Sincerely, Willis Wayde

by John P. Marquand

“That’s exactly it,” Steve said.

  “I don’t see any use in coming here,” May said, “and then playing dominoes with an old man in a brasserie—and don’t make a joke and call it a brassiere.”

  There had been a time when May would have been amused by this mild humor, but now she wanted to get something out of their trip to Europe, and the days were going by with absolutely nothing worthwhile to show for them. To prove her point she went on to say that all Steve wanted to do was to look in the shop windows of the rue de Rivoli, and read off-color jokes embroidered on ladies’ handkerchiefs—in English, of course, for the American trade:

  Oh, please do not kiss me

  Oh, please do not kiss

  Oh, please do not

  Oh, please do

  Oh, please

  Oh.

  He might at least try not to be an adolescent himself. There was no reason for Steve to be so utterly American.

  “We haven’t even seen Sainte Chapelle,” she said, with an impeccable accent, since as a jeune fille she had spent a year with a French family in Paris on the rue de l’Université. He had compromised that morning by going with May to Sainte Chapelle. She, in turn, had compromised that afternoon by attending the races at Longchamp, in a car which she knew cost them twice too much, but there was not much room for argument, because he had won ten thousand francs.

  It must have been close to six when they returned from Longchamp. The sun was low and made the Champs Elysées, in spots, a golden street.

  “Let’s pay off the driver,” Steve said, “and stop at the café over there and have a bottle of champagne.”

  “Oh, Steve,” May said, “at least we might stop at some interesting place. There used to be a lovely little place near the Luxembourg Gardens that only the French knew about. This one will be full of Americans.”

  He could see that May was right. It was exactly the sort of café that would attract American tourists. It seemed to Steve that American women in Paris, especially May, enjoyed pretending that they were Continentals.

  “How would it be,” he asked, “if we pretended we were Americans for an hour?”

  May was amused, in a cosmopolitan way.

  “You don’t have to pretend. You really don’t,” May said, “and please don’t try to ask for the wine card in French.”

  They sat down in wicker chairs beneath the café awning, and the babble of voices around them was very cosmopolitan.

  “Gorçon,” Steve said, “la carte des vins, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Well,” May said, “at least the children aren’t here to hear you.… I told you that this place would be full of Americans.”

  May was right as usual. There were several middle-aged American groups around them, all identified beyond any chance of error. The men wore expressions of confused discomfort, and each of the women seemed to be living in her own small world of fantasy.

  “I don’t see why American men invariably look undistinguished,” May said.

  Instinctively Steve sat up straighter.

  “Maybe they’re tired,” he said, “at the end of a long hard day.”

  “They might try not to look tired,” May said, “and they don’t all have to look as though they were doing mental arithmetic.”

  “They have to,” Steve said. “They’re all changing dollars into francs.”

  “If we were to speak to any of them,” May said, “they would all say just the same thing.” May looked around her serenely, conscious that at least she was not an ordinary American. “They all might just as well have stayed at home. None of them is getting anything out of being here.… Steve, look directly behind you.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “There’s a very nice distinguished-looking couple directly behind you, and I think we’ve seen them somewhere.”

  “How do you mean, they’re distinguished?” Steve asked.

  “Well, she’s exquisitely dressed,” May said, “and he looks interested in everything, and he has a nice profile, and I like the way he smiles. He’s in a gray flannel suit that’s really well-cut, and he has grayish-blond hair, and he sits up straight.”

  “Maybe he’s a Britisher,” Steve said.

  “No,” May said, “but I think his clothes were made in London, and he has such a nice smile. He’s smiling at her now. I wish you’d turn around. They’re four tables directly behind you.”

  “How do you know he isn’t British?” Steve asked. “Does he look cornfed?”

  “No,” May said, “no. He has very heavy tortoise-shell glasses, and those aren’t British. He’s reading her something out of a guidebook. An Englishman wouldn’t do that, at least not in that way.”

  “In what way?” Steve said.

  “In an intense sort of way,” May said.

