Lucy Crown

by Irwin Shaw

  “I repudiate you,” he had written, and she wondered why he had taken the trouble to cross it out.

  16

  AND THE NEXT TIME she saw him was through the cigarette smoke at the bar in Paris, with the noise of the piano behind her and the Negro singing “Le piano des pauvres” with a broad Harlem accent, and the college boy holding her hand among the beer-glasses on the table.

  How many years between the somber November twilight and the club owner saying, nastily, “Let me advise you, Madame, to telephone first. Mr. Crown is married. To a beautiful and charming lady”? Sixteen years. And a war won and lost; Oliver dead; age accepted or nearly accepted; everything repaired, or almost repaired; revisions accomplished; pain and loss misted over by habit, dimmed in the memory, incapable, one had thought, of causing further harm.

  She slept very little that night, in the high-ceilinged, old-fashioned hotel room, the wide, lumpy bed crowded against the wall by a huge, dark armoire whose door she couldn’t quite close and which creaked gently and warningly from time to time in the darkness, disturbed by the wind that came in through the slit of the iron shutters at the window.

  She lay in the bed, listening to the obscure complaints of the armoire door, on the edge of sleep, changing her mind a dozen times, deciding to leave the next morning, deciding to go to the address the man had written down for her at the bar, deciding to act as though she had never seen Tony, and go sightseeing the next day, as she had planned, the Louvre, Versailles, the walk, along the river, deciding to jump up immediately and call him on the telephone and say … what? “This is your mother. Do you still hate me?” or, “I happened to go into a night club a few hours ago and guess who I saw standing at the bar …”

  She fell asleep, remembering his face, so much like the other face, dead and almost forgotten, remembering the child’s face from which it had been formed, narrow, soft-skinned, with the speckled gray eyes which were so much like hers.

  It was early, not much past eight o’clock, when she woke in the morning, with the sound of the Vespa’s and motorbikes and trucks coming in off the street. She lay still, listening uncomfortably, not remembering for an instant, but conscious that something had changed, feeling no longer like a tourist, but like a victim, in the strange, shaded room.

  Then she remembered and understood why she felt that way. She made herself get out of bed and look at the clock. She regretted that she had not slept later, because if she had, she would have been able to tell herself that it was too late, he undoubtedly would be out of the house, at work …

  She bathed, in cool water, to try to wake herself up, and dressed hurriedly and mechanically, anxiously looking at the clock, like a woman with a train to catch. She looked in the mirror before leaving the room. She stared curiously at herself, wondering what he would see when they met. Even in the daylight, she realized without vanity, even with so little sleep, she didn’t look so bad. Her eyes were clear, the skin smooth, she didn’t need any make-up except a little lipstick because she was tanned, the dark blond of her hair was highlighted by the strawy streaks that always came out in it when she stayed in the sun.

  She put on a hat and started out, then stopped and took the hat off and threw it on the bed. She didn’t wear a hat except on ceremonial occasions, and she didn’t want this to be a ceremonial occasion. She brushed her hair nervously once more, then, on a sudden impulse, went over to where her valise was lying open on its stand and reached into the pocket under the top lid and took out a wrinkled, crumbling envelope. Carefully, she put the envelope into her bag and went out of the room.

  Downstairs, she hailed a taxi, and managed to make the driver understand the address in only two tries. As she settled on the seat in back, and the taxi started off down the cool, tree-lined street, she had a small feeling of triumph. Perhaps it’s an omen, she thought. Maybe today I can communicate with everybody.

  Bouncing on the rough springs of the taxi seat, moving swiftly along the foreign streets, she didn’t know exactly what she wished to communicate to her son. It was difficult, even, to know just why she was going to see him or what she expected from the visit. She just knew that it had to be done. It was like opening a door to a long corridor in a dream and feeling that for some reason that would never be clear, before the dream ended it would be necessary to go to the end of the corridor.

