by Brian Moore
“I know,” Dr. Deane said. He rose and poured himself a very large drink.
Redden leaned forward, staring at the fire. He had begun to weep. He wiped his eyes with the knuckles of his hand. “As I say, I’m still hoping. I love her. I want her back.”
Dr. Deane stared at his whiskey, then drank it. Pain from his ulcer hit him in a wave. Kevin Redden was trying to use him. It was wrong, but what was right? She probably will have a breakdown if that boy throws her over later on. Imagine her sitting paralyzed, like Ned, in some room in New York.
“All I’m asking you to do is write a note to me confirming what you told me in our conversation, about your brother and your mother. Not about her. As you say, we have no evidence of her being ill. But if you said in your note that you wonder if it’s wise, under the circumstances, for her to go to America at this time. Just a letter to me That’s all.”
Just a letter to Kevin. Dr. Deane drank the rest of the whiskey. His head seemed to expand in a wave of intoxication. Just a letter to my brother-in-law, a letter that will probably never be needed. Just to give him a little help to face the American consul.
He rose, went to his desk, sat down a trifle unsteadily, and unscrewed his old-fashioned fountain pen. And, at that moment, saw the sepia-brown photograph of his father in academic robes which he had placed in an honored position on the mantelpiece. His father, the photograph, was stern, his mouth down at the corners, his hand clutching his sheepskin. His father’s eye, grave, hooded, stared at him in familiar, hurt reproof. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, his father would have said. Do something. It’s for her own good, isn’t it? Well, is it, or isn’t it? Make up your mind.
He began to write:
Dr. Kevin Redden, M.B., F.R.C.S.
Merrymount
408 Somerton Road
Belfast
Dear Kevin,
This is to confirm the facts I outlined to you in our recent conversation in regard to my younger sister, Sheila. As I told you
He paused and raised his head. Pain came, the familiar ulcer pain. “Kevin,” he said, “get yourself a refill, will you? And pour me a little, too, like a decent man.”
Chapter 17
• She was in the shower stall in Peg’s bathroom with an ugly plastic shower cap on her head when she heard him open the shower door behind her. “Oh, don’t come in,” she called out, ashamed of his seeing her in the ugly cap. But he joined her under the water jet and, wet, embraced her from behind, then took the soap bar and began to lather her back, soaping her thighs, his hand caressing her bottom. Suds sliding over her skin, making her slippery to his touch, as smiling, she turned, the silly cap forgotten, and took the soap from him, soaping him all over until he was dripping with lather: she looked at his penis, which stood out throbbing, then soaped it and squeezed it so that it stood even more urgently. Laughing, they embraced under the jet, sluicing the soap off, until she stepped out of the shower, pulling her cap from her head. He came after her, drying her back and bottom and, half-dry, running, laughing like children, they went into the bedroom and there, at eight o’clock on a gray, rainy Paris morning, he fondled her breasts until, filled with an urgent intoxication, she felt his left hand touch her there, exciting her clitoris, and then his right hand guided his thick, stiff penis inside her. Only ten minutes earlier she had been standing in the shower, her mind gloomy with last night’s phone call from Kevin, thinking of Danny’s illness and how she must phone home tonight, knowing today was their last day in this flat because Peg had phoned to say she was moving back in; it was Tuesday, the date they had arranged. Peg had said they could stay on in the spare room, but Tom said they must move to a hotel for the rest of the week. And now, all of those gloomy responsibilities she had faced in the shower seemed insubstantial as a dream. They made love, then lay for a while, and made love again, and dozed. At last, he roused himself. “What time should we move to the hotel?”
“Let’s wait till after lunch,” she said.
“All right. What would you like to do this morning?”
“I want to tidy this place. And we should leave some little present for Peg, flowers perhaps, and a bottle of cognac.”
“All right.”
She moved closer and lay with her head on his bare stomach. “I have to phone home at six.”
“Don’t worry, Danny will be all right. It’s probably just a cold.”
“I know. But I suppose I’ll have to explain to him soon.”
He was silent for a moment. “Well,” he said, “don’t tell them definitely that you’re going to New York. Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because your husband might come over here and make a scene. Or he might phone the embassy and try to screw up your visa.”
“I thought of that, too,” she said.
“So don’t say anything.”
“All right. But I’ll have to do it sometime.”
“Don’t do it today.”
•
That afternoon they moved back into a room on the top floor of the Grand Hôtel des Balcons. It was larger than the room they had occupied there seven days ago, and this time, the balcony looked out on an inner courtyard and a hodgepodge of the roofs of surrounding buildings. At five-thirty they walked over to the Atrium, and at ten minutes to six, she went downstairs to the telephone and called Belfast.
“Kevin?”
“Hello, Shee.”
“How is he?”
“Oh, he’s grand. His temperature is down and he’s sitting up and taking nourishment. It was probably some little virus. He’s better.”
“Would you like me to speak to him?”
“Well, I don’t know. You’re not exactly a great favorite in this house at the moment.”
“Maybe I should say hello to him, at least.”
“All right. Hold on, I’ll ask him.”
