My French Whore

by Gene Wilder

  “Would you pour us some Champagne, Harry?” I was more than a little nervous as I poured two glasses of Champagne. Annie took off her negligee, exposing her bare bosom. She had small breasts, which relieved me somehow. I know it sounds silly, but I always found small breasts more erotic whenever I saw young women talking together on the train, even though they were fully clothed. I told my “small breast theory” to Murdock once, when he was eating lunch, and he laughed so hard he nearly choked.

  Annie sat at the edge of her bed and crossed her legs, wearing only her white panties. I’d say it was a sexy pose except for all of her garish makeup, which dampened my sexual impulses. It made her look like the whores I used to see walking on Fondulac Avenue in Milwaukee, with their lips covered with so much lipstick that you couldn’t tell what they really looked like, and with blue eyelids, fake rosy cheeks, and eyelashes loaded with mascara. Annie’s naked body was very small and I think attractive, but her nakedness made her makeup seem that much uglier to me. The strong perfume she must have just doused herself with in the bathroom made me feel slightly ill. I had a strong inclination to just walk out. And yet...

  “What shall we drink to, Monsieur Harry?” she asked.

  “The Kaiser,” I said, stalling for time.

  “Oh, you—let’s drink to us!”

  We clicked glasses and I took a sip of Champagne. Then she stood up and kissed me tenderly, on both cheeks, as her tiny breasts pressed lightly against my shirt. She slipped off her panties and sat back down on the bed. Elsie was the only other woman I had ever seen completely naked, and then only after she turned the lamps way down.

  “Harry, I don’t know if you’re trying to look at me or trying not to look at me,” she said, half smiling but with a puzzled look.

  “Both,” I said.

  “Why don’t you come closer and let me help you off with your clothes?”

  I stood still, looking at her beautiful body. It was so smooth it reminded me of the alabaster figurines I used to see at the museum in Milwaukee.

  “Don’t you want to make love with me?” she asked, almost like a little girl.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “It’s not that you like boys, is it?” she asked, suddenly quite serious.

  “No, nothing like that. Would you take your makeup off?” I asked.

  She seemed a little startled.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “So I can see your face.”

  “I’d rather not,” she said. “My face is very ordinary. Anyway, what’s wrong with my face the way it is? No one has ever complained.”

  “It makes you look like a whore,” I said, regretting how terrible it sounded when it came out of my mouth, but that’s how I felt.

  Annie covered her body with a blanket and said, “Would you get out, please?”

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

  “Please get out, Colonel.”

  I took my jacket off of the valet stand and left.

  When I stepped outside I saw Joseph and the car waiting for me. The air was cold for a June night, but I was burning. I knew I had hurt her feelings, but I had told the truth—she did look like a whore, and the look of her and the smell of her perfume did make me sick. But there was more to it than just my great, manly honesty ... I was also afraid to make love to Annie because I kept thinking of Elsie.

  That night I dreamt that I was sitting naked on a bed, with my legs crossed, feeling very embarrassed. I was staring at some person, or persons, and I heard one of them call out, in an orderly, very calm manner: “Ready... Aim ...” but before he could say “Fire” I heard a loud knocking, which woke me up.

  TEN

  “COME IN,” I TRIED TO CALL OUT WITH MY squeaky voice. A servant walked in and said, “Please, excuse me, sir—I’m so sorry—it was an order from Colonel Steinig.” Then he placed a tray of biscuits, cheese, jam, and a pot of hot coffee beside my bed.

  Another servant came in with a beautiful field gray military uniform and hat, which he said came from the tailor. The collar and cuffs were piped in white. Then he laid a pair of white gloves beside the uniform, on the chaise longue, along with a Lugar pistol, with holster and belt. It was difficult for me to imagine myself walking out in public wearing all of this. He explained that Colonel Steinig hoped that I would go with him to inspect the young recruits who had drilled so well during their first week of training.