  The taxi stopped in front of an apartment house on a quiet street and she got out and paid the driver, trying to control the slight shaking of her hands. Before going in, she looked at the face of the house. It was of anonymous gray stone, rather shabby and weatherbeaten, one of those buildings which have very little beauty in themselves but which combine, somehow, in Paris, with the similar buildings around them, to make a soberly pleasant pattern on street after street of the city.

  At home, she realized, people who lived in a house like that would move to another neighborhood as soon as a rise in salary came along.

  She went in and said clearly to the fat blond woman in the concierge’s room, “Monsieur Crown, s’il vous plait.”

  “Troisième, à gauche,” the concierge said, looking at her sharply, suspecting everything.

  Lucy translated laboriously for herself and pushed the button in the elevator for the third floor. The hall was dark when she got out and she fumbled for more than a minute before she found the button of the doorbell, to the left of the elevator shaft. She heard the bell ring inside the apartment, and the muffled sound of a vacuum cleaner somewhere else in the building, insistent and annoying.

  The door did not open, and Lucy rang again, hoping guiltily that there was no one home, that she could make her way down the dark stairway and into the street and away from the building without having to come face to face with her son. She was just about to turn away when she heard steps within and the door opened.

  A young woman stood there, in a pink wrapper, a young, small woman with short dark hair, outlined against bright sunlight that poured into the hallway behind her. Lucy couldn’t see her face, just the small, slender silhouette against the light.

  “Mrs. Crown?” Lucy said.

  “Yes.” The woman stood there, with the door thrown carelessly wide open.

  “Is Mr. Crown in?” Lucy asked.

  “No.” The woman made a quick, inquisitive movement of her head, as though she was trying to get a better look at Lucy.

  “Will he be back soon?” Lucy asked.

  “I don’t know,” the woman said. Her voice was cool and unfriendly. “I don’t know when he’ll be back. Who shall I say called?”

  “My name is Crown,” Lucy said, feeling ridiculous. “I’m his mother.”

  They stood silently for a moment, facing each other. Then the woman chuckled drily.

  “Come in,” she said, taking Lucy’s arm. “It’s about time we got to know each other.”

  She led Lucy down the hall and into the living room. The room was cluttered and a breakfast tray was set on a low table in front of the couch, with a half-drunk cup of coffee, a smoldering cigarette, and the Continental edition of the Tribune, turned back to the editorial page.

  “Well, now,” the woman said, turning toward her, smiling a little. “Welcome to Paris.”

  It was hard to tell whether the words and the smile that went with them were derisive or not, and Lucy stood there, waiting, cautious, uncomfortable, on foreign and uncertain ground.

  “First,” the woman said, staring directly at Lucy, “I suppose I ought to introduce myself. Or do you know my name?”

  “No,” said Lucy, “I’m afraid I …”

  “Dora,” the woman said. “And I know yours. Won’t you sit down? And can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “Well,” Lucy said, “if Tony’s not here … I wouldn’t like to interfere with your morning.”

  “I have nothing to do with my morning,” the girl said, “I’ll go get another cup.”

  She left, walking lightly, the pink wrapper floating through the beams of sunlight that came in
through the open windows. Lucy sat down on a straight chair, looking around her at the room. It was a room that had seen better days. The paint was old and soiled, the rugs threadbare. It gave an impression of rented furniture, things slightly out of repair, a provisional and careless existence. Only two large, brilliant paintings on the wall, abstract and nervous, gave the feeling of personal choice, ownership.

  They must be poor, Lucy thought, or nearly poor. Where did all the money go?

  Dora came back, carrying a cup and saucer. While she was pouring the coffee, Lucy examined her obliquely. She was very young, with deep black eyes, and a heavy mass of dark hair pulled back from her forehead with attractive austerity. She had a pointed small face and a wide, full mouth, whose sensuality was accentuated and made somehow disturbing by the paleness of her skin. With a cigarette hanging from her lips, squinting a little, bent over the low table as she poured the coffee, Dora’s face seemed marked by resignation and a permanent dissatisfaction.

  Maybe it’s the style for the young married set this year, Lucy thought, accepting the cup and saucer. Maybe this year they have decided to look dissatisfied.

