The Congress of Rough Riders

by John Boyne

  ‘Miss Rose,’ he said when he arrived, thirty minutes late. His eyes flickered over her in recognition; he was sure he could remember who Ellen Rose was but was unconvinced whether he might be mixing her up with a young girl he had met in Manchester a month or so previously. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. Had a bit of business to tie up with a friend of mine.’ The business he spoke of involved Marguerite Devlin, the wife of a local businessman who had made herself available to my great-grandfather after watching him performing at a benefit programme the night before.

  ‘I was late myself, Bill,’ said my great-grandmother, lying deliberately for she did not want it to seem as if she was too needy. In a curious reversal of roles, she stood up and waited for him to sit down, which he did, and she smiled nervously then as she took her seat again, holding her purse between her hands as security. In truth she had arrived a full twenty minutes before their scheduled meeting time, meaning that she had been sitting there alone for almost an hour. The eyes of some of the waiters had glanced over her several times, as they wondered what a young woman was doing sitting alone in a hotel bar in the early evening. The manager had been about to approach her when Bill arrived, thus saving her an embarrassing interview.

  ‘I’m glad you wrote to me,’ said Bill casually. ‘Still with the circus then, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, looking at the ground in misery. Bill was scanning the menu, considering tea and a sandwich, barely glancing at his companion. Several people strolled past and stared at him, for his face had become familiar in recent times through the newspapers. Ellen had prepared a lot of what she wanted to say but found herself unable to find the words now. After a few moments silence he looked across at her irritably.

  ‘Well,’ he said, struggling himself. ‘I’ll be glad to get home to America. I can tell you that. I think this present tour has exhausted me more than any other. And I’m not the young man I used to be.’ This was true; by now, Bill was over forty years of age and although still in good condition he could feel the desire inside to begin to slow down a little. His health was beginning to deteriorate and he had already begun to suffer from heart problems. He found that, despite his still frequent amorous adventures, he needed an hour’s rest during the afternoon and rarely sat through an entire performance of the show, preferring to appear only when he was specifically needed. By contrast, Ellen Rose was in her mid-twenties.

  ‘You’re going home?’ she asked, surprised, her heart sinking at the news.

  ‘I am indeed.’

  ‘Soon?’ Her voice shuddered slightly as she said the single word, stuttering the ‘s’ in her anxiety.

  ‘Two days from now. Our boat sails to New York City, which I’m not looking forward to, I admit. I am a great adventurer, my dear, but truth be told I’m no sailor. The trip over was bad enough. But now that I know how treacherous a transatlantic crossing can be I’m looking forward to it even less. Let’s have some tea. What do you say?’ Ellen Rose nodded her head and as the waiter approached, Bill ordered the beverages and a sandwich for himself, inviting his companion to join him but she declined. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so,’ he said, after the waiter had departed, ‘you’re looking a little peaky yourself. Sure you haven’t been on a boat lately?’

  Ellen smiled. ‘Not recently,’ she said. ‘Although I quite like them. I’d love to go to America someday.’

  ‘It’s a great country,’ replied Bill, not even noticing her gentle hint. ‘If you ever do, you’ve got to go down south towards Kansas and Missouri. That’s where I grew up, you know. Didn’t stay there long though. Before I hit my teens I was out looking for trouble. Found plenty of it too. Killed my first Indian when I was only eight.’

  ‘Oh my,’ exclaimed Ellen in surprise, although she had seen at first hand the level of violent action that Bill’s entourage involved themselves in while they were performing.

  ‘It wasn’t a safe place back then,’ he said, nodding sagely as their refreshments arrived and he poured the tea. ‘Of course it’s all different now. The wars are over. The land disputes are coming to an end. The old west is dying away, I think. And it’s a shame.’

  ‘But you’re keeping it alive, aren’t you?’ she asked. ‘With your performances I mean. People won’t forget it as long as you’re doing that.’

  ‘I’ll die too, one day,’ he replied. ‘Times move on. These shows I do … well they’ll still be popular during my lifetime but when I’m gone and everyone I’ve known – Sitting Bull, Bill Hickok, Annie Oakley – we’ll just be part of history, that’s all. We’re barely keeping it alive as it is.’