  “Maybe he’s a Swede,” Steve said.

  “No,” May said, “and I’m almost sure I’ve seen him before. Please turn around, but don’t do it too quickly, because they’re looking at us. He’s taken off his glasses.”

  Steve pushed his chair sideways, turning his head slowly, and there, four tables away, was Willis Wayde.

  “Well, well,” Steve said.

  “You know him, do you?” May asked.

  He nodded and picked up his glass.

  “Yes, I know him,” he said. “He’s Willis Wayde.”

  “Oh,” May said, “of course he is. Steve, aren’t you going to speak to them? Ask them to come and join us.”

  “Now, listen, May,” Steve said, “where would it get us?”

  “You always have an inferiority complex about anyone interesting,” May said.

  Her voice made him squirm in his wicker chair.

  “Now, listen, May,” he said, “I don’t like to push myself on people.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t be small-town,” May said. “You sound small-town.”

  “All right,” Steve said, “all right, but he and I don’t know each other any more.”

  “Aren’t you even curious?” May asked.

  “No,” said Steve.

  “But you always talk about the time you used to know him,” May said. “Don’t you care what happened to him?”

  “Everybody knows what happened to him.”

  “Steve,” May said, “can’t you be natural for once, in a perfectly friendly way? Can’t you walk over to that table and say …”

  “Say what?” Steve asked.

  “Just say, ‘You’re Willis Wayde, aren’t you? I’m Steve Decker. We used to know each other back in Clyde.’”

  Steve sighed.

  “And then I’d say, ‘I remember your wife too. Don’t you remember me, Sylvia? I used to know you in Cambridge, Massachusetts.’”

  “You never told me you knew her,” May said.

  “You never asked me,” Steve answered. “She was Sylvia Hodges. It doesn’t matter, May.”

  “You’ve never told me anything about her,” May said.

  “There isn’t anything to tell,” Steve answered. “They were a family that lived off Brattle Street. Bill Harcourt brought Willis around, and Willis finally married Sylvia.”

  “Bill Harcourt?” May repeated.

  “Yes,” Steve said, “Bill Harcourt.”

  The names had a strange sound in the café.

  “Steve, I’m tired of seeing you acting scared,” May said.

  “Who?” Steve asked. “Me? Of the Waydes?”

  “Then go ahead and speak to them,” May said.

  “All right,” Steve said, “all right.”

  He wished that he could make it clear to May that he did not have an inferiority complex. The physical problem of threading his way past a few tables to reach the spot directly behind him was not only a problem of time and space but one of human relationship, which involved a strain on memory. It was a little like trying to get a home motion picture into focus and on the center of the screen.

  Steve had only seen Sylvia once since she had married, and Sylvia was no longer dressed in a
tweedy shirtwaist way. Once she had told him she did not like jewelry, but now she wore a diamond-and-sapphire clip that looked inconspicuous but expensive against the scarf around her throat. Steve had never thought of her as being particularly pretty, except occasionally when they had been arguing about something, but now her features looked more distinguished.

  He would have known Sylvia anywhere and also he would have known Willis, but Willis, too, looked more distinguished. It was hard to remember that he had ever been awkward and that his hair had been frequently overlong. He still looked young but no longer naïve or hesitant or impelled to make nervous efforts to be agreeable. Everything about him was under control, and after all, why not? The Waydes were becoming clearer and at the same time less approachable. Steve Decker was living in his past as he walked toward them.

  “Hello,” he said.

  The Waydes both gazed up at him. Willis looked up without a trace of blankness. A light of welcome shone from his eyes, registering pleasure and perfect recall.

  “Why, hello,” Willis said. There was the faintest beat of hesitation, but everything was streamlined. “Why, hello, Bill. Sylvia, I don’t believe you have ever met my old friend, Bill Jerrod. How’s everything in Akron, Bill?”

  Steve Decker was maliciously amused, but at the same time he had an embarrassed wish that he might have been Bill Jerrod from Akron. Willis Wayde was half out of his chair, half holding out his hand, when his gaze faltered, and then before he could speak Sylvia interrupted.

