by Brian Moore
And it was true, from the moment she paid her bill next morning he seemed to take charge of things as never before, handling the luggage, making sure she got a window seat on the plane, ordering champagne from the stewardess, turning the airlines lunch into a celebration. But despite all that, when they landed in Paris, she was again filled with a sense of anxiety. In Villefranche they had been isolated, their universe narrowed to a backdrop of a few beaches, a quay, a restaurant terrace, and two hotel bedrooms. Anonymous among other holidaymak-ers, they had moved in the protection of a crowd. But now they were moving closer to that life she had left. Now, as they took the bus into Paris, they re-entered dangerous terrain, offering themselves again to the world, their enemy.
When they reached the town terminal it had begun to rain. He unlocked his duffel bag and pulled out a very rubbery Irish riding coat. She smiled when he put it on. He took a flat tweed cap from the raincoat pocket and stuck it, comically, on his head. “Perfect,” she said. “I can see you holding up the end of the bar at O’Donoghue’s.”
They took a taxi from the Invalides, and by the time it let them down outside the worn façade of the Hôtel des Balcons, the rain had almost stopped. The wind blew strong, blustering their clothes against them, bringing her hair down into her eyes. As he went to pay the driver, she ran into the entrance hall of the hotel carrying her own suitcase, waiting there uncomfortably until he dismissed the taxi. They went together to the waxy wooden reception desk to ask for a double room. The woman at the desk, after scrutinizing the ledger in a doubting manner, tapped her finger on a page, turned to check the keys, and, with a sudden smile, took down a key and led them up two flights of stairs along a linoleum-covered corridor which smelled of cleaning fluid, to unlock a door, switch on a light, and ask if this suited them. And when they agreed that it did and the woman handed over two passport forms and the key and withdrew, they were alone in a high-ceilinged room with a large double bed and a heavy wardrobe of dark pine, a yellowed washbasin and bidet in a corner, and shuttered balcony windows overlooking the street. She caught him and hugged him, delighted with this dark chamber of landlord browns and institution greens, which, had either of them entered it alone, would have seemed a place of purgatorial gloom. Here in this room, shut in from the world, she regained her elation. This was their home. In a few minutes they would go out and walk together in Paris. Nothing else seemed to matter.
As he put his duffel bag down in a corner, she noticed the stencil on its side. “Signal Corps? Were you in the army?”
“No, that’s just army-surplus junk.”
“Tell me, is that all your luggage?”
“Right. All my worldly goods.”
“You mean that’s all you brought over from America for three whole years?”
“Well, I had some books and papers, but I shipped them home last month.”
“Oh? When are you supposed to go back?”
“I have a charter flight on the twenty-eighth.”
“Of this month?”
“Right.”
She turned away from him, went to the window, opened the shutters, and stepped out onto the balcony.
“Hey, isn’t it raining out there?”
She did not answer. After a moment, she came back in, went to the bed, and picked up her raincoat. “Let’s go for a coffee.”
“In the rain?”
“Yes.”
At once he knelt and began to pull sweaters, socks, and a sports jacket from his duffel bag. She thought of Danny, back from scout camp a few years ago, pulling clothes out of his rucksack, the good tweed jacket she had bought for him at Austin Reed’s lying crumpled on the floor with a big oil stain on the back. She remembered the row about that jacket, her complaining about the money she’d wasted buying him good clothes. She watched Tom take out a small folding umbrella and open it to test it, its hood shooting up with a flat-sounding boom. “Voilà, Madame.”
She put on her blue canvas hat. “Let’s go.”
