boots and walked over to the open window in the center of the room, which had moldings of miniature naked men and women all around it. They looked like they had been hand carved. Soft, blue velvet drapes hung on each side of the window, just touching the naked figures. I would never have seen this in Milwaukee—not if I lived to be a hundred. But because I was a coward who ran away when the machine guns started killing everyone around me, I’m given a room to live in that looks as close to Heaven as I’ll ever get.

  I was curiou
s to see the bathroom. I wasn’t disappointed. It was gigantic, with two large sinks and a bathtub that you could almost swim in, with enough towels for a family of four.

  On my way out of the bathroom, I took a handful of grapes and walked over to the open window. It was a beautiful day. The June air felt so clean as it blew across my face. I looked out over four or five acres of lawn. There were deer grazing at the far end, just below an apple tree.

  Directly below me was a cobblestone walk, with a small garden behind it. I dropped one of my grapes and watched it fall ... it seemed to take forever before it landed. Too far for me to jump I told myself. And if I did jump and if I didn’t break my bones— where would I go?

  After relieving myself in the bathroom, I walked to the large bed, pulled back the comforter, and lay down on pillows so soft that my head must have sunk six inches. On the ceiling above me there was a painting of four angels, playing together. They each had tiny wings. I couldn’t tell which were girl angels and which were little boys, but they were all smiling and having fun. I envied them.

  This had been the strangest day of my life. The Champagne was getting to me. After a few minutes I fell asleep and dreamed that Murdock and Wally

  were still lying in the trench, with their eyes open, but they were smiling at me. And just as Wally was about to say something that I desperately wanted to hear ... I woke up. Then I soaked in the beautiful hot water in my enormous private bathtub.

  EIGHT

  AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER I WAS DRESSED IN A navy blue suit, white shirt, and light blue tie, standing in front of the full-length mirror in my room. A short, Italian tailor, with dark hair and a glamorous mustache, was standing beside me, admiring his work.

  “So—you like?” he asked.

  “You’re a wonderful tailor,” I said. “I don’t know how you did it.”

  “No, is simple. I have a nice blue suit from a general before he goes to make the war ... I make a few snips, I cut some shoulders, I fix the sleeves ... and is perfect. He leaves you nice shoes, too, yes?”

  “Yes, they fit very well. You’re a genius.”

  “Yes, I am a genius. You need something else?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Thank you.”

  The tailor made a little bow and left the room.

  Music from a string quartet drifted up to my room through the open window. I took one last look at myself in the mirror, took a deep breath for courage, and walked down the marble stairway, following the Strauss waltz.

  I walked into a small ballroom and saw fifteen or twenty guests, mingling in little groups. Most of the men were officers—nothing lower than a captain— and the women were dressed formally, in white, mostly. A few couples were dancing. At one end of the room there were several tables overflowing with meats and pastries. Servants were pouring Champagne.

  I heard a voice calling out, “HARRY!” and turned to see Colonel Steinig beckoning me to come over to his little group.

  When I arrived, he said, “Harry, I would like to introduce you to some dear friends of mine who are most anxious to meet you. It gives me great pleasure to introduce Count von Oppersdorf. Count, may I present our former liaison to Briton—Col. Harry Stroller.

  I shook hands with the Count, who was actually in his general’s uniform, and said, “It’s a pleasure, sir.” Then Steinig said, “Any may I present the Countess von Oppersdorf.

  The Countess was a heavyset woman with an adorable smile. She was quite shy and giddy with anticipation as she offered me her hand. I shook hands with her. Steinig looked horrified, but the Countess burst out laughing. Then the Count began to laugh.

  The Countess said, “Colonel Stroller, this is the first time somebody makes me laugh for so long. Thank you.”

  I could see that Steinig was very relieved. He said, “Instead of kissing her hand, Harry shakes it, like an American cowboy. What would you have done, General, if an ordinary person had just done that to your wife?”

  “I would have shot him,” he said, and they all laughed so loudly that tears came to the Countess’s eyes.

  “That was refreshing, Harry,” the Count said. “You will forgive my wife—she is too embarrassed to practice her English in public.”

  “There’s no need,” I said.

  “No, but I want her to learn. It may become important, soon. What can I do to help her get over this shyness?”

  “Take her shopping in London,” I said.

  They all burst out laughing again. “Young man,” the Count said, “I’m glad that you are on our side. And now, I think I will have a little dance with my wife.”

  I shook the Count’s hand. The Countess offered me her hand again and this time I kissed it. As they moved off, Steinig moved close to me.

  “Harry, you are the hit of the party,” he said. Then he moved very close to me and whispered, “And now, my friend, for some serious business: Would you like a woman?”

