Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  Barber had also seen Smith late in the afternoons in the steam room at Claridge’s, a small, round man with surprisingly well-shaped legs, sitting in the vapor, wrapped in a sheet, growing pinker and pinker, smiling luxuriously in the steam, sweating off the fat that he had accumulated in many years of eating in the best restaurants in Europe.

  He had also seen Smith several times around six o’clock in the evening in the barbershop at the George V getting shaved, and after that in the bar upstairs, and in the bar at the Relais Plaza and the English bar downstairs at the Plaza-Athénée. And late at night he had seen him at various night clubs—L’Eléphant Blanc, Carroll’s, La Rose Rouge …

  Barber thought unhappily of the last fifteen thousand francs in his wallet. It was going to be a long, wet, hard, expensive day. He put on his hat and coat and went out. It was still raining, and he hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of the restaurant near the Rond-Point.

  It had started about two months before, in the stand at Auteuil just before the sixth race. The day was misty and there weren’t many spectators, and Barber had not been doing very well, but he had got a tip on the sixth race, on an eight-to-one shot. He put five thousand down on the nose and climbed high up in the stand to get a good view of the race.

  There was only one other spectator near him in the stand, a small, round man wearing an expensive-looking velours hat, and carrying a pair of binoculars and a rolled umbrella, like an Englishman. He smiled at Barber and nodded. As Barber smiled back politely, he realized that he had seen the man many times before, or his brother, or a half-dozen other men who looked like him, in restaurants and in bars and on the street, usually with tall girls who might have been lower-class mannequins or upper-class tarts.

  The man with the umbrella moved over to him along the damp concrete row of seats. He had little, dapper feet and a bright necktie, and he had a well-cared-for, international kind of face, with large, pretty dark eyes, fringed by thick black lashes. He had what Barber had come to call an import-export face. It was a face that was at the same time bland, cynical, self-assured, sensual, hopeless, and daring, and its owner might be Turkish or Hungarian or Greek or he might have been born in Basra. It was a face you might see in Paris or Rome or Brussels or Tangier, always in the best places, always doing business. It was a face, you felt somehow, that was occasionally of interest to the police.

  “Good afternoon,” the man said, in English, tipping his hat. “Are you having a lucky day?” He had an accent, but it was difficult to place it. It was as though as a child he had gone to school everywhere and had had ten nurses of ten different nationalities.

  “Not bad,” Barber said carefully.

  “Which do you like in this one?” The man pointed with his umbrella at the track, where the horses were gingerly going up to the distant starting line on the muddied grass.

  “Number Three,” Barber said.

  “Number Three.” The man shrugged, as though he pitied Barber but was restrained by his good breeding from saying so. “How is the movie business these days?” the man asked.

  “The movie business went home a month ago,” Barber said, slightly surprised that the man knew anything about it. An American company had been making a picture about the war, and Barber had had four lucky, well-paid months as a technical expert, buckling leading men into parachutes and explaining the difference between a P-47 and a B-25 to the director.

  “And the blond star?” the man asked, taking his glasses away from his eyes. “With the exquisite behind?”

  “Also home.”

  The man moved his eyebrows and shook his head gently, indicating his regret that his new acquaintance and the city of Paris were now deprived of the exquisite behind. “Well,” he said, “at least it leaves you free in the afternoon to come to the races.” He peered out across the track through the glasses. “There they go.”

  No. 3 led all the way until the stretch. In the stretch, he was passed rapidly by four other horses.

  “Every race in this country,” Barber said as the horses crossed the finish line, “is a hundred metres too long.” He took out his tickets and tore them once and dropped them on the wet concrete.

  He watched with surprise as the man with the umbrella took out some tickets and tore them up, too. They were on No. 3, and Barber could see that they were big ones. The man with the umbrella dropped the tickets with a resigned, half-amused expression on his face, as though all his life he had been used to tearing up things that had suddenly become of no value.

