Francie Again

by Emily Hahn

  “I’ll take care of her,” Francie reflected, “and in the end I suppose I can get her to America. Then Pop will be able to advise me.”

  But would Pop appreciate having a lovely young Portuguese matron left on his doorstep? And, if it came to that, how long would Catarina herself appreciate being cut off from her children? For all Francie knew, she was already beginning to brood about them, and to regret her action. Right now, bouncing in the Barcelona cab, she was probably regretting the whole thing bitterly. Nervously Francie watched the sensitive, worried face.

  Catarina sighed sharply. “I have been thinking,” she said. “I must send a telegram to my dressmaker. We had an appointment tomorrow.…”

  Well, that was not so bad, thought Francie, and returned to her own problems. She had left a note for Mrs. Barclay, not on the traditional pincushion because, for one thing, there had been no pincushion in the hotel. But she left it in the mailbox downstairs, where it could not be missed.

  “Darling Aunt Lolly: I heard you talking with Fontoura the other day at the party. I heard everything. I simply can’t bear it any more in class, and so I’m going away for a while to think it all over. Please don’t worry about me. You know I’m quite sensible and can take care of myself. Please don’t bother Pop and tell him, either, until you hear from me. I’ll be writing to you soon. Honestly I’m all right. With love, Francie.”

  Francie thought of this letter and was reassured. Aunt Lolly couldn’t possibly worry about her. “Did you leave a note for your husband, Catarina?” she asked suddenly.

  “Oh yes, naturally,” said Catarina. “I left it on the pincushion.”

  This city of Barcelona was bewildering after so many hours of traveling through lonely landscape. The car took them to a street of hotels and restaurants that seemed in the muted light of evening to be swarming with all the people in the world. Francie marveled at the crowd.

  “It’s simply incredible,” she said. “Hundreds of people, thousands of people. Where do they all come from?”

  Catarina said, “The countryside was so empty. I suppose they all come here to work.”

  “They don’t look as if they were working,” said Francie doubtfully. The car crawled slowly between strolling merrymakers—couples and groups of women in light summer dresses and men in white jackets. They looked a swarthy, tough people, she said. “And I’d know I wasn’t in Portugal,” she added. “They look different.”

  “Of course they are different,” said Catarina with an indulgent smile. The Portuguese always insisted defiantly on this difference, Francie knew.

  They had picked one certain hotel from the list offered them by the agency, because Catarina remembered that some of her relatives always stayed there when they visited Spain. It was one of Francie’s few experiences with a hotel that wasn’t purely a vacation concern such as Mrs. Barclay’s in Estoril. This hotel was purely urban, and queerer than anything Francie could have imagined. Its doorway jostled for space with a café on one side and a cinema on the other, in the middle of a narrow, clamorous street. Their driver had some difficulty in getting a porter to come out and help with the bags, and when they themselves went through the doorway, Francie understood why. On the ground floor, all she could see of the hotel was an enormously high, narrow room of white stone, with a staircase and an elevator behind it. She paused and stared around her. No one was in sight.

  “Where is it?” she asked Catarina.

  The porter, a suitcase under each arm, motioned to them with his head to follow. Silently the young women walked after him to a little box of an elevator, lined with faded red plush. He pushed a button and they rose, very slowly, with ominous groans and shakes en route, past several floors.

  “We’re going right straight up to the roof,” said Francie apprehensively.

  Catarina remained calm. “The hotel is near the top of the building,” she explained. “I have been in others like this. You will see.”

  The elevator box groaned and shook itself to a stop, behind an iron grille. They stepped out to dusty carpets leading to a reception desk in an awesome room. The ceiling was as high as that of the marble entry downstairs; a tall door showed a lounge full of deep, dark chairs and sofas; behind the desk, among a riot of letter boxes and niches, were twisted gilt lamps and statues. A disdainful young clerk looked inquiring. If Catarina had not stepped forward and assumed control, Francie would have fled. As it was, she stood her ground and even surrendered her passport when the clerk demanded it. “For the police,” as Catarina explained. “They always keep the passport overnight.”