  Does he really mean what it sounds like? It’s probably better if he thinks I’m a joker instead of an idiot.

  “To tell you the truth, Viktor, I think I’d rather have one of those pastries over there.”

  “No, no! No more games, Harry,” he continued in a whisper. “Tell me the truth—I’m your friend— would you like to be with a woman tonight?”

  I felt like a fool. I didn’t know what to answer.

  “Forgive me, Harry,” Steinig said, “I would not exactly win a prize for tact. Of course you would. It’s probably been a long time for you. May I make the selection? I’ve lived with your reputation for so long that I think I know even your taste in women.” He looked across the room, searching for someone. “Her name is Annie Breton, and she is standing ... there!”

  He pointed to a small brunette, quite thin, who was wearing a red-and-black gown that seemed out of place somehow next to all of the elegant gowns around her. She looked to be about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. I couldn’t tell if she was pretty because she was wearing so much makeup that it made her look cheap, but her small body was attractive. She was talking with a young officer.

  “Annie is French, Harry. She has great class ... and she’s a pig. That’s a nice combination, don’t you think? If you’re disappointed, tell me tomorrow and you can pick any bottle you like from my cellar.”

  “But she’s with someone,” I said, hoping for relief.

  “Oh, pooh! He’s a captain; you’re a colonel. She’ll like you more. You go over and get something to eat while I make the arrangements. Try some of those Napoleons—they’re delicious.”

  As Steinig walked away I went directly to the pastry table and looked at all the beautiful cakes and tortes and, of course, the Cremschnitten. I picked one up and took a bite ... it was delicious. Much more delicate than the “Napoleons” we had in Milwaukee.

  “Colonel Stroller?”

  I was so absorbed with my Cremschnitten that I didn’t realize someone was talking to me.

  “Harry Stroller?” the voice repeated. I turned to see that it was the little brunette with all the makeup who was talking to me. She was smiling.

  “Don’t you know your own name?” she asked. She spoke in English with a slight French accent.

  “I’m sorry ... I forget sometimes.”

  “Maybe you should tie a string around your finger,” she said.

  “What if I forget to look at my finger?”

  “Would you like me to stand next to you all the time, just in case?” she asked.

  “It might look a little funny.”

  “Then why don’t we dance?” she said. “That way, no one will notice.”

  She had a sense of humor—thank goodness. I smiled, wiped the whipped cream off my face and hands, and led her into the waltz that the string quartet was playing. My mother had taught me how to dance the waltz, so I was comfortable, at least for now.

  As we danced, I caught Colonel Steinig’s eye. He smiled and nodded a sign of approval. That was how I met Annie Breton.

  NINE

  WE L
EFT THE PARTY EARLY AND I WENT WITH ANNIE to her apartment. I had never done anything like this before, but I was afraid of what Viktor might think of Harry Stroller if he didn’t follow through with his arrangement. That’s only partly true ... I have to confess that I was also aroused by the idea. I hadn’t been with a woman for such a long time. The last time was with my wife, six months ago.

  As we entered Annie’s living room, we were met by a maid. Annie handed her evening wrap to the maid but never spoke to her and, apart from “Good evening” to me, the maid never said another word. She seemed to have a routine where she knew exactly what was to be done at each moment. The maid and I followed Annie into her bedroom.

  When I saw the bed I became very nervous. It was a four poster, with canopy, and there was a small table at the foot of the bed with an ice bucket and a bottle of Champagne, already opened.

  “Help yourself to Champagne,” Annie said, pointing to the bottle. “Maria will take your jacket.” Maria took my jacket and hung it over a man’s valet stand, which suddenly lessened any erotic thoughts I had.

  As the maid lowered the light from the gas lamps, I heard Annie, in her bathroom, calling out, “I hope you don’t like a lot of light.” It was as if she could see through the walls at what the maid was doing.

  “Do you want me to call you Colonel or Colonel Stroller or Herr Stroller or Herr Harry or what name would you prefer?” Annie called out.

  I almost said, “Just call me Paul,” but I caught myself in time. “Just call me Harry,” I said.

  “Oh, good. If you’d like to undress now, Maria will hang up your things.”

  The maid waited for me to hand her my “things.” I just shook my head no. Maria moved to the phonograph, which was near the head of the bed. I wondered if Annie had also timed the music. Then I heard her call from the bathroom, “Do you like music, Harry?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  A romantic French song began to play as Maria put the needle onto the phonograph record that was already in place. Then she turned down the bed and left the room. After a few moments, Annie came out, dressed—or I should say, almost undressed—in a very sheer lavender negligee.