The Selected Stories of Mavis Gallant

by Mavis Gallant

  At a quarter to two this Christmas Eve, my Uncle Theo turned up here again. The watchman was already dressed in his overcoat, standing by the glass doors with a bunch of keys in his hand. The banks, the grocers, the bookshops, the hairdressers were shut tight. The street outside looked dead, for those who weren’t down with Asian flu were just getting over it. Uncle Theo slipped in past the porter. He wore his best winter pelisse with the seal collar and his seal hat. He looked smaller than ever, because of the greatcoat and because of a huge brown paper parcel he was carrying. He made as if to come straight over, but I frowned and looked down. The cashier was on sick leave, too, and I was doing double duty. I knew the parcel was our Christmas goose. Uncle Theo buys one every year. Now, that he chooses well; it is not an imported Polish bird but a local goose, a fine one. I stood there counting money, twenty-five, thirty, fifty, and I heard Uncle Theo saying, “She is my niece.” In my position I cannot murmur, “Oh, shut up,” but I imagined him bound and trussed, like the goose, and with adhesive tape across his mouth. He was speaking to a man standing before him in the queue, a tall fellow wearing one of those square fur caps with earflaps. The cap had certainly come from Russia. I guessed at once that the man was a show-off. Uncle Theo was telling him his history, of course, and probably mine as well—that I spoke four, or even seven, languages and that the tourist office could not manage without me. What a waste of time, and how foolish of Uncle Theo! Even from behind the counter I could see the show-off’s wedding ring. None of the staff was happy. We were almost the only people still working in the whole city. It was one of the days when you can smell the central heating, like an aluminum saucepan burning. I looked sharply at Hausen, my assistant. He has devised a way of reading a newspaper in a desk drawer, folded in quarters. He can even turn the pages, with movements so economical only I can see them. You would never guess that he was reading—he seems to be looking for pencils. “Take some of these people over, will you?” I called out. Hausen didn’t respond, and the line didn’t move. Uncle Theo’s voice was now clear: “I also happened to be in Calcutta when the end of the world was expected. That was February fifth, 1962. The Calcutta stock exchange closed down. People left their homes and slept in tents. Imagine—the stock exchange affected. Everyone waiting. Eminent persons, learned professors.” Uncle Theo shook his head.

  “You were there on business, I suppose,” said the man in the square cap. He had to stand in profile so they could go on talking. It made an untidy sort of queue. Uncle Theo looked ridiculous. The pelisse swamps him.

  “No, no. I was retired long ago,” he said. “Forcibly retired. My factories were bombed. I made a little porcelain—pretty stuff. But my vocation was elsewhere.” Having let that sink in, he put on his quotations voice and said, “ ‘And now, like many another wreck, I am throwing myself into the arms of literature.’ I found much to inspire me in India. The holy men. The end of the world on February fifth, 1962. The moon. The moon in India has no phases. It is full all the year round.”

  In a job like mine it would be best not to have relatives at all. Nothing of Uncle Theo’s is quite the truth or entirely a lie. The remark about the moon was a mistake, caused by his lack of schooling. For “factories” he meant “one workroom,” and for “porcelain” he meant “hand-painted ashtrays.” It is true about the literature, though. Two of his poems have been set to music and sung by our choral society. “In Autumn, in Summer, in Autumn, in Summer,” with the voices fading on the last word, is not without effect. The other, which begins, “O peace, O peace, O lasting peace, we all demand a lasting peace,” is less successful. It sounds preachy, even when sung in a lively way.

  “Will someone please take over these people,” I said, this time loud enough so that Hausen couldn’t pretend not to hear. The whole queue shuffled obediently to the left—all but the last two. These were Uncle Theo and his new friend, of course. The friend made for me and put a traveler’s check down on the counter. I looked at it. It had been signed “F. T. Gellner” and countersigned “F. Thomas Gellner.” Haste, carelessness, perhaps. But the T on the top line was a printer’s capital, while the second was written in script. I pushed the check back with one finger: “Sorry, it’s not the same signature.”

