French Exit

by Patrick deWitt

  “For Christmas one year, yes.”

  “Since when were you interested in sailboats?”

  “I was never interested in sailboats. That’s what was so curious about the gift.”

  “You didn’t want it?”

  “I didn’t, no.” She nudged Small Frank with her foot. Small Frank dropped his head and closed his eyes. Malcolm performed a circle in silence. He narrowly avoided crashing into a side table.

  “How does a person receive a sailboat?” he asked.

  “He blindfolded me and brought me to the marina. Blindfold off, he pointed out a large boat and told me it was mine. It was named Sunny Disposish, and it was a very nice sailboat with a teak interior and a Jacuzzi on deck and it took about six grown men to get it going.” She shook her head. “He had offices in Southampton then, and had an idea that he and I would make the most of the commute. We were going to pieces for the first time and I suppose he thought a boat might return us to one another.”

  “It’s nice that he tried.”

  “It’s not not nice. You know what would have been nicer, though? If he’d not bought me a sailboat at all, but instead ceased fucking every lukewarm hole that crossed his field of vision.”

  Malcolm circled the bed twice, then rode from the room. Frances heard a rattling crash, which was the sound of Malcolm jumping from the bike and onto his bed. He hadn’t eaten any dinner and was quite drunk and fell asleep almost at once; but Frances was restless, and she moved to the kitchen nook, to smoke and drink tap water, to feel her loneliness and to think of it. Small Frank had climbed onto the table, curling up at the base of the Christmas tree. In looking at its lights, Frances thought of her childhood, of her father in his robe carrying her up the stairs on Christmas Eve. He smelled of cigarettes and drink and aftershave, a combination of scents that she loved devotedly from this moment and through the span of her life. Franklin had emanated that same deadly troika when they’d met, before the alcohol had turned sour in him, and the smoke acrid.

  Frances stared at the tree. She half-closed her eyes and the Christmas lights became stretched-out spears, pulsing and tilting. She held the colored bars in her gaze; when she closed her eyes further, the lights lost their integrity, jumping to a shapeless smudge of clownish pigmentation, describing nothing, impossible to romanticize.

  19.

  Malcolm was becoming frightened of Frances. There was a furtive look about her that he couldn’t name but that struck him as a manner of warning. Malcolm didn’t want to be warned, he only wished to look away. The weather was fine and bright and cold all the days and weeks following Christmas, and he took to leaving after breakfast to ride his bicycle around the city. Frances missed Malcolm during these jaunts but didn’t complain at his departure, as she was responsible for the new chapter in his life, the riding-a-bicycle-in-Paris chapter, and she felt the buyer’s pride at having realized this for him.

  In the beginning Malcolm found riding around Paris a harrowing, a genuinely frightening activity. It was not that the drivers wished to hit cyclists, as has been stated elsewhere, but it couldn’t be said they were much concerned by the thought of a collision, either. It took Malcolm several days before he was comfortable traveling on primary roads; his courage grew in phases. Eventually he found himself circling the Bastille amid dense, anarchic traffic, left arm jutting out defensively as the cars and mopeds swarmed and honked at him, and the taxi drivers cursed him with lusty gusto, but ultimately all yielded rather than run Malcolm down. It was faith that enabled him to do this, faith that every hurtling vehicle would elect to stop short of killing him.

  One morning he decided to go to the Buttes-Chaumont. He pedaled past the Bastille, running out of energy on Avenue Simon Bolivar and walking his bike into the park. It was eerie and unpopulated, mist clinging to the trees and bushes. Malcolm bought an ice cream from a vendor who seemed surprised at his own decision to sell frozen goods so early, and on so cold a day. Malcolm thought to warm himself by climbing to the temple, this situated on a sharply inclined island in the center of the park’s small lake. He locked his bicycle to a tree and began his ascent.

  The mist was burning off as he reached the summit and Malcolm stood beneath the dome of the temple watching Paris achieve visibility. He had stood in the same place with Susan, and in recalling this he suddenly missed her, after a month with hardly a thought for her. He decided he’d call and see how she’d been faring. He came down from the temple and rode along the canal. He bought a phone card from a tabac opposite the Gare de l’Est, then sought out a phone booth beside the water. He dialed her number and waited. Her voice was creaky: “Hello?”