He went away. She stood in the plastic phone bubble, looking down the corridor to where the lavatory attendant, a stout woman in a white smock, sat knitting a pullover. In front of the woman was a tray with three one-franc pieces attached to it by cellophane tape. Mrs. Redden looked at the woman, and at the plate, and felt herself begin to tremble. If I go away on the plane and never tell him, never tell my only child, what will he think about me, what will he feel about me the rest of his life? Will I ever see him again?
“Hello?” It was not Danny, it was Kevin.
“Yes.”
“Look, Shee, he doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe it’s just as well. I mean, for now.”
“Yes,” she said. Her trembling diminished.
“Have you thought about what I said to you last night? About emigrating.”
“Yes.”
“Well, and have you any good news for me, I hope? Ha ha?”
“Kevin, it wouldn’t make any difference if we emigrated.”
“I see. So you’re off to America, is that it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, are you or aren’t you going to America? Or are you planning to slip off without even telling us?”
“Kevin, I’ve already left home. I told you that.”
“So you don’t care if you never see Danny again?”
“That will be up to you.”
“All right. You won’t see him again. He won’t want to see you. Especially after what he’ll have to go through when the whole world knows his mother ran off and left him. When he’s known as the kid whose mother became a whore.”
“There’s not much point in us talking, is there?”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Ah, Shee, I’m sorry I lost my temper. When am I going to hear from you again?”
“I don’t know. Goodbye, Kevin.”
She put the receiver down. She felt the trembling increase and at the same time felt nauseated, as though she would vomit. She stood for a moment, then went shakily up the steps to the main floor of the café, where a handsome gray-haired man w
as sitting talking to Tom. For a moment she did not recognize him but, as she went closer, remembered he was Peg’s friend, Ivo. As she came up, the gray-haired man stood, bowing to her in an exaggerated manner. “Bonsoir, Madame. How nice to see you again.” He drew out a chair for her. She turned toward Tom, who looked worried.
“All right?” he asked.
“Yes, he’s much better.”
“Great.”
He signaled a waiter, then put his hand on hers. “You look as though you need a drink. A Pernod, okay?”
“So you are off to America?” the Yugoslav said.
She looked at Tom.
“I would very much like to go to America,” the Yugoslav said. “France is not a country for a foreigner. Very un-democratical, especially for réfugiés from the socialist countries. I envy you, Madame. Of course, you will have to live with this fellow.” He slapped Tom on the back. “And I know, from my own experience, that will not be easy.” His laugh showed even white teeth, but at the back of his mouth she saw the steel clip of a bridge.
“Sheila’s not as fussy a housekeeper as you are,” Tom said. “So we get on fine.”
At that moment the waiter put her Pernod on the table. When she poured water in it, she saw the tremor in her hand. “A votre santé,” the Yugoslav said, raising his glass of vermouth.
“A la vôtre,” she said. The Yugoslav smiled at her flirtatiously. “Madame, you have created a monster. This fellow. He’s a different man since he met you. Jealous. If I smile at you—regarde sa gueule!”
She turned to Tom. She wished this bloody idiot would go away. But Tom laughed, embarrassed.
“Peg and I had the pleasure of meeting your brother the doctor,” the Yugoslav said. “A most charming man.”
“Where is Peg?” she asked.
“You didn’t see her downstairs?”
“No.”
“Wait.” He swiveled in his chair and peered toward the rear of the café. “Ah, here she is.”
Peg, coming up the stairs from the lavabos, dressed in a green coat and gray slacks, her satchel purse swinging from her hip as she strode toward the table with a look on her face which did not seem entirely friendly. “So here you are,” Peg said. “The hideaways. I thought we might track you down here.”
Mrs. Redden rose and, guiltily, bent over to kiss her small friend on the cheek.
“I thought you and I were supposed to get in touch.” Peg said.
“I’m sorry.”
Peg turned to Tom. “By the way, thank you both for the flowers and the cognac. You shouldn’t have done it.”
“What will you drink?” Tom asked.
“Nothing, thanks. How are you getting on?”
“Great. We’ve got Sheila’s visa.”
“Before you go to America,” the Yugoslav said, “I want to cook dinner for you. My special turkey. Cùrka na Podvarku.”
“It’s terrific,” Tom told Mrs. Redden.
“And champagne,” the Yugoslav said. “We will have champagne. We must fix a night.”
“Sheila, I wonder if I could have a word with you,” Peg said quietly.
“Maybe we will have a glass of champagne now,” the Yugoslav said. “To celebrate you getting your visa.”
“No,” Peg said. “At least, not for me. Sheila and I have a little errand to do. Why don’t you and Tom finish your drink and wait for us here. We won’t be long.”
“What’s this, what errand?” the Yugoslav asked.
“We’ll be only ten minutes,” Peg said.
“Le donne, le donne,” the Yugoslav said, smiling.
Tom Lowry looked across the table. “Are you okay, Sheila?”
“Yes, of course.” She stood, taking up her purse. “We won’t be long.”
Peg, going with her, turned as they reached the street and waved back, smiling falsely at the two men. Outside, she took hold of Mrs. Redden’s arm. “I came here specially to see if I could find you.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Oh, let’s just walk.”