But as they walked down toward the Carrefour Saint-Germain huddled under the umbrella, the rain increased to a soaking torrent, filling the gutters, spattering their clothes, sending them into the Saint-Claude for shelter. He ordered coffee and sat relaxed, making funny comments on the passersby. She laughed once or twice, but said little and, when the rain had stopped, asked if they could go out again. And so they strolled back to the Place de l’Odéon and up the winding street which led past the École de Médecine, there to meet and mingle with the great aimless crowd which drifted up and down the Boulevard Saint-Michel as though it were the central arcade of an amusement park, eyeing its shops stuffed with leather coats and blue jeans, its self-service cafeterias, bookshops, brasseries, souvenir stands, corner cafés, cinemas, and the sidewalk stalls which sold croque monsieur, hot dogs, and crêpes Bretonnes. As always on this boulevard, the faces were young, coming annually in an endless migration from every country, every continent, to alight here once in the long journey of their lives. Only the café waiters seemed native to the street: in their shiny black jackets and skirtlike white aprons, deftly flicking crumbs with their napkins, balancing trays, opening fat wallets stuffed with small notes for making change, they were the true custodians of this great thoroughfare, the guardians of its dens and entrances, wary yet confident, as different from their customers as sheepdogs from sheep.
When they reached the iron railings enclosing the medieval ruins of Cluny, he stopped and said, “Weren’t you supposed to get in touch with Peg today?”
“I’ll ring her tomorrow.”
“But what if he calls today?”
“I know. I should get it over with.”
“Otherwise, you’ll worry.”
She gave him a sad smile. “I see you know me.”
“There are phones in that bar there. Or, we’re quite close to her place. Do you want to drop in and see her?”
“No. That’s the last thing I want.”
“All right, then, it won’t take a moment to phone. Just say you’re back in Paris, staying at the Balcons, and tell her, if your husband phones, will she give him the hotel number. You don’t have to mention me at all.”
“What if she suggests I stay with her?”
“Say your husband might be joining you.”
“Oh, you’re very clever.”
Then, taking charge again, he led her by the hand into the big corner brasserie, through a room full of customers to a flight of steps over which a neon sign read LAVABOS— TÉLÉPHONE. He told her to wait, bought a jeton from the woman at the cash desk, and led her down the steps to a tiled corridor. The phones were in the open, but partially enclosed by plastic bubbles which resembled giant football helmets. He ducked under one, found Peg’s number, wrote it down, handed her the jeton disc, then moved off upstairs, going out of earshot.
•
That night when Peg Conway met Ivo Radie for dinner, she said, “Well, you were quite right.”
“About what?”
“He did chase her down to Villefranche. And, would you believe it, they’re back here in Paris. Together!”
“Eh bien.”
“No, but Sheila Redden, of all people! I couldn’t believe it. She tried to pretend she was on her own at first. But I said we’d heard that Tom had gone to Villefranche and asked if she’d run into him. And all of a sudden she spilled the beans. He’s here with her at the Balcons. And if her husband rings up, I’m to say I’d no room to put her up and that she’s staying at the hotel. Sheila! If you knew what a shock that is.”
“Why not?” Ivo said. “These things happen, even to Irishwomen.”
Chapter 9
• Mrs. Redden watched as he pulled the visa form from his pocket and held it out for her to take. She did not take it. He placed it, like a piece of evidence, on the bedspread. “I looked it over on the bus coming back,” he said. “There’s nothing to it, it’s very simple.”
“Why did you go there?”
“I don’t know. When I ca
me out of American Express, I just got the idea of going over to the embassy.”
She sat in the only chair in the bedroom, wearing her raincoat as a dressing gown, the coat pulled low around her bare shoulders as she made up her face. It was an unseasonable fifty degrees and the hotel heat had been turned off until October. “What time is it?” she asked.
“Nearly twelve. What would you like to do today?”
She shrugged.
“Think of something. It’s your holiday, after all.”
“What holiday?” She threw her eyebrow pencil into the tray.
“I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”
She stood up, pulled the coat up around her shoulders, and went toward the unmade bed. She lay on it face down, sweeping the consular visa form to the floor. He knelt, picked it up, and threw it in the wastepaper basket.
“All right, forget it.”
“No, don’t throw it away.”
“Why not? It seems to irritate you.”
“It’s not that. I don’t want to think about it today.”
He picked the form out of the wastepaper basket. “Look, Sheila, I don’t want to do anything to make you angry.”
