by Howard Engel
“Christ, Wad! ‘Hath not a Jew eyes?’”
“What business has he with Lady Biz?”
“Wad, you’re drunk! How many girls do you want?”
“Shut up, kid. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Waddington, sit down. There’s a good fellow,” said Tolstoi. Wad did as he was told, but finished his cognac to show that he was sober.
“You know,” said Arlette, who hadn’t said much because her English wasn’t perfect and she was shy in company, “I am surprised at you Americans and English who come here. You pretend to be poor, you pretend that you are artists, you think you are better than the tourists. You make me very cross, you know. You are tourists. You don’t ride a charabanc, but you are no better than the people who go home with a Tour Eiffel paperweight and a bottle of Napoléon brandy.” The group stared at Arlette for a full minute.
“Arlette! What’s wrong?” Anson demanded. “Why are you talking this way? What have we done to hurt you, dear girl?”
“It’s not you. It’s everybody. Maybe I’m sick of this town. Maybe I wish more of you went home to your roast potatoes and apple pie.”
“Steady on, old girl! We’re not without feelings. Don’t be so hard on us,” said Tolstoi.
“Yes, what can we do about it?” asked Julia.
“You treat us all as the background, the cyclorama — is that what you call the back curtain in a theatre? — for your pretending. Do you know that France is going crazy? The franc is falling every day. Everywhere the prices are going up. Everyone blames the government, the bankers, the Jews. Sans blague! How many of you know this? How many of you have ever been away from your language for even a day? You don’t care about us except as supernumeraries in your little dreams.”
“Come on, Arlette, that’s a bit thick. We know you, don’t we?”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to say anything. I apologize.”
“I think you’ve had a drop too much, kid,” Wad said.
“I am going to the Water,” she said as though it were the announcement of the succession to the British throne, and got up carefully.
Over at the bar, Lady Biz was now arguing with Leopold. It looked as though he wanted her to leave with him and she didn’t want to go. He had a hand on her arm. Wad was on his feet. I got up and started over. But, before I got there, Wad had pulled one of the men away from Biz and almost at the same moment had taken a poke at Leopold.
“Damn!” said Anson Tyler. “He thinks he’s Jack Dempsey!”
“God! Did you see it?” Hal Leopold had gone over backwards to the floor, taking one of the stools with him. A few customers got to their feet. Leopold was rubbing his chin with one hand and feeling along the floor to make contact with his fallen eyeglasses. The men at the bar had gone white and silent. I gave Hal a hand and he stood up in slow stages. Colour had drained from Biz’s face. Wad was leaning back against the bar as though he’d just shot a lion. There was blood on Hal’s face.
“Let a professional sawbones have a look at that,” Anson said, putting his thumb under Hal’s eye. We gave the Doctor room and Hal allowed Anson’s hands to move his head around. After a moment, they grinned at one another. “Nothing to make medical history here,” Anson announced as he got to his feet.
“Wad, what the hell was that for?” Hal asked, fitting his spectacles in place and straightening his bow tie.
“It doesn’t pay to bother a lady. You should have seen she didn’t want to go with you.”
“And what business is that of yours?”
“You can’t get away with that sort of thing around here,” Wad said, evasively. “Maybe it’s time you shoved off.”
Leopold had taken off his eyeglasses again and was wiping them with a handkerchief. Sweat was shining on Wad’s face.
“Last time I heard, the Dingo was still a public place, Wad. Are you still sore about Spain? I thought we were all through with Spain. Do you want to come outside into the street to settle this?”
“Sure,” Wad said. “I’m at your disposal.” He made a little bow, as though they were talking about pistols in the Bois at dawn.
“Come on, you two,” I said, coming between them. “Let’s have a drink and forget this. Come on, Biz, join the party. Your friends can spare you for a few minutes.”
“You’re like one of those minor bullfighters, Mike. You come between the matador and the bull at just the right time,” Biz said.
“He’s going to get gored one of these days,” Wad said, but he joined Biz and the rest of us in returning to the table. Julia shifted a few chairs from where she was sitting; Tolstoi, less usefully, stood up. Leopold hung back, waiting for a special invitation. It was easy to see why Wad disliked him. He was pouting like a schoolboy.
