* * *
In order to persuade the taxi driver to take him for the short distance between the hotel and the Opera House, he thrust a fifty-dollar bill under his nose. No arguments with anybody, and no running the risk of walking with all that money on him, and a dinner jacket. It would be like saying: Mugger, mug me. The driver took the money and didn’t even turn on the meter. A driver of the kind that lines up in front of the Park Lane, sporting a bow tie and with good manners, one of a rare species. He got out amid the crowd. Lights making it bright as day, smart turnouts near the fountain, a social event. The entrance was already filled with people. He checked in his overcoat and scarf at the cloakroom and looked around. His contact wasn’t there, so his intuition told him. He went to the foyer—an orange juice with an olive, thank you—yes, his contact was here, among the crowd. Sometimes he had singled him out at first glance, but that was in less crowded places—the library of the Hispanic Society, the toy department of Altmans, the Tourist Information Office on Times Square. He surveyed the scene. Too many people, too much light, too much red velvet. He went into the orchestra section and all the way to his seat. From this vantage point he could watch his neighbours arrive, that was an easier process. Some of his neighbours were already seated and he began to examine their faces. A Japanese, around thirty years old, with gold-rimmed glasses, an impenetrable expression, profession uncertain. A fifty-year old intellectual in the company of a fair-haired younger man with pale hands and delicate features. A middle-aged couple, the husband probably a Boston lawyer. A blonde girl sitting next to an older man, hard to say whether they were together: if so, then he was a big businessman and she was his girlfriend, they certainly weren’t married, although he was wearing a wedding ring. Then two young couples, well-off newlyweds from out of town, and an old gentleman in a dinner jacket too large for him, two possibilities: either he had been on a drastic diet or else the dinner jacket was rented. Finally, a dark young man, with a close-clipped black moustache and smooth, glossy hair, a Latin-American type, took the seat next to his. The gong sounded.
And now le roi s’amuse. But what king and king of what? Victor Hugo’s king was a king of ghosts and assumed names, he amused himself not at all. But Verdi’s Duke, yes, he knew how to go about it. Delia mia incognita borghese/Toccare il fin dell’awentura io voglio, My adventure with that unknown girl of the people I would pursue—he sang it with the self-assurance of a star aware that the evening was his: you’ve come from all over New York to hear me, I’m the world’s greatest tenor, here’s my calling-card. Immediate applause from a public easy to please, present for a social occasion. The scenery was vulgar, Mantua’s ducal palace hardly good enough for a Hollywood set, too much pale pink and pale blue, terrible, really, better give your eyes a rest. He bent his head ever so slightly and looked down the row of seats. The blonde girl had put on a pair of designer glasses with fake diamonds on the stems, and seemed to be concentrating. Her probable companion seemed more distracted, his eyes were following the Contessa di Ceprano, who was crossing the stage with a lady-in-waiting: sometimes mezzo-sopranos have generous but not overflowing figures and the kind of beauty just right for a businessman in his sixties. Anco d’Argo i cent’ occhi disfido/se mi punge una qualche beltà. The hundred eyes of Argo I defy/If a beauty strikes my eye. The Japanese had a tic in his left eye, he blinked twice in succession and then raised his eyebrow, imperceptibly, sending no clear message. The two out-of-town couples were bubbling over with happiness. One of the brides, the less ugly of the two, had a trace of lipstick at the corner of her mouth, perhaps because of the hurry to get there on time and a quick make-up in the taxi; if it were called to her attention she’d die of embarrassment. The intellectual was bored, he must have been the only one with the good taste not to care for the opera; his fair-haired companion seemed equally bored for the opposite reason. The old gentleman, on the contrary, was carried away, his lips silently forming Monterone’s words, tu che d’ un padre ridi al dolore sii maledetto, may you be cursed for laughing at a father’s sorrow. Hypothesis: he was no connoisseur or he wouldn’t be carried away by a performance like this one. Alternative hypothesis: he was a connoisseur of feelings, moved by Caruso and Neapolitan songs, but connoisseurs of this kind don’t go to first nights at the Opera. The probable Latin-American, young and well-dressed, who looked like a heartbreaker, was equally out of tune with the opera. He seemed aware of being scrutinized and turned a receptive eye, staring back, first briefly, then at greater length. The chorus had embarked on the final aria of Scene 6, but the Duke stood above them all; piu speme non c’è, un’ ora fatale fu questa per te, all hope is lost, this hour was fatal for you. Curtain, thundering applause. The young man looked at him again and winked, then whispered into his ear with a strong Italian accent: “His Italian is bad and, like all tenors, he’s vain.” He smiled back and nodded assent. Franklin, you’ve botched it, he said to himself, wishing he could leave.
