Heaven Has No Favorites

by Erich Maria Remarque

  They reached the car. At that moment, Lydia Morelli and her escort came out of the restaurant. Lydia might have liked to snub Clerfayt again, but her curiosity about Lillian was too strong. Moreover, she and her escort were obliged to wait in the narrow street; Clerfayt’s car had to be maneuvered out of the jam of cars parked side by side before they could have their own. With perfect composure, she greeted Clerfayt and introduced her escort. She gave an amazing display of adroitness as she went about getting the facts on Lillian. Clerfayt thought he would have to intervene, but he discovered in a moment that Lillian knew how to fend for herself. While the two parking attendants, with much shouting, were pushing cars back and forth and holding up traffic, and he was talking automobiles with Lydia’s escort, the two women engaged in an apparently innocuous conversation, all thrusts and parries and deadly amiability. Lydia Morelli would surely have been victorious had she been fencing on her own plane; she was older than Lillian, and had far more skill and spite. But it seemed as if she were directing her thrusts at absorbent cotton. Lillian treated her with such disarming naïveté and such insulting courtesy that all of Lydia’s strategy was useless; she was unmasked as the aggressor—and thereby already half defeated. Even her escort could not help noticing that she was the more aroused of the two.

  “Your car, sir,” the parking attendant told Clerfayt.

  Clerfayt drove down the street and around the next corner. “That was a first-class performance,” he said to Lillian. “She does not know who you are, where you are from, or where you are living.”

  “She will know by tomorrow, if she cares to,” Lillian replied equably.

  “From whom? From me?”

  “From my dressmaker. She placed my dress.”

  “Doesn’t it annoy you?”

  “I couldn’t care less.” Lillian took a deep breath of the night air. “Let’s drive across the place de la Concorde once more. Today is Sunday; they’ll have the fountains illuminated.”

  “I think you don’t care about anything, do you?” he asked.

  She turned toward him and smiled. “In a very intense way, that’s true.”

  “I thought so. What’s done this to you?”

  I know that I am dying, she thought, feeling the light of the street lamps gliding over her face. I know that more definitely than you, that’s all, and so I hear the things that are mere noise to you as messages and cries and carols of joy, and feel the things that are commonplace to you as mercies and great gifts. “Look, the fountains!” she said.

  He drove very slowly around the square. Under the silver-gray sky of Paris, the crystalline streamers rose, caught themselves narcissistically up in themselves and threw themselves toward and through one another. The fountains murmured; the obelisk stood marked with thousands of years of endurance like a bright, vertical axis among the most transitory things on earth, fountains that sprang toward the sky and died while they balanced for a moment forgetting the disease of gravity, and then, transformed again in falling, singing the earth’s oldest lullaby: the rush of water, the monotonous song of the eternal recurrence of matter and the eternal passing of individuality.

  “What a square!” Lillian said.

  “Yes,” Clerfayt replied. “They set up the guillotine here. Over there, Marie Antoinette was beheaded. Now the fountains play.”

  “Drive to the Rond-Point,” Lillian said. “I want to see the other fountains there, too.”

  Clerfayt drove down the Champs-Elysées. At the Rond-Point, the song and the white spray of the water was girded by yellow tulips as disciplined as a squadron of Prussian soldiers practicing “at attention” with the upright bayonets of their blossoms.

  “Don’t you care about this either?” Clerfayt asked.

  Lillian had to think for a moment. Slowly, she brought her vision back from the splashing fountains and the night. He is making himself unhappy, she thought. How easily it all went. “It extinguishes me,” she said. “Don’t you understand that?”

  “No. I don’t want to be extinguished; I want to feel myself all the more strongly.”

  “That’s what I mean. But it helps not to resist.”

  He would have liked to stop and kiss her; but he was not certain what would happen then. Curiously, he felt somehow cheated, and what he wanted most to do was to drive his car into the bed of yellow tulips, and crush them. He wanted to lash out at everything around him. That done, he would seize Lillian and drive somewhere with her—But where? To a cave, a hiding place, a room—or back again and again to the impersonal question of her bright eyes, which never seemed to look directly at him?

