Heading South

by Dany Laferriere

  CHARLIE KNOWS THAT every Wednesday his father accompanies the ambassador into the city. He takes advantage of his father’s absence to spend that day with his mother at the Abels’ villa. Even when Charlie and his father were still close, his father never wanted his son to visit the villa, saying that he could not receive him properly in a house in which he was not the master. His mother, on the other hand, has never felt the least bit humiliated by the work she does. So Charlie fell into the habit of visiting his mother on Wednesdays. Sometimes they don’t even talk. She’ll make him a cup of coffee, which he will sip while she goes on with her housework or prepares the Abels’ dinner. This day, he finds his mother sitting at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes.

  “Hello, Mama.”

  She jumps.

  “Don’t tell me your father left that gate open again. It’s the same thing every Wednesday; he gets as excited as a child when he has to go into town with the ambassador . . .”

  “No problem, I closed it . . . Are you okay, Mama?”

  Silence.

  “What’s the matter, Mama? You don’t seem yourself today.”

  “I’m worried about your father.”

  “What for? Is he sick?”

  Another silence.

  “I don’t think he’s going to be able to resist . . .”

  “Resist what? Now you’ve got me worried, Mama.”

  She takes a deep breath.

  “You know what a prideful man your father is . . . Well, here it is: for the past two weeks there’s been a young girl living here. The daughter of the ambassador’s elder brother, Monsieur Georges, who has just died. Monsieur Georges lived all his life in Paris. He was married there to a Frenchwoman from a noble family . . . The daughter doesn’t want to live with her mother in France, and so she came to live here.”

  “So, what’s wrong with that? The ambassasor’s her uncle . . .”

  “Yes, but Monsieur Georges was not like the ambassador. He was, how can I put it, more aristocratic. He was even snootier than his wife, who at least is a real aristocrat. They came here two Christmases ago . . .”

  “Oh, to hell with Georges and his upper-class hussy . . .”

  His mother opens her eyes wide.

  “Don’t make fun . . . She’s a terror, that girl. This morning she yelled at your father again . . . And I could see how much effort it took him to keep from putting her in her place. Truly, she treats us like we were a couple of slaves, and the ambasssador . . .”

  “Yes, yes, so why doesn’t he just speak to the ambassador? You’ve always said he was justice incarnate.”

  “I know, but the ambassador adored his brother, he’s the only brother he had, and it makes him very happy to have his brother’s daughter living with us . . . Your father hasn’t the heart to tell him what she’s like . . . you understand?

  “No, Mama, I’m sorry but I don’t understand.”

  His mother raises a face ravaged by pain.

  “He’ll never do it, and we’ll have to leave the villa.”

  “You would rather lose this great job than complain about the behaviour of this girl?”

  His mother goes back to peeling potatoes, as though she hasn’t heard him.

  “That’s what I said to him, Charles . . . And he said to me that he’ll never speak to the ambassador. And he won’t, I know it, and we’ll soon have to quit this place.”

  “Where is this girl?”

  “She’s probably at the Bellevue Circle playing tennis. It’s just across the way.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Very pretty . . . She takes after her mother, but she has the personality of her father . . . very conscious of what she is . . .”

  “Okay, Mama, I’ve got to go . . . Can you lend me a little money?”

  “Of course I can, but from now on I’m going to have to watch what I spend . . . Oh, my God, I don’t know what he’s going to say to the ambassador to explain why we’re leaving . . . Oh, Charles, what’s going to happen to us? We’re like one big family here.”

  “I’ve got to go now . . . See you next week.”

  “Maybe . . . I don’t know. I don’t have any control over my life . . .”

  THERE ARE STILL a few people on the courts, despite the oppressive heat.

  “Who’s that girl, there?” Charlie asks the gardener who is standing beside him.

  “Mademoiselle Abel . . . She just got here . . . She’s a good player, but she’s got a lousy personality.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Ha! When she loses, she shouts insults at everybody, even the umpire.”

  “I’d like to speak to her.”

  “Why? You doing something for her?”

  “No, I just want to speak to her.”

  “I doubt that that’s possible, my friend.”

  “We’ll see.”

  THE BAR IS at the far end of the courts.

  “Whisky,” Charlie says.

  The barman looks at him.

  “I don’t recall seeing you here before.”

  “It’s the first time I’ve been here . . . and it won’t be the last.”

  “Forgive me, my friend, but I doubt that very much. This is a private club. That’s why it’s called the Circle, you see? Either you join, or else you have to be invited here by one of the members. Otherwise . . .”

  “I see you know the rules pretty well.”

  The barman smiles.

  “I’ve been working here for twenty years, my friend . . . I not only know all the rules, I know all the people, and I know their ways.”

  “Well, then, you must know my father.”