But the scenery of the alleyway was passable, more realistic and less vulgar. The baritone was an excellent Rigoletto and a good actor as well. He asked how payment was to be made and Sparafucile, the gun for hire, sang in answer: Una metà si anticipa, il resto si d à poi. Half in advance, the rest later. He turned his head around, looking down the line of faces in a quite obvious manner. The conductor was taking it very slowly, dragging everything out with long pauses! He spelled out the dialogue from his own memory, then stopped and waited. Here it was. Sparafucile laid one hand, grandiloquently, on his heart and stretched out the other arm: Sparafucil mi nomino! The blonde girl turned her head sideways, and their eyes met. She gave a slight nod—she had a half-smiling, malicious mouth. She transferred her attention back to the stage and did not turn again. Botched once more, Franklin. Then he thought, no, it’s not possible. He slipped his hand under his jacket, the money was there, evenly distributed under the wide elastic belt; he touched it to make sure, then closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander in space and time, leaving the Opera House and the music far behind.
He waited for her on the edge of the crowd in the foyer, at the beginning of a passageway; she arrived with a trace of a smile still on her lips and walked resolutely towards him. She was the contact, no doubt of it. “Good evening, would you like a drink?” “No thanks, I’d rather do business right away; I imagine you left a box of chocolates at the cloakroom. Shall we exchange checks? If, on the other hand, you’ve the money on you, let’s go to a telephone booth, where I can use this big evening bag. I had to look all over to find this size.” Her voice was steady, indifferent. High cheekbones, brown eyes, good-looking. Thirty perhaps, or forty, hard to tell. She lit a cigarette and looked quietly at him. An easy, professional manner. “Not now,” he said, “sorry, it’s not the moment. At the end of the opera, if that big businessman doesn’t get in the way.” “What businessman?” “The one sitting next to you.” “Don’t be silly, I came alone, never saw him before in my life, but I don’t understand why you’re making me wait until the end.” “You’ll understand later.”
* * *
Why, though, really? Did he really understand why? No, he didn’t, and he didn’t want to think about it. Exactly. Because I’m tired. Because I snapped a photograph. Because Dolores is gone, because too much time has passed, because, because, because, that’s all. Because I want to have some dinner. “Come and have dinner with me.” They left their seats while the audience was on its feet to call the tenor back to the stage. She followed him in silence. At the cloakroom he picked up his coat and scarf and showed her his hands, palms upward: “Nothing up my sleeve, no chocolates. I left the money at the hotel, if you want it, just come by, but first I’m going to have some dinner, I’m hungry as a wolf, I’ve had nothing to eat since yesterday, when I had a melted pistachio ice-cream.” “What hotel are you at?” “Never mind, if you want the money come to dinner with me, if you’re not hungry then you can just watch me eat.” She laughed and slipped her arm into his: “Let’s decide in the taxi, I
opt for Lutèce, the best French restaurant in New York. This evening deserves a French dinner.” “Fair enough.” Silence in the taxi except: “It’s against the rules, you were supposed to slip the money to me at the Opera.” “True, I agree. But no more of that now. Let’s concentrate on French cooking.”
