Going Ashore

by Mavis Gallant

  “My grandfather.”

  “He looks too young to be a grandfather.”

  “He wasn’t a grandfather when the picture was taken. He wasn’t even a grandfather when he died. Edouard Arrieu.”

  “Oh, yes. My husband always talked about him.”

  Jérôme, sitting one armchair away, reading a paperback novel found on a table, did not contradict. Nor did he help Lucie out. She wondered if he really was reading: he had opened the book at random.

  “My husband didn’t actually know your grandfather,” Lucie went on. “He must have been already dead when they met. No, I don’t mean that. I mean, when your grandmother met my husband. Only he wasn’t my husband then. He was here in the nineteen-fifties. Let me see – your grandfather was killed during the war, so that means …”

  “… that they never met,” said Nadine. Her eyelids drooped. Annoyance? No, it was boredom. She was doing everything her grandmother had told her to do – she had offered the Girards drinks, shown Lucie to her room, she was making interesting conversation, or trying to, but all Lucie would discuss was the dead.

  Lucie put the picture down. She was homesick. France was worse than any foreign country because the language was the same as her own. And yet it was not the same. It had a flat and glassy surface here. She felt better with her own people. That was where she came to life. Girls talked to each other at home – you didn’t feel this coldness, this hostility. Walking about the room, she stopped at a card table. “Would you like me to play Scrabble with you?” she said to Nadine.

  “After dinner, if you want to,” said Nadine. She was remembering everything she had been told to do and say. “If you don’t object, we shall have our dinner in here instead of the dining room. My grandmother might be on the eight o’clock news. Also, Marcelle, that was Marcelle you saw –”

  “With the mustache,” said Lucie. Jérôme stared, Nadine stared, and Lucie told herself, It was a mistake, but not a bad one.

  Nadine’s voice became firm, her diction precise: “Marcelle believes that serving dinner on the card table makes less work. Actually, it makes more. But she is quite old now. I am not suggesting looking at the news because I want to avoid conversation or anything like that. But I think you would like to see the memorial service.”

  Lucie said, “Is the memorial service for your father?”

  “Grandfather,” said Nadine. “No, it isn’t for him. It is an association – people who were deported. My grandfather’s brother was deported to Buchenwald just because he was a relation. I never knew him either,” she said quickly, seeing a question growing on Lucie’s face. “My grandmother is invited to all those ceremonies.”

  And so the card table, cleared of ashtrays and Scrabble, was moved across the room. Marcelle, of the mustache and the felt slippers, brought plates in on a tray, fought off Lucie’s attempts to help. Lucie felt herself to be a fluttering bird; even her words of help and protestation sounded like the piping of bird cries. Nadine looked at her; so did Jérôme. Lucie sat down and stared fixedly at the screen.

  The most important piece of world news that night was a change in French methods of teaching grammar. A young man wearing a polka-dot tie was solemn about it, and at the same time rather excited: “Fourteen eminent persons will recycle …”

  “What is recycle?” said Lucie.

  “… the professors now teaching in lycées so that they can re-orient their instruction on the basis of structural linguistics.” It seemed to be true, for the young man now presented a living witness: “I am only about six weeks ahead of my students at the best of times,” said the witness. Lucie would have taken him to be a professor except that he had a squint and a sagging eyelid. A man of his academic stature could have afforded surgery. “Much of this is heresy to me, as a grammarian,” he said, “but I have also found it a bath in the fountain of youth.”

  Lucie tried to think of something courteous, something that would make Nadine proud of her country’s school system. “It is interesting, but a pity about his eye,” she said. “He must find it a handicap.”

  “Handicaps are an academic tradition,” said Jérôme, and smiled. It was for that rare, unexpected, deeply personal smile that anyone, even musicians stranded at Rimouski, could forgive Jérôme.

  Nadine looked as if she had seen nothing except Jérôme smiling from the very beginning.

  I don’t know what that remark means, thought Lucie. What if it doesn’t mean anything? Very often when I haven’t understood a remark, it had turned out not to mean anything.