“Come on, Hal! Have a drink and forget about this.”
“Have you chaps arranged this encore of one of our Pamplona evenings for my benefit?” Biz asked. “I could have done without it, really. You try too hard to amuse me. I’m not worth it.” She failed in her attempt to lighten the heavy feeling at the table. Waddington was still sweating as though he had already done fifteen rounds with Hal. I called for another round of fines. Cognac might take the sharp edge off all of us, and at two francs each, they were almost within my means.
“Wish somebody’d fight over me,” Julia said. “I haven’t had such a fuss made over me since I left Arkansas.” Arlette returned to the table. She threw a curious look over the party, as though trying to decode it. We were wearing some of what she had missed on our faces.
“Would you have come outside with me, Wad?” Hal asked. “If Mike hadn’t come along?”
“It’s all rot talking about it,” Wad said, without looking at Hal. “The thing is, you do it, you don’t talk about doing it.” He looked as though he had more to say on the subject, but Tolstoi suddenly stood up, shouting:
“George! Am I seeing things or is it you?”
A tanned, lean, sturdy-looking man with red-rimmed eyes and tweeds stood just inside the doorway. Except for Biz, we all turned to see.
“Oh, hello George,” Biz drawled as though the family dog had wandered in with the company. She returned to her drink as George shook hands with the nearest of his friends.
“Hel-lo, Wad! Hel-lo, hel-lo! I’m afraid I’m a bit tight. Is that a capital offence at this table? I’ve confessed, you know; now you can’t say I didn’t warn you.” He was now standing behind Lady Biz’s chair. “An undischarged bankrupt can’t be too careful. Hel-lo, Tolstoi, old man! Good to see you!”
“Mike,” Wad said, “this is Biz’s on-again, off-again fiancé, George Gordon. George, this is a Canadian friend, Mike Ward.”
“You did that without a stumble, Wad,” Biz said, smiling at him with eyes that also seemed to be calling for help. “You’re getting better at it.”
“Wad has wonderful manners!” Julia interjected.
George and I shook hands. His was a less than vice-like grip. He had the face of a serious drunk. It was a nice face, generous, humorous, ironic even, but it was the face of a drunk.
“Sit down, George. Have a drink.” Wad was apparently delighted to welcome George into our little group, if only because it made Hal Leopold look more uneasy than ever. Another admirer for Lady Biz Leighton.
“Like nothing better, nothing better, but I’ve left a friend out in the street while I popped in to see if you were here. I’ll be back at a gallop.” He let go of the back of Biz’s chair without Biz having looked at him. Quickly he was out the door, after nearly tripping over the doctor’s umbrella.
He returned almost at once with a tall, big-boned blonde woman in a dress that was based on a classical Greek design. The dress was beltless and the figure under it was unfashionably voluptuous. Her hair was not bobbed according to the very newest fashions but worn loose, hanging almost to her shoulders. Her eyebrows were dark and her mouth showed white teeth behind full lips. Hers was a new face to me, but most of the people at
the table recognized her.
“Bonsoir, tout le monde!” she said in a low, rather masculine voice. Her smile was generous and read the expressions on all our faces. I decided that her evening make-up had been applied too heavily, but I could find no other fault. I was in fact glad that it was the chair next to me that was cleared of our personal rubble and into which she settled, showing rather a lot of silk stocking in the process.
“Mike, do you know Laure Duclos?” Wad asked, trying to catch the passing waiter’s eye at the same time. Although Laure Duclos was smiling warmly around her, the answering smiles were frosty.
“So, you’re a Canadian?” George said to me across the table. “The Prince has a ranch out your way.”
“That’s a good deal west of where I come from. The only time I saw the Prince, he asked me to get out of his way. We are less than intimate. Not the best of friends.”
The waiter arrived. Laure ordered Pernod and George made a fuss about the Dingo’s supply of Scotch. He settled finally for a double shot of something with a cock grouse on the bottle. I was the only one drinking the Bavarian beer that the place was famous for. But I was a tourist still. I had a lot of learning to do.
