That night, William of Orange, who lost no love on anyone, pulled himself onto the terrace table, having first attained a chair, and allowed Walter to scratch his throat. When he had had enough, he slipped away and dropped off the table and prowled along the wall. Eve was upstairs, putting the children to bed. It was a task she usually left to Angelo. Walter understood he and Frank had been deliberately left together alone. He knew he was about to be asked a favor. Frank leaned over the table. His stupid, friendly face wore its habitual expression of deep attention: I am so interested in you. I am trying to get the point of everything you say. He was easy enough; he never suggested Walter should be married, or working at something. He began to say that he missed South Africa. They had sold their property at a loss. He said he was starting over again for the last time, or so he hoped. He was thirty-seven. He had two children to educate. His face was red as a balloon. Walter let him talk, thinking it was good for him.
“We can always use another person on a farm—another man, that is,” said Frank.
“I wouldn’t be much use to you, I’m afraid,” said Walter.
“No. Well, I meant to say … We shall have to pack up soon. I think next week.”
“We shall miss you,” said Walter. “Angelo will be shattered.”
“We’re going to drive the Citroën up to Paris,” said Frank, suddenly lively, “and turn it in to Cook’s there. We may never have a chance to do that trip again. Wonderful for the kids.” He went off on one of his favorite topics—motors and mileage—and was diverted from whatever request he had been prodded by Eve to make. Walter was thankful it had been so easy.
Unloved, neglected, the hamster chewed newspaper in its cage. The cage hung from the kitchen ceiling, and rocked with every draft. Angelo remembered to feed the hamster, but as far as the children were concerned it might have been dead. William of Orange claimed them now; he threw up hair balls and string, and behaved as if he were poisoned. Angelo covered his coat with olive oil and pushed mashed garlic down his throat. He grew worse; Angelo found him on the steps one morning, dying, unable to move his legs. He sat with the cat on his knees and roared, as William of Orange had howled on the train in his basket. The cat was dying of old age. Walter assured everyone it was nothing more serious than that. “He came with the house,” he repeated again and again. “He must be the equivalent of a hundred and two.”
Angelo’s grief terrified the children. Walter was frightened as well, but only because too much was taking place. The charming boy against the baroque wall had become this uncontrolled, bellowing adolescent. The sight of his niece’s delicate ear, the lamps reflected in his nephew’s eyes, his sister’s disapproval of him on the beach, his brother-in-law’s soulless exposition of his personal disaster—each was an event. Any would have been a stone to mark the season. Any would have been enough. He wanted nothing more distressing than a spoiled dinner, nothing more lively than a drive along the shore. He thought, In three days, four at the most, they will disappear. William of Orange is old and dying, but everything else will be as before. Angelo will be amusing and young. Mrs. Wiggott will invite me to dine. The telephone will ring.
The children recovered quickly, for they saw that William of Orange was wretched but not quite dead. They were prepared to leave him and go to the beach as usual, but Angelo said he would stay with the cat. The children were sorry for Angelo now. Johnny sat next to Angelo on the step, frowning in a grown-up way, rubbing his brown knees. “Tell me one thing,” he said to Angelo from under his sun hat. “Is William of Orange your father or something like that?” That night the little boy wet his bed, and Walter had a new horror. It was the sight of a bedsheet with a great stain flapping on the line.
Fortunately for Walter, the family could no longer put off going away. “There is so much to do,” said Eve. “We got the Citroën delivered, but we didn’t do a thing about the children’s schools. I wonder if the trunks have got to London? I expect there hasn’t been time. I hope they get there before the cold weather. All the children’s clothes are in them.”
“You are preposterous parents,” Walter said. “I suppose you know that.”
“We are, aren’t we?” said Eve cheerfully. “You don’t understand how much one has to do. If only we could leave the children somewhere, even for a week, while we look at schools and everything.”
“You had your children because you wanted them,” said Walter. “I suppose.”
