by Irwin Shaw
He had learned about flight.
Meanwhile, he missed not being able to go to school when the year began. They were starting the basketball season in September. He had been the star of the team last year and he knew they had been depending upon him this year. He hoped they had a lousy season, so they would know how much they needed him. It seemed a piddling thing to be worrying about when your father had just been murdered, but school was a big part of his life and he couldn’t just turn it off because it would be unimportant to grown-ups at this time. He felt his father would have understood, even if nobody else did.
Some of the boys had made fun of him in school because he was American and spoke funny. He had never hit them, as he had wanted to, because his father would have beat the shit out of him if he had found out Wesley was fighting. It would be different now, he thought grimly. With the sorrow, there was a new sense of freedom. I make my own mistakes now, he told himself, and people can just lump them or leave them. The mistake his father had made would take a lot of getting over. He had prayed for his father, but he’d be damned if he forgave him. One night, one crazy grandstand act, and his father had left him in the shit. Shit, he thought, sitting in his clean clothes, shit.
The agent who was going to take him to the airport unlocked the door and came in. He was dressed in slacks and a sports jacket but he could be dressed like a ballet dancer and anybody would know he was a cop, right off.
The air smelled wonderful outside. He had forgotten how good air could smell.
They got into an unmarked car, Wesley sitting in front beside the agent. The agent had a big belly and let out a little poof through his broken nose as he squeezed in under the wheel. Wesley would have liked to ask if he had ever been hit with a beer bottle or shot a man, but decided it would be better to keep the conversation on other things.
The agent drove slowly down the winding mountain road, with all the windows open. “The weather is beautiful,” he said, “we might as well profit from it.” It was an easy morning’s work for him and he was making the most of it. He already smelled from wine. “So,” he said, “no more France for you. Pity. Next time you will learn to hit people where there are no witnesses.” He laughed at his lawman’s joke. “What are you going to do in America?”
“Keep away from the police,” Wesley said.
The agent laughed again. “That’s a smart young man. My wife keeps after me. We ought to visit America, she says.” He wagged his head. “On a policeman’s salary, you can imagine.” He looked sidelong at Wesley. “Your uncle is a man of important wealth, isn’t he?” he asked.
“One of the richest.”
“It shows.” The policeman sighed, looked down at his rumpled jacket. “I admire his clothes. He is a man of great authority. That is evident. No wonder you’re on the way home.”
Home was not the word to describe where he was going, Wesley thought.
“You will come back here eventually—as a tourist—and spend a great deal of money, I suppose,” the agent said.
“If you don’t turn Communist first,” Wesley said. In the prison there had been two men who said they were Communists and the day was near.
“Don’t say things like that,” the agent said darkly. “Especially in America. They will turn their backs on us.” On the subject now of the bad opinion Americans had of the French, he said, “You are not going back and tell the newspapers how you were tortured by the police to make you confess?”
“I had nothing to confess,” Wesley said. “Everybody saw me hit the salaud. I might say something about how one of your friends beat me up in the car on the way to the préfecture, though,” he added mischievously. He was enjoying the ride through the ripe, flowery countryside after the weeks indoors. And just talking idly away with the man, who was friendly enough, postponed having to think what was waiting for him at the airport and in Indianapolis.
“Ah, what would you expect?” the agent said aggrievedly. “To be knocked down with one blow by a child in full view of the entire world and not get a little bit of your own back in a dark car? We are all human, you know.”
“All right,” Wesley said magnanimously, “I won’t say anything.”
“You’re a good boy,” the agent said. “You made a good reputation for yourself in Grasse. I have seen the man your father had the fracas with. He looked as though he had been run over by a locomotive.” He nodded, an expert in these matters. “Your father did an excellent job. Excellent.” He looked sidelong again at Wesley, his face serious now. “The fellow is known to the police. Unfavorably,” he said. “So far he has been able to escape the punishment he richly deserves. He associates with dangerous men. It is as much for your sake as for the sake of France that you are being sent on your way.”
“It just seems queer,” Wesley said, “that a man that everybody knows is responsible for a murder can get away with it.”
“You just forget about what people know, my friend,” the agent said censoriously. “You just forget everything and go home and be a nice young American.”
