The Collected Short Stories

by Jean Rhys

  I had started out in life trusting everyone and now I trusted no one. So I had few acquaintances and no close friends. It was perhaps in reaction against the inevitable loneliness of my life that I’d find myself doing bold, risky, even outrageous things without hesitation or surprise. I was usually disappointed in these adventures and they didn’t have much effect on me, good or bad, but I never quite lost the hope of something better or different

  One day, I’ve forgotten now where, I met this young man who smiled at me and when we had talked a bit I agreed to have dinner with him in a couple of days’ time. I went home excited, for I’d liked him very much and began to plan what I should wear. I had a dress I quite liked, an evening cloak, shoes, stockings, but my underclothes weren’t good enough for the occasion, I decided. Next day I went out and bought the milanese silk chemise and drawers.

  So there we were seated at a table having dinner with a bedroom very obvious in the background. He was younger than I’d thought and stiffer and I didn’t like him much after all. He kept eyeing me in such a wary, puzzled way. When we had finished our soup and the waiter had taken the plates away, he said: ‘But you’re a lady, aren’t you?’ exactly as he might have said, ‘But you’re really a snake or a crocodile, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh no, not that you’d notice,’ I said, but this didn’t work. We looked glumly at each other across the gulf that had yawned between us.

  Before I came to England I’d read many English novels and I imagined I knew all about the thoughts and tastes of various sorts of English people. I quickly decided that to distract or interest this man I must talk about shooting.

  I asked him if he knew the West Indies at all. He said no, he didn’t and I told him a long story of having been lost in the Dominican forest when I was a child. This wasn’t true. I’d often been in the woods but never alone. ‘There are no parrots now,’ I said, ‘or very few. There used to be. There’s a Dominican parrot in the zoo – have you ever seen it? – a sulky bird, very old I think. However, there are plenty of other birds and we do have shooting parties. Perdrix are very good to eat, but ramiers are rather bitter.’

  Then I began describing a fictitious West Indian shooting party and all the time I talked I was remembering the real thing. An old shotgun leaning up in one corner of the room, the round table in the middle where we would sit to make cartridges, putting the shot in, ramming it down with a wad of paper. Gunpowder? There was that too, for I remember the smell. I suppose the boys were trusted to be careful.

  The genuine shooting party consisted of my two brothers, who shared the shotgun, some hangers-on and me at the end of the procession, for then I couldn’t bear to be left out of anything. As soon as the shooting was about to start I would stroll away casually and when I was out of sight run as hard as I could, crouch down behind a bush and put my fingers in my ears. It wasn’t that I was sorry for the birds, but I hated and feared the noise of the gun. When it was all over I’d quietly join the others. I must have done this unobtrusively or probably my brothers thought me too insignificant to worry about, for no one every remarked on my odd behaviour or teased me about it.

  On and on I went, almost believing what I was saying, when he interrupted me. ‘Do you mean to say that your brothers shot sitting birds?’ His voice was cold and shocked.

  I stared at him. How could I convince this man that I hadn’t the faintest idea whether my brothers shot sitting birds or not? How could I explain now what really happened? If I did he’d think me a liar. Also a coward and there he’d be right, for I was afraid of many things, not only the sound of gunfire. But by this time I wasn’t sure that I liked him at all so I was silent and felt my face growing as stiff and unsmiling as his.

  It was a most uncomfortable dinner. We both avoided looking at the bedroom and when the last mouthful was swallowed he announced that he was going to take me home. The way he said this rather puzzled me. Then I told myself that probably, he was curious to see where I lived. Neither of us spoke in the taxi except to say, ‘Well, good night.’ ‘Good night.’

  I felt regret when it came to taking off my lovely pink chemise, but I could still think: Some other night perhaps, another sort of man.

  I slept at once.

  Kikimora

  The bell rang. When Elsa opened the door a small, fair, plump young man advanced, bowed and said ‘Baron Mumtael’.

  ‘Oh yes, please come in,’ said Elsa. She was aware that her smile was shy, her manner lacking in poise, for she had found his quick downward and upward glance intimidating. She led the way and asked him to sit down.