They chose an inconspicuous table. “Waiter, take away all these candles, one’s enough, we want subdued light… Shall we go overboard?” “Yes, let’s.” “Then oysters to begin with, and champagne, not too cold.” “What’s your name?” “It doesn’t matter. Call me Franklin, how about you?” “Call me what you like.” “Perfect, Callmewhatyoulike is a lovely name, more like a surname, isn’t it, but whatever you say, Callmewhatyoulike.” That’s the way it all starts sometimes, with a joke, and then a conversation is sparked and carried on, that is, if the channel is working. It was working, wine helped. He did most of the talking: the East River, years ago, trips to Mexico, enthusiasms, dead friends, all ghosts. “I’m tired,” he said, “I’m all alone, I’ve had enough…” Pineapples in brandy to top it off, and two cups of coffee. “Waiter, bring me a big box of chocolates, please.” He asked her to excuse him for a moment and went to the lavatory, where he threw away the chocolates and filled the box with dollars. On the way back he paid the bill, bought a rose from the cloakroom girl and laid it in the box. “Here,” he said when he had come back to the table, “the very best chocolates, I had them with me the whole time. Forgive my playing games with you.” She took a look inside. “Why did you do it?” “I needed company, for too many years I’ve been dining alone. I hope the dinner was to your taste, and now excuse me again, I’m going to bed, thanks for your company, Callmewhatyoulike, and goodnight, I doubt if we’ll meet again.”
As he crossed the room he left a generous tip with the waiter, “Merci, Monsieur, au revoir” his legs were holding out, he was only slightly drunk, no headache, only a pleasurable sensation. She caught up with him when he was already in the taxi, slid in beside him and said decisively, “I’m coming with you.” He looked at her and she smiled. “I’m alone, too. Let’s keep each other company, just for tonight.” “The responsibility is yours, Callmewhatyoulike… Driver, the Park Lane, please.”
* * *
“Let’s leave the curtains open so we can see the city by night, New York is something to see from a fortieth floor, so many lights, so many people, so many stories behind all those windows, put your arms around me, it’s lovely standing here, just look at that building, it’s like an ocean liner, if it were to slip anchor and take off into the night it wouldn’t surprise me.” “Or me either.” “What’s your name? Callmewhatyoulike is a surname, tell me your first name, invent it if you must.” “Sparafucile’s my name.” “That’s better Sparafucile Callmewhatyoulike; it’s been wonderful, I felt I really loved you, a way I haven’t felt for years: excuse me while I go to the bathroom.”
The bathroom lights, too bright as usual, too bright for even a theatre dressing-room. He looked at himself in the mirror. Under the dazzling reflector his baldness was painful to note, but he didn’t really care. He rinsed his mouth and rubbed his forehead. He might even have whistled. Her makeup kit lay on the marble shelf. He couldn’t say why he opened it, sometimes we make such gestures out of sheer intuition. It’s a funny feeling to find yourself in a make-up kit. But there was his photograph, between the face powder and the mirror, a full-length picture, captured by a telephoto lens, on the street, somewhere or other. He held it between his thumb and forefinger for a few seconds before he could draw any conclusion. She couldn’t know who he was, much less know him personally. She wasn’t supposed to. He looked hard at the image staring out at him from the coarse-grained paper on which pictures snapped by a telephoto lens are often printed, an anonymous man in the crowd, the face a little thin and drawn, Franklin. In his imagination he saw the viewfinder framing his face and his heart. Click. While he was turning the doorknob he thought of her big evening bag; now he knew that there was something in it besides money; if he’d wanted to think about it earlier he’d have realized … but perhaps he hadn’t wanted to think. He was sorry, he reflected, not about the fact in itself, but about all the rest. Because it had been wonderful. He’d have liked to tell her he was sorry that she had to be Sparafucile; it was too bad and also funny because everything had seemed different. But he knew he wouldn’t have time.
CINEMA
— 1 —
The small station was almost deserted. It was the station of a town on the Riviera, with palms and agaves growing near the wooden benches on the platform. At one end, behind a wrought-iron gate, a street led to the centre of the town; at the other a stone stairway went down to the shore.
