Time and Time Again

by James Hilton

  'You have a son?' Charles said, with so little reason to be astonished that he wondered why he was even interested.

  'I have five--and seven daughters--but the son who hates me is the only one who has anything to do with me. Life is like that.'

  'Why does he hate you?'

  'Because he is a hothead too--though not the kind I was. He is a cold hothead. He is in charge of soil conservation in the province of Alma Valchinia, but already he is talked of as a coming man. And at twenty-four! What a career! Why, when I was that age I was wrecking trains with dynamite--I was ACTIVIST! You could not have made me spend my life examining dirt!'

  Charles wished that Palan would not shout; it was unseemly that such a conversation should be overheard, though he supposed that Palan cared as little for that as for his other eccentricities. Charles was glad when the Banana Split arrived. He noticed that Palan attacked it with a zest that was either childlike or wolfish-- depending, Charles mused, on how far one had gone in finding excuses for the fellow.

  'You like it?' Miss Raynor said, watching Palan quite tranquilly. She spoke in English, though she had no reason to suppose he understood. Then, however, he answered in English with a definite American accent: 'Do YOU? I think they make them far better at Schrafft's.'

  Miss Raynor laughed incredulously. 'SCHRAFFT'S? That's where I often have lunch. There's one next to my office.'

  'You have an office, Anne?' (And even 'Anne' already!)

  'I work in one. . . . So you know New York, Mr. Palan?'

  'For three years I lived there. Central Park West. I know the Stork Club and also the Automat. I have stayed at Ellis Island and also at the Waldorf-Astoria. I have eaten hot dogs and caviare.'

  'But not together? Or perhaps that's no worse than cheese and apple pie.'

  Palan laughed loudly and patted the girl's hand. But Charles was reddening. He could not enjoy the joke because he was thinking that after all those Conference sittings during which he had suffered Palan's bad French, it now turned out that the man could just as well have spared him such an ordeal--or at least have substituted the lesser one of his English! But it was not the memory of the French that bothered Charles most, but the possibility that on several occasions Palan might have caught a few words of English that Charles had whispered to Sir Malcolm--a few witty but tart asides, prompted by some specially irritating attitude of Palan's, but not wholly excusable, not really sanctioned by the codebook of good manners. The thought that Palan might have heard and understood made Charles feel slightly ashamed, and the conclusion that, even if so, Palan had clearly not minded a bit, made Charles feel also annoyed. Perhaps, after all, the fellow was as thick-skinned as those who opposed him needed to be.

  Palan was still continuing, in English: 'But I was telling you about my son. He is a model. He does not smoke or drink or have women. You cannot bribe him--or plead with him--you cannot even make him laugh. When I laugh he probably reports it to the secret police.'

  Charles moved uncomfortably. This was definitely not the sort of talk to be indulged in loudly by any diplomat of any nation in any language in a public place. He wondered if Palan were slightly drunk, or perhaps exceedingly drunk in some unique way of his own. This gave Charles a solicitude that was entirely professional--in the freemasonry of diplomacy, if it still existed to any degree at all, one could surely pass a hint of warning even to an adversary. Charles said, therefore, to change the subject: 'I agree that stuff isn't as good as it could be, though you certainly seem to be getting through it.'

  Palan refused or was unaware of the hint. 'My son is not like me,' he continued. 'He speaks carefully, he works carefully, he does everything carefully. And correctly. And quietly. He would not raise his voice in sending you to the firing squad. But it is worse when he lectures on soil-conservation. Then you are so bored you WISH to be sent to the firing squad.'

  Charles turned abruptly to Miss Raynor. 'I'm sorry about dinner. It's too bad you weren't with Gerald and me.'

  'Thanks, Mr. Anderson, but I knew it was a special occasion--I expect you had a good time on your own.'

  'Oh . . . so he DID mention it?'

  'Yes, he said you'd had this date for years--to take him to dinner when he was seventeen. I think that's charming.'

  'It really began as a joke,' said Charles, and he told of the incident with Mrs. Fuessli when Gerald was six.

  'FUESSLI, did you say?'

  Charles nodded and spelt it.

  'It's such an unusual name I wonder if they're the same people I know. They live in Connecticut--'

  'Yes--a small place. Parson's Corner.'

  'That's it--they MUST be the same--Mr. Fuessli has a hardware business--'

  '--and Mrs. Fuessli's very pretty.'

  'I'll tell her you said so.'

  'They're both well, I hope. Charming people. I haven't heard from them lately.'

  'They're fine and they'll be so thrilled to know I've met you here like this.'