  “Sudsy.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m calling you. I’m calling you on the phone.”

  “It’s five thirty in the morning.”

  “Ah.” Malcolm snapped his fingers. “Right. I’m sorry.”

  Susan said nothing.

  “I’ve just been out riding my bicycle,” Malcolm said.

  “What bicycle?”

  “Frances bought me one for Christmas.”

  “That’s sad. Where are you?”

  “Next to the canal. Want to know what I’m looking at?”

  “Not really. All right.”

  “Right in front of me there’s a boatload of red-faced German tourists waiting for the lock to drain. Across the water there’s a couple of kids playing Ping-Pong. Do you remember the solid concrete Ping-Pong tables by the canal?”

  “Yes.”

  “They must just pour them into a mold.” He paused. “I’m calling because I wanted to hear your voice,” he explained.

  “Here it is,” she said. “Here’s my voice.”

  But now there came another voice—a man’s voice, in the background. “Who are you talking to?” it asked.

  “It’s Malcolm,” said Susan.

  “Who are you talking to?” Malcolm also asked.

  “That’s Tom.”

  Both men began asking Susan unhappy, overlapping questions.

  “Wait,” she said to them. “Wait a minute.” She spoke to Tom first. He was displeased by the fact of Malcolm’s calling, so displeased that he was leaving, he said. Susan asked him to stay but Tom said he wouldn’t. Susan apologized; they made plans to discuss it at lunch. “Good luck today,” she called. A quiet moment, and Susan uncovered the phone. “All right, he’s gone.”

  Malcolm couldn’t think of anything to say; he was terribly shocked and hurt to know Susan was with another man. He felt the wretched yank in his throat that signaled the possibility of tears.

  “Look,” said Susan, “you’re not allowed even to express an opinion on the matter, do you understand me? It’s beyond reason for you to try to make me feel bad about this, so don’t you dare, all right?”

  Malcolm nodded but didn’t reply verbally.

  “Were you expecting me to mourn our loss in perpetuity?” Susan asked.

  “Yes,” Malcolm answered truthfully. He took hold of himself. “All right,” he said. “Let’s hear it. Let’s talk. Who is this person?”

  “He was my fiancé in college. I’ve told you about Tom before.”

  Earnestly, Malcolm asked, “What were you wishing him luck for? Has he entered a dick-sucking contest?”

  “That’s very witty, Malcolm. No, he’s got a big meeting today.”

  “Oh, a big meeting.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sounds big. What’s this bimbo do?”

  “He works on Wall Street.” Preempting Malcolm’s disparaging comment, Susan said, “Fuck you. At least he has a job.”

  “Yes, at least there’s that.”

  “He made his own way from nothing.”

  “Such a hero.”

  Susan paused a pause which, the moment Malcolm heard it, he knew something ugly was on the other end of it. He waited for the ugliness, and here it was: “He’s asked me to marry him,” Susan said.

  “What, again?”

&
nbsp; “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why did he ask me to marry him?” Susan said. “Is that the question? I can only guess at that, but I assume it’s to do with his wanting us to be married.”

  Malcolm said, “This isn’t making sense to me.”

  “Which part?”

  “All the parts. I can’t imagine the scenario. Did he use the same ring as before, or is there a new ring?”

  “There was no ring either time.”

  “That’s a shame. Probably he’s been too distracted by big meetings to go to the jeweler’s.”

  “It wasn’t a planned thing. It just came up yesterday.”

  “What, during a lull?”

  “I guess so.” Susan thought a moment. “You never gave me a ring either. Or is that different? I suppose you feel it’s charming when you do it.”

  Malcolm recognized the situation was getting away from him. He decided the time had come for a bold gesture. “I want you,” he said, “to come visit me in Paris.”

  Susan laughed, hard, and for a long time. After the laughter had passed, Malcolm said, “Well? What do you think?”