“Yes, sir,” Wesley said, remembering every detail in the photograph, the slit eyes, the high, sharp cheekbones, the thin mouth and dark curly hair. You forget the man who killed my father, he wanted to say, but didn’t. You just try and forget. “I wonder if you could do me a favor.”
“What is it?” The agent’s voice was professionally suspicious.
“Could you drive along the port? I’d like to take a look at the boat.”
The agent glanced at his watch. “It’s early yet,” he said. “We have time. Why not?”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” Wesley said. “C’est très gentil de votre part, monsieur,” in French. It was one of the first things his father had taught him when he had brought him to Antibes. Although his father knew almost no French, he had said, “There’re two expressions the Frogs pay a lot of attention to. First—S’il vous plaît, that means please. And C’est très gentil de votre part. Got it? Repeat them.”
Wesley had not forgotten the lesson.
“I have a son about your age,” the agent said. “He’s crazy about boats, too. He’s always hanging around the ports, whenever he gets a chance. I told him I’d disown him if he ever became a sailor. If it wasn’t for all the boats down here, the police would be put out of work. The people it attracts,” he said gloomily, “Algerians, Yugoslavs, Greeks, Corsicans, Sicilians, nudists, English kids in trouble with the law back home, girls who’ve run away from home, rich playboys with giant dope habits …” He shook his head as he went over the list of seaborne malefactors.… “And now every stinking town with a view of the Mediterranean is building a new port. It will take the entire gendarmerie of France to control it. Witness your case.” He shook his finger angrily at Wesley, reminded by his outburst that he was conducting a criminal to exile. “Do you think what happened to you would have happened if you inhabited Clermont-Ferrand, for example?”
“My case was an accident,” Wesley said, sorry he had asked to see the port.
“That’s what they all say. And who has to clean up the mess? The police.”
“What would you like your son to be?” Wesley thought it was time to change the subject.
“A lawyer. That’s where the money is, my boy. Take my advice, go back to America and be a lawyer. How many lawyers do you know who have ever been in jail?”
“I was considering it,” Wesley said, hoping to get the cop back into his earlier expansive mood.
“Consider it seriously.”
“I intend to,” Wesley said, sage and appreciative and wishing that the cop would shut up.
“And don’t ever carry a weapon. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Listen to the advice of an older man who is interested in the next generation and who has seen the world.”
Now Wesley knew why they had picked this particular cop for the errand this morning. Anything to get him out of the préfecture and avoid having to listen to his
lectures.
The cop grumbled, wordlessly, and lit a cigarette, the car swaying dangerously as he took his hands momentarily off the wheel. The smoke came Wesley’s way and he coughed. Neither his father nor Bunny had smoked.
“And don’t ever smoke, either,” the cop said. “I despise myself for the habit.” He lapsed into silence.
When they came to the port, Wesley saw the Clothilde, its decks deserted. Unreasonably, he half expected to see his father come out of the wheelhouse and pull at a line. His father had always been nervous that a sudden storm might arise and the lines would give way. Stop it, Wesley thought, stop it, he’s not going to come on deck ever again. For a moment he wondered what would happen if he suddenly opened the door of the car and jumped out and ran. He could lose the fat cop in a minute, hide out, slip onto the Clothilde at night and handle her out of the port into the open sea, make for Italy. That was the nearest border, actually. Would the cop use his gun? It bulged in a shoulder holster under his sports jacket. Too risky. Crazy. Today, at least, he had to be sane. He would come back to Antibes another day.
“Boats,” the cop said contemptuously and stepped on the accelerator.
Wesley closed his eyes. He didn’t want to look at the Clothilde anymore.
Rudolph and Dwyer were waiting for him at the check-in counter at the airport. Dwyer had Wesley’s canvas and leatherette bag with him and was carrying a big manila envelope.
“Your mother and her husband,” Rudolph said, “have gone through passport control already. They’ll look for you inside. They’re on the same plane with you.”
Wesley nodded. He couldn’t trust himself to speak.
“All is in order, Monsieur Jordache,” the agent said respectfully. “I’ll go through with him and put him on the plane.”
“Merci,” Rudolph said.
“Here’s your things,” Dwyer said, indicating the bag. “You’ll have to have it weighed.” Dwyer had put on a suit for the occasion. Wesley didn’t remember having seen Dwyer in a whole suit before, not even at the wedding. He seemed smaller than Wesley remembered, and a lot older, with tiny, fine wrinkles in his forehead and around his mouth. “And this,” Dwyer said, giving him the envelope, “has some of the photos you kept up forward. I thought you might like to look at them sometime.” His voice sounded wandery, vague.
