by Irwin Shaw
“It’s not mine,” Constance said. “It’s my father’s.”
“England is forever in your debt,” Pritchard said. He was trying to smile. “Be careful of me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am beginning to feel as though I can be consoled.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It can prove to be mortal,” Pritchard whispered, taking her clumsily and bulkily in his arms, “for those of us who are inconsolable.”
When they woke in the morning, they were solemn at first, and disconnectedly discussed the weather, which was revealed through the not quite closed curtains to be gray and uncertain. But then Pritchard asked, “How do you feel?” and Constance, taking her time and wrinkling her eyebrows in a deep attempt to be accurate, said, “I feel enormously grown up.” Pritchard couldn’t help roaring with laughter, and all solemnity was gone. They lay there comfortably discussing themselves, going over their future like misers, and Constance was worried, although not too seriously, about scandalizing the hotel people, and Pritchard said that there was nothing to worry about—nothing that foreigners could do could scandalize the Swiss—and Constance felt more comfortable than ever at being in such a civilized country.
They made plans about the wedding, and Pritchard said they’d go to the French part of Switzerland to get married, because he didn’t want to get married in German, and Constance said she was sorry she hadn’t thought of it herself.
Then they decided to get dressed, because you could not spend the rest of your life in bed, and Constance had a sorrowful, stinging moment when she saw how thin he was, and thought, conspiratorially, Eggs, milk, butter, rest. They went out of the room together, bravely determined to brazen it out, but there was no one in the corridor or on the stairway to see them, so they had the double pleasure of being candid and being unobserved at the same time, which Constance regarded as an omen of good luck. They discovered that it was almost time for lunch, so they had some kirsch first, and then orange juice and bacon and eggs and wonderful, dark coffee in the scrubbed, wood-panelled dining room, and in the middle of it tears came into Constance’s eyes and Pritchard asked why she was crying and she said, “I’m thinking of all the breakfasts we’re going to eat together.” Pritchard’s eyes got a little wet then, too, as he stared across the table at her, and she said, “You must cry often, please.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because it’s so un-English,” she said, and they both laughed.
After breakfast, Pritchard said he was going up the hill to make a few runs and asked if she wanted to go with him, but she said she felt too melodious that day to ski, and he grinned at the “melodious.”
She said she was going to write some letters, and he grew thoughtful. “If I were a gentleman, I’d write your father immediately and explain everything,” he said.
“Don’t you dare,” she said, meaning it, because she knew her father would be over on the next plane if he got a letter like that.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not that much of a gentleman.”
She watched him stride off between the snowbanks with his red sweater and his skis, looking boyish and jaunty, and then went to her room and wrote a letter to Mark, saying that she had thought it over and that she was sorry but she had decided it was a mistake. She wrote the letter calmly, without feeling anything, cozy in her warm room. She didn’t mention Pritchard, because that was none of Mark’s business.
Then she wrote a letter to her father and told him that she had broken off with Mark. She didn’t mention Pritchard in the letter to her father, either, because she didn’t want him over on the next plane, and she didn’t say anything about coming home. All that could wait.
She sealed the letters, then lay down dreamily to nap, and slept without dreaming for more than an hour. She dressed for the snow and went to the post office to mail the letters and walked down to the skating rink to watch the children on the ice, and on her way back to the hotel she stopped at the ski shop and bought Pritchard a lightweight yellow sweater, because soon the sun would be very hot all day and the clothes of winter would all be too warm.
She was in the bar, waiting unhurriedly for Pritchard, when she heard that he was dead.
Nobody had come to tell her, because there was no particular reason for anybody to come to tell her.
There was an instructor with whom Pritchard had sometimes skied talking in the bar to some Americans, and he was saying, “He was out of control and he miscalculated and he went into a tree and he was dead in five minutes. He was a jolly fine fellow”—the ski teacher had learned his English from his British pupils before the war—“but he went too fast. He did not have the technique to handle the speed.”