  The barman looks closely at Charlie.

  “Your father?”

  “No, he’s not a member,” Charlie says, laughing. “He works across there, at Ambassador Abel’s place.”

  The barman’s expansive smile.

  “You ask me do I know your father? And how! We started working together. Me, here, him at the ambassador’s. How is he doing? I haven’t seen him in a while, now. A very upright man, your father. And a good friend . . . In a way, he’s just like the ambassador. They’re like a couple of twins . . . They come from different social classes, but deep down they’re the same kind of person . . . What’s up with your father?”

  “He’s having problems.”

  “Health, I’d guess.”

  “No, thank God, he’s all right on that side of things. He’s having problems at work.”

  The barman can hardly restrain a cry of surprise.

  “With the ambassador?”

  “No, with his niece.”

  “Mademoiselle Abel,” says the barman, dryly. “I can understand that.”

  “I’d like to meet her . . .”

  “She should be on the court right now . . . I can tell you, though, she’s not an easy one to deal with . . .”

  The barman gives Charlie a sidelong glance.

  “Ah, I get it,” he says with a smile of complicity. “You want to talk to her . . . They’ll all be coming here tonight to dance . . . But you have to be a member to get in. During the day you can come in here no problem, but at night it’s impossible. I can tell by looking at you that you’re no slouch with the ladies, but I’d be very surprised if that one would have anything to do with the son of a servant . . . But let me think for a bit . . . Not everyone here is a snob. I’ll ask Hansy; his father’s a rich industrialist, but he doesn’t let that go to his head. That’s it, I’ll ask Hansy to invite you. So when you get here tonight, all you do is say you’re a guest of Hansy and there won’t be any problem . . .” He favours Charlie with a conspiratorial wink.

  “It’s the least I can do for your father.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  CHARLIE SITS in the sunlight watching the tennis match. Mademoiselle Abel is losing to a good-looking brunette. She’s in a foul mood. Every time she misses a shot, Charlie applauds loudly. She looks quickly but furiously at the bleachers. At the end of t
he match (a terrific smash by her opponent that she could only watch as it went past her) Charlie jumps to his feet and claps. The two women pass in front of him. The winner (the brunette bombshell) smiles at him discreetly; Mademoiselle Abel looks straight ahead.

  IN CHARLIE’S MINISCULE ROOM. Nine o’clock at night.

  “Who is it?”

  “Fanfan.”

  “Come in.”

  “What’s happening, my man? You’re all dressed up like a prince . . . You look like you got something big going on . . .”

  “How’s your principal friend?”

  “I’m giving her a hard time . . . Chico says she drives past the Rex Café ten times an hour . . . You going to tell me where you’re going?”

  “To the Bellevue Circle.”

  “I hope you’re a member, otherwise they’ll kick your ass out of there . . .That place is like a fortress for the bourgeoisie, and they guard it very jealously, my friend . . . They’ll card you . . .”

  “I got an invitation.”

  “Oh, well, that’s different . . .”

  “What’s the matter, Fanfan? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “If you want my advice, my friend, take off that suit, which you have obviously rented for the occasion.”

  “But it’s a good suit. You said yourself I look like a prince.”

  “Rule number one: don’t dress like a prince when you’re going among princes. You can’t compete with them on their own ground.”

  “Okay, I understand . . . How do you know so much, anyway? You’ve never been invited into a rich person’s home.”

  “I’ve prepared myself for that eventuality . . . And I’ll give you some more advice, too: pretend to be honest. Don’t try to hide anything. You’re a poor man and they’re rich, that’s all. You could be introducing them to a whole new universe . . .”

  “Look, Fanfan, I’m not going there to seduce the entire middle class. I’m going to meet a girl . . .”

  “What I said goes for any and all occasions, my friend . . . See you around.”

  DOORMAN AT the entrance.

  “You ain’t a member.”

  “I’m a guest of Hansy’s.”

  “Wait here.”

  He’s gone for several minutes (I hope the barman didn’t forget to warn Hansy), then comes back with a man who looks like a perpetual smiler, obviously a bon vivant.

  “This guy says you invited him.”

  “Charlie! Charlie, my old buddy! What are you doing standing here at the door? Hey, Muscle,” he says to the doorman, “don’t you recognize Charlie? He won the German tennis championship, first Haitian to ever place in the top ten . . .”

  Muscle gives Charlie a dubious look. He must be used to Hansy’s shenanigans.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Charlie says quickly. “I don’t even know him. A friend of mine”—he didn’t want to betray the bar-man—“ asked him to invite me, seeing as I’m not a member.”

  This time the look Muscle gives him contains a degree of astonishment. Hansy laughs so hard his sides are aching.

  “What a kidder,” he says to Charlie, clapping him on the back.