Before the drinks arrived, I escaped to the Water Closet. It was one of the primitive kinds with two foot-stands rising out of a cesspool and a rusty chain that had lost its knob before the Armistice. On my way out, after escaping the flood that followed my pulling the chain, I ran into George patiently waiting his turn.
“Have nightmares about these things,” George said, bobbing his head at the WC. “I see you were quite taken by Laure, old man.”
“She’s a good-looking woman, and my blood is still faintly red.”
“Go to it, my dear chap. But be warned: she’s more complicated than she looks.”
“She seemed to lower the temperature at the table when she came in.”
“Lower …? Oh, I see what you mean.” George took his hand from the handle of the door to the WC. “Laure — how should I put it? — has no casual relationships. That gets the women in a stew. Won’t play by the rules of the game. I’ve always liked her, and I must be the only man at the table she hasn’t run off with. Back when I first met her, she was Anson’s ball-and-chain. That was 1922. I was new to Paris then. Checked into a hotel and told everybody its name was ‘Hôtel Meublé.’ Everybody thought I was pulling their legs.”
“What else does she do?”
“She’s a teacher of French, old man. She’s also a typewriter. That alone makes her indispensable in the Quarter. So many writers about, don’t you know. She made a fair copy of Waddington’s first book for Robert McAlmon. She turns up everywhere. But not in here, I hope.” Again his attention shifted to the WC, and I rejoined the others.
Fresh drinks had arrived. Everybody was talking. I felt rather privileged to take part, if only by listening. At his end of the table, Hal Leopold stood up with a glass in his hand. He didn’t look drunk but rather like a junior lecturer in the safety of his faculty club. “I’d just like to say …” he said and then said it again, “that I want to congratulate my erstwhile sparring partner, Jason Waddington. Not for his punch — it was a lucky punch, Wad — but for the fact that I learned today in a letter from Boni and Liveright in New York that they are going to publish not only my new novel — some of you knew about that — but Wad’s as well!”
The table went wild with congratulations. Julia and Biz kissed Wad, and Arlette and Laure did as much for Hal, but while Hal was all grins and boyish charm, poking holes in the clouds of smoke that hovered over the table with his pipe, Wad looked like he’d just read a withering rejection notice.
“What’s the matter, Waddington?” Tolstoi asked. “You look as though your partner had failed to see that you were holding a grand slam.”
“Yes,” said Biz, examining his brooding face. “You do look as though you’ve been sipping hemlock again.”
“Liveright’s offered him a three-book contract,” Hal added.
“But that’s marvellous!” said Laure. “And the precious lamb didn’t even mention it.”
“It’s old news,” said Wad. “The contract’s been signed for months. I saw the book jacket in August.” Wad began waving his arms around. They looked as though they were undecided about whether they were shadow-boxing or manipulating a bullfighter’s cape.
George rejoined the party. Biz whispered the news to him before he sat down.
“When do we get to see the first of the books, old man?” George asked. “I’ll mortgage my birthright to the Jews and buy fifty copies.”
“It’s the same book that was published here. Almost. Damned thing will be out in a couple of weeks. Let’s change the subject.”
“But Waddington, this one will be read in your own country. Big difference there, I think.”
“I’ll keep you posted, George, on the news from the good ol’ Jew S.A.” Wad looked at Hal and added, “Sorry, Hal. No offence intended.”
“Is the next book to be the Spanish novel, Wad?” I asked.
“The Spanish novel?” Laure asked. “What Spanish novel? Have you been holding out on your old comrades in arms, Waddington?” Wad shook his head and gave me a dirty look for introducing the subject. George and Biz exchanged glances. Hal looked from one face to another, smiling a pained smile. I discovered that I was developing a peculiar interest in this novel Wad was writing.
“Leopold, old chap, I don’t see what you’re so chipper about. You were there as well, remember.” George turned to see the other end of the table. “We were all this raw material, damn it all! Should get royalties, what?” Wad appeared about to make a dash for the tiny, dirty toilet at the back; all in all a better place to be at the moment. George was shaking his head at the unpleasant memory. “None of us behaved well. I know I was not at my best. We were all tight most of the week.”