  “I love you,” he said. “Forget about everything else. Forget about the woman.”

  “Why? Why shouldn’t you have someone? Did you think I’ve been alone all the time?”

  Giuseppe took a leap forward and stalled. Clerfayt started him again. “You mean in the sanatorium?” he said.

  “I mean in Paris.”

  He looked at her. She smiled. “I can’t be alone. And now drive me to the hotel. I’m tired.”

  “All right.”

  Clerfayt drove along by the Louvre, past the Conciergerie, and across the bridge to the boulevard Saint-Michel. He was furious and helpless. He would have liked to beat Lillian—but that was out of the question. She had only admitted to something to which he had already admitted, and he did not doubt her for a moment. All he wanted now was to win her back again. She had suddenly become more important than anything else, the ultimate in desirability to him. He did not know what he ought to do, but something had to be done; he could not simply leave her at the hotel entrance. This was his last chance; he must find a magic word to hold her, or else she would get out, kiss him smilingly, absently, and vanish into the entrance of the hotel which smelled of bouillabaisse and garlic, climb the worn, crooked staircase past the nook where the porter dozed, his midnight snack of Lyons sausage and vin ordinaire at his side. Up the steps she would go, and the last he would see of her would be her slender ankles showing brightly in the gloom of the narrow stairway, and once she was in her room, two wings, no doubt, would sprout from her golden bolero jacket and she would fly out the window, swiftly, not to Sainte-Chapelle, of which she had spoken to him, but on a high-fashion witch’s broom from Balenciaga or Dior, off she would whisk to some witches’ sabbath in which only devils in evening dress took part—devils who had broken every speed record, talked fluently in six languages, knew philosophy from Plato to Heidegger, and, on the side, were piano virtuosos, poets, and world boxing champions.

  The porter yawned and woke up. “Can you bring us something from the kitchen?” Clerfayt asked him.

  “Certainly, sir. What shall it be? Vichy? Champagne? Beer?”

  “First of all, we’ll want some caviar. You must have some in the icebox.”

  “I can’t open that, sir. Madame has the key.”

  “Then run to the Restaurant Lapérouse on the corner and get us some there. The place is still open. We’ll wait here. I’ll take care of your desk while you’re gone.”

  He took money from his pocket. “I’m not in the mood for caviar,” Lillian said.

  “What are you in the mood for?”

  She hesitated. “Clerfayt,” she said at last, “I don’t generally bring men home with me at this time of night. That’s what really is worrying you, isn’t it?”

  “That’s so,” the porter put in. “Madame always comes home alone. It isn’t normal, Monsieur. Would you like champagne? We still have some Dom Perignon 1934.”

  “Bring it, you blessed spirit,” Clerfayt cried. “And if not caviar, what is there to eat?”

  “I want some of that sausage.” Lillian pointed to the porter’s provisions.

  “Take what’s here, Madame. There’s plenty more of it in the kitchen.”

  “Bring us a good-sized piece then,” Clerfayt said. “With dark bread and a piece of Brie.”

  “And a bottle of beer,” Lillian said.

  “No champagne,
Madame?” The porter’s face fell. He was thinking of his percentages.

  “The Dom Perignon in any case,” Clerfayt declared. “Even if it is only for me. I have something I want to celebrate.”

  “What?”

  “The breakthrough of feeling.” Clerfayt posted himself in the porter’s box. “Go along. I’ll keep an eye on things until you’re back.”

  “Can you run the switchboard?” Lillian asked.

  “Of course. I learned that in the war.”

  She leaned her elbow on the counter. “You learned a great deal in the war, didn’t you?”

  “Most of what I know. After all, it’s almost always wartime.”

  Clerfayt jotted down an order for a carafe of water, and a traveler’s request to be wakened at six. He handed a bald-headed man the key to Number Twelve and two young Englishwomen the keys to Twenty-four and Twenty-five. A somewhat tipsy man came in from the street and wanted to know whether Lillian was free and what she charged. “A thousand dollars,” Clerfayt said.