Peg’s hand, holding Mrs. Redden’s arm, seemed the hand of a jailer. The sky was dark with a hint of rain: the wind cold, the day dying. “You know, of course, that I saw Owen the other night?”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that. It must have been awkward for you.”
Peg did not answer, but guided Mrs. Redden into the rue de Seine. “Poor Owen,” she said. “It must be ten years since I last saw him.”
“He’s got very old, hasn’t he?” Mrs. Redden said.
“We’re none of us getting any younger.”
“I know.”
“He’s worried about you, Sheila. Did he tell you he’s afraid you might be risking a nervous breakdown?”
“That’s a lot of rubbish.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, it is. Now that they can’t put the fear of God into you any more, they put the fear of going mad instead.”
“It worried me, though. All that stuff about depression and mental crisis.”
“Falling in love is a mental crisis.”
“Oh, Sheila!” Peg said.
Mrs. Redden turned away, looking into a shop window filled with handbags, seeing not the display but a pale reflection of her own face. “Anyway, if it doesn’t work out, I can always come back,” she said.
“And what about your child?”
“Danny’s fifteen. He’s not a child. In three or four years he’ll be leaving me, anyway.”
Peg lit a cigarette after two tries with her book matches. Puffing on it, she turned back to Mrs. Redden as though she had made up her mind. “The thing that worries me, though,” she said, “is that people Tom’s age fall in and out of love very easily. Don’t you remember what it was like when you were twenty-six?”
“When I was twenty-six I was married and had a child. Now, shall we go back to the Atrium?”
“None of my business, right?”
“I suppose so.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Redden said and put her arm around her friend. “Look, you’ve been awfully good to us, lending us the flat and helping us. I’m the one who landed Owen on you. I’m sorry.”
“All right, then,” Peg said. “I’ve said my piece. Listen, Ivo and I are going to the new Godard film at seven. Would you like to join us?”
“No, thanks. You go ahead.”
“All right. But Ivo wants to cook dinner for you some night before you go. When are you leaving?”
“Friday night.”
“What about Thursday, then?”
“Thursday. That would be nice.”
As they re-entered the café, both men stood up. “Les voici,” the Yugoslav said. “Where are your parcels?”
“We didn’t buy anything,” Peg said. “Ivo, we’re going to give them dinner at my flat on Thursday. Will you do your turkey?”
“A pleasure. Cûrka na Podvarku.”
“I’ll bring the champagne,” Tom said.
Peg kissed Mrs. Redden on the cheek. “Thursday, then. Let’s say at seven.”
When Peg and Ivo went out, Mrs. Redden sat down at the table and finished her Pernod very quickly.
“What did she want? A heart-to-heart talk?”
“Something like that.”
“Ivo too.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, that I’m ruining your life. Breaking up your happy home. By the way, how was the phone call to Belfast?”
“So so.”
“And your husband? You didn’t tell him anything?”
“No. But he told me that if I go to America he’ll never let me see Danny again.”
“The bastard.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “Are you upset?”
She shook her head and looked through the glass at the flow of traffic scooting out of the rue du Four like Dodg’em cars in a fairground. Suddenly, inexplicably, she felt herself tumble from the mental tightrope on which she had balanced for the past two
weeks.
“What’s wrong, Sheila?”
She looked at him. “Supposing you were told you would never see me again. What would you do?”
“I wouldn’t listen.”
“But supposing I told you.”
He stared at her. “Is this some game?”
“It’s a question.”
“Is it Danny? Has that changed your mind?”
“No, I just asked what you would do.”
“Do you mean, would I let you go?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“If it’s what you want, then you have to do it. Are you going to give me up?”
“Oh, darling,” she said, “it’s much more likely to be the other way around.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Let’s stop this awful conversation. I started it. I’m sorry. What will we do tonight?”
“Whatever you like.”
“Why don’t we walk along the river, take a bus over to the Bourse, and eat in that place we were in last Friday?”
“The noisy place?”
“Yes,” she said. “I feel like a noisy place.”
Chapter 18
• In Belfast, that Wednesday morning, Kevin Redden rose at first light. He shaved and dressed himself as for his wedding, picking out his best dark suit and the shirt and tie she had chosen for him last Christmas but which he had never worn. He tried and discarded two silk handkerchiefs for his breast pocket before settling on a plain white linen. He stared at himself in the mirror, then recombed his hair so that it did not lie too flat on his head. He drank a cup of tea, packed a small bag with overnight things, and, thinking of her, added Valium and a strong sedative. Then he said goodbye to Mrs. Milligan and Danny (who thought he was only going to Dublin) and by 8 a.m. was in his new Audi, driving south. His car was stopped and searched at a British Army roadblock near the border, but, even with this delay, he arrived at Collinstown airport outside Dublin at ten-fifteen. He made arrangements for parking his car overnight, and was ticketed and in the airport lounge half an hour before the flight was due to be called. There was low-lying fog on the Continent. Flights to Zurich and Brussels were delayed, an announcement which produced in him an intense feeb’ng of anxiety.