  “I don’t think we’re through discussing what we were discussing, is what I think.”

  “What’s to discuss? You can’t accept the proposal because you’re still engaged to me. It’s illegal. It’s polygamy.”

  “Malcolm?”

  “That’s a felony.”

  “Malcolm.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not allowed to behave this way. Do you understand me? It’s small and cruel and I won’t and don’t accept it. Now, I’m sure I’m very flattered that you finally thought to call me however many weeks after your disappearance from what was our shared life. But you’re mistaken if you think I’m going to welcome you back, all right? You’re just wrong about it. I’m not going to do that anymore. You blew it, and it’s blown, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Malcolm’s face was fixed in a portrait of concentrated discomfort. He made a sort of grunting noise.

  “Listen,” said Susan. “Will you—can you please not call here? At least not for a little while? I’ve been feeling better in the last couple of days, and I’d appreciate your keeping some distance.”

  Malcolm was wondering what the meanest thing he could say might be. There were so many mean things, but which was the absolute, the incontrovertible? Before he concluded his thought, however, Susan hung up the phone. He stepped from the booth, into the sunshine. The boatload of Germans was gone, as were the boys playing Ping-Pong. Malcolm drifted away from the phone booth and toward Joan’s apartment. He was halfway there when he realized he’d forgotten his bicycle. He cursed and crossed the street, hailing a taxi to backtrack.

  20.

  Frances was explaining the second part of her private, two-part plan to Small Frank, and what she saw as his role in it. She spoke in terms more graphic than were necessary, perhaps, and she perceived an opposition in him. It’s true that he did appear to wish to leave, but she held him fast by his middle. “Now, wait,” she said. “I know. Think about what I’m saying to you, though. As if it wasn’t correct.” She heard Malcolm’s key in the lock and turned to face the door. At the same moment Malcolm entered, Small Frank reared and bit Frances on her hand, then dashed from the apartment and down the stairwell. Malcolm inspected his mother’s hand; as the bite had pierced the skin, he volunteered to visit the corner pharmacie for first-aid products.

  The pharmacie was bright and white and clean and busy and Malcolm enjoyed filling his basket with every conceivable supply that Frances might need: bandages and alcohol and aspirin and topical creams. The clerk asked if he’d been hurt, and Malcolm explained about Frances and Small Frank. “At the end of the day they’re still jungle creatures,” the clerk said.

  “Yes, and we’re still apes,” Malcolm told her, and he made a monkey face, scratching at his ribs.

  “Oh la la,” the clerk replied.

  Walking back to the apartment, Malcolm spied Small Frank sitting at the edge of the park on the opposite side of the street. He crossed over to collect him but Small Frank saw him coming and ran off, darting under a bush.

  Malcolm found Frances sitting on her bed, staring into space, her injured hand held to her breast. He led her to the bathroom and filled the sink with warm, soapy water. He rinsed her wounds, then dipped the cotton balls in hydrogen peroxide and wet the bite marks. Wrapping her hand in gauze, he asked, “Does that hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you.”

  Frances looked at Malcolm. “Why are you thanking me?” she asked.

  He said he didn’t know. Frances insisted they go out in search of Small Frank, and they wandered for a full two hours before rainfall forced them back indoors.

  Frances couldn’t sleep that night and in the morning she went out again, on her own, returning empty-handed and in a state of mounting agitation. Malcolm was unsure what he should do; that afternoon he invited over Mme Reynard to act as counsel. She brought champagne and orange juice and the three of them assembled in the living room to plot and ponder. Mme Reynard was touched to be there, and she told herself she would not leave her friends in disappointment. After some consideration, she said, “I believe we should hire a tracking dog. The dog will come here and memorize Small Frank’s scent, then begin its hunt.”

  Malcolm had no deep faith in the scheme but thought to get behind it, if only to engage in some manner of proaction. He found a telephone directory in the kitchen and began calling around kennels and dog breeders, while Mme Reynard and Frances sat together, quietly drinking. Mme Reynard could see Frances was under considerable strain: her hair was kinked, her makeup askew, and she couldn’t hold eye contact for more than a brief moment. The degradation was fascinating to Mme Reynard, but she also felt a keen sympathy for Frances.

