Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  “That’s a miner’s disease,” Roberta said, painting placidly. “From the dust. There’s no dust in oils.”

  “I await the result of the survey,” Louise said, not giving an inch. She peered out the window down to the street three stories below. “He might even be handsome,” she said, “if he ever got a haircut.”

  “He has beautiful hair,” Roberta said, fighting down the almost irresistible impulse to go over to the window and look out. “Anyway, that’s the way all the boys wear it these days.”

  “All the boys,” Louise said darkly. She was a year older than Roberta and had already had two affairs, with Frenchmen, that had come out, according to her, disastrously, and she was in an acid and sophisticated period. “Have you got a date with him?” she asked.

  “At four o’clock,” Roberta said. “He’s taking me over to the Right Bank.” She poked distractedly at the canvas. The knowledge that Guy was so close made it difficult to concentrate on her work.

  Louise looked at her watch. “It’s only three-thirty,” she said. “What devotion.”

  Roberta didn’t like the ironic tone in Louise’s voice but didn’t know how to combat it. She wished that Louise would save her sophistication for her own use. Thinking about Guy made Roberta feel trembly and electric and she began to clean her brushes because she couldn’t work feeling like that.

  “What’s he doing?” Roberta asked, trying to sound offhand.

  “He’s looking yearningly into the window of the butcher shop,” Louise said. “They have a specialty today. Rumpsteak. Seven hundred and fifty francs the kilo.”

  Roberta felt a slight twinge of disappointment. As long as he was there, anyway, it would have been more satisfactory if he had been gazing, yearningly or not, at her window. “I think it’s perfectly insufferable of Madame Ruffat not to let us have people up here,” she said. Madame Ruffat was their landlady. She lived in the same apartment and they shared the kitchen and bathroom with her. She was a little fat woman, stuffed into girdles and grim uplift brassieres, and she had an unpleasant habit of bursting in upon them unannounced and surveying them with a shifty, mistrustful eye, as though she suspected them of being on the verge of despoiling the stained red damask that covered the walls or smuggling in unworthy young men for the night.

  “She knows what she’s doing,” Louise said, still at the window. “Madame Ruffat. She’s lived in Paris for fifty years. She understands Frenchmen. You let a Frenchman into your room and you can’t get him out until the next war.”

  “Oh, Louise,” Roberta said, “why do you always try to sound so—so disillusioned?”

  “Because I am disillusioned,” Louise said. “And you will be too if you keep going the way you’re going.”

  “I’m not going any way,” Roberta said.

  “Hah!”

  “What does that mean—hah?” Roberta asked.

  Louise didn’t bother to explain. Instead she peered out the window, with a critical and disapproving expression on her face. “How old does he say he is?” she asked.

  “He’s twenty-one.”

  “Has he pounced on you yet?” Louise asked.

  “Of course not,” Roberta said.

  “Then he’s not twenty-one.” Louise turned away from the window and strode across the room to sink down next to the bookcase again and Huckleberry Finn in French and the last eclair.

  “Listen, Louise,” Roberta said, hoping she was sounding severe and sensible, “I don’t interfere with your private life, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interfere with mine.”

  “I am merely trying to give you the benefit of my experience,” Louise said, her voice a little thick with custard. “My bitter experience. Besides, I promised your mother I’d look after you.”

  “Forget about my mother, will you? One of the main reasons I came to France was to get away from my mother.”

  “On your own head,” Louise said, turning a page with a little snap. “There’s only so much a friend can do.”

  The rest of the time Roberta was in the room passed in silence. She checked the watercolors in the portfolio she was taking with her and combed her hair and tied a scarf around it and touched her lips with rouge and looked anxiously at herself in the mirror, worrying, as usual, that she looked too young, too blue-eyed, too innocent, too American, too shy, too everlastingly, hopelessly unready.

  At the door, poised to leave, she said to Louise, who was steadfastly looking down at her book, “I won’t be home for dinner.”

  “One last word,” Louise said implacably. “Beware.”