  ‘What a very elegant dinner suit you are wearing,’ said Baron Mumtael mockingly.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? . . . oh, I don’t think it is really,’ said Elsa distractedly. ‘I hate myself in suits,’ she went on, plunging deep into the scorn of his pale blue eyes.

  ‘The large armchair is of course your husband’s and the smaller one yours,’ said the baron quirking his mouth upwards. ‘What a typical interior! Where shall I sit?’

  ‘Sit wherever you like,’ said Elsa. ‘The interior is all yours. Choose your favourite bit.’ But his cold glance quelled her and she added, twittering: ‘Will you . . . do have a drink.’

  Bottles of whisky, vermouth and soda water stood on a red lacquered tray. ‘I’ll have vermouth,’ said Baron Mumtael firmly. ‘No soda, thank you. And you?’

  ‘A whisky I think,’ Elsa said, annoyed that her hands had begun to shake with nervousness.

  ‘How nice is ice on a hot afternoon. Are you . . . have you lived in America?’

  ‘No. Oh, no.’ She gulped her whisky and soda quickly.

  ‘Charming,’ said Baron Mumtael watching her maliciously, ‘charming. I’m so glad you’re not an American. I think some American women are a menace, don’t you? The spoilt female is invariably a menace.’

  ‘And what about the spoilt male?’

  ‘Oh the spoilt male can be charming. No spoiling, no charm.’

  ‘That’s what I always say,’ said Elsa eagerly. ‘No spoiling, no charm.’

  ‘No,’ said Baron Mumtael. ‘None. None at all. Will your husband be long do you think?’

  ‘I think not, I think here he is.’

  After Stephen came in the tension lessened. Baron Mumtael stopped fidgeting and settled down to a serious discussion of the politics of his native land, his love of England and his joy at having at last become a naturalized Englishman.

  Elsa went out of the room to put the finishing touches to the meal. It was good, she thought. He would have to appreciate it. And indeed, the first time he addressed her, after they sat down, he said: ‘What delicious food! I congratulate you.’

  ‘It all came from various shops in Soho,’ Elsa lied.

  ‘Really delicious. And that picture fascinates me. What is it supposed to be?’

  ‘Paradise.’

  A naked man was riding into a dark blue sea. There was a sky to match, palm trees, a whale in one corner, and a butterfly in the other. ‘Don’t you like it?’ she asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Baron Mumtael, ‘I think it’s colourful. It was painted by a woman, I feel sure.’

  ‘No, it was painted by a man,’ said Elsa. ‘He said he put in the whale and the butterfly because everything has its place in Paradise.’

  ‘Really,’ said Baron Mumtael, ‘I shouldn’t have thought so. One can only hope not. Please tell me which shop in Soho supplied the guinea-fowl and really delicious sauté potatoes?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten,’ said Elsa vaguely. ‘Somewhere around Wardour Street or Greek Street. I’m so bad at remembering where places are. Of course you have to fry the potatoes up with onions and then you get something like Pommes Lyonnaises.’

  But Baron Mumtael had already turned away and was continuing his conversation with Stephen about the next war. He gave it three months (and he wasn’t far wrong).

  The black cat, Kikimora, who had been sitting quietly in the corner of the room, sprang onto his lap. The
Baron looked surprised, stroked the animal cautiously, then sprang up and said: ‘My God! She’s scratched me, quite badly.’ And indeed there was blood on the finger he was holding up.

  ‘I can’t think what’s come over him,’ Elsa said. ‘I’ve never known him do such a thing before. He’s so staid as a rule. You naughty, bad cat.’ She snatched him up and flung him outside the door. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

  ‘Elsa spoils that cat,’ Stephen said.

  ‘I think,’ said Baron Mumtael, ‘that something ought to be done about my finger. You can’t be too careful about the scratches of a she-cat. If you’d be so kind as to let me have some disinfectant?’

  ‘He’s not a she-cat, he’s a he-cat,’ said Elsa.

  ‘Really,’ said Baron Mumtael. ‘Can you let me have some disinfectant? That is, if you have any,’ he added.