  If the Barcelona streets far below them had seemed stiflingly hot, their bedroom was far worse. Not the slightest breeze stirred the heavy lace curtain that masked a French window, as Francie went to investigate it. Outside a shallow balcony of grillwork stuck to the window like a fancy matchbox that was merely pasted on. She stepped out and looked down on the jammed, jostling street. Puffs of noise drifted up through the shadows. Night was falling, without coolness.

  Francie sighed wearily. Now that the worst of the trip was over, she felt let down. She had done it; she was free, and so was Catarina. Life was beginning, but just at that moment it didn’t seem as gay and light-hearted an affair as it had on the day before. If this was freedom, where had all the excitement of it gone? Warm as the night was, she shivered.

  “A bath,” she decided. “A bath will make all the difference.”

  Catarina lay on her narrow bed, utterly worn out. She moved only her eyes as Francie came in. “I am too tired to unpack,” she said.

  “Food’s what we want,” said Francie. “We’ll have baths and then go out to some little restaurant. It’s too late, I suppose, to call the boys tonight.”

  “No,” said Catarina. “No restaurant, Francesca. Not just the two of us.”

  Francie was exasperated. She began, “But Catarina, I keep telling you. American girls go around alone, even in Spain. They—”

  “I am not an American girl, and I cannot pretend to be one,” said Catarina firmly. “It is bad enough that we travel by ourselves—oh, I know it is not really bad, but it doesn’t look well. If, on top of that, we go out at this hour, all alone, they might even ask us to leave the hotel. I am not sure, but it is possible. No, Francesca, we had better dine here.”

  “You mean in the hotel dining room?” asked Francie dolefully. Catarina nodded in a decided manner. “Oh dear,” said Francie. “Well—all right. But I did want a good dinner in some special place.”

  “It would not be very good in any place,” said Catarina, speaking like the lofty, proud Portuguese that she was. “These Spaniards cannot cook, so it doesn’t matter.”

  They dined quietly in a square, whitewashed room, at a table covered with a dirty cloth. “I must not think about anything,” Francie cautioned herself. “I’ll just be upset if I do. Much better to wait until morning, when everything will look easier.”

  Disconsolate nevertheless, she went to bed soon after dinner. The noise and laughter of the streets seemed louder, once the lights were turned off. For a long time she lay wakeful on her hard pillow, hearing in the streets the happy chatter of people she didn’t know.

  It would be no use ringing anyone up, said Catarina in the morning, until ten o’clock at least; these Southern peoples went to bed late and they rose late to make up for it. Francie tried to adapt herself. She stayed in bed, as she had almost never done in Estoril. Like Catarina, she drank a cup of whipped chocolate that tasted too sweet, and she was very slow in dressing. Still, it was only half-past nine when she was ready to go out.

  She was half afraid Catarina would still insist that two lone women could not appear in public. But it seemed that these annoying rules of conduct were relaxed in the daytime. Accordingly the girls sauntered around the bright, hot streets near the hotel, looking in shop windows stocked with dolls dressed as toreadors, or with little gilt bulls, or fans with bull-fighting motifs painted on them.

  “Pretty crummy st
uff,” said Francie.

  “For the tourists, I suppose,” said Catarina.

  It was getting very warm, and they walked slower than ever on their way back to the hotel. Now at last they could make a telephone call. It was a very exposed proceeding, at the reception desk. Francie had to give Jimmy’s name and address at the top of her voice, and the clerk repeated the information in a loud shout to a girl at a switchboard, who was concealed in a little back room. She yelled the number back at him, and by means of such dialogue, translated with difficulty by Catarina, they learned at last that the two young American men had gone to the seaside for several days.

  “At Costa Brava,” Gatarina explained. “It is the nearest nice plage, and most people go there for holidays. There is a telephone at their house there. Do you wish to try again to reach them?”