  Roberta closed the door behind her with a bang and went down the long dark hall, carrying the portfolio. Madame Ruffat was sitting in the salon on a little gilt chair, her back to the window, glaring, above her iron corsets, through the open salon doors into the hallway, playing solitaire and checking on all arrivals and departures. She and Roberta nodded coldly at each other. Old insufferable witch, Roberta said under her breath as she manipulated the three locks on the front door with which Madame Ruffat kept the world at bay.

  As she descended the dark stairway, with its cavelike odor of underground rivers and cold and forgotten dinners, Roberta felt melancholy and oppressed. When her father, back in Chicago, had told her he’d been able to scrape together enough money for her to paint for twelve months in Paris, saying, “Well, even if nothing else happens, at least you’ll have a year to learn the language,” Roberta was sure that she was bursting into a new life, a life that would be free, assured, blossoming, open to the fruitful touch of adventure. Instead, what with worrying about everybody’s influence on her painting, and the grim surveillance of Madame Ruffat and Louise’s constant gloomy warnings, Roberta felt more tied up, uncertain, constrained than ever before.

  People had even lied to her about the language. Oh, they had said, in three months, at your age, you’ll be speaking like a native. Well, it was eight months, not three, and she had studied the grammar assiduously, and while she could understand most of what was said around her all right, every time she spoke more than five words in French, people replied to her in English. Even Guy, who professed to love her, and whose English sounded like Maurice Chevalier’s first movie, insisted upon conducting even the most intimate, the most French conversations with her in English.

  Sometimes, like this afternoon, she felt as though she would never break the cage of childhood, no matter what she did, that the freedom, the desperate risks and final rewards and punishments of adulthood would forever be beyond her grasp. Stopping for a moment to push the button that buzzed open the door into the street, she had a sickening vision of herself as one of those wispy and virginal old maids, eternally locked in brittle nursery innocence, before whom no one spoke of scandals, death, or passion.

  Hugely dissatisfied with herself, she gave a last push to the scarf around her head, hoping for coquetry, and stepped out into the street, where Guy was waiting, in front of the butcher shop, polishing the handlebars of his Vespa. His long, dark, intense Mediterranean face, which Roberta had once, but only once, told Louise looked as though it had been created by Modigliani, broke into a brilliant smile. But this afternoon it didn’t have its usual effect on Roberta. “Louise is right,” she said cruelly. “You ought to get a haircut.”

  The smile vanished. In its place appeared a slightly bored, languid, raised-eyebrow expression that at other times had also had a disturbing effect on Roberta, but which did nothing for her, she noted coldly, this afternoon. “Louise,” Guy said, wrinkling his nose. “That old bag of tomatoes.”

  “First of all,” Roberta said censoriously, “Louise is my friend and you mustn’t talk about my friends like that. Secondly, if you think you’re talking American slang, you’re way far out. ‘Old bag’ is possible, if that’s what you mean. But nobody’s called a girl a ‘tomato’ in America since before Pearl Harbor. If you must insult my friends, why don’t you speak French?”

  “Écoute, mon chou,” Guy said, in the weary and pract
ically lifeless tone that made him appear so much more grown-up and exciting to Roberta than the breathless and bumbling boys she had known back in Chicago. “I wish to communicate with you and make love to you. Possibly even to marry you. But I do not wish to act as a substitute for the Berlitz School. If you wish to be polite for the rest of the afternoon, you are permitted to climb onto the back seat and I will take you where you wish to go. But if you are going to enervate me you can walk.”

  This quick and independent harshness, coming from a man who had been waiting patiently for her more than a half-hour in the cold, made Roberta feel deliciously submissive. It gave substance to the statement she had heard (most often from Guy himself), that Frenchmen knew how to treat women and made the boys who had mooned over her on the shores of Lake Michigan seem like debilitated, irresolute children.

  “All I said,” she said, retreating, “was that maybe you’d look a little better if your hair were shorter.”