“Thanks, Bunny,” Wesley said, taking the envelope.
Rudolph gave him a slip of paper. “There are two addresses on that, Wesley,” he said. “My home address and my friend Johnny Heath’s office, in case I’m off someplace. If you ever need anything …” He, too, sounded unsure of himself.
He’s not used to seeing members of his family being seen off from one country to another by a cop, Wesley thought as he took the slip of paper and put it in his pocket.
“Take care of yourself,” Dwyer said, as Rudolph gave Wesley’s ticket to the girl behind the counter and watched while the bag was being weighed.
“Don’t you worry about me, old shipmate,” Wesley said, trying to sound hearty.
“Never.” Dwyer smiled, but it didn’t look like much of a smile. “See you around, eh?”
“Sure.” He didn’t even try to smile.
“Well,” the cop said in French, “time to go.”
Wesley shook hands with his uncle, who looked as though he would be seeing Wesley in an hour or two and Dwyer, who looked as though he would never see him again.
Wesley didn’t glance backward as he went through passport control with the agent, who showed his identification card as he came up to the desk and winked at the officer there.
His mother and her husband, whom he had never seen before, were standing in the departure lounge just as he passed through the control, as if to make sure he wasn’t going to escape. “You look pale,” his mother said. Her hair was all over her face. She looked as though she had been caught in a force ten gale.
“I feel fine,” he said. “This is my friend.” He touched the agent’s arm. “He’s a policeman. He doesn’t speak English.”
The agent bowed a little. The affair had passed off without incident and he could afford to be gallant. “Explain to them that I have to see you safely aboard,” he said in French.
Wesley explained. His mother drew back as though the policeman had an infectious disease. “Meet your new father,” his mother said. “Mr. Kraler.”
“Welcome,” Mr. Kraler said, like a master of ceremonies on television greeting a famous guest. He extended his hand.
“Keep your hands off me,” Wesley said calmly.
“Don’t worry about him, Eddie,” his mother said. “He’s disturbed today. That’s natural. He’ll learn. Do you want a drink, baby? A Coca-Cola, an orange juice?”
“A whiskey,” Wesley said.
“Now see here, young man …” Mr. Kraler began.
“He’s joking,” his mother said hastily. “Aren’t you joking, Wesley?”
“No.”
A woman’s voice was announcing the departure of the plane over the loudspeaker system. The agent took his arm. “I’ll accompany you aboard,” he said in French. “Those’re my orders.”
Maybe, Wesley thought as he walked toward the gate, I should have taken my chances when we were down at the port. His mother and her husband followed them closely.
Rudolph drove Dwyer toward Antibes. Neither of them said a word. on the entire trip. When they reached the entrance to the port, Dwyer said, “I’ll get off here. I have to see someone.” Both he and Rudolph knew that he was going to stop at the little café and get drunk and that he wanted to be alone. “You going to be around for a while?”
“A week or so,” Rudolph said. “Until I get it all cleared up.”
“See you,” Dwyer said, and went into the café, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt and tearing off his tie and stuffing it carelessly into his pocket.
Rudolph started the car again. In his pocket he had a letter from Jeanne. She would meet him for lunch at the Colombe d’Or and could see him every afternoon that week. The war in Paris was on again, she had written.
When the seat belt sign went off in the cabin of the plane as it turned west in the sky above Monte Carlo, Wesley was looking at the photographs that had been in the envelope that Dwyer had given him. He didn’t notice his mother cross the aisle to stand over him. She looked down at the photographs in his hand. Suddenly, she reached over and grabbed them all. “You won’t need these anymore,” she said. “You poor baby, you have a lot to forget.”
He didn’t want to make a scene, not this soon anyway, so he didn’t say anything. He watched as she stood there in the aisle, tearing the photographs one by one and dropping the pieces in the aisle. She didn’t have any objections to making scenes, he thought. Boy, it was going to be great in Indianapolis.
He looked out the window and saw the peninsula of Antibes, green and beloved, sliding away into the blue sea below him.