The ski teacher did not sound as though it were routine to die on skis, but he did not sound surprised. He himself had had many of his bones broken, as had all his friends, crashing into trees and stone walls and from falls in the summertime, when he was a guide for climbers, and he sounded as though it were inevitable, and even just, that from time to time people paid up to the mountain for faults of technique.
Constance stayed for the funeral, walking behind the black-draped sled to the churchyard and the hole in the snow and the unexpected dark color of the earth after the complete white of the winter. No one came from England, because there was no one to come, although the ex-wife telegraphed flowers. A good many of the villagers came, but merely as friends, and some of the other skiers, who had known Pritchard casually, and as far as anyone could tell, Constance was just one of them.
At the grave, the ski teacher, with the professional habit of repetition common to teachers, said, “He did not have the technique for that much speed.”
Constance didn’t know what to do with the yellow sweater, and she finally gave it to the chambermaid for her husband.
Eight days later, Constance was in New York. Her father was waiting for her on the pier and she waved to him and he waved back, and she could tell, even at that distance, how glad he was to see her again. They kissed when she walked off the gangplank, and he hugged her, very hard, then held her off at arm’s length and stared at her delightedly, and said, “God, you look absolutely wonderful! See,” he said, and she wished he hadn’t said it, but she realized he couldn’t help himself. “See—wasn’t I right? Didn’t I know what I was talking about?”
“Yes, Father,” she said, thinking, How could I ever have been angry with him? He’s not stupid or mean or selfish or uncomprehending—he is merely alone.
Holding her hand the way he used to do while they took walks together when she was a little girl, he led her into the customs shed, to wait for her trunk to come off the ship.
Tip on a Dead Jockey
Lloyd Barber was lying on his bed reading France-Soir when the phone rang. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon, but it was raining for the fifth consecutive day and he had no place to go anyway. He was reading about the relative standing of the teams in the Rugby leagues. He never went to Rugby games and he had no interest in the relative standings of Lille and Pau and Bordeaux, but he had finished everything else in the paper. It was cold in the small, dark room, because there was no heat provided between ten in the morning and six in the evening, and he lay on the lumpy double bed, his shoes off, covered with his overcoat.
He picked up the phone, and the man at the desk downstairs said, “There is a lady waiting for you here, M. Barber.”
Barber squinted at himself in the mirror above the bureau across from the bed. He wished he was better-looking. “Did she give her name?” he asked.
“No, Monsieur. Should I demand it?”
“Never mind,” Barber said. “I’ll be right down.”
He hung up the phone and put on his shoes. He always put the left one on first, for luck. He buttoned his collar and pulled his tie into place, noticing that it was frayed at the knot. He got into his jacket and patted his pockets to see if he had cigarettes. He had no cigarettes. He shrugged, and left th
e light on vindictively, because the manager was being unpleasant about the bill, and went downstairs.
Maureen Richardson was sitting in the little room off the lobby, in one of those age-colored plush chairs that fourth-rate Parisian hotels furnish their clientele to discourage excessive conviviality on the ground floor. None of the lamps was lit, and a dark, dead, greenish light filtered in through the dusty curtains from the rainy street outside. Maureen had been a young, pretty girl with bright, credulous blue eyes when Barber first met her, during the war, just before she married Jimmy Richardson. But she had had two children since then and Richardson hadn’t done so well, and now she was wearing a worn cloth coat that was soaked, and her complexion had gone, and in the greenish lobby light she seemed bone-colored and her eyes were pale.
“Hello, Beauty,” Barber said. Richardson always called her that, and while it had amused his friends in the squadron, he had loyally stuck to it, and finally everyone had picked it up.
Maureen turned around quickly, almost as though he had frightened her. “Lloyd,” she said. “I’m so glad I found you in.”
They shook hands, and Barber asked if she wanted to go someplace for a coffee.