  She memorized the dinner they were eating for cousin Gilles, who was as interested in what other people fed on as he was in his own food. His first question when the Girards arrived in Paris had been, “What did they give you on the plane?” Some sort of soup, said Lucie to herself now. Green soup. Some sort of fish in a green sauce. Perhaps the whole meal will be green.

  “There is my grandmother,” said Nadine.

  “Where?” cried Lucie, craning forward. “Where is she?” She could not see any women at all – nothing but old men.

  To Jérôme they looked like elderly teachers at a seminary, controlled and withdrawn. Solemn music and torchlight. A priest with a country accent. They seem so quiet now. Old. Spent. They don’t wear the striped pajama suits in public any more.

  He remembered a protest march in Paris. It must have been the first time Adenauer came to visit. Or when the French voted to rearm Western Germany after the war. Jérôme had been puzzled then by the men in pajama suits. They were one generation ahead of him: in a way, they had always been old. That day he had seen for the first time in his life how the police destroyed a crowd. They carved the whole into fragments and ground the fragments to crumbs. In those days the police carried capes with lumps of lead sewn in the hems. They rolled up the capes as if they were carpets and swung out. The men wearing the striped costumes tripped and fell and folded their arms for shelter. A head hitting a curb made one sound, a stick on a head made another. In those days you still remembered the brain beneath the bone: no one ever thought of that now. There were no crash helmets for protection, only hands and arms. Even Jérôme ran, though he still believed then that you could not have police running after you unless you deserved it.

  In those days Jérôme was still a daily communicant and if he missed Mass he went to Vespers. He was scrupulous about giving Heaven as much as he wanted in return. He was thin at twenty, with a white frozen forehead and candid dark eyes. His eyes ran with the cold. Never in Canada had he been as miserable in winter as here in Paris. He pulled his neck down in the collar of his overcoat and walked with his hands in his pockets. He wore a grey scarf wound two or three times over his chin. His thoughts were like an invalid’s, sparse and pale. Girls were drawn to him, but he failed them, they drifted off. Paris in those days was gritty and black. Even the streets looked diseased. The student restaurants smelled of steam and foul meat. He ate once a day, and he owed people money. People laughed at his accent. Then his grandfather died; he came into an inheritance; and he lost his pallor because he ate better food. He began to meet French persons of another sort.

  Nadine’s grandmother was one. She opened her house in Burgundy to a weekend seminar on Socialism and the French-Speaking Union. Even the name was bold, for everyone still thought “Empire” then. They talked about reforms in Morocco and about an army convoy of jeeps that had been shot at in Algeria. Morocco and Algeria were one in his mind, wave upon wave of vaguely biblical hills dotted with shepherds. Madame Arrieu predicted that one day France would lose her colonies. She made a gentle, visionary declaration. She was fair, blue-eyed, as quick as a bird. Jérôme got to his feet and suggested a strong French-speaking union in an old tradition, with an elected king at its head. Madame Arrieu countered with a proposal that seemed breathtakingly courageous: Why not a Negro king? The idea was so far-fetched, yet so forward-looking, that the seminar program was abandoned and the Negro king remained under consideration for much of the night
. Jérôme and Madame Arrieu were still talking after everyone else had gone to bed. Their conversation slackened. They talked about regicide, fathers, men, men and women. She led him across a grassy courtyard to an open summer kitchen paved with black-and-white stones. Her thick yellow hair was pulled up on her head any way; her light shoes were wet with dew. He heard the first tentative sparrows. She made coffee, not very well – she explained that she had never done anything for herself. The canister of coffee beans slipped out of her grasp as she was saying it. It was all she could do not to sweep up the coffee, dust and all, and put everything back in the tin. She hated waste because of the war.

  Jérôme had brought a girl with him from Paris for the weekend. She was the girl who had looked down over a stone wall to a motor road and said, “Do you think they rent those towers?” She had made a quick shift of room-mates in order to have Jérôme, but she had given up waiting now and gone to sleep. She would remember that weekend and never forgive him. He would forget her for almost twenty years and then not remember her name. A girl from Paris was nothing now, because Henriette Arrieu was new. She had spent the war in England. She was a strict Anglophile.