“Yes, we did,” said Frank. It was the only time Walter ever saw his easy manner outdistanced. “We wanted them. So let’s hear no more about leaving them. Even for a week.”
Only one rainy day marred the holiday, and as it was the last day, it scarcely counted. It was over—the breather between South Africa and England, between home for the children and a new home for Eve. They crowded into the sitting room, waiting for lunch. They had delayed leaving since early that morning, expecting, in their scatterbrained way, that the sky would clear. The room smelled of musty paper and of mice. Walter suddenly remembered what it was like in winter here, and how Angelo was often bored. His undisciplined relations began pulling books off the shelves and leaving them anywhere.
“Are all these yours?” Mary asked him. “Are they old?”
“These shelves hold every book I have ever bought or had given me since I was born,” said Walter. And the children looked again at the dark green and dark wine covers.
“I know Kim,” said Mary, and she opened it and began to read in a monotonous voice, “ ‘He sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammeh on her brick platform opposite the old Ajaibgher.’ ”
“I can still see him,” said Eve. “I can see Kim.”
“I can’t see him as I saw him,” said Walter.
“Never could bear Kipling, personally,” Frank said. “He’s at the bottom of all the trouble we’re having now. You only have to read something like ‘Wee Willie Winkie’ to understand that.”
“Why is the gun ‘her’?” Mary asked.
“Because in an English education it’s the only thing allowed to be female,” said Frank. “That and boats.” He hadn’t wanted the change; that was plain. For Eve’s sake, Walter hoped it was a change for the good.
“This book is all scribbled in,” Mary complained. She began to turn at random, reading the neat hand that had been Walter’s at twelve: “ ‘Shows foresight,’ ” she read. “ ‘Local color. More color. Building up the color. Does not wish to let women interfere with his career.’ That’s underlined, Uncle Walter,” she said, breaking off. “ ‘A deceiver. Kim’s strong will—or white blood? Generous renunciation. Sympathetic. Shows off. Sly. Easily imposed on. Devout. Persistent. Enterprising.’ ”
“That will do,” said Frank. “ ‘Shows off’ is the chief expression where you’re concerned.”
“Those notes were how Kipling was introduced to me, and I used them when I was teaching Angelo,” said Walter. “Angelo doesn’t like Kipling, either. You can keep the book, if you want it.”
“Thank you very much,” said Mary automatically. She placed the book more or less where it had been, as if she recognized that this was a bogus gesture.
“Thank you, darling Walter,” said Eve, and she picked up the book and stroked the cover, dirtying her hand. “Johnny will love it, later on.”
Walter’s first dinner invitation of the autumn season arrived by post eight days after the Osborns had gone. In the same mail were three letters, each addressed by his sister. Eve thanked him for his great kindness; he would never know what it had meant, the holiday it had been. They were in a hotel, and it was a great change from the south. In a P.S. she said they were moving to the new farm soon. The children were their great worry. She went on about schools. The postscript was longer than the body of the letter.
The other two envelopes, although addressed by Eve, contained letters from Mary and Johnny. The boy spelled difficult words correctly, simple words hopelessly, and got his own name wrong.
“Dear Uncle Walter,” he wrote. “Thank you for letting us stay at your house.” A row of dots led out to the margin, where he had added, “and for Kim.” The text of the letter went on, “It was the most exciting, and enjoyable time I have ever had. Please tell Angelo on the way back we were fined for overtaking in a village, but we got safley out of France. I hope the hamster is well and happy. Tell Angelo there are two very small kittens down in the kitchin of the hotel where we now rent two rooms. They are sweat, white, snowballs, also there is a huge golden labridore, he is very stuppid. Love from Johny.”
The girl’s letter had been written on a line guide. Her hand was firm. “Dear Uncle Walter,” she said. “Thank you for letting us sleep in your house and for everything too. We had a lovely time. Will you please tell Angelo that on the way to Paris Daddy was fined 900 francs for overtaking in a village. He was livid. On Monday I had two teeth out, one on each side. I hope the hamster is healthy. Will you please tell Angelo that our trunks have arrived with my books and he can have one as a present from me, if he will tell me which one he likes best.