  Francie wiped her face and nodded, and the painful process of telephoning was repeated. While the hidden maiden put the call through, the clerk leaned on the desk and pared his nails, staring at Francie and Catarina as if he had never seen women before. It was a cheerful, unabashed stare without any self-consciousness about it. Francie supposed that in time she would get used to that sort of thing, but for the moment it made her very nervous. Catarina, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed, as if the clerk did not exist. Francie resolved to imitate that gracefully careless manner if it took her years to learn it. To begin with, she did as Catarina had done—picked up a travel folder from the desk and flicked the pages, just as if she could read them. But she knew she wasn’t as good at it as her model: Catarina really wasn’t aware of the clerk, and Francie was—painfully.

  Her musings were interrupted by the surprising news, after a long wait, that the call was through. In a tiny telephone box she listened for Jimmy’s voice, and there, all of a sudden, it was. He sounded astonished.

  “Whatever are you doing in Spain? Did your aunt decide on the trip after we left, or what?” he demanded.

  “It’s a long story,” said Francie. “I’m not with Aunt Lolly. How long before you come back to town?” Her mind was racing ahead. This was a serious complication, if her only friends were going to be out of touch. What could she do? Travel on to Paris? But her money was limited.

  To her relief, Jimmy was saying, “Oh, my dear, we’ll be back tomorrow. It was one of those long week ends, that’s all. Will needed a rest, or thought he did. You aren’t rushing straight out of town or anything like that, I hope. I’m curious to know what you’re doing, and that’s understating the case.”

  “Well, I warn you fair and square. To begin with, I want work,” said Francie.

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Good-by, now.” Had there been a slight sound of dismay in his tone?

  “I think it’s all fascinating. Perfectly fascinating,” said Will, his eyes roaming disparagingly around the café. His tone was languid, as always.

  Jimmy showed more enthusiasm. “You’re quite a girl, Francie. Not everybody would have done it—simply scooped up an accomplice and come away.” He sat back and looked at her, grinning. “And to think we brought the whole thing down on your poor little head,” he said thoughtfully. “Tempting you into the wrong ways, out of the pure realm of art.”

  “Poppycock,” said Will Adams violently.

  Jimmy said, “I don’t know. This fellow Fontoura is right, in a way. The girl is better fitted for our racket than his.”

  “I’m not fitted for any one racket,” said Francie hotly. “I can design, and I can paint, too. I don’t see why anyone has to be stuck in one pigeonhole or another. Catarina doesn’t either, and let me tell you, Catarina knows a lot about painting. Even Fontoura admits that. She says—”

  “By the way, where is this wench?” asked Jimmy.

  “Oh, I left her upstairs until we’d had our talk,” said Francie. “I’ll get her down in a minute.”

  There was a pause. “Well, I don’t know, Dear Mysterious,” said Jimmy at last. “We can’t give you a job outright, of course. We don’t operate that way.” Adams grunted assent. “But if you want to snoop round and try your hand at more designs, you’ll probably strike it right now and then,” he went on. “I don’t know how much work you need, or how long you can manage on this arrangement.… You’d better find rooms instead of this place, first thing.” He frowned worriedly. “Frankly, it’s not a thing I’d like to consider my responsibility,” he said. “I think you’re both heading for trouble. But it’s not my affair. Now, where’s Catarina?”

  As Francie went upstairs to get Catarina, she entered the bedroom tempestuously. Catarina, sitting scribbling at the little gimcrack desk, started as the door opened, and Francie thought that she blushed. But she collected herself quickly.

  “You have seen your friends?” she asked in calm tones. She folded the paper on which she had been writing, and tucked it into her handbag.

  “Yes, I have, and they’re still downstairs.” If she doesn’t want me to see what she’s doing, thought Francie as she spoke, it’s all right with me. “We thought perhaps you’d like a cup of coffee with us. Would you?”

  “Why not?” said Catarina. She patted her hair and announced herself ready.