  “Get on,” Guy said. He swung onto the saddle of the Vespa and she arranged herself behind him. It was a little awkward, with the huge portfolio which she had to carry under one arm while with the other she gripped Guy around the waist. She wore blue jeans for her expeditions on the machine, because she hadn’t liked the swoop of wind under her skirts the one or two times she had worn them, nor the immodest way they sometimes billowed at unexpected moments, which caused pedestrians to look at her with unpleasantly candid appreciation.

  She gave Guy the address of the gallery on the Rue Faubourg St. Honoré where she had an appointment with the gallery’s director, arranged for by Monsieur Raimond, the painter in whose atelier she studied. “It is a gallery without distinction, Patrini’s,” M. Raimond had told her, “but the fellow is constantly searching for cheap young people to exploit. And he is amused by Americans. Perhaps, with luck, he will take a watercolor or two and hang them, provisionally, in a back room, for a few days, and see what happens. Just don’t sign anything, not anything at all, and no permanent harm can befall you.”

  Guy started the Vespa and they dashed off, roaring in and out between cars, buses, bicycles, and pedestrians with doomed looks on their faces. Guy drove at all times with an iron-nerved and debonair disregard of risk. It was an expression of his character, he told Roberta, and a sign of his rebellion against what he called the timid bourgeois love of security of his parents. He lived with his parents because he was still going to school. He was studying to be an engineer and when he was through he was going to build dams in Egypt, railroad bridges in the Andes, roads across India. So he wasn’t one of those shaggy and worthless young men who merely hung around St. Germain des Prés all day and all night, sponging off foreigners and damning the future, entwined in indiscriminate sex, like the characters in the nouvelle vague movies. He believed in love and fidelity and accomplishment, although he was terribly dashing about it all, and far from having pounced on her, as Louise had so uncouthly put it, in the three months Roberta had known him, he hadn’t even kissed her once, except on the cheek when they had said good night. “I’m past all that cheap, adolescent promiscuity. When we are ready for each other we will know it,” he had said loftily; and Roberta had adored him for it, sensing that she was getting the best values of Chicago and Paris in the one package. He had never introduced her to his parents. “They’re good, solid citizens, de pauvres mais braves gens,” he had told Roberta, “but of no interest to anyone but their relatives. One night with them and you’d be bored onto the first boat train back to Le Havre.”

  They whistled up the Quai d’Orsay, with the Seine below them, and the Louvre looking like a dream of France across the river, and the wind making Guy’s bright scarf and long black hair whip back straight from his head and bringing spots of color to Roberta’s cheeks and frozen tears to her eyes. She held onto the waist of Guy’s smart sheepskin coat, soaringly content with zigzagging around the city like this through the gray winter afternoon.

  Jouncing on the pillion of the noisy little machine, crossing the bridge in front of the Assemblée Nationale, with a portfolio of paintings under her arm and the handsomest boy in Europe speeding her deftly past the obelisk and the stone horses of the Place de la Concorde, on her way to discuss art with a man who had bought and sold twenty thousand pictures in the course of his career, Roberta’s doubts left her. She knew that she had been right to leave Chicago, right to come to Paris, right to give her telephone number to Guy three months before when he had asked for it at the party Louise had taken her to at the apartment of her second Frenchman. Omens of happiness and good luck around her head like small, almost visible singing birds, and when she dismounted in front of the little gallery on the Rue Faubourg St. Honoré, she faced the unwelcoming door with an athlete’s spring and confidence.

  “Écoute, Roberta,” Guy said, patting her cheek, “jet’assure que tout va très bien se passer. Pour une femme, tu es un grand peintre, et bientôt tout le monde le saura.”

  She smiled mistily at him, equally grateful for his belief in her and for the delicacy of spirit which had made him declare it in French.

  “Now,” he said, lapsing into his usual Chevalier English, “I go to do several excruciating errands for Mama. I attend you in a half-hour at Queenie’s.”

  He waved, swung gallantly onto the saddle of the Vespa and. hair and scarf streaming, dodged down the bustling street toward the British embassy. Roberta watched him for a moment, then turned toward the door. In the window of the gallery there was a large painting done in shades of purple that might have represented a washing machine or a nightmare. Roberta scanned it swiftly and thought, It’s a cinch I can do better than that, and opened the door and went in.