  There was a silence for a time as Ellen thought about this and Bill indulged himself in a moment of self-pity. Eventually she broke it in a quiet voice. ‘You’ll still be performing in America though, won’t you?’

  ‘Sure I will.’

  ‘Take me with you,’ she said quickly, wanting the words to be out before she could think about them and pull them back. Bill seemed almost unaware of what she had said for a moment and only snapped back into the conversation when he began to wonder whether he had heard her correctly or not.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Take me with you,’ she repeated, opening her hands in a plaintive gesture and sighing, as if her entire future rested on this moment of hope. ‘Take me to America.’

  Bill was unsure what to say at first and relied on humour to get him through. ‘What in hell do you want to go to America for?’ he asked, laughing slightly despite a certain tension inside him. ‘The west is no place for a lady.’

  ‘You just told me I should go there,’ she protested.

  ‘On a holiday maybe,’ he said. ‘Someday. With your husband. But not on your own.’

  ‘I don’t have a husband,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Well damn it girl, you will have one day. And when you do, you’ve got to make him take you there. Look me up when you come and I’ll show you around. You haven’t seen hospitality until you’ve seen the way they treat friends of Buffalo Bill Cody.’

  Ellen Rose sighed and looked out the window. She knew that he understood what she had meant but was ignoring it, not wishing to acknowledge her request. Under other circumstances, she would have accepted her rejection and let it go at that but there was more to consider now than just herself and she had little choice but to continue. ‘Bill,’ she said, swallowing hard but looking him in the eye nonetheless. ‘What happened between us a couple of months back—’

  ‘What happened between us was just what happened between us, nothing more,’ he snapped back quickly, not particularly wishing to pursue this uncomfortable topic. ‘Let’s not make more of it than all it was.’

  ‘But how can you say that? We … we …’

  ‘We didn’t do anything that either of us didn’t want to do, that’s all. There’s no point pretending otherwise.’

  ‘That’s not what I thought,’ she said, biting her lip to prevent tears from coming. Bill leaned forward and took her wrist firmly, enough for her to wince but without actually hurting her.

  ‘Ellen,’ he said. ‘We’d only met a couple of hours previous. You didn’t think there was a romance going on, now did you?’

  ‘I thought … You told me—’

  ‘I didn’t tell you anything so don’t pretend I did,’ he snapped, squinting his eyes at her as she looked like she might suddenly cry. His tone softened. He wished to be away from this conversation as soon as possible and in order for that to happen, he had to set himself free of her immediately. However, he didn’t particularly want to hurt her at the same time. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if you thought more of you and me than it was, but we both had a good time, let’s just leave it at that.’

  ‘If you take me to America, I’ll make you happy,’ she said, blushing as she heard the words emerge. She hated him for putting her through this but he had given her no choice.

  ‘I’m not taking you anywhere,’ he replied in a firm voice. �
�If you think you’re coming back to America with me, you’re crazy.’

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said and now he drew his breath in surprise. He stared at her as if she really was insane, pressing himself further back in his chair as if she had some sort of communicable disease. Stroking his beard, he shook his head in sorrow.

  ‘And you want me to believe that I’m the father.’

  ‘You’re the only man I’ve ever been with,’ she said.

  ‘A likely story.’

  ‘And a true one. I swear it, Bill. You’re the father of this baby. What would you have me do?’

  He blinked and looked away. She looked very young sitting there before him. She was, indeed, almost twenty years his junior. He was not a hard-hearted man, my great-grandfather, but he had no room at the same time for unnecessary attachments. He had avoided them this long and was not about to get saddled with a woman and child at this stage of his life.

  ‘I’m already married,’ he said finally.

  ‘You could divorce her,’ said Ellen. ‘You never see her anyway, the papers say so. She lives in a different state to you.’

  ‘I can’t divorce her,’ he said, meaning it too. ‘I won’t do that.’

  ‘I can’t be here on my own. With this baby. How will we survive?’

  Bill laughed. ‘You’ve survived this long,’ he said. ‘You’ve got family, don’t you? They’ll look after you.’