  The café was filling up with people who seemed to have a good deal of time on their hands, though it was still early in the morning. The designers seemed suitably impressed by Catarina’s dramatic beauty, and Francie felt gratified, as if she had produced a work of art. As her friends all talked together, she began at last to experience the thrill she had waited for in vain, ever since leaving Lisbon. This really was Life, she told herself. There they were, she and Catarina, in Barcelona of all places, embarked on the Unknown. And it was all, all her own doing. She was really making her mark on the world; she was causing things to happen. A flood of self-confidence filled her.

  “Well, for crying out loud!” The words, in a cheerful American voice that was oddly familiar, floated across the café. Francie forced herself to ignore them. Barcelona was full of tourists, and it was no use getting excited over every American voice she heard. But then she turned around swiftly. The voice was saying, “Francie! Francie Nelson! It is you, isn’t it?”

  Francie saw the speaker and cried out, “Bob Chapman! What are you doing here?”

  “I’ll ask you that first,” said Bob. He came striding among the little tables and grabbed both her hands. “Gee, it’s good to see you,” he said.

  “This is Bob Chapman from my home town,” Francie announced to her party as she made the introductions. “I haven’t seen him since schooldays.”

  “When I darned near got this girl kicked out of school in England,” said Bob cheerfully. “Remember that? Heard from Penny lately?”

  “No, Penny’s a bad letter-writer,” said Francie. “Do sit down with us, Bob, and let’s compare notes.”

  But for the first few minutes, Bob did most of the talking. First he had to tell the others all about Francie at Fairfields, and how he and Glenn had taken her out for a forbidden ride in their car. Then he explained that he was in Barcelona on an organized tour of Spain. “People laugh at these tours, but they’re the best way to see the country when you’re on your own,” he said, “and I don’t stick to the crowd unless I specially want to. But Francie, tell me about you. What are you doing here? I heard you were in Portugal.”

  “I was,” said Francie after a short pause, “and then I came on here. To—to see the country.”

  Bob looked at her thoughtfully, but if he noticed her confusion he didn’t show it. Instead he turned and glanced at Catarina, and then at the two other Americans. Francie had never realized before what shrewd eyes he had. “Where are your friends—that nice woman, Mrs. Barclay, or what’s-her-name?” he asked.

  “Everyone asks me that,” thought Francie irritably. “Aunt Lolly’s still in Portugal,” she said. “The climate’s better for her arthritis.”

  “I see.… Any chance of contacting you again before we move on? Our buses are staying here a couple of days,” said Bob.<
br />
  “We’ll be in this hotel tonight, anyway,” said Francie slowly. “But Catarina and I hope to find something else. Something cozier.”

  “Oh, it won’t be hard,” Jimmy assured her. “I know one or two places you might consider. If you’re really staying, that is.”

  Francie wished he had not said that. She could feel Bob’s eyes examining her again; she could imagine that he was wondering what was up. But never mind all that; it was marvelous, she decided, to meet somebody from home. She asked him eagerly about the gang. She didn’t quite want to talk about Glenn, but Bob would notice if she didn’t, and he might think she was sensitive about the engagement, so she said,

  “How’s Glenn?”

  “Oh, he’s fine. I saw him the day I left, as a matter of fact,” said Bob. “The whole crowd came to see me off.”

  The whole crowd? It was on the tip of Francie’s tongue to ask him to give her a list of the crowd, but that would have looked really pointed, and she resisted the impulse.

  Bob looked at his watch and jumped up. “I’ve got to be back in time for lunch or there won’t be any,” he said. “Well, good-by for now.” He looked around once more at the table, and added, “I’ll try to find you later on, Francie.” Then he walked out quickly, so that people looked after him. Almost nobody walked quickly at that time of day, in Barcelona. You could tell he was American, reflected Francie, if you were two blocks away.

  The Americans of her own party were talking with Catarina about rooms. They would come back and take the girls out to find something, they said, after the post-lunch siesta.

  “It’s awfully nice of you,” said Francie. “I didn’t want to bother you so much.”