Evening in Byzantium

by Irwin Shaw

  “Everybody’s at the mercy of the goddamn young,” Constance said. “Bring her along to Marseilles. Every virgin ought to see Marseilles.”

  “Let me work it out with her.” He witheld comment on the “virgin.” “When you know definitely what your plans are, call me. Maybe you could come to Cannes,” he added insincerely.

  He heard the water of the shower being turned on in the bathroom. He wondered if Constance could hear the shower in Paris.

  “I hate Cannes,” Constance said. “I decided to divorce my first husband there. Christ, if it’s too much trouble for you to get in a car and drive a couple of hours to see a girl you’re supposed to be in love with …”

  “Don’t work yourself up into one of your rages, Constance,” Craig said. “You don’t even know if you’re going to be in Marseilles or not yet …”

  “I want you to be eager,” she said. “You haven’t seen me for a week now. The least you could be is eager.”

  “I am eager,” he said.

  “Prove it.”

  “I will meet you anywhere you want anytime you want,” he said loudly.

  “I suppose that’ll have to do, lad,” she said. She chuckled. “Christ, it’s like pulling teeth. Are you drunk?”

  “Hung over.”

  “Have you been debauching?”

  “I suppose you could say that.” One stone, at least, in the arch of truth.

  “I never liked a sober man,” she said. “All right, I’ll wire you as soon as I know anything. How old is your daughter?”

  “Twenty.”

  “You’d think a girl twenty years old would have something better to do than hang around with her old man.”

  “We’re a close-knit family,” Craig said.

  “I’ve noticed that. Have fun, darling. I miss you. And the little lion was a sweet idea.” She hung up.

  Ignoble, ignobly comic, he thought resentfully as he swung out of bed and began hurriedly to dress. He had on a shirt and a pair of pants by the time Gail came out of the bathroom, still naked, slender and superb, her brown skin glistening with the last drops of the shower that she had neglected to dry off.

  She stood with her legs wide apart, her hands on her hips, in a caricature of a model’s pose, and grinned at him. “My,” she said, “we’re a busy little fellow, aren’t we.” Then she came over to him and pulled his head down a little toward her and kissed his forehead. But when he put his arms around her and tried to kiss her in return, she pulled away abruptly and said, “I’m dying for breakfast. Which bell do you ring?”

  He was early when he got to the airport at Nice. The plane from Geneva wasn’t due for almost another half hour. His feeling about arrivals and departures had been developed in his marriage. His wife had been a woman who had never been able to get anywhere on time, and his memory of the years with her was composed of a succession of infuriating scenes, his shouting at her to hurry, her tears and neurotic slamming of doors to punish him for his reproaches, and the recurring small agony of apologizing to friends for keeping them waiting, waiting for dinner, planes, trains, theatres, weddings, funerals, football games. Because of that, now that he was rid of her, he allowed himself the satisfaction of getting everywhere with time to spare, his nerves serene. “Leaving your mother,” he had once told Anne, who understood what he was talking about because she had developed into a monster of punctuality as a result of her mother’s vice, “has added ten years to my life.”

  He went upstairs and sat on the airport balcony overlooking the runway and the sea. He sat at a little iron table and ordered a whisky and soda. Although it was early in the afternoon, a brisk wind made the air cool and whipped up small curls of whitecaps on the blue water.

  Consciously, sipping his drink, he tried to compose himself to greet his daughter. But his hand trembled minutely as he picked up the glass. He felt tense and weary, and when he tried to focus on a plane that was coming in to land but was still about a mile away from the end of the runway in the bright sky, his eyes blurred momentarily behind his sunglasses. He hadn’t slept well. And for the wrong reason. Gail McKinnon had come to his room and shared his bed, but she had not permitted him to make love to her. She had offered no explanations. She had merely said, “No,” and had gone to sleep in his arms, calm, silken, fragrant, perverse, and sure of herself, abundant and tantalizing in her youth and beauty.