  “Are you staying for the last race?” the man with the umbrella asked as they started to descend through the empty stands.

  “I don’t think so,” Barber said. “This day has been glorious enough already.”

  “Why don’t you stay?” the man said. “I may have something.”

  Barber thought for a moment, listening to their footsteps on the concrete.

  “I have a car,” the man said. “I could give you a lift into town, Mr. Barber.”

  “Oh,” Barber said, surprised, “you know my name.”

  “Of course,” the man said, smiling. “Why don’t you wait for me at the bar? I have to go and cash some tickets.”

  “I thought you lost,” Barber said suspiciously.

  “On Number Three,” the man said. From another pocket he took out some more tickets and waved them gently. “But there is always the insurance. One must always think of the insurance,” he said. “Will I see you at the bar?”

  “O.K.,” Barber said, not because he hoped for anything in the way of information on the next race from the man with the umbrella but because of the ride home. “I’ll be there. Oh—by the way, what’s your name?”

  “Smith,” the man said. “Bert Smith.”

  Barber went to the bar and ordered a coffee, then changed it to a brandy, because coffee wasn’t enough after a race like that. He stood there, hunched over the bar, reflecting sourly that he was one of the category of people who never think of the insurance. Smith, he thought, Bert Smith. More insurance. On how many other names, Barber wondered, had the man lost before he picked that one?

  Smith came to the bar softly, on his dapper feet, smiling, and laid a hand lightly on Barber’s arm. “Mr. Barber,” he said, “there is a rumor for the seventh race. Number Six.”

  “I never win on Number Six,” Barber said.

  “It is a lovely little rumor,” Smith said. “At present, a twenty-two-to-one rumor.”

  Barber looked at the man doubtfully. He wondered briefly what there was in it for Smith. “What the hell,” he said, moving toward the seller’s window. “What have I got to lose?”

  He put five thousand francs on No. 6 and superstitiously remained at the bar during the race, drinking brandy. No. 6 won, all out, by half a length, and, although the odds had dropped somewhat, paid eighteen to one.

  Barber walked through the damp twilight, across the discarded newspapers and the scarred grass, with its farmlike smell, patting his inside pocket with the ninety thousand francs in a comforting bulge there, pleased with the little man trotting beside him.

  Bert Smith had a Citroën, and he drove swiftly and well and objectionably, cutting in on other cars and swinging wide into the outside lane to gain advantage at lights.

  “Do you bet often on the races, Mr. Barber?” he was saying as they passed a traffic policeman, forlorn in his white cape on the gleaming street.

  “Too often,” Barber said, enjoying the warmth of the car and the effects of the last brandy and the bulge in his pocket.

  “You like to gamble?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “There are many who do not like to gamble,” Smith said, nearly scraping a truck. “I pity them.”

  “Pity them?” Barber looked over at Smith, a little surprised at the word. “Why?”

  “Because,” Smith said softly, smiling, “in this age there comes a time when everyone finds that he is forced to gamble—and not only for money, and not only at the seller�
��s window. And when that time comes, and you are not in the habit, and it does not amuse you, you are most likely to lose.”

  They rode in silence for a while. From time to time, Barber peered across at the soft, self-assured face above the wheel, lit by the dashboard glow. I would like to get a look at his passport, Barber thought—at all the passports he’s carried for the last twenty years.

  “For example,” Smith said, “during the war …”

  “Yes?”

  “When you were in your plane,” Smith said, “on a mission. Weren’t there times when you had to decide suddenly to try something, to depend on your luck for one split second, and if you hesitated, if you balked at the act of gambling—sssszt!” Smith took one hand from the wheel and made a gliding, falling motion, with his thumb down. He smiled across at Barber. “I suppose you are one of the young men who were nearly killed a dozen times,” he said.

  “I suppose so,” Barber said.

  “I prefer that in Americans,” Smith said. “It makes them more like Europeans.”