  Palan suddenly banged his spoon on the table top like a child to whom enough attention has not been paid. 'So you two both know the same people in America! Is that not wonderful? You will tell me now that it is a small world. But it is not. It is a big world. . . . But I can pretend it is small too. LOOK . . . do you see that man out there--standing against the lamp-post pretending to read a newspaper?' He pointed through the windows. 'That man also is thrilled to know that I am meeting you here.'

  This would never do; Charles was now convinced that Palan was drunk. He looked at his watch; thank goodness it was already past eleven. He said, calling for the bill: 'We really mustn't make you cut it too fine, Gerald--I'll leave you to take care of Miss Raynor. . . . Palan, if you're going my way . . .'

  To his relief Palan seemed ready enough to leave, though only after ceremonious farewells. Charles shook hands with Gerald and the girl; while he was doing this Palan grabbed the bill and tipped the waitress extravagantly and ostentatiously. Charles frowned at this climax of bad manners, but somehow, remembering his own on those several occasions at the Conference, he found that with barely a gesture of protest he could take Palan's arm and marshal him into the street.

  * * * * *

  At the kerbside Palan said in French: 'That ice cream is bad for the stomach. Let us go to my hotel and get some cognac.'

  'No, if you want a drink come to mine. And since you speak English why don't we stick to that language?'

  'All right, but you come to MY hotel. It cannot be your everything-- YOUR language--YOUR son's birthday . . . how much more do you want? You come to MY hotel.'

  Whatever reason Palan had for demanding this was a reason why Charles should not consent to it, so he said merely: 'I think perhaps it's too late for a drink anyhow. We both have work tomorrow.' He hailed a taxi and gave the address of Palan's hotel; he would drop him there on the way to the Crillon. Palan made no further mention of the drink and from this Charles concluded that his earlier insistence on having it at his hotel had been merely a whim. But of course one could never be sure. To such a level had social intercourse between accredited diplomats reached by the middle of the twentieth century.

  Inside the taxi as they began the journey back to the more fashionable boulevards Palan remarked: 'A very fine boy, M'sieur Anderson. I congratulate you.'

  'Thanks.'

  'And the girl too. She is HIS girl?'

  'Oh no--just someone he met in Switzerland. They played tennis together.'

  'But he is in love.'

  'I doubt that. Probably just a holiday acquaintance--'

  'The perfect structure for a love affair. A few days only, with goodbye at the end! It is in countless dramas, in epic poetry, in grand opera--'

  'I daresay, and most of them Gerald wouldn't care for at all. He's rather realistic, and so's Miss Raynor, as far as I could judge.'

  'You like her?'

  'She seemed very nice.'

  'So that if your son really wanted to marry her--'

  'At SEVENTEEN?'
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br />   'At seventeen, my friend, I was already a father. . . . You find that hard to believe?'

  'By no means. You had also, so you say, fought in your first war. In England we try not to do things quite so early.'

  'And to balance that, you do many things late--perhaps too late.'

  'Possibly. And I'm glad to say that a great many things we don't do at all.' Charles shot that back as if to say: I too can bandy words, if you insist.

  Palan continued: 'I suppose you wish Gerald eventually to make un beau mariage dans le monde?'

  'I hope he'll make a happy marriage, that's all.'

  'You mean you would not object to an office girl as a daughter-in- law?'

  'Good heavens, no. What do you take me for--a snob?'

  'Of course--because it is one of the coefficients of power. Your country's power is now in decline, so you are trying hard to diminish the snobbery. It will make you a very attractive people provided you do not succeed too well. I would like to discuss this further with you some day.'

  'If we had more time. I don't recall how we got on to the subject, but--'

  'We were talking about Gerald and Miss Raynor.'

  'Since they'll soon be catching their trains in different directions, there really isn't much to talk about.'

  'If they DO catch those trains. My father did not catch his. He delayed too long, trying to persuade his mistress to leave the country with him--my mother, of course, had gone on ahead with the family jewels. She died at Monte Carlo twenty years later, whereas my father missed his train and--'

  'I know--you told us. But I assure you Gerald won't miss his.'

  'How can you be sure?'

  'Well, for one reason, he has an appointment with his dentist in London tomorrow morning.'

  Palan seized Charles's hand and shook it amidst his loud guffaws. 'My friend, it is the most perfect of all reasons. Credo quia impossibile est.'

  'Or because he said so--that'll do for me.' (But would it, after the lie about the boat-train?) Charles added, with extra conviction to mask his growing uncertainty: 'They'll catch their trains, don't worry.'

  'And what will it prove?'

  'Does it have to prove anything?'

  Palan guffawed again. 'Anatole France put it well. "De toutes les aberrations sexuelles, la plus singuličre, c'est la chasteté".'

  Charles was amused in spite of himself. 'You seem to have quite a range--Tertullian, Anatole France . . . what next, I wonder?'