  After breakfast, I put on my new dress uniform, with my Lugar pistol, white gloves, and hat. I felt like I was going to perform in an operetta. I had worn a pistol once before, in a play at the Milwaukee Players, but that pistol was made of painted clay. What in the world would I do with a real pistol—shoot my way out of Germany?

  Joseph was standing next to his Mercedes. I nodded to him and he smiled. Viktor and I got into the Mercedes, and Joseph drove us to the parade grounds. As we approached, we saw columns of soldiers standing at ease. They all jumped to attention when their company commander hollered out an order. His face reminded me of one of those villains in the silent movies I used to see in Milwaukee.

  When we got out of the Mercedes, Steinig said, “You’re something of a folk hero to them, Harry. This band of Boy Scouts comes from the last pickings of our reserves—useless, of course, but they’ll make good guinea pigs—if they don’t shoot us by mistake. I hope you don’t mind that I accepted for you.”

  “Well ... only that I haven’t done this for such a long time, Viktor.”

  “Oh, poof! Just walk through and swear at one or two of them—they’ll love that.”

  I walked slowly between three rows of soldiers, followed closely by the ugly company commander. Steinig stayed behind, watching, with a smile on his face.

  All the young men were stiff as boards, so nervous that their eyes were popping. I looked at their shoes, ties, and belt buckles, trying to act like an officer. Mostly I was remembering Annie, with her small breasts pressing against my shirt as she kissed my cheek on both sides.

  I noticed an unbuttoned shirt on one of the young soldiers. “You missed a button on your shirt,” I said, and then turned quickly to see if the company commander had noticed; he obviously had because his face was turning red.

  “What’s your name?” I asked the boy.

  “Kluck, sir,” he said, trying to answer without crying.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Stuttgart, sir.”

  Then he started to cry. It was too late for me to save him. “Stop crying. Don’t cry,” I said. “I’m going to swear at you. When I’m done, stand up straight and say, ‘Yes sir,’ and give me a smart salute. I began swearing, using the few German swear words that I remembered. I pointed to his shirt and yelled, “What in Christ’s name is this supposed to be ... the latest style in Stuttgart?” He looked down for a moment and I screamed, “Keep your head up, imbecile, and don’t ever let this happen again,” which sounded ridiculous as soon as I said it, but the boy stopped crying and gave me a nice salute, holding back a smile.

  As I continued down the aisle, I came to a smug-looking soldier with bulging muscles, who couldn’t seem to hold back a cocky smile. He reminded me of my Basic Training days in Arkansas, when some big brute, who thought he was King of the Mountain, would pound the arms of the youngest recruits until they were black and blue if they didn’t pay him proper respect. Still, I knew that I shouldn’t jump to conclusions just because of a cocky smile. I stopped in front of him and asked for his name.

  “I am Pvt. Conrad Hoffman, sir,” he answered, in a superior tone.

  “Are you a good soldier?” I asked. “I am the best soldier in this platoon, sir,” he answered.

  I looked him in the eye. His grin grew bigger. “And do you beat up the smaller boys who don’t pay you proper respect?” I asked.

  At first my question caught him off guard; then I think he took it as a compliment and said, “Only when they misbehave, sir.”

  I brushed the fingers of one of my white gloves across the muzzle of his rif
le—they remained immaculately clean. The cocky soldier’s smile grew bigger. I looked at the commanding officer, who was standing a short distance away, watching us intently. I looked at my glove and shook my head in disgust, as if my glove was filthy. Then I walked away. The smile disappeared from the cocky recruit’s face.

  An absurdly young boy was next in line.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Almost seventeen, sir,” he answered, in a high-pitched voice, as if it had only just changed from soprano to squeaky alto. I wanted to give him a hug and send him home.

  “Do you write to your mama?” I asked.

  “Yes sir,” he answered.

  “What do you do in civilian life?” I asked.

  “I’m a baker’s assistant to my father, sir.”

  “Really?” I said. “My father was a baker. Do you and your father make cremschnitten?”