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VOLUME
TWO
CHAPTER 1
FROM BILLY ABBOTT’S NOTEBOOK—
THERE IS A LOT OF TALK AT NATO ABOUT DISPLACED POPULATIONS, THE GERMANS KICKED OUT OF POLAND, THE EAST GERMANS, REFUGEES IN WEST GERMANY, THE PALESTINIANS, THE ARMENIANS, THE JEWS KICKED OUT OF THE ARAB COUNTRIES, THE ITALIANS OUT OF TUNISIA AND LIBYA, THE FRENCH “COLONS” FROM ALGERIA. MORE UNDOUBTEDLY TO COME. NATURAL CONVERSATION AMONG MILITARY MEN, ON THE LOOKOUT FOR OCCASIONS FOR WAR.
IT HAS OCCURRED TO ME THAT I AM A DISPLACED POPULATION ALL BY MYSELF, FAR FROM HOME, WITH SENTIMENTAL AND NO DOUBT DISTORTED MEMORIES OF A HAPPIER LIFE AND BETTER TIME IN ANOTHER COUNTRY, FEELING NO ALLEGIANCE TO THE SOCIETY (THE U.S. ARMY) IN WHICH I SPEND MY EXILE, EVEN THOUGH IT FEEDS, CLOTHES, AND PAYS ME MORE GENEROUSLY THAN I, WITH MY MEAGER TALENTS AND COMPLETE LACK OF AMBITION, COULD EVER HOPE TO FEED, CLOTHE AND PAY MYSELF IN MY NATIVE LAND.
I HAVE NO ALLEGIANCES, WHICH IS THE SAME AS SAYING THAT I COULD BECOME A DESPERATE MAN. MY ALLEGIANCE, SUCH AS IT IS, TO MONIKA, IS TEMPORARY AT BEST. A CAS
UAL TRANSFER OF POSTS, THE COLONEL APPOINTED TO AN OUTFIT IN GREECE OR GUAM AND NOT BEING SURE HE COULD FIND A USEFUL TENNIS PARTNER THERE, A SHIFT IN COMMAND ORDERED BY SOMEONE IN WASHINGTON WHO DOES NOT KNOW OR CARE IF I AM ALIVE, AN OFFER OF A BETTER JOB FOR MONIKA IN ANOTHER COUNTRY, AND IT WOULD BE DESTROYED.
IT MIGHT NOT EVEN BE ANYTHING AS ACCIDENTAL AS THAT. LATELY MONIKA HAS BECOME EDGY. I FIND HER WATCHING ME MORE AND MORE OFTEN WITH A SPECULATIVE LOOK IN HER EYE THAT BODES NO GOOD. IT WOULD BE THE HEIGHT OF BLIND EGOTISM IN ME IF I BELIEVED THAT THE SPECULATION INCLUDED SORROW AT THE THOUGHT OF LOSING ME.
IF MONIKA LEAVES ME I WILL SCREW THE COLONEL’S WIFE.
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Billy Abbott, in civilian clothes, feeling at peace with the world, after an excellent meal at the restaurant that overlooked La Grande Place of the city of Brussels, came out into the cool night air, holding on to Monika’s arm. The meal had been expensive, as the restaurant was overpraised in all the guidebooks, but it had been worth it. Besides, he had won sixty dollars that afternoon playing tennis with the Colonel as his partner. The Colonel was a tennis nut and tried to play at least an hour a day, and as befitted a true graduate of West Point, liked to win.
The Colonel had seen Billy play when Billy was only a corporal and had liked Billy’s style, which was cool and tricky, so that he could beat players who hit the ball twice as hard as he did. Billy was also very quick and could cover three-quarters of the court in doubles. Since the Colonel was forty-seven years old, he needed a partner who could cover three-quarters of the court. So now Billy was no longer a corporal, but a master sergeant in command of the motor pool, a job that meant considerable extra money beyond his sergeant’s pay, what with an occasional grateful tip from officers who had motorized business to conduct that was not officially Army business, and the not so occasional opportunity to sell Army gasoline clandestinely at prices cannily just below the prices in the city. The Colonel also invited Billy to dinner. He liked to know what the enlisted men were thinking, as he often said, and the Colonel’s wife thought Billy was a charming young man and behaved like an officer, especially in civilian clothes. The Colonel’s wife liked to play tennis, too, and lived in hope of the day when the Colonel would be sent off on an assignment for a month or two, leaving Billy behind.