  “Well, now, at last,” Dora said, seating herself directly across from Lucy in a low, rumpled easy chair. “I’m sorry Tony isn’t here to do the honors.”

  “Has he gone out already?” Lucy asked.

  “No,” Dora said, without expression. “He hasn’t come in yet.”

  “Does he work at night?” Lucy asked, confused.

  “No,” said Dora.

  “I mean … I saw him at two o’clock, in a bar …” Lucy stopped, embarrassed.

  “Did you?” Dora said, without interest. “How was the reunion?”

  “I didn’t speak to him. When he left, I got the address from the manager.”

  “Was he alone?” Dora tilted her head back, finishing her coffee.

  “Yes.”

  “Fancy that.” The tone of the girl’s voice was still flat, automatic.

  “I’m sorry,” said Lucy. “I don’t want to meddle … Perhaps I’d better go. If you want, when he gets back, you can tell him I’m in Paris and I’ll leave the telephone number of my hotel and if he …”

  “Don’t go, don’t go,” the girl said. “You’re not meddling. And he’s liable to come in any minute. Or any week.” She laughed drily. “Oh, it’s not as bad as you think,” she said. “Or anyway, I like to tell myself it’s not as bad as people think. He has a studio near here and sometimes when he’s working hard or when he can’t stand domesticity any more, he stays there. If you saw him at a bar at two o’clock, I guess he wasn’t working very hard last night, though.”

  “A studio?” Lucy asked. “What does he do in a studio?”

  “Don’t you know?” Dora asked, sounding surprised.

  “No. The last time I heard from him was during the war, when he got the news that his father had been killed,” said Lucy. “He wired me that he didn’t intend to come to the funeral services.”

  “That sounds like him.” The girl looked amused. “He can’t stand ceremonies. If our own wedding had lasted another five minutes, he’d have run like a deer.” She paused, grimacing a little, lighting another cigarette, looking up at the ceiling over Lucy’s head, as though remembering the wedding. “I don’t suppose you knew he was married, either, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he is,” the girl said. “For his sins. For the moment, he’s married. No guarantees go along with this purchase.” She chuckled briefly.

  She’s not as hard as she wants me to think she is, Lucy thought, studying the pale, youthful, bitter face. Perhaps that’s the style, too. Or she has learned to put it on to live with her husband.

  “You wanted to know what he does in a studio,” Dora said. “He’s a cartoonist. He draws funny pictures for the magazines. Didn’t you know that, either?”

  “No,” said Lucy. It seemed like an improbable profession for a son of hers to be following. Naïvely, the word cartoonist made her think of clowns, comedians with funny hats, simple and light-hearted young men. The glimpse she had had of Tony the night before had suggested none of these things. And certainly, when he was a boy he had been serious enough. “It’s true, he used to cover all his school books with little drawings. They weren’t terribly good, though.”

  “I imagine he’s improved a bit,” the girl said. “In that direction, anyway.”

  “But I’ve never seen his name …”

  “He doesn’t draw under his own name. I think he’s ashamed of it. If he could do anything else, he’d quit.”

  “What does he want to do?”

  The girl shrugged. “Nothing. Or at least nothing that he’s ever told me.”

  “Does he do well?” Lucy asked.

  “Well enough,” she said. “We eat. If we went back to America, he probably could make a lot of money. He’s not very interested. His tastes’re simple. Awful but simple.” She smiled bleakly. “And he never showed any desire to shower his wife with mink.”

  “Why doesn’t he want to go back to America?” Lucy asked, hoping for an answer that would not damage her.

  Dora looked at her coldly. “He says he got used to living in exile when he was young, and he’d feel uncomfortable changing the pattern. And he says he likes living in France best of all, because the French are in despair and he admires that.”

  What conversations must have gone on in this shabby room, Lucy thought, what hurtful, desolate interchanges!

  “Why does he talk like that?” she asked.

  The girl looked at her levelly. “You tell me,” she said.

  Lucy hesitated. “Some other time,” she said. “He sounds like a terribly difficult man.”