  “Your hereditary enemy,” Jérôme reminded her. How can you define yourself without your enemies? he said. How can you know what you are? His face was radiant. She was the fine, pinpointed center of his attention. He had never looked at anyone but Henriette. That was how Jérôme seemed when he became passionate about an idea. She could have told him why women were attracted to him, and why they drifted off.

  But all she said was that she had been in London with de Gaulle. (Poor de Gaulle – a forgotten figure now; a country gentleman writing his memoirs; but she had known him ten years ago, at his prime.)

  Jérôme remembered de Gaulle. De Gaulle came to Quebec in nineteen forty-three. Jérôme’s grandfather leaned one hand on the little boy’s shoulder. He leaned with all his weight. “Vive Pétain!” the old man shouted when de Gaulle went by. Jérôme looked up, then back at the General. The General did not turn his head. Did not even blink. He was as straight as a capital I. That was de Gaulle, in Quebec, in nineteen forty-three. Lackey of the English. Puppet of the British Empire. Anti-Christ. Sold out to International Jewry and the Freemasons. Straw man. Terrorist. Playing Stalin’s game. On Sundays Jérôme heard it in church. De Gaulle would never be honored in Quebec. He had come because he wanted cannon fodder for the English. Had been paid by Churchill, by the Rothschilds. The money was in Zurich. In the Argentine. Jérôme’s grandfather wept tears of real happiness because he had said, “Vive Pétain!”

  And as he was calling “Vive Pétain” – at that very moment, perhaps – Edouard Arrieu, sold out by his most trusted friend, went into the convulsion of cyanide poisoning. A week later Arrieu’s brother was arrested and deported; he did not know why he had been arrested, or that Edouard was dead.

  Jérôme listened to Henriette telling him about this and he tried to fuse “resistant” with “atheist terrorist,” which was what he had been told, once, Resistant really meant. She let him finish drinking his bitter coffee out of a crockery bowl and then led him back to the drawing room. This time they went by way of the house, where one white room opened to another. She showed him the picture of a fair-haired man and told him the photograph was nearly all she remembered. She had two repeated nightmares. In one he came back from the dead, but so maimed and disfigured that his character had altered too. The change of person was the frightening part of the dream. In the second nightmare he was young, perfect, and said, “I see that you have started taking yourself seriously now.” She did not know which fear was the more destructive, but she sometimes thought that one of the two was bound to kill her.

  She parted new red curtains. A sunlit lawn had been unrolled for Jérôme. This day had a quicksilver surface. He thought for the first time in his life, “I could become another person,” and knew that the transformation could come by way of a woman. But a few minutes later, in a room now bright and resistant to secrets, before a fireplace filled with field flowers, she put a generation between them.

  It was not dignified – worse, it was not sensible – to confide in a young, foreign man. She said, “Is this your first visit to someone’s house in France? I’m afraid we French are not hospitable.” That was it, that was all, except that for almost twenty years she had answered his letters.

  When he knew she was there with all the sad old men of the Resistance, the remnants, the survivors, he looked away in fear of losing her.

  “Which one is she?” cried Lucie. “Where?”

  “Well, there,” said Nadine.

  But all Lucie would have seen of the Resistance that night was its sad old men.

  Nadine, eating a strawberry tart in her fingers, suddenly began speaking to Jérôme. Because he had smiled, she thought she knew him. He answered something – something concerning politics that Lucie did not try to follow. Well, then, said Nadine, Jérôme was not the Catholic reactionary her grandmother had prepared her for. She laughed as she said it, and Lucie saw that the pinpoint of attention he usually fixed on himself was directed towards Nadine. She watched and listened, cheek on hand. The fact was that Lucie was still hungry. She had just simply not been given enough to eat. Dessert had been cleared away. She dreamed of something more – say, a baked potato.

  Jérôme and Nadine had dark eyes. It must be like looking at your own reflection on somebody’s sunglasses, she thought. Nadine was a child, a pretty girl, but cold and awkward. Cold with women, at least. Lucie was glad that Jérôme could talk to Nadine, but she did wish he had made a similar effort during the trip from Paris, so that cousin Gilles might have been left with a better impression. Still, if Jérôme considered Nadine’s giggles interesting, well, it was all to the good. Any contact he would accept was an opening to life. Lucie went to bed early in order to let them talk.