  He pretended not to see what I meant, then said, “Oh, that. I can cross out the ‘Thomas’ and put the initial on, can’t I?”

  “Not on a traveler’s. Next person, please,” I said, even though the next was Uncle Theo, who had no business here.

  “I’ll write a personal check,” said the man, getting a pen out first.

  “This is not a bank,” I said. “We cash traveler’s checks as a favor to clients.”

  “But the banks are closed.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It is Christmas Eve. It isn’t only the ‘Thomas,’ but also your capitals. The two signatures are absolutely not the same.”

  “Is that all?” he cried out, so happily (thinking it was settled) that even deaf Hausen looked over. “I write one way sometimes, then another. Let me show you—my driver’s license, my passport …” He started tumbling papers out of an inside pocket. “I should be more careful,” he said to me, trying to play at being friends.

  “It is not my business to examine your driver’s license,” I said. “The two signatures are not the same.”

  He looked round the office and said, “Isn’t there anyone else I can see?”

  “It is Christmas Eve,” I said, “and I am in charge. The manager is at home with Asian flu. Would you like his number?”

  Uncle Theo stuck his head out sideways, like a little boiled egg with a hat on it, and said, “I can vouch for the gentleman.” He must have forgotten who and where he was. “I can sign anything you like,” he said. “My name is important locally.”

  “There is nothing to sign and I do not need your name.” Important locally? Where is his name? On the war memorial? Have they called a street after him? His name is not even on a civil registry—he never married, even though there has been a shortage of husbands since Bismarck.

  The man took no more notice of Uncle Theo; he had finally understood that the honorary assistant head of the choral society was of no use to anyone. To be rid of the incident, I said, “Sign another traveler’s in my presenee.”

  “That was my last one.”

  Uncle Theo repeated, “I can vouch for the gentleman. I have seen the gentleman buying in shops—spending,” said my uncle, making a circle of his thumb and forefinger for emphasis under the brown paper parcel, as if we were poor villagers for whom the very sight of money was a promise of honor.

  “Ask your hotel to cash a check,” I said. “I’m sorry but I cannot deal with you any longer. It is Christmas Eve.”

  “I’m not in a hotel. I mean that I am staying here with friends.” Of course, I had seen the “friends.” She was waiting outside, trying to seem casual, wearing one of those reddish fur coats. Snow fell on her hair.

  “Ask your friends to lend you something.”

  “You could save me that embarrassment,” he said, trying for friendliness again.

  “It is not my business to save you embarrassment,” I said, glancing at his wedding ring.

  Even when he had got as far as the door, and the watchman was preparing to lock it behind him, he kept looking back at me. I made a point of being taken up by Uncle Theo, who now stood woebegone and scuffling his feet, shifting his burden from arm to arm.

  “That wasn’t kind, Hilde,” he began. “The poor man—he’ll have a sad Christmas.”

  “Be quick, Uncle Theo. What do you want?”

  “Tonight,” he said, “when we are eating our dinner, and the candles are lighted on the Christmas tree …”

  “Yes?”

  “Try not to cry. Let the girls enjoy themselves. Don’t think of sad things.” The girls are my mother and Aunt Charlotte.

  “What else is there?” I said. I could have piled all our sad Christmases on the counter between us—the Christmas when I was thirtee
n and we were firebombed, and saved nothing except a knife and fork my mother had owned when she was little. She still uses them; “Traudi” is engraved on the handle of each. It worries my mother to find anything else next to her plate. It makes her feel as if no one considered her—as if she were devalued in her own home. I remember another Christmas and my father drinking wine with Uncle Theo; wine slowed him down, we had to finish his sentences for him. They say that when he left us he put an apple in his pocket. My Aunt Charlotte packed some of his things afterward and deposited them with a waiter he knew. The next Christmas, my Uncle Theo, the only man of the house now, drank by himself and began to caper like a little goat, round and round the tree. I looked at the table, beautifully spread with a starched cloth, and I saw four large knives and forks, as for four enormous persons. Aunt Charlotte had forgotten about my mother.