  Dora laughed. It sounded as though it had been choked out of her. “Lady,” she said, “what a gift for description you have.”

  She is not my friend, Lucy thought. Whatever else she may turn out to be, she is not my friend.

  “Ah, I shouldn’t talk like that,” Dora said. “I make him sound like a monster. And he’s not a monster. We’ve been married five years and he’s given me some rough times, and there’s always the chance he’ll come home one day and tell me we’re finished—in fact, I’m sure it’s going to happen eventually—and yet, I wouldn’t change it, I wouldn’t change any of it. It’s been worth it,” she said harshly, as though challenging Lucy to deny it. “No matter how it ends, it’s been worth it.” Then, with an obvious effort, she checked herself. “Oh, you’ll see for yourself,” she said lightly, “when you talk to him. Inside of twenty minutes, he’ll probably charm you into feeling that he’s the most devoted and loving son who ever lived. If he wants, he’ll convince you that he really has been trying to reach you on the telephone for twenty years, only you just happened to be out the times he called …”

  “I doubt that,” Lucy said. She felt nervous and unlucky and she had to hold her hands together to keep them from fidgeting. Bad luck, bad luck, she thought. Tony not there, when she had herself all prepared, finally, to confront him—and instead, this hostile, unhappy, cynical, pathetic girl, with her disturbing revelations about him, with her little anthology of her husband’s bitter aphorisms on exile and despair, her challenging, open devotion in the face of neglect, or worse than neglect.

  “Oh,” the girl was saying, suddenly polite and hostesslike, “that’s enough about me. I’d love to hear something about you now. You look so young …”

  “I’m not so young,” Lucy said.

  “I knew you were beautiful. Tony told me,” the girl said, sounding genuine and artless, her eyes smiling, looking directly at Lucy, unexpectedly approving of her, as though she had decided to observe her objectively, with no reference to her history, no reference to what was behind the smartly cut dark blond hair, the wide, deep eyes, the large, youthful, pleasant mouth. “But it just never occurred to me that you could look like this—that when I saw you, it would still all be there like this …”

  “It really isn’t s
till all there, my dear,” Lucy said.

  “You ought to see my mother.” Dora chuckled mischievously. “Garden-club type. Light-heavyweight division. When she decided to let herself go, she took the longest cruise that was being offered.”

  The two women laughed together, a gossipy, feline, comfortable laugh.

  “You must hang around,” Dora said, “and teach me the trick. I never’ve been able to stand the idea of growing old. When I was sixteen, I made a holy vow to myself—to commit suicide on my fortieth birthday. Maybe you can save me from that.”

  The trick, Lucy thought, smiling at her daughter-in-law, but feeling something sober and shadowy within her, the trick is to suffer and be alone and never be certain enough of anything to fall back comfortably and know that someone is there to catch you. The trick, if you’re interested, is to struggle constantly.

  “It’s a shame it isn’t afternoon,” Dora said. “We ought to have a drink to celebrate meeting each other, after all these years.” She looked inquiringly at Lucy. “Would you think it was sinful to have a drink at this hour of the morning?”

  Lucy looked at her watch. It was nine-thirty-five.

  “Well …” she said doubtfully. She had known several women who were constantly looking for excuses to drink at all hours of the day and night. Maybe that was it, maybe that was why Tony kept away from his home so much …

  The girl giggled. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, understanding. “I’ve never had a drink before noon in my whole life.”

  Lucy laughed again, pleased with the girl’s perceptiveness. “I think it would be a wonderful idea,” she said.

  Dora stood up and went over to a small, marble-topped table against the wall, on which stood some glasses and bottles. She poured Scotch and a little soda into two glasses. Her movements were precise and graceful and she looked like a serious and slender child with her head inclined to one side, measuring out the drinks. Watching her, Lucy felt a sharp twinge of dislike for her son, for causing pain to a girl like that, who, because of her beauty, must have expected, ever since her first look in a mirror, that kindness, forbearance and love would be the constant climate of her life.