  ‘I’ve got harpic and peroxide of hydrogen,’ said Elsa belligerently, repeated whiskies having given her courage. ‘Which will you have?’

  ‘My dear Elsa . . .’ said Stephen.

  She left them and locked herself in the bathroom. When she came back Baron Mumtael was still holding his finger up, talking politics.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten the cotton wool,’ she said.

  At last the finger was disinfected and a spotless white handkerchief wrapped round it. ‘One can’t be too careful with a she-cat,’ Baron Mumtael kept repeating. And Elsa, breathing deeply, would always answer: ‘He’s not a she-cat, he’s a he-cat.’

  ‘Good-bye,’ said Baron Mumtael as he left. ‘I shall never forget your charming evening’s entertainment. Or your so very elegant dinner suit. It’s been quite an experience. All so typical.’

  As soon as he was out of the door Elsa said: ‘What a horrible man!’

  ‘I didn’t think so,’ Stephen said. ‘I thought he was rather a nice chap. It’s a relief to meet somebody who doesn’t abuse the English.’

  ‘Abuse the English?’ said Elsa. ‘He’d never abuse the English. It must be comforting to be able to take out naturalization papers when you find your spiritual home.’

  ‘You hardly shone,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Of course I shone. He brought out all my sparkle. He was so nice, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I didn’t notice that he wasn’t nice,’ said Stephen.

  ‘No. You wouldn’t,’ Elsa muttered.

  She went into the kitchen, caught up the cat and began to kiss it. ‘My darling cat. My darling black velvet cat with the sharp claws. My angel, my little gamecock . . .’

  Kikimora purred and even licked a tear off her face with his rough tongue. But when he struggled and she put him down he yawned elaborately and walked away.

  Elsa went to the bedroom, took off the suit she had been wearing, and with the help of a pair of scissors began to tear it up. Stephen heard the rending noise and called out: ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘I’m destroying my feminine charm,’ Elsa said. ‘I thought I’d make a nice quick clean job of it.’

  Night Out 1925

  It had been raining and the green and red reflections of the lights in the wet streets made Suzy think of Francis Carco’s books. She was walking with a man called Gilbert, known to his acquaintances in Montparnasse as ‘stingy Bertie’.

  Gilbert, pointing out that the rain had stopped and that the fresh air would do them good, was taking her to a place which he said was great fun and a bit of a surprise.

  They crossed the Seine and went on walking. Suzy was about to tell him that she was getting tired and must have a taxi when he stopped half-way up a quiet side street. They went down a few steps into a long narrow room lined with tall mirrors, and a woman dressed in black came forward.

  ‘Bonsoir Madame,’ said Gilbert familiarly. ‘Comment allez vous? I’ve brought a friend to see you.’

  ‘Bonsoir Madame, bonsoir Monsieur,’ said the woman showing her teeth.

  She doesn’t know him from Adam, Suzy was thinking when she lost sight of her and they were surrounded by a crowd of girls in varying stages of nakedness. They arranged themselves in a pattern, the ones in front kneeling, the ones at the back standing. Their spiky eye-lashes stuck out. They opened their mouths and fluttered their tongues at the visitors, not in derision as might be supposed, but in invitation.

  I bet they are giving us the bird too, Suzy told herself.

  ‘Choose one,’ said Gilbert. Suzy chose a small dark girl who she thought less alarming than the rest. Gilbert chose a much taller girl with red hair and a long chin. Rather like a mare.

  The others melted away, presumably to wait for the next clients.

  Suzy, Gilbert and their girls went to sit at one of several empty tables at the other end of the room. A very old waiter shuffled up and asked what they’d have to drink.

  ‘What sort of man takes a job as waiter in a place like this?’ said Gilbert in English but without lowering his voice. The girls asked for ‘deux cerises’, Suzy and Gilbert for Pernod.

  ‘He’ll soon be dead,’ said Suzy when the waiter had gone. ‘You needn’t be so virtuous about him. He can hardly walk as it is.’

  ‘A good thing too,’ said Gilbert.