The stationmaster came out of the glass-walled control room and walked under the overhanging roof to the tracks. He was a short, stout man with a moustache; he lit a cigarette, looked doubtfully at the cloudy sky, stuck out a hand beyond the roof to see if it was raining, then wheeled around and with a thoughtful air put his hands in his pockets. The two workmen waiting for the train on a bench under the sign bearing the station’s name greeted him briefly and he nodded his head in reply. On the other bench there was an old woman, dressed in black, with a suitcase fastened with a rope. The stationmaster peered up and down the tracks then, as the bell announcing a train’s arrival began to ring, went back into his glass-walled office.
At this moment the girl came through the gate. She was wearing a polka-dotted dress, shoes laced at the ankles, and a pale blue sweater. She was walking quickly, as if she were cold, and a mass of blonde hair floated under the scarf tied around her head. She was carrying a small suitcase and a straw handbag. One of the workmen followed her with his eyes and nudged his apparently distracted companion. The girl stared indifferently at the ground, then went into the waiting room, closing the door behind her. The room was empty. There was a large cast-iron stove in one corner and she moved toward it, perhaps in the hope that the fire inside was lighted. She touched it, disappointedly, and then laid her straw handbag on top. Then she sat down on a bench and shivered, holding her face between her hands. For a long time she remained in this position, as if she were crying. She was good-looking, with delicate features and slender ankles. She took off her scarf and rearranged her hair, moving her head from one side to the other. Her gaze wandered over the walls of the room as if she were looking for something. There were threatening signs on the walls addressed to the citizenry by the Occupation Forces and notices of “wanted” persons, displaying their photographs. She looked around in confusion, then took the handbag she had left on the stove and laid it at her feet as if to shield it with her legs. She hunched her shoulders and raised her jacket collar. Her hands were restless; she was obviously nervous.
The door was flung open and a man came in. He was tall and thin, wearing a belted tan trenchcoat and a felt hat pulled down over his forehead. The girl leaped to her feet and shouted, with a gurgle in her throat: “Eddie!”
He held a finger to his lips, walked toward her, and, smiling, took her into his arms. She hugged him, leaning her head on his chest. “Oh, Eddie!” she murmured finally, drawing back, “Eddie!”
He made her sit down and went back to the door, looking furtively outside. Then he sat down beside her and drew some folded papers from his pocket.
“You’re to deliver them directly to the English major,” he said. “Later I’ll tell you how, more exactly.”
She took the papers and slipped them into the opening of her sweater. She seemed fearful, and there were tears in her eyes.
“And what about you?” she asked.
He made a gesture signifying annoyance. Just then there was a rumbling sound and a freight train was visible through the door’s glass panel. He pulled his hat farther down over his forehead and buried his head in a newspaper.
“Go and see what’s up.”
The girl went to the door and peered out. “A freight train,” she said. “The two workmen sitting on the bench climbed
aboard.”
“Any Germans?”
“No.”
The stationmaster blew his whistle and the train pulled away. The girl went back to the man and took his hands into hers.
“What about you?” she repeated.
He folded the newspaper and stuffed it into his pocket.
“This is no time to think about me,” he said. “Now tell me, what’s your company’s schedule?”
“Tomorrow we’ll be in Nice, for three evening performances. Saturday and Sunday we play in Marseille, then Montpellier and Narbonne, one day each, in short, all along the coast.”
“On Sunday you’ll be in Marseille,” said the man. “After the show you’ll receive admirers in your dressing room. Let them in one at a time. Many of them will bring flowers; some will be German spies, but others will be our people. Be sure to read the card that comes with the flowers, in the visitor’s presence, every time, because I can’t tell you what the contact will look like.” She listened attentively; the man lit a cigarette and went on: “On one of the cards you’ll read: Fleurs pour une fleur. Hand over the papers to that man. He’ll be the major.”
The bell began to ring again, and the girl looked at her watch.
“Our train will be here in a minute. Eddie, please…”
He wouldn’t let her finish.
“Tell me about the show,” he interrupted. “On Sunday night I’ll try to imagine it.”
“It’s done by all the girls in the company,” she said unenthusiastically. “Each one of us plays a well-known actress of today or of the past. That’s all there is to it.”
Little Misunderstandings of No Importance Page 12