  Hansy shows Charlie around the club for a few moments. One of the morning’s players, the brunette bombshell, comes up to them.

  “Thanks for encouraging me this morning,” she says with a slight American accent. She gives him a long, languorous wink.

  “Don’t mention it,” Charlie says calmly, “I like the way you play . . .”

  “Really? You have no idea how happy that makes me! Thank you so much.” And she continues on her way, smiling.

  “What did you say to her? I’ve never seen June so excited before . . . Did you see that wink she gave you?”

  “She’s a nice girl.”

  “What? A nice girl? She’s marvellous, my friend. She’s the most beautiful woman I know.”

  Hansy seems on the point of bursting with excitement.

  “Don’t mind me,” he says, “I get like this . . . I’m hypersensitive, you see . . . But June . . . I’ve never seen her like this . . . And you take it so . . . casually . . . Oh, I see, she’s not the right gender for you, is that it?”

  Without Charlie being aware of it, someone has come up to stand beside Hansy.

  “Hansy, darling, what are you doing, talking to this imbecile?” “Who do you mean, Missie?” Hansy says, looking frantically about.

  “The idiot standing in front of you, Hansy.”

  “Him? Do you know him?”

  “I saw him this morning.”

  “Ah!” says Hansy, laughing. “It was you playing June, was it? Florence called me to say June absolutely wiped the court with someone this morning, but she wouldn’t tell me who it was . . .”

  “Oh, stop it, Hansy. As for him, I don’t know how he got in here, but . . .”

  “He’s here as my personal guest . . . a dear friend . . . Let me introduce you . . . In the left corner, Missie Abel, tolerable as a tennis player but intolerable off the court . . . And in the right corner, my good friend Charlie . . . Let the games begin . . .”

  “I don’t know where you dig up your dear friends, Hansy, but for heaven’s sake you don’t have to drag them in here . . .”

  “I don’t think I need to mention that no holds are barred.”

  “At any rate,” Charlie says evenly, “I don’t like bottle blondes. ”

  “What! Me, a bottle blonde! You’re out of your mind! You don’t know what you’re talking about! You see, Hansy, I told you he was an idiot.”

  “And worse than bottle blondes,” continues Charlie, “what I dislike even more are real blondes who never stop bragging about it.”

  Missie’s mouth drops open.

  “I’m going to get a whisky, Hansy,” Charlie says. “Do you want a drink?”

  “I’ll have the same,” Hansy replies. “What about you, Missie?”

  “What?” says Missie.

  “Do you want something? Charlie’s getting the drinks.”

  “No,” she says, barely managing a whisper.

  Missie still seems to be suffering from shock.

  “Technical knockout,” Hansy says, ending the bout.

  “DID YOU SEE HANSY?” asks the barman.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And how did it go with her?”

  “The trap has been baited.”

  “Let me buy you a drink . . . What’ll it be?”

  “Two whiskies. I’ll pay for Hansy’s.”

  “Hey, now, you’re not going to let yourself pay for these rich gents, are you? They’re very good at that game . . . I’ll give you two whiskies on the house. I’ll put a little water in the bottle and keep it under the counter until the end of the evening, say around three in the morning, when all they’ll taste is the fire . . . Don’t worry, I’ve been here twenty years. I know the way things are around here. I served the fathers, and now I’m serving the sons.”

  Charlie goes back to Hansy, who is standing beside the battered old piano.

  “No one but Jacky Duroseau can play this thing now. He completely wrecked it by pouring whisky all over it. When he drinks, he thinks the piano should drink, too. He’s supposed to play every Saturday night, but he only shows up when he feels like it. Once he came on a Monday . . . You’ve brought me a drink. Thanks, Charlie.”

  “No problem . . . I didn’t pay for it. The barman wouldn’t take my money.”

  Hansy looks at him strangely.

  “You always tell the truth, don’t you? Around here everybody pretends . . . They even pretend to be rich, when in fact most of them are on the verge of bankruptcy . . . Don’t you worry about old Samson, he’ll top the bottle up with water. He thinks no one knows about it, but in fact everyone’s figured out his little game. No one but ninnies buy drinks here after two AM . . . You see how they’re looking at us? It’s because they’ve heard about our little scene.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, you just sh
ut Missie’s mouth for her. It appears she has locked herself in the john. I also told them about June. You know who June is, don’t you? She’s the daughter of the American consul. Not bad for a guy who isn’t even a member of the Circle. As far as I’m concerned, you are a prince among men. Even Muscle is impressed, and no one impresses Muscle. He came up to me a while ago and asked me if it was true that you’re a German tennis champion. Don’t you realize what a stir you’re creating? In one day you’ve made the inaccessible June lose her head and sent the acid-tongued Missie packing.