“It’s not your fault. A few days before my period, I’m not fit to live with. Wouldn’t you know it would happen this week.”
He went over to the bed and began to stroke her hair. “What about lunch, are you hungry?”
“Lie down. Just hold me for a while.”
He lay beside her, putting his arms around her. He put his hand under her raincoat and, pulling down her pants, began to caress the insides of her thighs. She kissed him. “Waste of time putting on makeup,” she said. But then, abruptly, she eased back and pulled up her pants. She got out of bed, dropped the raincoat, pulled a brown rollneck sweater over her head, and hooked a skirt about her waist. “Let’s go out and have a sandwich, or something. I’ve got to phone Peg.”
“Oh, did you arrange to phone her?”
“I was supposed to ring her up yesterday.”
As they went down the winding staircase, he put his arm around her waist. “I’m glad you didn’t call yesterday,” he said. “We had a great lazy day, didn’t we?”
“Today will be all right, too.”
“Maybe it’s not your period. Maybe it’s just not knowing what’s going to happen.”
They had come into the lobby. She nodded and smiled mechanically to the old woman at the desk, but when they moved out into the street, she turned to him again, her face set and pale. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about it!”
“I’m sorry.”
She turned away, walking down the narrow street as though trying to get away from him. Rain started to spit as he hurried after her, overtaking her. They walked on, side by side, in silence, she staring ahead as though he were a beggar she was trying to ignore. Then, in a shift of mood, sudden as the shower which had stopped, she took his arm. “It is premenstrual. And thank God. Do you know, I was afraid I might be pregnant.”
“What would we have called it?”
But she did not smile. “Do you know what I did this morning, after you left the hotel to go to American Express?”
“No, what?”
“I lay in bed telling myself to get up and get dressed and phone Peg. I lay there all morning. That’s premenstrual. I had this feeling that something awful has happened to Danny and that Kevin is trying to get in touch with me. But I didn’t do anything. When you’re premenstrual you’d rather worry about not doing a thing than do it.”
“Look, I’ll phone Peg, if you like. You just want to know if your husband called, right?”
“No, I’ll do it myself. Let’s go to the Atrium. I can phone from there.”
In the phone booth at the Atrium, she dialed Peg’s office. A woman’s voice asked, in French, who was calling. She gave her name and the woman said, “Sheila? Here’s the two of us talking to each other in French. How are you?”
“Oh, Peg, hello. Is everything all right? I had this awful premonition last night.”
“Where are you?” Peg asked.
“The Atrium.”
“Listen, Sheila, I’m glad you rang. Something has come up. Could you come over to the Right Bank and we’ll have a quick lunch together?”
“What? Did you hear from Kevin?”
“Yes. Listen, were you out this morning? I rang your hotel twice.”
“No, I was in all morning.”
“Oh, they’re hopeless, these hotels. Look, can you meet me at a café called the Métropole in the rue Auber? Say, in half an hour. At one.”
“All right.”
Mrs. Redden went upstairs. He was waiting at the bar and had ordered two draught beers. “I’ll come with you,” he said, when she told him.
“No, I’d better go alone.”
“Well, let’s finish our beer and we’ll take a Métro and I’ll wait for you some place in the area.”
“All right. But I can’t drink any beer. I feel sick.”
•
When Mrs. Redden walked into the Métropole, Peg Con-way was drinking a Pernod in a booth at the back of the restaurant. “I know what you’re thinking,” Peg said as Mrs. Redden sat opposite her. “But, I need this drink. What about you?”
“No, thanks, I feel a bit sick.”
“Sheila, I’m afraid I’ve made an awful bloody mess for you.”
Mrs. Redden put her head down. “Are you all right?” Peg asked.
“Yes. Go on.”
“Well, to cut a long story short, after you and I talked on the phone on Sunday I went out with Ivo, and the upshot of it is, I haven’t been back at my flat since. I’m sorry. I forgot all about Kevin.”
“Did he call?”
“Yes. Both nights.”
Mrs. Redden lowered her head again. “I knew it.”