  “Willis,” she said, “don’t you remember Steve Decker?”

  Willis knew when the joke was at his expense, and he gave way to disarming mirth.

  “Why, of course, it’s Steve,” Willis said. “Fancy meeting you in Paris.” But obviously Willis was still trying to place him. Given a second Willis might very well have come up with the right answer, but instead Sylvia spoke again.

  “Steve Decker, Willis,” she said again.

  But Willis was on the beam at last, and there was no annoyance, or grinding of the gears.

  “Steve,” he said, “forgive me, will you? Faces out of the past get blurred occasionally. Sweetness, it’s all straight now. Say, Steve, it’s wonderful to see you. It’s like being back in high school, isn’t it?”

  “Well, not exactly,” Steve said.

  “Miss Wilson’s room,” Willis said, “and Cambridge. Sunday evenings at the Hodgeses’. Say, Steve, you were there the first night I came to the Hodgeses’. Bill Harcourt brought me. Remember?”

  “That’s right,” Steve said. “Bill Harcourt.”

  “How is old Bill?” Willis asked, and he spoke more quickly. “It’s just wonderful to see someone from the old town. You can’t ever forget any place where you lived as a kid, can you? Let’s see, you were at Harcourt for a summer, weren’t you? That was a fine old manufacturing establishment, an ideal old plant.”

  “Yes, it used to be quite a place,” Steve said.

  “Yes,” Willis said, “you always have a soft spot in your heart for the place where you got your first chance. Let’s see, when did I see you last, Steve?”

  “About ten years ago,” Steve said. “You were up for a directors’ meeting or something. We just met for a minute.”

  “That’s right,” Willis said. “I was staying at the Harcourt place. It’s a beautiful old home, isn’t it?”

  “It still is,” Steve said. “It’s quite a place.”

  “Is Bill living there now?” Willis asked.

  “No,” Steve answered. “Bess has it now, since Mrs. Harcourt died. She stays there every summer, and Ed comes down for week ends.”

  “Well, well,” Willis said. “How’s Bess?”

  “She’s fine as far as I know,” Steve said.

  “Willis,” Sylvia said, “aren’t you going to ask Steve to sit down?”

  “Of course,” Willis said. “I’ve been so interested I forgot completely. Garçon!”

  “Darling,” Sylvia said, “not in French.”

  Willis laughed again.

  “Sylvia’s sensitive about my French,” he said. “She spent a year in Paris.”

  “Did she?” Steve asked. “With a French family?”

  “Yes,” Sylvia said, “on the rue de l’Université.”

  “That’s the way to develop an accent, isn’t it?” Steve said.

  “It certainly is,” Willis said. “But let’s not get off the beam, Steve. What are you doing with yourself?”

  “Why, nothing much,” Steve said, “since my father died.”

  “Oh,” Willis said, “I’m sorry. I always admired Mr. Decker.”

  “That’s right,” Steve said. “Well, he left quite a lot more money than I ever guessed he would. That’s why I’m not doing much.”

  “Well, well,” Willis said, “good for Mr. Decker.”

  “And then I got married,” Steve said, “and May had a little something. I never was much good at working anyway.”

  “May?” Sylvia said. “Is she your wife?”

  A waiter had brought a chair, and when Steve saw it he realized that he could not stay.

  “Oh yes,” he said, “I guess I’ve been married so long that I take it for granted that everyone knows May.”

  “That’s right,” Willis said. “I remember now. Bess mentioned that you were married, or maybe it was Bill. Let’s see—May. I don’t seem to remember anyone in town named May.”

  “She isn’t a native,” Steve said. “She’s a Brookline girl.”

  “Well,” Willis said, “time marches on, doesn’t it?”

  “I wish you two would sit down,” Sylvia said.

  “Well, thanks just as much,” Steve said, “but I can’t stop, really. I just came over to say hello. You see, May’s waiting.”