  Ellen shook her head and brushed the tears away as they rushed down her cheeks. ‘You’d do that?’ she asked. ‘You’d just leave me.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s my child?’ he asked half-heartedly, even though he had entirely believed her when she had said as much. She didn’t even need to respond. ‘I’ll settle some money on you,’ he said. ‘You and your baby can live here. Spend it wisely and you won’t want for anything. Maybe I’ll send you a little something from time to time. That’s all I can do. I’m sorry.’

  Ellen Rose nodded and picked up her purse. There was something in his tone that made her aware that he was not likely to change his mind. She stood up with dignity and smoothed her skirts, her hand brushing against her stomach and resting there for a moment; Bill watched her hand as she hesitated, somehow shielding the baby’s unborn eyes from its father and then, without another word to her lover, she slipped out of the hotel bar and made her way home.

  Night time. The streets surrounding our ground-floor apartment in Denver are quiet. We live outside the centre of town. It’s a relatively peaceful suburban area. We’ve rented it for a reasonable price and intend to stay here until we leave Colorado. There’s a second bedroom which we’ll use for Shane should we still be here after a year or so. Before that if Hitomi lets me. (I think he should be in his own room sooner rather than later.) I often take him for a walk late at night if he’s restless; even if he isn’t it’s a custom I enjoy. I get a certain proud thrill from walking along with my son in his pram. I like it when strangers pass by and glance from him to me in a quick moment, checking for resemblances, looking at the face of the man who has fathered the boy. My usual route takes me across Delarue Street towards Kemley Park which is always quiet save for the dog-walkers and we can safely amble through it at any time before dark. Tonight, like most nights, I stop at a park bench under a light and, as Shane snores in his pram in front of me, pull my book out from my inside pocket and take half an hour’s peaceful reading time. It’s by Philip Roth. It’s a good book. Ten o’clock. Later than I realise. Two joggers run past, two young men. Strong, fit. Handsome. Together, I think. How’s Justin these days, I wonder? Haven’t heard from him in a while. And Adam. He’s getting married soon. Like to be back home for the wedding. That’d be good. Old friends. There’s a song, my mind scrambles to remember the lyric. Good for Isaac to see his grandson too. And vice versa. He’s getting old. I want to call him. I want to see him. Why can’t I make the time? Now a dog-walker. A young woman. Pretty. I glance at her legs. Taut calves. She spots me looking and frowns. Sees Shane. Relents. Smiles a little. I shrug, embarrassed. She gives a little laugh and walks on. Won’t speak to me. She’s friendly but not stupid. Ratty-looking terrier with her. I snarl at it. It yaps back. Shane blinks back to consciousness and stares at me, confused. What are we doing here? he wants to know. I shrug again but he doesn’t understand that. I show him the cover of the book. I put it back in my pocket. Stand up. The three of us – Shane, Philip Roth and I – start for home. I think of Hitomi, lying in her bath. Bubbles surrounding her. She’ll have her hair pinned up with a snappy comb, I think. I’ll sneak in, try and let her hair down and she’ll scream at me. Whenever we shower together, she keeps her hair clear from the spray. No matter what’s happening she’s always alert enough to make sure it doesn’t get wet. I smile. Foibles. I love her. I cheated on her once, I think. Maybe I’ll tell her one day. What’s the point? I didn’t cheat on her. All I did was sleep with someone else. Not even that. I fucked some other woman, that was all. It doesn’t matter. Enough. Check the time. Ten-fifteen. She’ll be watching out for us. I’ve stayed out too late. I’m tired. Work in the morning. Sometimes I want to stop strangers in the street and say Guess what? I’ve interviewed Bill Clinton. I’ve had two books published. My great-grandfather is Buffalo Bill Cody. They’d call the cops. Shane gives a muffled shout, then returns to sleep. Shane’s great. I feel a rush of love for him. I think I may cry for a moment. I love Shane; I want more words to express that but I can’t find them. They’re a mystery to me, those words. Get a grip. Why should I get a grip? Nothing wrong with loving