  “Oh, yes sir,” he said, with a big smile.

  “Don’t smile! You’ll get us both in trouble. Did you enlist in the army?” I asked.

  “Yes sir,” he answered.

  “That was dumb,” I said, and moved on.

  When I finally finished this ridiculous routine, I walked back to Steinig. “Excellent,” he said. “They were thrilled.”

  As we walked to the Mercedes, he said, “Harry, if you’re not going to tell me, I am most certainly going to ask. How was Annie?”

  “You can keep your wine cellar intact,” I answered, trying to conceal my real feelings.

  Steinig laughed. “I knew it. There are very few sure bets in life, but that was one of them. Would you like to see her again?” he asked.

  “Are you the local matchmaker, Viktor?”

  He laughed again. “Only for special guests. The reason I ask is because I’m giving a very small dinner tonight for a family that has been so kind to me. It will only be these dear friends ... but I can ask Annie, if you like.”

  “To tell you the truth ... I don’t think she would come.”

  “Nonsense—I know she would. I’d be happy to ask her, but only if you like.”

  After a pause, I said, “Yes, I would like.”

  “Good! Then I’ll invite her.”

  ELEVEN

  THAT NIGHT THERE WERE SEVEN OF US SITTING around a small, very elegant dinner table: Gen. Max von Baden—in whose honor this dinner was being given—his wife, Marianne, and their two children who were in their late teens. Steinig sat at one end of the table, me at the other, and Annie in the middle.

  Annie wore a black evening dress, which matched well with the men’s tuxedos, but her “whore’s” makeup looked about the same as the last time I saw her. Perhaps a little lighter.

  After quails eggs, caviar, venison, Napoleons, and three glasses of wine (white), everyone at the table— except Annie—wanted to know what I used to do when I lived in America with my mother. I stupidly blabbered that I had once acted on the stage. Well, you would think that Rudolph Valentino had just walked in. Steinig urged me to recite something from one of the plays and everyone joined in, begging me to perform—everyone except Annie. I finally stood up, wishing I had kept my big mouth shut, and tried not to show how tipsy I was. I began reciting a speech from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar— one of the plays I was in at the Milwaukee Players. I was hoping I could still remember the lines:

  “There is tears for his love;

  joy, for his fortune;

  honor, for his valor ... and ...”

  What the hell’s the next line? I shouldn’t have had so much wine. Take a long pause, they’ll think you’re acting... Wait, I remember...

  “... and death, for his ambition.”

  I looked slowly at each one of the guests as they watched me.

  “Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended.

  Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended.”

  Start getting emotional...

  “Who is here so vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for HIM have I offended. I pause for a reply.”

  I lowered my head, dramatically, as any good ham actor would do. The guests, led by Colonel Steinig, burst into applause. I looked at Annie to see if I had made any impression on her, but all I saw was confusion in her eyes. I downed the remainder of my fourth glass of wine.

  Steinig said, “Harry, this was out of this world.”

  Madame von Baden said, “But where did you learn this?... I mean, this is the work of a professional actor.”

  “You’re too kind, Madame,” I said, trying to respond as Barrymore would.

  The general said, “Is there yet another secret that we don’t know, Harry? Were you actually famous in America?”

  “No, no,” I said. “Honestly. Oh, at one time I had ambitions—I appeared on Broadway a few times, but—”

  Ilse, the von Baden’s daughter, nearly went wild. She practically screamed, “BROADWAY?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but that was a long time ago, Use, when I lived in New York with my mother. You mustn’t make too much of it.”

  The general said, “It seems to me that a Broadway actor in the German army should at least be a general.”

  Everyone laughed and applauded. I looked at Annie. She was staring at me, but she wasn’t laughing or applauding. Karl von Baden, their son, asked, “Who did you act with on Broadway, Colonel Stroller? Would we know any of them by name?”

  “I don’t think you would have heard of them, Karl,” I answered. “I hardly remember them myself.”