“I’d rather not,” Maureen said. “I left the kids with a friend for lunch and I promised I’d collect them at two-thirty and I don’t have much time.”
“Sure,” Barber said. “How’s Jimmy?”
“Oh, Lloyd …” Maureen pulled at her fingers, and Barber noticed that they were reddened and the nails were uneven. “Have you seen him?”
“What?” Barber peered through the gloom at her, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Have you seen him?” Maureen persisted. Her voice was thin and frightened.
“Not for a month or so,” Barber said. “Why?” He asked it, but he almost knew why.
“He’s gone, Lloyd,” Maureen said. “He’s been gone thirty-two days. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Where did he go?” Barber asked.
“I don’t know.” Maureen took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. She was too distracted to offer the pack to Barber. “He didn’t tell me.” She smoked the cigarette avidly but absently. “I’m so worried. I thought maybe he’d said something to you—or that you’d bumped into him.”
“No,” Barber said carefully. “He didn’t say anything.”
“It’s the queerest thing. We’ve been married over ten years and he never did anything like this before,” Maureen said, trying to control her voice. “He just came to me one night and he said he’d got leave of absence from his job for a month and that he’d be back inside of thirty days and he’d tell me all about it when he got back, and he begged me not to ask any questions.”
“And you didn’t ask any questions?”
“He was acting so strangely,” Maureen said. “I’d never seen him like that before. All hopped up. Excited. You might even say happy, except that he kept going in all night to look at the kids. And he’s never given me anything to worry about in the—the girl department,” Maureen said primly. “Not like some of the other boys we know. And if there was one thing about Jimmy, it was that you could trust him. So I helped him pack.”
“What did he take?”
“Just one Valpak,” Maureen said. “With light clothes. As though he was going off on a summer vacation. He even took a tennis racket.”
“A tennis racket,” Barber nodded, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for husbands to take tennis rackets along when disappearing. “Did you hear from him at all?”
“No,” Maureen said. “He told me he wouldn’t write. Did you ever hear of anything like that?” Even in her anguish, she permitted herself a tone of wifely grievance. “I knew we shouldn’t have come to Europe. It’s different for you. You’re not married and you were always kind of wild anyway, not like Jimmy—”
“Did you call his office?” Barber asked, interrupting. He didn’t want to hear how wild people thought he was, or how unmarried.
“I had a friend call,” Maureen said. “It would look too fishy—his wife calling to ask where he was.”
“What did they say?”
“They said that they had expected him two days ago but he hadn’t come in yet.”
Barber took one of Maureen’s cigarettes and lit it. It was the first one in four hours and it tasted wonderful. He had a little selfish twinge of gratitude that Maureen had come to his hotel.
“Lloyd, do you know anything?” Maureen asked, worn and shabby in her damp, thin coat in the foggy green light.
Barber hesitated. “No,” he said. “But I’ll put in a couple of calls and I’ll telephone you tomorrow.”
They both stood up. Maureen pulled on gloves over her reddened hands. The gloves were worn and greenish black. Looking at them, Barber suddenly remembered how neat and shining Maureen had been when they first met, in Louisiana, so many years before, and how healthy and well-dressed he and Jimmy and the others had been in their lieutenants’ uniforms with the new wings on their breasts.
“Listen, Beauty,” Barber said. “How are you fixed for dough?”
“I didn’t come over for that,” Maureen said firmly.
Barber took out his wallet and peered judiciously into it. It wasn’t necessary. He knew exactly what was there. He took out a five-thousand-franc note. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Try this on for size.”
Maureen made a motion as though to give it back to him. “I really don’t think I should …” she began.
“Sh-h-h, Beauty,” Barber said. “There isn’t an American girl in Paris who couldn’t use five mille on a day like this.”
Maureen sighed and put the bill in her pocketbook. “I feel terrible about taking your money, Lloyd.”