  Now, thinking of it while waiting for his child to come down out of the afternoon sky, he was shamed by the absurdity of the night. A man his age allowing himself to be trapped in a silly adolescent game like that! And by a girl young enough to be his daughter. He should have turned on the light, ordered her out of the room, taken a pill, and gone to sleep. Or at least put on a pair of pajamas and gotten into the next bed and slept alone and told the girl he never wanted to see her again when she awoke in the morning. Instead, he had held her close, drowned in melancholy tenderness, wracked by desire, sleepless, caressing the nape of her neck, sniffing the perfume of her hair, listening to her steady, healthy breathing as the light of dawn outlined the shutters of the windows.

  And over breakfast, annoyed by the leer, real or imagined, of the waiter, he had told her he’d meet her for drinks that afternoon. And because of her he had offended Constance, lied or half-lied on the phone, risked compromising what he had thought until last night was his faithful love for a grown competent woman who played no games with him, who made him happy, a beautiful, intelligent, useful woman who met him on equal terms, whose affection (why not call it by its proper name?), whose passion for him had helped him in the last two years to get through some of the darkest moments of his life. He had always prided himself on being a man who in good times and bad was in reasonable control of his actions, his fate. And here, in a few drunken hours, he had shown that he was as capable of mindless choice and self-destructive drifting as any romantically brainwashed idiot.

  Drunken. He was lying to himself. He had drunk—but not that much. He knew that even if he hadn’t touched a drop all night, he would have behaved no differently.

  Cannes was to blame, he told himself defensively. It was a city made for the indulgence of the senses, all ease and sunshine and provocative flesh. And in the darkened auditoriums of the town he had delivered himself over to the dense, troubling sensuality of film after film, glorious couplings, the delicious odor of vice, emotion everywhere, the denial of reason, the rites of youth, too heady a mixture for an aging man unanchored and voyaging without a compass across a troubled year.

  And now, to make things worse, his daughter was entering the picture. What the hell could have possessed him to have sent that cable! He groaned, then looked around to see if anybody had noticed, pretending that it had not been a groan but a cough. He brought his handkerchief falsely to his lips, ordered another whisky.

  He had come to Cannes looking for answers. What he had done in a few short days was multiply the questions. Maybe, he thought, the thing to do is go down to the ticket counter and buy a seat for Paris or New York or London or Vienna. Northern man, at home in a more stringent climate, the white, pagan cities of the south were not for him. If he were wiser, he would leave the complicated, sinister temptations of the Mediterranean once and for all. The idea was a sensible one. But he didn’t move. He knew he was not buying any tickets for anywhere. Not yet.

  Klein’s assistant, Boyd, had telephoned from the lobby during breakfast, and Craig had sent a copy of the script of The Three Horizons down with a bellboy. If Klein’s reaction was a negative one, he thought, he would get out of Cannes. His decision soothed him. It gave him a fixed point to look forward to, a choice that was mechanical, out of his hands. He felt better. When he lifted his glass, he noticed that his hand was no longer trembling.

  The plane came to a halt on the tarmac. The passengers came streaming out, dressed for holiday, dresses blowing in the sea wind. He picked out Anne, bright blonde hair whipping around her head, walking quickly and eagerly, looking up at the terrace, searching for h
im. He waved. She waved back, moved more quickly. She was carrying a bulging khaki bag made out of canvas that looked as though she had picked it up in an Army and Navy store. He noted that she still walked clumsily, in a kind of uncollected slouch, as though she hesitated to pretend to womanly grace. He wondered if he might suggest lessons in posture. She was wearing a wrinkled blue raincoat and drab brown slacks. Except for her hair, she looked dun, self-consciously sober and inconspicuous in her dark clothes among the summery dresses and the patterned shirts and madras jackets of the other passengers. What is she pretending to be now, he thought. Irrationally, he was annoyed with the way she was dressed. Back in the time when the money was rolling in, he had set up trust funds for her and her sister. The income from them wasn’t extravagant, but it certainly was enough to buy some clothes. He would have to persuade her, tactfully, to shop for some new things. At least, he comforted himself, she was clean and was wearing shoes and didn’t look like a Comanche squaw stoned on pot. Be grateful for small favors.