  Ilse said, “Oh please, Colonel Stroller—try to remember. I used to dream of going to New York and seeing the Broadway musicals.”

  “Well—I think there was a Fred somebody ... No, not Fred ... George! George Cohan.”

  Ilse cried out, “GEORGE M. COHAN? MAMA, DID YOU HEAR THAT?”

  Madame von Baden almost rose out of her seat. “Max—he knows George M. Cohan!”

  The general said, “Now this is too much, Harry. Tell us honestly ... don’t you ever wish you were back on the stage?”

  I thought I had better put some water on the fire I had lit before it got out of hand. “Never,” I said. “I have more important things to do than play little games.”

  Annie had a quizzical smile on her face. “You seem to be very good at playing little games, Colonel Stroller.” There was a tense pause. Sensing it, Steinig quickly jumped in:

  “Annie,” he said, “can you picture Harry having lunch with the prime minister of England, sitting between Lloyd George and General Allenby?—and while offering Harry a cigar, Allenby asks him, ‘Where do you think we should strike next?’”

  “Is this really true, Harry?” General von Baden asked. “He really asked you that?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s how I remember it,” I said.

  “And what did you answer?” Annie asked.

  “Well, I puffed on his cigar and stammered and stalled for as long I could—my mind racing a mile a minute—but no matter what I thought of, I ended up red in the face.”

  Annie said, “But why, Colonel Stroller?—you seem always to know the right thing to say.”

  “Yes, but I don’t smoke cigars,” I answered.

  Everyone let out a huge laugh—except Annie. “I see it’s very difficult to know when you’re telling the truth, Colonel Stroller.”

  Steinig quickly saved me again. “Why do you think they made him a spy, Annie? That’s where the genius comes in.”

  General von Baden rose from the table and said, “Well I would like to ask you a question, Colonel Stroller. I am a general and I order you to tell me the truth: To the best of your knowledge, when do you predict that this war will be over?”

  Steinig leaned forward ever so slightly.

  I took a long pause, as if I were trying to decide how much information I could share, and then I said, “From the best source of information I have, Herr General... I would say that the war will be over ... by Christmas.”
>
  The general was ecstatic. “Phantastisch! That is exactly when my staff has predicted: next Christmas.”

  “No! This Christmas,” I said.

  Steinig was stunned. The general was flabbergasted. Looking me sternly in the eye, the general said, “Young man, are you seriously telling me that we will win the war by Christmas of 1918?”

  “I’m saying ... that... yes, we will win the war by Christmas of 1918.”

  The general sat down, but his mouth remained open with disbelief. “You’re either crazy or a genius,” he said.

  Karl, the son, rose and said, “I propose a toast: to Christmas—1918!”

  They all raised their glasses: “TO CHRISTMAS— 1918!”

  When the dinner party was over and I had said my good-byes to all the other guests, I walked up to Annie.

  “Good night, Mademoiselle Breton.”

  “Oh, la la! We are suddenly the perfect gentleman tonight—aren’t we, Herr Colonel? Could such an important actor as yourself possibly spare the time to walk me to my auto?”

  We walked out of the castle and onto the driveway. It was a beautiful night, a little chilly, but with a clear sky. I walked Annie to her auto. “You don’t have a driver?” I asked.

  “I’m not as wealthy as you are, Colonel Stroller,” she said. Then she stood very still and looked at my eyes for several seconds, as if she were trying to see past my words. “Would you like to come to my apartment, Harry?” she asked.

  “I’m ... a little tired ... and a little drunk, Annie. But thank you.”

  She stared at me, trying to decide, I think, whether I was telling the truth or just putting her off.

  “Well then—would you like to kiss me good night?” she asked.

  After a pause I said, “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you have so much makeup on, I might miss your lips.”

  She looked at me for a few seconds and then slapped me so hard across the face that I felt my drunken head start to twirl. She got into her auto and drove off.