  “How did you know I was in the war?” Barber said. For the first time, he began to wonder if it was only a coincidence that Smith had been near him in the stand before the sixth race.

  Smith chuckled. “You have been in Paris how long?” he said. “A year and a half?”

  “Sixteen months,” Barber said, wondering how the man knew that.

  “Nothing very mysterious about it,” Smith said. “People talk at bars, at dinner parties. One girl tells another girl. Paris is a small city. Where shall I drop you?”

  Barber looked out the window to see where they were. “Not far from here,” he said. “My hotel is just off the Avenue Victor Hugo. You can’t get in there with a car.”

  “Oh, yes,” Smith said, as though he knew about all hotels. “If it doesn’t seem too inquisitive,” he said, “do you intend to stay long in Europe?”

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On luck.” Barber grinned.

  “Did you have a good job in America?” Smith asked, keeping his eyes on the traffic ahead of him.

  “In thirty years, working ten hours a day, I would have been the third biggest man in the company,” Barber said.

  Smith smiled. “Calamitous,” he said. “Have you found more interesting things to do here?”

  “Occasionally,” Barber said, beginning to be conscious that he was being quizzed.

  “After a war it is difficult to remain interested,” Smith said. “While it is on, a war is absolutely boring. But then when it is over, you discover peace is even more boring. It is the worst result of wars. Do you still fly?”

  “Once in a while.”

  Smith nodded. “Do you maintain your license?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, that’s wise,” Smith said.

  He pulled the car sharply in to the curb and stopped, and Barber got out.

  “Here you are,” Smith said. He put out his hand, smiling, and Barber shook it. Smith’s hand was softly fleshed, but there was a feeling of stone beneath it.

  “Thanks for everything,” Barber said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Barber, for your company,” Smith said. He held Barber’s hand for a moment, looking across the seat at him. “This has been very pleasant,” he said. “I hope we can see each other again soon. Maybe we are lucky for each other.”

  “Sure,” Barber said, grinning. “I’m always at home to people who can pick eighteen-to-one shots.”

  Smith smiled, relinquishing Barber’s hand. “Maybe one of these days we’ll have something even better than an eighteen-to-one shot,” he said.

  He waved a little and Barber closed the car door. Smith spurted out into the traffic, nearly causing two quatre chevaux to pile up behind him.

  It had taken two weeks for Smith to declare himself. From the beginning, Barber had known that something was coming, but he had waited patiently, curious and amused, lunching with Smith in the fine restaurants Smith patronized, going to galleries with him and listening to Smith on the subject of the Impressionists, going out to the race tracks with him and winning more often than not on the information Smith picked up from tight-lipped men around the paddocks. Barber pretended to enjoy the little, clever man more than he actually did, and Smith, on his part, Barber knew, was pretending to like him more than he actually did. It was a kind of veiled and cynical wooing, in which neither party had yet committed himself. Only, unlike more ordinary wooings, Barber for the first two weeks was not sure in just which direction his desirability, as far as Smith was concerned, might lie.

  Then, late one night, after a large dinner and a desultory tour of the night clubs, during which Smith had seemed unusually silent and abstracted, they were standing in front of Smith’s hotel and he made his move. It was a cold night, and the street was deserted except for a prostitute with a dog, who looked at them without hope as she passed them on the way to the Champs-Elysées.

  “Are you going to be in your hotel tomorrow morning, Lloyd?” Smith asked.

  “Yes,” Barber said. “Why?”

  “Why?” Smith repeated absently, staring after the chilled-looking girl and her poodle walking despairingly down the empty, dark street. “Why?” He chuckled irrelevantly. “I have something I would like to show you,” he said.

  “I’ll be in all morning,” Barber said.

  “Tell me, my friend,” Smith said, touching Barber’s sleeve lightly with his gloved hand. “Do you have any idea why I have been calling you so often for the last two weeks, and buying you so many good meals and so much good whiskey?”