  “Do you mean she’s here?” Sylvia said. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I was just about to suggest,” Steve answered, and he felt himself squirming inwardly, “that you come over and join us. We’ve just come from the races and I came out ten thousand francs ahead, and we’re having a little champagne.”

  “Well, well,” Willis said, “that sounds like a real party. I wish we had time but I’m afraid …” He looked at Sylvia. “Sweetness, aren’t we having dinner with friends somewhere near Neuilly?”

  He did not pronounce the name correctly.

  “Neuilly,” Sylvia said. “But that isn’t until nine, dear. We’d love to, Steve. I think it would be awfully nice.”

  “It’s always great to see someone from home,” Willis said. “Yes, this is a swell idea of yours, Steve. I’ll call our waiter.”

  “I’ll speak to him,” Sylvia said.

  “All right, sweetness,” Willis said. “Sylvia means my French isn’t what it ought to be, and she’s right, although I’m sentimental about Paris. At the risk of being—bromidical—Paris is a magnificent city, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is,” Steve said.

  “It keeps reminding you of the past, doesn’t it?” Willis said. “Although there are some pretty bright industrialists around here—in a foreign way, I mean.”

  They continued talking while Sylvia conversed with the waiter.

  “It’s always been a dream of Sylvia’s and mine,” Willis said, “to take time off, and to absorb some Old World atmosphere. That’s why we’re here in Paris—just puttering around and recharging our batteries.”

  “Willis,” Sylvia said, “will you give the waiter six hundred francs?”

  As it turned out, nothing was awkward about the meeting, because May and Sylvia each could show the other that she was at home in Paris.

  “I can’t tell you what fun it is to see you,” May said to Sylvia. “Steve has told me so much about you.”

  “It’s so nice to hear a Boston accent again, after the Middle West,” Sylvia answered.

  “Well, almost Boston,” May said. “Brookline.”

  “It’s queer we never met at dances or somewhere,” Sylvia said. “But then I always used to be
afraid of Brookline girls. I suppose you must have gone to Miss Winsor’s?”

  “Yes,” May said. “Winsor’s was a sort of conditioned reflex around Brookline.”

  It was at least moderately funny, and they all laughed in unison.

  “Well, now we’re here,” Steve said, “we’d better have some more champagne. Where’s the waiter? Garçon!”

  “Don’t, dear,” May said. “I’ll order it. You know, Steve is wonderful in many ways but not in French.”

  “It’s just the same with Willis,” Sylvia said. “Willis just doesn’t try.”

  “Look, sweetness,” Willis said. “I never had the chance to board with a French family when I was young. Let’s not get back to that rue. What was it—the rue de l’Université?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re in that alumnae association,” May said. “Don’t tell me you stayed at the Bouchers’, too.”

  “Indeed I did,” Sylvia said. “Weren’t they darlings? Especially Papa Boucher.”

  “And Grandmère,” May said.

  “Oh yes,” Sylvia said. “Dear Grandmère. And Tante Elise.”

  It all went to show how small the world was, and the coincidence was assisted by the champagne.

  “I can’t get Willis to see the Picassos,” Sylvia was saying. “Men never seem to feel at home in Paris.”

  As a matter of fact they were all feeling at home, by this time.

  “I’ve got an idea, Steve,” Willis said. “We ought to turn the girls loose together some day and you and I do the town by ourselves. How about it, girls?” But the girls no longer wanted to hear what the men were saying.

  “From my observation,” Willis said, “there’s always something queer about women when they get to Paris.”

  “American husbands don’t understand women,” Steve said. “They aren’t good lovers. Did you ever hear that one?”

  “I certainly have,” Willis said, “but still I like a lot of things about Paris.”

  “And I like Paris,” Steve said. “I understand it in my own way. For instance, I was here in the war and May wasn’t.”

  “Oh,” Willis said, “what were you doing in the war, Steve?”

  “Hell, Willis,” Steve said, “I was in the Chemical Warfare Service. Nobody our age can do anything much.”

  “Don’t say that, boy,” Willis said. “You’ve always had a lot on the ball.”