  “No woman is worth that, you idiot,” the man replied, and staggered out again into the murmuring, river-rippling night along the quay.

  The porter came up from the kitchens with the bottles and the sausage. He was perfectly willing to go to the Tour d’Argent or Lapérouse if anything else were needed. He even had a bicycle for longer trips, he said.

  “No, I don’t think we need anything more, after all,” Clerfayt said. “Do you have another room vacant?”

  The man looked quite aghast. “But Madame already has her room.”

  “Madame is married. To me,” Clerfayt explained, further befuddling the porter, who now could not understand why the Dom Perignon had been ordered.

  “We have Number Six,” the man said uncertainly. “Next door to Madame.”

  “Fine. Take everything up there.”

  The porter carried the food up to the room. After looking at his tip, he once more mentioned his bicycle. He would run errands all night, if necessary. Clerfayt wrote out a small list of purchases—toothbrush, soap, and a few other items to be left in front of the door in the morning. All that would be taken care of, the man promised. He went away, and came back once more with some ice for the champagne. Then he departed for good.

  “If I had left you alone tonight, I was afraid I’d never see you again,” Clerfayt said.

  Lillian sat down on the window sill. “That’s something I think every night.”

  “What?”

  “That I may never see things again.”

  He felt a stabbing pain. She looked terribly lonely, with her lovely profile framed against the night. Lonely, not deserted. “I love you,” he said. “I don’t know whether that helps you at all, but it’s so.”

  She did not reply.

  “You know that I am not saying that because of this evening,” he said, not knowing that he was lying. “Forget the evening. It was chance, stupidity, and confusion. I would not want to hurt you for anything in the world.”

  She remained silent for a while longer. Then she said thoughtfully: “I think I cannot be hurt at all, in a certain sense. I really think that. Perhaps that makes up for the other thing.”

  Clerfayt did not know what to say to this. He understood vaguely what she meant, but did not want to think of it. He wanted not to believe it. He looked at her. “At night, your skin is like the inside of a sea shell,” he said. “It gleams. It does not swallow the light; it gives it back. Do you really want to have the beer?”

  “Yes. And give me some of the Lyons sausage. With bread. Does that upset you?”

  “Nothing upsets me any more. I feel as if I had been waiting forever for this night. Below the porter’s box down there, smelling of sleep and garlic, the world has come to an end. We have just made it to safety in time.”

  “Have we?”

  “We have. Don’t you hear how quiet it has become?”

  “You have become quiet,” she replied. “Because you’ve gained your objective.”

  “Have I? It seems to me that I’ve walked into a fashion show.”

  “Oh, my silent friends.” Lillian looked at the dresses, which still hung about in the room. “They keep me company and tell me about fantastic dances and masked balls. But I won’t need them this evening. Shall I gather them up and lock them in the wardrobe?”

  “Let them hang. What have they told you?”

  “So many things. About fiestas and cities and love. And a great deal about the ocean. I’ve never seen it.”

  “We might drive to it.” Clerfayt poured her a glass of beer. “In a few days. I have to go to Sicily. To a race there. I’m not going to win it. Come with me!”

  “Do you always want to win?”

  “I find it a good idea, once in a while. Idealists can do a lot with money.”

  Lillian laughed. “I’ll tell that to my uncle Gaston.”

  Clerfayt looked at the dress of tissue-thin silver brocade which hung at the head of the bed. “That is a dress for Palermo,” he said.

  “I wore it a few nights ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  “Alone?”

  “Alone if you like. I was having a party with Sainte-Chapelle, a bottle of Pouilly, the Seine, and the moon.”

  “You won’t be alone from now on.”

  “I was less alone than you think.”

  “I know,” Clerfayt said. “I talk about my loving you as though it were some kind of favor I were doing you. That’s not how I mean it. I express myself crudely, because I’m not used to talking about such things.”

  “You don’t express yourself crudely.”

  “Every man talks crudely when he tries not to lie.”