  The music of a java reached them from some other room. The drinks arrived and the girls began to chat in an animated way but Gilbert answered briefly or not at all and Suzy was silent because she felt shy and couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say. After this had gone on for some time the mare began to look sulky but the other girl seemed worried – a hostess who feared the party was going to be dull, trying to imagine a way to liven it up.

  Eventually she turned to Suzy, lifted her skirt and kissed her knee.

  ‘Tu es folle,’ said the mare.

  ‘Mon amie n’aime pas ça,’ said Gilbert.

  ‘Ah!’ said the girl. She was wearing a very short white tunic, white socks and heelless black strap shoes. A brass medal hung round her neck. Her face was quite round. She looked rather stupid but sweet, Suzy thought, smiling and putting her hand on the small plump hand.

  ‘Tut tut,’ said Gilbert. ‘What am I to make of this?’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Suzy looking at him, ‘that if she got fed up here she could clear out. Could she?’

  ‘Of course she could,’ said Gilbert. ‘I’ll ask her.’

  ‘Mais certainement,’ said the girl. ‘Naturellement. Pourquoi pas?’ When no one spoke, she added in a low voice, ‘Seulement, seulement . . .’

  ‘Seulement what?’ said Suzy. ‘Seulement what?’

  ‘Oh do shut up Suzy,’ said Gilbert. ‘What’s the matter with you? Why these idiotic questions?’

  ‘Come upstairs,’ said the mare. ‘Come and see us do our “Cinéma”. You won’t be disappointed.’

  She also had on a white tunic, white socks and black slippers, but the tunic was open to the waist in front.

  ‘No,’ said Gilbert. ‘I think not.’ He went on speaking to Suzy: ‘This place has gone off dreadfully. It really used to be fun, it had an atmosphere. It’s not the same thing at all now. Of course we are much too early. But still . . .’

  ‘We might give you a few ideas,’ said the mare. ‘You look as if you need them.’

  ‘Come along Suzy.’ He sounded vexed. ‘Finish your drink and we’ll try somewhere else.’

  ‘I’m all for that,’ said Suzy, ‘because I really don’t think I’m going down very well here. One of the girls at the other end of the room is going to come across and slap my face any minute.’

  ‘Which one?’ said Gilbert turning to look. ‘Where?’

  ‘The one with the magnificent breasts,’ said Suzy.

  A girl with beautiful breasts and a very slim body was staring at her with an extremely angry expression.

  ‘Very bad tempered,’ said Gilbert.

  ‘She’s getting quite het up,’ Suzy said.

  ‘Yes I see,’ said Gilbert.

  ‘She thinks I’m here to stare and jeer. You can’t blame her.’

  The woman who had first
met them came up to their table. ‘Are any of these girls annoying you?’

  ‘Why no,’ said Suzy. ‘Absolutely not. We think them charming, don’t we Gilbert?’

  Gilbert didn’t answer.

  The woman glanced meaningly at the two girls and walked away.

  ‘Venez donc,’ said the mare. ‘Come upstairs. For you it will be only three hundred francs. And the champagne.’

  ‘No,’ said Gilbert, ‘I regret but no. Not this evening’, and in English, ‘That’s quite enough of that. Let’s depart.’

  The girls knew that the clients were dissatisfied and intended to leave.

  The dark girl was silent. But the mare began a long rapid speech to which Gilbert listened with a wry smile.

  ‘She wants us to stump up, of course,’ he said at last. ‘I suppose she thinks it a good idea to harp on the difficulties of her profession. Same old miseries. No splendours. Not any more. Sad, isn’t it?’ He laughed.

  The dark girl jumped up and hit the table with her fist so hard that her glass fell over.

  ‘Et qu’est-ce que tu veux que ça leur fasse?’ she said loudly. ‘Qu’est-ce que tu veux que ça leur fasse?’

  ‘Drama!’ said Gilbert. ‘What do you think it matters to them, she said.’

  ‘Yes. Gilbert, we can’t walk out and not give these girls a sou.’

  ‘They’ve had their drinks,’ said Gilbert.

  ‘Two cherries in brandy. Not much. Let me give them something, will you?’

  ‘Well,’ said Gilbert, ‘if I do, will you promise to come on somewhere else? Somewhere where they’ll put a bit more pep into it.’