  “Oh, my own little knife and fork, I can’t see them!” cried my mother, coming in at that moment, in blue lace down to her ankles.

  “Oh, my own little arse,” said Uncle Theo, in my mother’s voice, still dancing.

  He was just as surprised as we were. He stared all round to see who could have said such a thing. My mother locked herself in her room. My Aunt Charlotte tapped on the door and said, “We only want you to eat a little compote, dear Traudi.”

  “Then you will have to bring it here,” said my mother. But after saying that, she would not open the door. We knew she would come out in time to watch The Nutcracker, and so we left the house, pretending we were about to pay our Christmas visits a day early. We sat in the railway station for a long time, as if we were waiting for someone. When we came back, we found she had put the short chain lock on the front door of the apartment, so that all the keys in the world wouldn’t let you in. Here we were, all three wearing hats, and hoping our neighbors would not peep out to see who was doing all the ringing. Finally someone did emerge—a grubby little boy. Behind him we could see a large party round a table, looking out and laughing at us, with their uneducated mouths wide open. We said courteously that our relative must have fallen asleep and, being slightly deaf, could not hear the doorbell.

  “We knew there must be a deaf person in that apartment,” said someone at the table.

  “There is no Christmas in India,” said Uncle Theo, becoming one of their party. “It has no meaning there.” I was glad to see that my aunt and I looked decent. “My sister-in-law once had a great emotional shock,” said Uncle Theo, accepting a glass. “Christmas is so sad.”

  A gust of feeling blew round the table. Yes, Christmas is sad. Everyone has a reason for jumping out the window at Christmas and in the spring. Meanwhile I was calling our number, and I could hear our telephone ringing on the other side of the wall. The neighbors’ wallpaper is covered with finger marks, like my sister-in-law’s. “Why not send for the police?” someone said. My aunt looked as if she wanted to throw an apron over her face and cry, which was all she did when her own brother left. “Well, Uncle?” I said. Everyone looked at the man who had been to India. Before he could decide, the little boy who had opened the door said, “I can get round by the balconies.” Do you see how easy it is for these people to spy on us? They must have done it hundreds of times. All he had to do was straddle the partition between the two balconies, which he did, knocking down the flowerpots covered with squares of plastic for the winter. My aunt frowned at me, as if to say it didn’t matter. He cupped his hands round his eyes, peering through the panes of the double glass doors. Then he pounded with both fists, breathing hard, his cheeks as red as if they had been slapped. “The lady is just sitting on the floor watching television,” he said finally.

  “Stone-deaf,” said Uncle Theo, keeping up the story.

  “She is dead,” wailed my aunt. “My sister-in-law has had a stroke.”

  “Break the panes,” I cried to the child. “Use a flowerpot. Be careful not to cut yourself.” I was thinking of blood on the parquet floor.

  She was not dead, of course, but only sulking and waiting for The Nutcracker. She said she had fainted. We helped her to an armchair. It was difficult after that to turn the neighbors out, and even harder to return to our original status; they would stop us on the stairs and ask for news of “the poor sick lady.” A year was needed to retreat to “Good morning,” and back again to nothing but an inclination of the head. For although we put lighted candles in the windows on Christmas Eve as a reminder of German separation, it seems very different when masses of refugees move in next door, six to a room, and entirely without culture. It would be good to have everyone under one flag again, but the Saxons in Saxony, et cetera, please.

  With all this behind me, the Christmas memories of my life, what could I say except, “What else is there?”

  “Try not to think at all,” said Uncle Theo, grinning with nervousness and his anxious little bandit’s eyes darting everywhere. “Bandit” is perhaps too much; he never had a gram of civic feeling, let us say. “I have tickets to The Gypsy Baron,” he said. So that was what he had come to tell me!

  “What do you mean, Uncle Theo?”

  “For the four of us, the day after Christmas.”

  “Out of the question,” I said.

  “Now, why, Hilde? The girls like music.”

  “Use your head, Uncle Theo. I can’t talk now.”

  What did he mean, why? It was out of the question, that was all. First, the flu epidemic. People were coughing and sneezing without covering their faces.