  He paid for his drinks and went down to greet her.

  As she came out, following a porter trundling her two valises, he arranged his face to welcome her. Childishly, she threw herself into his arms and kissed him, rather inaccurately, somewhere in the region of the throat. “Oh, Daddy,” she cried, muffled against him.

  He patted the shoulder of the wrinkled blue raincoat. Inevitably, as she pressed against him, he remembered the other young body in his arms that morning, the other kiss. “Let me look at you,” he said. She pulled away a little so that he could take stock of her. She wore no makeup and didn’t need any. She had a California look about her, clear-eyed, tanned, and blooming, her hair bleached in streaks by days in the sun, a light sanding of freckles across the bridge of her strong, straight nose. He knew from her marks that she was an excellent student, but from her appearance it was hard to believe that she ever bothered to open a book or did anything but spend her time on beaches, surfboards, and tennis courts. If he were twenty years old and was a girl who looked like that, he would not slouch.

  He hadn’t seen her in six months, and he noticed that she had filled out since their last meeting, that her breasts, free under a dark green sweater, were considerably heavier than before. Her face was fined down, almost triangular, with faint hollows under the prominent cheekbones. She had always been a healthy child, and she was growing into a robust woman.

  “Like what you see?” she asked, smiling. It was an old private formula between them that she had hit on when she was still a little girl.

  “More or less,” he said, teasing. It was impossible to phrase the pleasure, the tenderness, that overwhelmed him, the irrational, warm sense of self-satisfaction she gave him, fruit of his loins, evidence of his vitality and parental wisdom. He took her hand and pressed it, wondering how, just a few minutes before, he could have been dismayed at the thought of her arrival.

  Hand in hand, they followed the porter out of the terminal. He helped the porter throw her luggage into the back of the car. The khaki canvas bag was heavy, stuffed with books. One book fell out as he lifted the bag. He picked it up. Education Sentimentale, in French. He couldn’t help smiling as he pushed the book back into the bag. Careful traveler, his daughter, preparing for a previous century.

  They started back toward Cannes, driving slowly in the heavy traffic. Occasionally, Anne leaned over and patted his cheek as he drove, as if to assure herself by the fleeting touch of fingers that she was really there, side by side with her father.

  “The blue Mediterranean,” she said, looking across him at the sea. “I tell you, it’s the wildest invitation I ever got in my whole life.” She chuckled at some private thought. “Your wife says you are buying my affection,” she said.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “If that’s what you’re doing,” she said, “keep buying.”

  “How was your visit?” he asked carefully.

  “Average gruesome,” Anne said.

  “What’s she doing in Geneva?”

  “Consulting private bankers. Her friend is with her, helping her to consult.” A sudden hardness came into Anne’s voice. “She’s become a demon investor now that you’re giving her all that money. The American economy doesn’t look strong enough for her, she says, she intends to go into German and Japanese companies. She told me to tell you you ought to do the same. It’s ridiculous, she says, for you to get only five per cent on your money. You never had a head for business, she says, and she’s thinking of your best interests.” She made a little grimace. “In your best interests, she says, you also ought to give up your lady friend in Paris.”

  “She told you about that?” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice.

  “She told me about a lot of things,” Anne said.

  “What does she know about the lady in Paris, anyway?”

  “I don’t know what she knows,” Anne said. “I only know what she told me. She says that the lady is ridiculously young for you and looks like a manicurist and is out for your money.”

  Craig laughed. “Manicurist. Obviously, she’s never seen the lady.”

  “Oh, yes she has. She’s even had a scene with her.”

  “Where?”

  “Paris.”

  “She was in Paris?” he asked incredulously.

  “You bet she was. In your best interests. She told the lady what she thought of adventuring ladies who took advantage of foolish old men and broke up happy homes.”