your son. I’ll communicate with him, I think. We’ll talk about other things than family history. We’ll talk about football games, and books, and films. When he’s old enough to be embarrassed by me I’ll dance the funky chicken in front of all his friends and he’ll slap his hands over his eyes and shout Dad get out of here you old fool and I’ll grumble that I never spoke to my father like that even though I did and worse. And he’ll have some troubles maybe, especially if we live in London, because he’s half and half. America’s a good place for him maybe. Or Japan. Or Paris. I don’t know. I can’t make these kinds of decisions, that’s Hitomi’s job, although I know one thing – I’m tired of moving around. I want a little peace and quiet. Want a home. No more of this nomadic lifestyle. I’m a family man now. Speaking of which. Home. Light on in the bathroom. I can see that from here. Still in the bath maybe. More likely out and has just left it on. She’s got some stupid idea that leaving it on clears the mirrors quicker when they’re all steamed up. I don’t know. I’d like to have those heat pads behind mirrors that stop them steaming up at all. Maybe when I’m rich and famous. Car coming. We wait at the side of the road. It’s coming too slow and Shane’s fidgety. We could have made it if we’d gone originally but it’s too late now. Come on, for God’s sake, I’m getting cold. I want to get inside. I want a beer. I want to cuddle up next to Hitomi on the couch because she’ll smell like peaches from those bath salts she uses. She’ll be wearing her thick white woollen dressing gown and her legs and feet will be bare beneath it. She’ll have let her hair down. Call me crazy but it’s a look that always does something to me. I’ll sing quietly to her in her ear if we’re nuzzling up together and Shane is asleep in his cot. Fiddling with my key on the outside lock. When I find it I see that the outside door is already open. Surprising. Once you go through it closes automatically and locks. I walk in and it closes behind me. Doesn’t lock. I peer at it. The lock’s broken. Wasn’t like that when I went out, I think. Maybe it was. Didn’t notice. Must remember to leave a note for the caretaker. Although she’ll probably notice herself anyway. Keys back in pocket. Why did I do that? Need them for my own door. I walk through the next set and down the corridor. The lights come on around me one at a time. Shane is still asleep. And then what’s this? Not my door? Is my door. Open. Lock’s broken. Jimmied open. I swallow. I don’t understand. My mind’s a beat behind me. Why would Hitomi have the door like this? Heart sinks. Shane’s in the hall. I stumble inside. L
egs giving way because I’m fucking terrified of what’s on the inside. Bare legs, bare feet, just like I imagined. White woollen robe. Smell of peaches. But she’s lying on the floor. First thing I think is why is all the furniture pushed around? All I can see of her is her feet. What’s she doing? Who’s pushing past me? Leather jacket. Strong smell. Bad smell. What was that? Who was he? I’m lost. It’s not my apartment at all, is it? I see her now. She’s lying flat. Her hair’s down all right. Half her head is dark black and scarlet. She’s been hurt. Hitomi, I cry. I fall on my knees. I fall on my fucking knees beside her and I can’t touch her because I’m afraid with all this blood. Her eyes blink. Blink again. Her mouth opens. Teeth bloody too. She says my name. I shake my head. What’s happened here, I ask her? What have you done? Hitomi, I shout. Get up. Get up, for God’s sake. You’re fine. There’s nothing wrong with you. Get up. William … William … My hands reach down now to help her. The blood is warm and I gag. I don’t know what to do. I’m crying suddenly. And a man’s standing beside me, shouting loudly. I know him. He’s my neighbour. He’s a nice guy. I borrowed some masking tape off him the other day and it’s sitting on my bureau. I can give it back to him now, I think. He’s shouting something and I’m saying she’s fine she’s fine she’s fine there’s nothing wrong here she’ll be fine and more people are running in. Hitomi, I cry. I can hear Shane outside. Can’t hear anyone else now, somehow. Just him. Just me. Her eyes move again in terror and settle on mine. They lock in. I can feel them locking in as now is the time for her to say goodbye. She’s looking at me. She’s scared. I remember kissing her. I can taste her kiss now. The pupils still stare at me but she’s gone. I know she’s gone.