Barber kissed her forehead. “In memory of the wild blue yonder,” he said, pocketing the wallet, with its remaining fifteen thousand francs, which, as far as he knew, would have to last him for the rest of his life. “Jimmy’ll give it back to me.”
“Do you think he’s all right?” Maureen asked, standing close to him.
“Of course,” Lloyd said lightly and falsely. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll call you tomorrow. He’ll probably be there, answering the phone, getting sore at me for sucking around his wife when he’s out of town.”
“I bet.” Maureen smiled miserably. She went through the cavelike murk of the lobby, out into the rainy street, on her way to pick up the two children, who had been sent out to lunch at the home of a friend.
Barber went to his room and picked up the phone and waited for the old man downstairs to plug in. There were two suitcases standing open on the floor, with shirts piled in them, because there wasn’t enough drawer space in the tiny bureau supplied by the hotel. On top of the bureau there were: a bill, marked overdue, from a tailor; a letter from his ex-wife, in New York, saying she had found an Army pistol of his in the bottom of a trunk and asking him what he wanted her to do with it, because she was afraid of the Sullivan Law; a letter from his mother, telling him to stop being a damn fool and come home and get a regular job; a letter from a woman in whom he was not interested, inviting him to come and stay with her in her villa near Eze, where it was beautiful and warm, she said, and where she needed a man around the house; a letter from a boy who had flown as his waist-gunner during the war and who insisted that Barber had saved his life when he was hit in the stomach over Palermo, and who, surprisingly, had written a book since then. Now he sent long, rather literary letters at least once a month to Barber. He was an odd, intense boy, who had been an excitable gunner, and he was constantly examining himself to find out whether he and the people he loved, among whom he rather embarrassingly included Barber, mostly because of the eight minutes over Palermo, were living up to their promise. “Our generation is in danger,” the boy had typed in the letter on the bureau, “the danger of diminution. We have had our adventures too early. Our love has turned to affection, our hate to distaste, our despair to melancholy,
our passion to preference. We have settled for the life of obedient dwarfs in a small but fatal sideshow.”
The letter had depressed Barber and he hadn’t answered it. You got enough of that sort of thing from the French. He wished the ex-waist-gunner would stop writing him, or at least write on different subjects. Barber hadn’t answered his ex-wife, either, because he had come to Europe to try to forget her. He hadn’t answered his mother, because he was afraid she was right. And he hadn’t gone down to Eze, because no matter how broke he was, he wasn’t selling that particular commodity yet.
Stuck into the mirror above the bureau was a photograph of himself and Jimmy Richardson, taken on the beach at Deauville the summer before. The Richard-sons had taken a cottage there, and Barber had spent a couple of weekends with them. Jimmy Richardson was another one who had attached himself to Barber during the war. Somehow, Barber was always being presented with the devotion of people whose devotion he didn’t want. “People hang on to you,” a girl who was angry at him once told him, “because you’re an automatic hypocrite. As soon as somebody comes into the room, you become gay and confident.”
Jimmy and he had been in bathing trunks when the picture was snapped, and Barber was tall and blessed with a blond, California kind of good looks next to Jimmy, who seemed like a fat, incompetent infant, standing there with the sunny sea behind him.
Barber peered at the photograph. Jimmy didn’t look like the sort of man who would ever be missing from anywhere for thirty-two days. As for himself, Barber thought wryly, he looked automatically gay and confident.
He leaned over and took the picture down and threw it into a drawer. Then, holding the phone loosely, he stared around him with distaste. In the glare of the unshaded lamp, the dark woodwork looked gloomy and termite-ridden, and the bed, with its mottled velours spread, the color of spoiled pears, looked as though it had been wallowed on by countless hundreds of obscenely shaped men and women who had rented the room for an hour at a time. For a second, he was piercingly homesick for all the rooms of all the Hotel Statlers he had slept in and all the roomettes on trains between New York and Chicago, and St. Louis and Los Angeles.