  Hours after this she heard him tearing up every scrap of paper he could find, all but his passport. He always stopped short of real damage. Lucie lay in her bed, breathing as if she were far away, released. She supposed he had torn up Henriette Arrieu’s letter and her map. Her breath caught and changed rhythm. She opened her eyes. He sat on the edge of a snowy bed, with his back to her, playing with a lighter, watching the flame. But he would not set this strange house on fire. He was never that careless; he was conscious of danger and knew what it meant.

  Late in the night she woke. He was smoking, walking around the room. She thought of the white organdy curtains and of the lighter, but she was not awake enough to speak, only to hear her own mind saying, No, no, he never does the worst thing.

  3

  Morning. A wind like the sea. Low sky. From the bathroom window Jérôme saw a view that overlapped his memory of it. The house stood on a rise of land below which trees clustered like sponges. Lucie was still sleeping, just as the forgotten girl had slept twenty years before. He shut the bedroom door with care. Long corridor. Waxed stairs, white curve to the wall. Yesterday’s ashtrays, yesterday’s glasses, pineapple-shaped ice-bucket filled with water, records on the floor. Nadine’s hair ribbon. He had played Scrabble with Nadine, using every language they knew, even Latin. Flies started up and circled the white morning air. He walked straight forward; one room led into another, and then he could not go any farther. The end was a small cold room containing a coal range covered over with last winter’s newspapers. He smelled coffee and toasted bread, remembered that other kitchen, crossed the same grassy courtyard and found that the sleeping castle was alive. The servants were roused from the dead, the princess awake and eating honey. Two old women looked up at him. One was Marcelle, the other a crony who might have been her twin. They sat at opposite ends of a scrubbed table plucking ducks. The radio between them played an old nostalgic Beatles song, out of the years before Lucie.

  On the edge of the table, perched, braced with the toes of one foot, soaking a long piece of buttered crust in a bowl of coffee, was dark-eyed Nadine. She brushed her hair
away from her face with the back of her hand, leaving the toast crust sticking out of the bowl like the handle of a spoon. “These two know it all,” she said. “They know what became of the Beatles. Has a survey been made about the effects of television on grandmothers?” He remained silent. He was like that sometimes. He might have been joyous beyond measuring, but who could have told? “Well, what are you looking at?” said Nadine, indulgently, like any woman.

  He examined her bare feet, the white edge of her dressing gown, the black and white stones of the floor. “Good morning,” said Jérôme, and smiled. She was not entirely new to him. He had known girls like Nadine before, had seen the same scowl, the same bold eyes. But those girls had been shabbier. They had worn navy blue raincoats and they had chapped grubby hands. They lived on hard-boiled eggs and weak coffee. In those days an advertisement in the Métro informed them that the purpose of soap was to improve their smell. When he went to the room of a Nadine-student of twenty years ago he saw a cold water tap on the landing.

  Nadine walked barefoot over the morning grass, carrying Jérôme’s breakfast tray to the dining room. He followed, just barely not treading on the ruffled edge of her gown. “I want to take a picture of you,” she said, before he could begin. She pulled the curtains open (her gestures as brutal as Gilles’) and showed him the other side of the house, yesterday’s side, with the scythed grass and espaliered apple trees. He came out to the terrace just as the sun broke through. Nadine had vanished. Behind him she called, “Jérôme!,” and when he swung round she caught the expression she wanted, which was private, meant for one person at a time.

  Lucie wanted to believe that Jérôme had been quiet because she needed to rest, but he was far more likely to have forgotten all about her. Unlike Jérôme, she had understood the geography of the house from the beginning. She slipped off her shoes and walked over the grass until she came to the gravel terrace and the dining-room window. Inside the room Nadine, Jérôme, Marcelle and some other old servant stood each facing a different corner, like a tableau of the four seasons. Marcelle held an upraised broom.