  “I wanted you to have two days to think it over,” said Uncle Theo. He gave me the impression that he was sliding, crawling. I don’t know why he is so afraid of me.

  It seemed so evident: It is wrong to take them out to the theater, or anywhere in the cold. It disturbs their habits. They are perfectly happy with their television. They have their own warm little theater in our parlor. My mother is always allowed to choose the program, as you may imagine. She settles in with a bowl of walnuts on her lap. My aunt never sees the beginning of anything, because she walks round examining her plants. She sits down finally, and the others tell her the plot, when there is one. Uncle Theo drinks white wine and laughs at everything. One by one they fall asleep in their chairs. I wake them up and send them off to bed while the late news predicts the next day’s weather. Why drive them out in the cold to see an operetta? And then, how are we supposed to get there? The car has been put away for the winter, with the insurance suspended and the battery disconnected. Say that we get it out and in running order—where does Uncle Theo expect me to park? I suppose I might go earlier in the day, on foot, and pick out the streets near the theater where parking might be allowed. Or we could all go very early and sit in the car until the theater opens. But we would have to keep the engine running and the heater on, and we would be certain to have blinding headaches within the hour. We might walk, but these old persons get terribly warm in their overcoats, and then they perspire and catch chills and fever. I am surprised that the city is letting the play be produced at this time.

  All this I explained to Uncle Theo in the calmest voice imaginable.

  He said, “I had better turn the tickets in.”

  “Why?” I said. “Why do that? As you say, the girls like music. Why deprive them of an outing? I only want you to realize, for once, the possible results of your actions.”

  Why is it that everyone is depressed by hearing the truth? I tell the office manager about Hausen reading newspapers in a desk drawer. His face puckers. He wishes I had never brought it up. He looks out the window; he has decided to forget it. He will forget it. I have never said a thing; he is not obliged to speak to Hausen, let alone sack him. When my brother married a girl with a chin like a Turkish slipper, I warned him what his children would be like—that he would be ashamed to have them photographed because of their ugly faces.

  I say to my mother, “How can you giggle over nothing? One son was killed, the other one never comes to see you, and your husband left you for another woman at the age of sixty-three.�
�� Half an hour later, unless someone has hurt her feelings, or changed the television program without asking, she has forgotten her own life’s story. The family say Uncle Theo is a political hero, but isn’t he just a man who avoided going to war? He was called up for military service after Stalingrad. At the medical examination he pointed out his age, his varicose veins, his blood pressure, but none of that helped. He was fit for service—for the next wholesale offering, in Uncle Theo’s view. He put on his clothes, still arguing, and was told to take a file with his name on it to a room upstairs. It was on his way up that he had his revelation. Everything concerning his person was in that file. If the file disappeared, then Uncle Theo did, too. He turned and walked straight out the front door. He did not destroy the file, in case they should come round asking; he intended to say he had not understood the instructions. No one came, and soon after this his workroom was bombed and the file became ashes. When Uncle Theo was arrested it was for quite another reason, having to do with black-market connections. He went first to prison, then, when the jail was bombed, to a camp. Here he wore on his striped jacket the black sleeve patch that meant “antisocial.” It is generally thought that he wore the red patch, meaning “political.” As things are now, it gives him status. But it was not so at the time, and he himself has told me that the camp was run by that antisocial element. It was they who had full control of the internal order, the margarine racket, the extra-soup racket, the cigarette traffic. Uncle Theo was there less than a month, all told, but it changed his outlook for life.

  Now consider my situation: eighteen years with the Civic Tourist and Travel Bureau, passed over for promotion because I am female, surrounded at home by aged children who can’t keep their own histories straight. They have no money, no property, no future, no recorded past, nothing but secrets. My parents never explained themselves. For a long time I thought they kept apple juice in our cellar locker. After my father left us I went down and counted eighteen bottles of white wine. Where did it come from? “Tell me the truth,” I have begged them. “Tell me everything you remember.” They sit smiling and sipping wine out of postwar glasses. My mother cracks walnuts and passes the bowl around. That is all I have for an answer.