“I just thought that Wad would like all of you to know,” Hal said. “Thought it was good news. Sorry. I don’t see why you’re hanging crêpe around the walls.”
“Let’s just not talk about it, damn it!”
Julia took his big right hand in both her tiny hands again. “He was only trying to be kind, Wad. He thought we’d all like to share the good news.” She leaned closer and almost brushed his cheek with hers. “Let me tell you what they were saying about you at Vogue this afternoon.” She began whispering. Wad nodded and smiled. He put his free arm around Julia’s waist. Soon he was looking less like a whipped schoolboy.
George was whispering to Biz now as well. They looked serious. Perhaps Biz was angry that George had brought Laure along. Poor Leopold was sitting well into the suburbs of the table watching our bending author and Lady Biz. He had tried to strike a spark, but it had fizzled. If he had taken out a book to read or had gone home, no one would have noticed. I felt sorry for Hal, but not too sorry. He wasn’t having a good night.
Laure leaned over towards me, touching my hand as she asked for a cigarette. She held onto my hand to steady it while I held the match. I liked her fragrance. And, just as I thought that, she looked across at me as though she had overheard the thought and it was a secret between us, something not to be shared with the others. She took a puff, letting her cheeks go quite hollow as the smoke found its way out of sight beneath the elaborate folds of her Greek dress. During the next few minutes, without my noticing it, I found that she had moved her chair closer to mine and that our legs brushed under the table. It wasn’t like a kick under the table, a warning from a friend to change the subject. This was a brushing, and it could have been an accident the first time. But soon I knew that Laure was touching me with her silk-stockinged leg for reasons which had nothing to do with the conversation. I tried to convey my understanding through pressure of my own. Soon my attention to the conversation faded and my interests were invested below the table.
CHAPTER 5
The evening ended some time after that. George and Biz were the first to leave, and then Hal Leopold ten minutes afte
r that. It was late when I found myself in the street with the others. Freddy, the bartender, locked the door behind us. People waved as they left in opposite directions. Wad saw Julia to a taxi. His big shoulders followed her into the back seat, where I imagined a drunken kiss. He watched the taxi motor down the boulevard, then crossed the street, almost stumbling on the streetcar tracks.
I found myself walking down Montparnasse with Laure Duclos on my arm. Even as we were walking up the rue Delambre to the boulevard, I couldn’t quite understand my luck. There was something about the pressure of her arm on mine that gave me not only hope but confidence. After she kissed me in front of the shuttered florists on Montparnasse, I pulled her closer to me as we walked.
Of course I’d had a lot to drink. My head was swimming because of a late change from beer to cognac. Laure, too, had had a full evening with George before she’d appeared at the Dingo. For both of us, it was one of those silly, rash acts in the making. She led me through a maze of streets that I didn’t know. There were freight sheds behind the Gare Montparnasse. I remember seeing some folded tables and awnings against a wall: a dismantled, temporary covered market. I kissed her once more against a spiked ornamental fence that protected the inside angle of a high wall from the insults of the incontinent, in spite of the stencilled warning: DÉFENSE D’URINER. I held her close, and Laure directed my hand as it explored the vibrant body beneath her dark cloak and tightly pleated Greek chiton. Her breath was hot on my ear and her mouth on mine was wonderfully sour from drink and cigarettes as we kissed again and again with hard intensity.
She said little as we walked. I was now completely lost in this web of streets; there were only pools of light and darkness. The silver clasps of Laure’s cloak shone as we passed under the arc lamps. She was holding my hand now. Our heads were close. When we reached her door, she rang, and we waited for the concierge to pull the cordon to open the lock. The door slammed loudly behind us as we stepped into a cobblestone courtyard. From there, she led the way up a spiral of drunken stairs, uncovered by drugget after the first floor, to the top of the house. She handed me her leather bag, where I fumbled for the key. Her hand was on my arm as I opened the door, and we were inside.