  “Come,” Lillian said. “Open the bottle of Dom Perignon. Beer isn’t your drink, I can see. It makes you a little too fumbling, philosophical, and full of generalities. What are you sniffing at? What do I smell of?”

  “Of garlic, moonlight, and lies I can’t quite analyze.”

  “That’s good. Let’s find our way back to earth and hold on there. It’s so easy to fly off into space when the moon is full. And dreams don’t even obey the laws of gravity.”

  Chapter Eleven

  A CANARY WAS SINGING. Clerfayt heard it in his sleep. He woke up and looked around. It took a moment before he realized where he was. Sunlight, white clouds, and shimmering water were playing on the ceiling of the room, which seemed to be turned upside down. The blanket was bound with green satin ribbon. The bathroom door and the window were open, and Clerfayt could see the bird cage with its canary hanging in the window of a room across the courtyard. A woman with massive bosom and yellow hair sat at a table just within the window. She was eating, and, as far as he could make out, it was not breakfast but lunch; a half-bottle of Burgundy stood on the table.

  He looked at his watch. He was not mistaken; it was noon. Not for months had he slept so long, and he became aware that he was very hungry. Opening the door, he peered out. There lay the package of things he had ordered the night before. The porter had remembered everything. He ran water in the tub, bathed, and dressed.

  The canary was still singing. Its stout mistress was now having apple cake and coffee. Clerfayt went over to the other window, which looked out on the quay. The traffic was roaring by at full volume. The booksellers’ stalls stood open, and a bright-colored tug moved by on the river, a barking spitz on its deck. Clerfayt leaned out, and in the adjoining window saw Lillian’s profile. She, too, was leaning out, with an attentive, collected air, unaware that he was observing her, slowly letting down a shallow basket on a string. Down on the sidewalk, an oyster vendor had just set up his boxes. He seemed familiar with the procedure. The basket reached him; he lined it with damp seaweed and looked up. “Marennes? Belons? The belons are better today.”

  “Six belons,” Lillian replied.

  “Twelve,” Clerfayt said.

  She turned and laughed. “Don’t you want any breakfast?”

  “The
belons will do fine for breakfast. And a light Pouilly instead of orange juice.”

  “Twelve?” the oysterman asked.

  “Eighteen,” Lillian amended. She turned to Clerfayt again. “Come over. And will you bring the wine.”

  Clerfayt went down to the restaurant for wineglasses and a bottle of Pouilly. He also brought bread, butter, and a piece of ripe Pont l’Evêque. “Do you do this often?” he asked.

  “Almost every day.” Lillian pointed to a letter on the table. “Day after tomorrow is the dinner at Uncle Gaston’s. Would you like an invitation?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Good. It would sabotage the purpose of the dinner, which is to find me a rich husband. Or are you rich?”

  “Never for more than a few weeks. Will you get married if a rich-enough man turns up?”

  “Give me some of your wine,” she replied. “And don’t be silly.”

  “I’d believe anything of you.”

  “Since when?”

  “I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “When have you had time to think about me?”

  “While sleeping. You’re unpredictable. You function by other laws than the ones I know.”

  “Good,” Lillian said. “That can never do any harm. What are we doing this afternoon?”

  “This afternoon, I’m taking you with me to the Ritz. I’ll deposit you in a secluded corner of the lobby behind a few magazines for fifteen minutes while I go to my room and change. Then we’ll have a big lunch, and later a dinner and tomorrow the same, in order to undercut Uncle Gaston’s plans for day after tomorrow.”

  She looked out the window and did not reply. “If you like, we can go to Sainte-Chapelle, too,” Clerfayt said. “Or to Notre-Dame, or even to a museum, you dangerous combination of bluestocking and Greek hetaera of the late period whom the winds of chance blew to Byzantium. I’m even ready to go up the Eiffel Tower or take a tour on the Bâteau Mouche.”

  “I’ve already taken the Seine tour—and was made an excellent proposition by a wholesale butcher. He wanted to set me up with a three-room apartment.”