Successful Show Jumping
Bridle Wise
Pink and Scarlet
The Young Rider
“These are my favorites and so I would like him to have one. Also, here is a poem I have copied out for him from a book.
FROM THE DREAM OF AN OLD MELTONIAN
by W. Bromley Davenport
Though a rough-riding world may bespatter your breeches
Though sorrow may cross you, or slander revile,
Though you plunge overhead in misfortune’s blind ditches,
Shun the gap of deception—the hand gate of guile.
“Tell Angelo we miss him, and William of Orange, and the hamster too. Thank you again for everything. Your affectionate niece, Mary.”
Walking to the kitchen with the letters in his hand, he tried to see the passionate child—dancer, he had thought—on the summer beach. But although eight days had passed, no more, he had forgotten what she was like. He tried to think of England then. Someone had told him the elms were going, because of an American disease. He knew that all this thinking and drifting was covering one displeasure, one blister on his pride: It was Mary’s letter he had been waiting for.
“These letters are intended for you,” he said, and put them in Angelo’s hands. “They were addressed to me by mistake. Or perhaps the family didn’t know your full name. I didn’t know you were interested in horses, by the way.”
Angelo sat at the kitchen table, cleaning the hamster’s cage. Mme. Rossi sat facing him. Neither of them rose. “Master-servant,” Eve had said. She ought to have seen Angelo’s casual manner now, the way he accepted his morning’s post—as though Walter were the servant. The boy’s secretive face bent over the letters. Already Angelo’s tears were falling. Walter watched, exasperated, as the ink dissolved.
“You can’t keep on crying every time I mention the children,” he said. “Look at the letters now. You won’t be able to read them.”
“He is missing the family,” Mme. Rossi said. “Even though they made more work for him. He cries the whole day.”
Of course he was missing the family. He was missing the family, the children were missing him. Walter looked at the boy’s face, which seemed as closed and vain as a cat’s. “They meant more work for you,” he said. “Did you hear that?”
“We could have kept the children,” Angelo mumbled. His lips hung open. His face was Negroid, plump. One day he would certainly be fat.
“What, brought them up?”
“Only for one week,” said Angelo, wiping his eyes.
“It seems to me you overheard rather a good deal.” Another thought came to him: It would have been a great responsibility. He felt aggrieved that Angelo did not take into consideration the responsibilities Walter already had—for instance, he was responsible for Angelo’s being in France. If Angelo were to steal a car and smash it, Walter would have to make good the loss. He was responsible for the house, which was not his, and for William of Orange, who was no better and no worse, but lay nearly paralyzed in a cardboard box, demanding much of Angelo’s attention. Now he was responsible for a hamster in a cage.
“They would have taken me on the farm,” Angelo said.
“Nonsense.” Walter remembered how Eve avoided a brawl, and he imitated her deliberately mild manner. He understood now that they had been plotting behind his back. He had raised Angelo in cotton wool, taught him Kipling and gardening and how to wash the car, fed him the best food … “My brother-in-law is Irish,” he said. “You mustn’t think his promises are real.”
The boy sat without moving, expressionless, sly. He was waiting for Walter to leave the room so that he could have the letters to himself.
“Would you like to go home, Angelo?” Walter said. “Would you like to go back and live in Italy, back with your family?” Angelo shook his head. Of course he would say no to that; for one thing, they relied on his pocket money—on the postal orders he sent them. An idea came to Walter. “We shall send for your mother,” he said. The idea was radiant now. “We shall bring your old mother here for a visit. Why not? That’s what we shall do. Bring your mother here. She can talk to you. I’m sure that is all you need.”
“Can you imagine that lazy boy on an English farm?” said Walter to Mrs. Wiggott. “That is what I said to him: ‘Have you ever worked as a farmer? Do you know what it means?’ ” He blotted imaginary tears with his sleeve to show how Angelo had listened. His face was swollen, limp.