“Anyway,” Peg said. “I finally went home about eight this morning because I had to change before I went to the office. And the phone rang and it was him. So I said, very nicely, that you weren’t here. I said I had other people staying with me and we didn’t have a bed for you, worse luck, and that you were staying at this little hotel, and I gave him the number. And then he said, ‘You have people staying with you, do you?’ And I said yes, I had. And he said, That’s funny, I rang six or seven times last night and the night before. I even phoned twice in the middle of the night.’ Well, what could I say, it was stupid of me, but I got all flustered and I said, ‘That’s right, I wasn’t here either night.’ And then he said, ‘I thought you said you have people staying with you.’ I tell you, Sheila, it was like being in the witness box. So I said, ‘Well, the truth is, these people were supposed to stay both nights, but actually they didn’t show up.’ So, he seemed to digest that for a minute or two and then he said, ‘Peg, I’m very worried about Sheila. I’ve been worried sick the last forty-eight hours about not being able to get in touch with her. Tell me the truth. Is there something wrong?’ So I said to him, of course not, you were in grand form. ‘Look, Kevin,’ I said, ‘the truth is, Sheila wants to spend a few days on her own and she told me you’d be angry if you knew she was staying at a hotel, after her saying she could stay with me. That’s the real truth.’ Well. Dead silence on the other end of the line. And then he asked, ‘What was that hotel number again?’ So I gave him the number. And then— here’s the part I’m worried about—when I got to my office I thought I’d ring you and warn you. So I phoned the Balcons. And wait till you hear. I asked for Madame Redden. And they said you weren’t in.”
“But I was. I was in all morning!”
“They said you were out. They said, ‘Monsieur et Madame sont sortis.’ I asked if they were sure and they said yes. I asked if a gentleman had called a little earlier and they said yes. An Englishman? I said. And they said yes. And did you tell him Monsieur and Madame were both out? I asked them. And they said yes, they did. Does Kevin speak French?”
“Yes, a bit.”
“Well, you see what I me
an, don’t you?”
“Monsieur et Madame.”
“Exactly.”
For a moment both women sat in silence. Behind them at the bar two Frenchmen began a loud discussion about the money made by the Brazilian soccer star Pelé. “Look,” Peg said, “I’d better eat something, I have to get back to the office. Do you want something yourself?”
“No thanks.”
Peg called the waitress and ordered a ham sandwich. “Listen,” she said, “just tell Kevin the hotel made a mistake. They’re always making mistakes in these little places.”
“But, Peg, what if he went straight to the airport and got on a plane and is on his way here now? And what if he goes to the hotel?”
“I know,” Peg said. “Why don’t both of you move into my flat? You’d be safe there, you don’t have to answer the door. And if he doesn’t show up, next time you phone home tell him you’ve moved in with me. And I’ll just move in with Ivo.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t do that to you.”
“Why not? Go on. Here, take the key.”
“But I couldn’t put you out.”
“You can and you will. Actually, I love staying at Ivo’s place and you’ve given me a good excuse. Why don’t you move into the flat right away.”
Mrs. Redden took the key. “It’s awfully good of you,” she said. She began to cry.
“Ah, now, stop worrying,” Peg said.
“I’m thirty-seven. And you know what age Tom is.”
“So what? And today is Tuesday and tomorrow will be Wednesday.”
The waitress brought Peg’s sandwich and eyed Mrs. Redden, curious about her tears. Ravenous all of a sudden, Peg began to eat. “He’s a very nice boy,” she said. “Sensible too. And bright. Hugh Greer wrote to me that he was one of the best students he’s ever had. Ah, Sheila, don’t cry. This sort of thing happens all the time. Monogamy’s a thing of the past. Relax and enjoy yourself.”
“I know,” Mrs. Redden said. “It’s the only time I ever had.”
What does she mean by that? Peg wondered, but as the tears were beginning to stop, she thought it better to let it pass. “Anyway,” she said, “I’m sure it won’t occur to Kevin that something like this could happen so fast. You’ve only been away a week.”