  Craig shook his head wonderingly. “Constance never said a word about it.”

  “I guess it’s not the sort of thing a lady likes to talk about,” Anne said. “Am I going to meet Constance?”

  “Of course,” Craig said uncomfortably. This was not the conversation he had imagined he was going to have with his daughter when he took her in his arms at the airport.

  “I tell you,” Anne said, “Geneva was just pure fun all the way. I got to have dinner at the Richemonde with Mummy and her friend, along with all the other goodies.”

  Craig drove silently. He didn’t want to discuss his wife’s lover with his daughter.

  “Little pompous show off,” Anne said. “Ugh. Sitting there ordering caviar and yelling at the waiter about the wine and being gallant for five minutes with Mummy and five minutes with me. I suddenly knew why I’ve hated Mummy ever since I was twelve.”

  “You don’t hate her,” Craig said gently. Whatever he was responsible for, he didn’t want to be responsible for alienating his daughters from their mother.

  “Oh, yes I do,” Anne said. “I do, I do. Why did you tolerate that miserable, boring man around the house pretending to be your friend all those years, why did you let them get away with it for so long?”

  “Betrayal begins at home,” Craig said. “I was no angel, either. You’re a big girl now, Anne, and I imagine you’ve realized quite a while ago that your mother and I have been going our separate ways for years—”

  “Separate ways!” Anne said impatiently. “Okay, separate ways. I can understand that. But I can’t understand how you ever married that bitch—”

  “Anne!” he said sharply. “You can’t talk like that—”

  “And what I can’t understand most of all is how you can let her threaten to sue you for adultery and take all your money like that. And the house! Why don’t you put a detective on her for two days and then see how she behaves?”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? She put a detective on you.”

  Craig shrugged. “Don’t argue like a lawyer,” he said. “I just can’t.”

  “You’re too old-fashioned,” Anne said. “That’s your trouble.”

  “Let’s not talk about it, please,” he said. “Just remember that if I hadn’t married your mother, I wouldn’t have you and your sister, and maybe I think because I do have you two, everything else is worth it, and no matter what your mother does or says I am still grateful to her for that. Will you remember?”

  “I�
��ll try.” Anne’s voice was trembling, and he was afraid she was going to cry. She had never been an easy crier, even as a child. “One thing, though,” she said bitterly, “I don’t want to see that woman again. Not in Switzerland, not in New York, not in California. No place. Never.”

  “You’ll change your mind,” he said gently.

  “Wanna bet?”

  Oh, Christ, he thought. Families. “There’s one fact I have to make absolutely clear to you and Marcia,” he said. “Constance had nothing to do with my leaving your mother. I left because I was bored to the point of suicide. Because the marriage was meaningless and I didn’t want to lead a meaningless life anymore. I’m not blaming your mother any more than I’m blaming myself. But whoever’s fault it was, there was no point in trying to continue. Constance was just a coincidence.”

  “Okay,” Anne said. “I’ll buy that.”

  Anne didn’t speak for several moments, and he drove past the Cannes racecourse, grateful for the silence. The horses of the south. Simple victories, unqualified defeats. The sprinklers were on, myriad arched fountains over the green infield.

  “Now,” Anne said finally, her voice brisk, “how about you? Are you having fun?”

  “I suppose you can call it that,” he said.

  “I’ve been worried about you,” Anne said.

  “Worried about me?” He couldn’t help sounding surprised. “I thought it was modern doctrine that nowadays no child ever worried about any parent.”

  “I’m not as modern as all that,” Anne said.

  “Why’re you worried about me?”

  “Your letters.”

  “What did I say in my letters?”

  “Nothing I can pin down,” she said. “Nothing overt. But underneath—I don’t know—I had the feeling you were dissatisfied with yourself, that you weren’t sure about yourself or what you were doing. Even your handwriting …” she said.

  “Handwriting?”

  “It just looked different,” Anne said. “Not as firm, somehow. As though you’d lost confidence in how to make an ‘e’ or a capital ‘G’.”