“Stop it, Walter,” said Mrs. Wiggott. “I shall perish.”
“And so now the mother is coming,” said Walter. “That is where the situation has got to. They will all sit in the kitchen eating my food, gossiping in Calabrian. I say ‘all’ because of course she is bound to come with a covey of cousins. But I am hoping that when I have explained the situation to the old woman she can reason with Angelo and make him see the light.”
“Darling Walter,” said Mrs. Wiggott. “This could only happen to you.”
“If only I could explain things to Angelo in our terms,” said Walter. “How to be a good friend, a decent host, all the rest. Not to expect too much. How to make the best of life, as we do.”
“As we do,” said Mrs. Wiggott, solemn now.
“Live for the minute, I would like to tell him. Look at the things I put up with, without complaint. The summer I’ve had! Children everywhere. Eggs and bacon in the hottest weather. High tea—my brother-in-law’s influence, of course. Look at the house I live in. Ugly box, really. I never complain.”
“That is true,” said his old friend.
“No heat in winter. Not an anemone in the garden. Les Anémones, they called it, and not an anemone on the place. Nothing but a lot of irises, and I put those in myself.”
APRIL FISH
Because I was born on the first day of April, I was given April as a Christian name. Here in Switzerland they make Avril of it, which sounds more like a sort of medicine than a month of spring. “Take a good dose of Avril,” I can imagine Dr. Ehrmann saying, to each of the children. Today was the start of the fifty-first April. I woke up early and sipped my tea, careful not to disturb the dogs sleeping on the foot of the bed on their own Red Cross blanket. I still have nightmares, but the kind of terror has changed. In the hanging dream I am no longer the victim. Someone else is hanged. Last night, in one harrowing dream, one of my own adopted children drowned, there, outside the window, in the Lake of Geneva. I rushed about on the grass, among the swans. I felt dew on my bare feet; the hem of my velvet dressing gown was dark with it. I saw very plainly the children’s toys: the miniature tank Igor has always wanted, and something red—a bucket and spade, perhaps. My hair came loose and tumbled down my back. I can still feel the warmth and the comfort of it. It was auburn, leaf-colored, as it used to be. I think I saved Igor; the memory is hazy. I seemed very competent and sure of my success. As I sat in bed, summing up my progress in life as measured by drea
ms, trying not to be affected by the sight of the rain streaming in rivulets from the roof (I was not depressed by the rain, but by the thought that I could rely on no one, no one, to get up on the roof and clear out the weeds and grass that have taken root and are choking the gutter), the children trooped in. They are home for Easter, all three—Igor, with his small thief’s eyes, and Robert, the mulatto, who will not say “Maman” in public because it makes him shy, and Ulrich, whose father was a famous jurist and his mother a brilliant, beautiful girl but who will never be anything but dull and Swiss. There they were, at the foot of the bed, all left behind by careless parents, dropped like loose buttons and picked up by a woman they call Maman.
“Bon anniversaire,” said Igor, looking already like any postal clerk in Moscow, and the two others muttered it in a ragged way, like a response in church. They had brought me a present, an April fish, but not made of chocolate. It was the glass fish from Venice everyone buys, about twenty inches long, transparent and green—the green of geranium leaves, with chalky white stripes running from head to tail. These children have lived in my house since infancy, but their taste is part of their skin and hearts and fingernails. The nightmare I ought to be having is a projection into the future, a vision of the girls they will marry and the houses they will have—the glass coffee tables and the Venetian-glass fish on top of the television, unless that space has already been taken up with a lump of polished olive root.
Igor advanced and put the fish down very carefully on the table beside me, and, as he could think of nothing else, began again, “Bon anniversaire, Maman.” They had nothing to tell me. Their feet scuffled and scratched on the floor—the rug, soiled by the dogs, was away being cleaned.
“What are you going to do today?” I said.
“Play,” said Robert, after a silence.
The Selected Stories of Mavis Gallant Page 41