The Stone Face
Page 19
He waited, and when Simeon did not reply he sighed and handed him his papers. “All right, you can leave.”
Simeon was startled. “Leave?”
“That’s right, you can go. You’re not Algerian. But stay away from trouble that doesn’t concern you. Call in the guard outside.”
Simeon called the guard. He was astonished to have gotten off so easily, and felt guilty as the guard led him across the stadium floor before the eyes of Algerians. At the exit, the guard said, “You’re lucky. See you next time.”
“Yes, the next time,” Simeon said.
Riot police in steel helmets stood smoking in front of the door, submachine guns dangling under their arms. They looked at Simeon curiously. He put his hand to his throbbing head and walked toward the subway station.
5
It was time to leave Paris. The need to make this painful decision had been nagging at him ever since the riot, two days ago. Now he walked through the Tuilleries on a cool, sunny day. He looked at the gardens, the statues, the pool and the children, the young couples and the old men and women, telling himself that he was perhaps seeing all this for the last time.
On the previous day, Lou had told him about Ahmed’s death. Simeon remembered the clubs wielded by sadists, the un-men. He had not been able to say anything, and had only stared out of the window of the Tournon Café. He thought of Ahmed as he had been when they had first talked at the Place de la Contrescarpe—boyish, shy, enthusiastic, sensitive. “We’re so much alike, Simeon,” Ahmed had said. “With a change of circumstances. . . .”
Where would he go? He asked himself the question though he knew the inevitable answer—even though repugnance swept through him whenever he thought of it. Back to the States—not because he liked it, not because his antipathy to that country and its people had changed, not because he felt any less anger or bitterness or frustration at the mere thought of living there again, but because the Lulubelles were there, America’s Algerians were back there, fighting a battle harder than that of any guerrillas in any burnt mountains. Fighting the stone face.
He was walking on the Champs-Élysées now, taking in the crowds, cafes and sounds. As he approached the Élysées Club, he suddenly stopped, seeing Maria step out of a big American automobile, helped by a handsome and elegantly dressed man.
He stood still, weak at the knees, hoping she would not see him, not trusting himself. But her eyes halted on his. They stood still, looking at each other; and then she said something to her companion and rushed to Simeon, throwing her arms around his neck.
“Simeon! How are you?”
“Good, Maria. And you?”
“Good. I’m very good.” Her eyes searched his face. “Do I make you sad when I say it?”
“No.”
“I’m going to America, Simeon. To Hollywood. That man there by the car is an American director. I have a good role.”
“That’s wonderful, Maria.”
He savored the irony of it. The director was watching them with curiosity. Maria would have to learn, in America, not to embrace black men on the streets.
He felt awkward, seeing the impatience of the director.
“So long, Maria. And good luck.”
“Good-by, Simeon. I’ll come back to Paris on visits. We can go out together, like old times, yes? You’ll still be living in the same place?”
“I suppose so.”
“Don’t you think you might come back to America someday? On a visit at least?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll write. Maybe someday, when I’m famous and rich and have all the things I always wanted—maybe then, Simeon. . . .”
“Maybe then. Good-by, Maria.”
She ran to join the director, her long legs flashing in the high-heeled shoes. At the door she turned around, smiled and waved before disappearing into the Élysées Club.
Simeon walked to the French Line office, where he booked steamship passage for his return to the United States.
6
Henri, who was an FLN member but a French patriot nonetheless, wanted Simeon to stay in France. “Once the Algerian war is over, everything in France will be good again.”
Simeon shook his head. “It’s a long time before things will be good here again. France hasn’t really even begun to suffer yet from the things that happened during this war.”
Lou was headed for Italy, then back to the United States. “You’d better think it over,” he told Simeon. “You’ve been away so long you may have forgotten what it’s like back there.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
Lou grinned. “Okay. I’ll meet you back there, and we’ll help to turn the States into a place nobody will want to flee.”
Babe joked, but Simeon sensed an uneasiness, and even a smoldering rage, behind his words.
“So you’re gonna be a hero. A masochist I call it. Pretentious, too. What good’re you gonna do back there? You gonna change things? Become a leader or something?”
“I’ve got to make the trip, Babe. I’ve got to find out. You know what I’m talking about.”
“I know you’re wasting money and part of your own life. For nothing. Your place ain’t back there. The fight is being made by the people who’re there.”
Simeon said nothing. He was certain that Babe knew what he felt. He also knew what Babe was feeling.
Babe shrugged his huge shoulders, staring at him almost accusingly with his tiny, no longer merry eyes.
“Okay, man. It’s a silly impulse that won’t last long. Write and tell me all about them crackers and phoney liberals and neurotics and McCarthys, man.”
“I’ll write.”
“And when you become an alcoholic or a junky to try to forget about it, or have to lay down on a psychiatrist’s couch to get your brains washed so you can adjust to it, or get the jitters and shakes so bad that you can’t stand it no more, or nearly land in jail or worse because you try to kill one of them—and you get desperate again for some peace of nerves and of mind and want some juicy barbecued chicken and good red wine, then drop me a line and fly back on the fastest plane you can get. And there’ll always be a spare room in my place for you, in case you’re broke.”
Simeon tried to lift his glass nonchalantly. But his heart sank and for an instant his determination wavered. He laughed however and winked at his friend. “You can count on my being broke.”
7
On the eve of sailing, Simeon was surprised at his own calm. Shaving, he stared at his face in the mirror and realized with a shock how much he had aged. He walked into the living room, carrying the razor in his hand. Reaching into the closet, he took out the painting of the face and unrolled it. He did not need the image; the reality had penetrated. He slashed the canvas and threw the strips away.