  The gallery was small and plushly carpeted, with many paintings jammed together on the walls, a good many of them by the purple-washing-machine man in the window or his disciples. There was one visitor, a man of about fifty in a coat with a mink collar and a beautiful black Homburg hat. The owner of the gallery, distinguished by a red carnation in his buttonhole and a wary and at the same time predatory expression on a thin, disabused face, stood behind and a little to one side of the man in the fur-trimmed coat. His white hands twitched gently at his sides, as though he were ready instantaneously to produce a blank check or seize the potential client if he showed signs of flight.

  Roberta introduced herself to Monsieur Patrini, the owner of the gallery, in her best French, and Patrini said brusquely, in perfect English, “Yes, Raimond says you’re not without talent. Here, you can use this easel.”

  He stood about ten feet away from the easel, frowning slightly, as though he were remembering a dish at lunch that hadn’t quite agreed with him, as Roberta took the first watercolor out of her portfolio and placed it on the easel. The sight of the painting did not cause any change in Patrini’s expression. He still looked as though he was being mildly haunted by a too-rich sauce or a fish that had been too long in transit from Normandy. He made no comment. Every once in a while his lips twisted minutely, as if in digestive pain, and Roberta took this as a sign of progress and put the next painting on the easel. In the middle of the exhibition, Roberta became conscious that the man in the Homburg hat had given up his examination of the pictures on the walls and was standing off a little to one side, looking at her watercolors as she slid them one by one onto the easel. She was so intent on trying to discover some sign of reaction on Patrini’s face that she never even glanced at the man in the Homburg hat throughout the entire performance.

  Patrini’s lips made a final gaseous twitch.

  “There,” Roberta said flatly, hating him and resigned to failure, “that’s the lot.”

  “Ummm … huh … umm,” Patrini said. He had a very low bass voice and for a moment Roberta was afraid that he had said something in French and she had been unable to understand it. But then he went on, in English. “There is a certain promise,” he said. “Deeply buried.”

  “Forgive me, cher ami,” said the man in the Homburg hat. “There is a great d
eal more than that.” His English sounded as if he had lived all his life at Oxford, although he was clearly a Frenchman. “My dear young lady,” he went on, taking off his hat and revealing a marvelously barbered head of iron-gray hair, “I wonder if I could bother you further. Would you be good enough to put your paintings all around the gallery so that I might study them and compare them without haste?”

  Roberta looked numbly at Patrini. She was sure that she had let her mouth fall open and she shut it with a loud click of teeth. “Mon cher Baron,” Patrini was saying, his face suddenly transformed by a brilliant, demi-social, demi-com-mercial smile, “may I present a young American friend of great talent, Miss Roberta James. Miss James, the Baron de Ummhuhzediers.”

  That was what the name sounded like to Roberta, and she cursed herself again for not having yet gotten the hang of French names, even as she tried to smile graciously at the gray-haired Frenchman. “Of course,” she said, her voice an octave too high. “I’d be delighted.” She began to grab paintings off the pile on the easel and stand them indiscriminately on the floor against the walls. Patrini, suddenly spry and professional, helped her, and within two minutes, the work of eight months was spread all around the gallery in an impromptu one-woman show.

  No word was spoken for a long time. The Baron moved from painting to painting, standing minutes before some of them, passing others quickly, his hands behind his back, a slight, polite smile touching his lips. Occasionally he nodded gently. Roberta stood to one side, anxiously peering at each painting as the Baron approached it, trying to see it anew with those shrewd, experienced eyes. Patrini subtly stood at the window, his back to the room, staring out at the traffic of the busy street outside, the echo of whose passage made a constant hush-hush in the carpeted, warm room.

  At last the Baron spoke. He was standing in front of a painting Roberta had made at the zoo at Vincennes, of some children in pale blue ski suits looking in at the leopard’s cage. “I’m afraid I can’t make up my mind,” he said, not taking his eyes off the painting. “I can’t decide whether I want this one or”—he walked slowly along the wall—“or this one here.” He nodded at one of Roberta’s latest, one of her shop windows.