  Malcolm returned. “Failure,” he said. He’d been told that locating Small Frank by smell alone was an impossibility. There were too many competing scents in Paris, and even the most gifted tracking dog could never pinpoint a single cat’s location. After a tasteful pause, Mme Reynard suggested they take Small Frank’s departure as a signal to welcome another animal into their lives. “A kitten is an agent of great good,” she said.

  Frances was shaking her head. “I didn’t want a cat in the first place. I don’t even like cats. It was only that Small Frank impressed himself upon us and there was nothing to do but endure him.”

  “If you feel that way, and now that he’s run off, can’t you simply let him go?”

  “No,” Frances answered. “No, no, no.” She began to silently weep. She stood and left the room. Mme Reynard made herself another mimosa. “I’ve upset your mother,” she told Malcolm.

  “She’s upset in a general sense,” Malcolm explained. He reached for the bottle. “We’re out of champagne.”

  Mme Reynard nodded, then looked inward for a time. “Do you ever feel,” she asked, “that adulthood was thrust upon you at too young an age, and that you are still essentially a child mimicking the behaviors of the adults all around you in hopes they won’t discover the meager contents of your heart?”

  Malcolm was considering his answer when Frances returned from her bedroom. She looked different than when she’d left in that an answer resided in her eyes:

  “The witch you fucked on the boat,” she said.

  21.

  Malcolm went out for another bottle of champagne, which they drank without orange juice. Frances discussed her epiphany over a fresh, bubbling glass. “Malcolm fucked a witch on the boat over,” she told Mme Reynard.

  “That’s nice,” said Mme Reynard, and she patted Malcolm’s knee.

  Frances asked Malcolm, “She understood him, didn’t she?”

  “I think she did,” Malcolm said.

  “Why can’t we ask her where he is?”

  “I don’t know that she’d know,” he said doubtfully. “And I don’t know where we’d find her, either.”


  Mme Reynard was nodding. “I would like,” she said, “for one of you to explain to me just what it is you’re talking about, please.”

  Frances said, “The fucked witch and Small Frank were connected.”

  “Let’s not call her that,” said Malcolm.

  “She understood about him,” Frances continued.

  “Yes,” Mme Reynard said, “but what is there to understand about Small Frank, exactly? I’m puzzled, and this is what’s puzzling me.”

  Frances looked to Malcolm, as if to ask what she should do. Malcolm shrugged, which she took as a blessing to continue. “It’s not something we typically discuss, Mme Reynard, but the long and short of it is that my dead husband lives inside that cat.”

  Mme Reynard’s eyelid began to twitch, and she touched her hand to her face to retard this. “Is that a fact?” she asked.

  “An unfortunate fact.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “It’s an understood thing.”

  “Can you make it understood to me?”

  “I don’t know that I can. I wish you’d be good and take my word for it.”

  “I’ll try,” said Mme Reynard bravely. She was having such an exciting time, so that she could have shrieked with delight. She clamped one hand atop the other, squeezing with all her strength, telling herself to be calm.

  Frances, unbidden, announced, “Small Frank ran away because I told him something he didn’t like.”

  “Oh? And what was that?” Mme Reynard asked.

  Frances shook her head. “I won’t say.” She looked at Malcolm. “I’m sorry but I choose not to. Anyway, I believe she might be able to help, and so we should seek her out.”

  “Seek out the fucked witch,” said Mme Reynard.

  “That’s right,” Frances said.

  “Let’s,” said Malcolm, “let’s think of something else to call her besides that.”

  Frances said, “How might we find her, is the question.”

  The three of them took silent sips of champagne.

  “I’ve got it!” Mme Reynard declared, jumping to her feet and knocking the crown of her skull on the low iron lamp hanging over the coffee table. She dropped back onto the sofa, holding her head and pressing her eyes shut in pain. Through pursed lips she said, “Private investigator.” She opened her eyes to study the blood painting her palm.