  “Because I am charming and interesting and full of fun,” Barber said, grinning. “And because you want something from me.”

  Smith chuckled, louder this time, and caressed Barber’s sleeve. “You are not absolutely stupid, my friend, are you?”

  “Not absolutely,” said Barber.

  “Tell me, my friend,” Smith said, almost in a whisper. “How would you like to make twenty-five thousand dollars?”

  “What?” Barber asked, certain that he had not heard correctly.

  “Sh-h-h,” Smith said. He smiled, suddenly gay. “Think about it. I’ll see you in the morning. Thank you for walking me home.” He dropped Barber’s arm and started into the hotel.

  “Smith!” Barber called.

  “Sh-h-h.” Smith put his finger playfully to his mouth. “Sleep well. See you in the morning.”

  Barber watched him go through the glass revolving doors into the huge, brightly lit, empty lobby of the hotel. Barber took a step toward the doors to follow him in, then stopped and shrugged and put his collar up, and walked slowly in the direction of his own hotel. I’ve waited this long, he thought, I can wait till morning.

  Barber was still in bed the next morning when the door opened and Smith came in. The room was dark, with the curtains drawn, and Barber was lying there, half asleep, thinking drowsily, Twenty-five thousand, twenty-five thousand. He opened his eyes when he heard the door open. There was a short, bulky silhouette framed in the doorway against the pallid light of the corridor.

  “Who’s that?” Barber asked, without sitting up.

  “Lloyd. I’m sorry,” Smith said. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you later.”

  Barber sat up abruptly. “Smith,” he said. “Come in.”

  “I don’t want to disturb—”

  “Come in, come in.” Barber got out of bed and, barefooted, went over to the window and threw back the curtains. He looked out at the street. “By God, what do you know?” he said, shivering and closing the window. “The sun is shining. Shut the door.”

  Smith closed the door. He was wearing a loose gray tweed overcoat, very British, and a soft Italian felt hat, and he was carrying a large manila envelope. He looked newly bathed and shaved, and wide awake.

  Barber, blinking in the sudden sunshine, put on a robe and a pair of moccasins and lit a cigarette. “Excuse me,” he said. “I want to wash.” He went behind the screen that
separated the washbasin and the bidet from the rest of the room. As he washed, scrubbing his face and soaking his hair with cold water, he heard Smith go over to the window. Smith was humming, in a soft, true, melodious tenor voice, a passage from an opera that Barber knew he had heard but could not remember. Aside from everything else, Barber thought, combing his hair roughly, I bet the bastard knows fifty operas.

  Feeling fresher and less at a disadvantage with his teeth washed and his hair combed, Barber stepped out from behind the screen.

  “Paris,” Smith said, at the window, looking out. “What a satisfactory city. What a farce.” He turned around, smiling. “Ah,” he said, “how lucky you are. You can afford to put water on your head.” He touched his thin, well-brushed hair sadly. “Every time I wash my hair, it falls like the leaves. How old did you say you are?”

  “Thirty,” Barber said, knowing that Smith remembered it.

  “What an age.” Smith sighed. “The wonderful moment of balance. Old enough to know what you want, still young enough to be ready for anything.” He came back and sat down and propped the manila envelope on the floor next to the chair. “Anything.” He looked up at Barber, almost coquettishly. “You recall our conversation, I trust,” he said.

  “I recall a man said something about twenty-five thousand dollars,” Barber said.

  “Ah—you do remember,” Smith said gaily. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Well, do you want to make it?”

  “I’m listening,” Barber said.

  Smith rubbed his soft hands together gently in front of his face, his fingers rigid, making a slight, dry, sliding sound. “A little proposition has come up,” he said. “An interesting little proposition.”

  “What do I have to do for my twenty-five thousand dollars?” Barber asked.

  “What do you have to do for your twenty-five thousand dollars?” Smith repeated softly. “You have to do a little flying. You have flown for considerably less, from time to time, haven’t you?” He chuckled.