  'An epigram of my own . . . tennis among the Alps, ice cream in Paris--bless their innocent little hearts . . . the Incorruptibles . . . whereas you and I--in our far different ways--we are the Incorrigibles.'

  'I'm not sure I know exactly what you mean.'

  'That is what makes it so funny--that in your own way you also should be so innocent. What has protected you? Are you a deeply religious man?'

  Charles found this question too baffling either to be answered or resented. He said: 'I wouldn't say so, but if I were, I wouldn't say so either.'

  'Then you are very rich?'

  That was easy. 'No . . . far from it. But I don't see what all this has to do--'

  'Do you think the capitalist system will survive?'

  'WHAT? . . . Well, what a question!'

  'Yes, is it not? I should have thought you would have had your answer ready--as we would on our side. But perhaps you are not so confident.'

  'Perhaps also we're not so interested. It's you people who've made it the only question to be asked. We believe it's only one--and not the most important--that has to be answered.'

  'That also I would like to discuss with you if there were time.'

  Thank goodness there isn't, Charles reflected, as the taxi came to a halt outside Palan's hotel. 'Here you are,' he said, helping Palan to the pavement. 'We shall meet again in a few hours and meanwhile I think we both need some sleep. . . . Good night.'

  'Good night, my friend.' Palan pressed Charles's hand with a boozy but not effeminate tenderness. 'I have enjoyed talking with you. It is very funny today to be an English gentleman. It is almost as funny as to be an anarchist. Both are out of style. . . . Au 'voir, M'sieur.'

  Charles waited to see him safely through the revolving doors, then continued his own journey to the Crillon. What a day, he summarized, as he mixed himself a drink in his room and made another jotting for the book he was going to write. 'It is very funny today to be an English gentleman--almost as funny as to be an anarchist.' Not bad, not bad. He also put down the quotation from Anatole France.

  * * * * *

  But he lay awake thinking mainly about Gerald. It was a different sort of concern from the one he had had earlier; milder but more persistent, just a small private regret--not that the boy should have preferred Miss Raynor's company to his (how natural that was), but that he should have chosen not to mention her during the dinner. And evidently, but for the way things had happened, Charles would still have been in ignorance of her existence. It showed how little a son could wish to confide in a father . . . but then Charles had to add to himself--'as if I didn't know that already'. Which brought him back to old thoughts, and the extent to which he had tried (and perhaps failed) to come closer to Gerald than Havelock had to him, and the extent to which his failure (if any) had been an inheritance as lasting as the gold watch that had belonged to the Shah. Well, he had tried at least, and whether he had so far failed or not, he knew he must go on trying. He decided that when he got back to England he would take Gerald on some holiday of their own--the Lake District or North Wales, perhaps; and to clinch the idea in his mind he made the amazing concession: 'Why, I'll even watch him play tennis, if that's what he'd like.' This, surely, was il gran rifiuto of some kind or other, and having made it, he fell asleep.

  When he walked through the hotel lobby the next morning he saw Miss Raynor sitting on a couch reading a newspaper. He was more than surprised; he remembered Palan's remark about not catching trains and was perturbed. Was it POSSIBLE . . .? He walked over, greeting her with a smile only.

  'You're staying here too?' she exclaimed, showing some surprise and perturbation of her own.

  'Why, yes . . . but shouldn't I have said it first?'

  'I know--or rather, I didn't know--I mean, I didn't know you were staying here. I just came here because I--I'd booked here weeks ago.'

  'Very sensible--they're often full up unless you do that.'

  He regarded her with kindly shrewdness, as if to say: Are you going to tell me or do I have to ask you? Evidently the latter, for after a pause he continued: 'I thought you were leaving for Cherbourg last night?'

  'Yes, I--I intended to at first, but--but after I saw Gerald off on his train . . .'

  'So he left?' Even unaccented the question seemed clumsy; he added hastily: 'I daresay I got things muddled. . . . Have you had breakfast?' And to forestall an answer: 'Perhaps another cup of coffee?'

  'But aren't you on your way--'

  'The Conference starts at eleven. I usually walk over for exercise-- it's not far. But this morning I'll ride.'

  They found a corner table in the restaurant. She seemed preoccupied, and while he chattered fluently about Paris and Switzerland and as much about the Conference as she could read in the papers, he too was preoccupied. When the coffee arrived she said abruptly: 'I'll have to tell you the truth. I've been trying to invent something for the past few minutes but it just won't work-- because I expect you'll tell Gerald you met me again here.'

  'I daresay I might have, but not unless you wish.'

  'He thinks I'm on my way to America.'

  'So did I.' Charles smiled encouragingly.

  'I'd like him to go on thinking so.'

  Charles waited for her to continue. Being of a professionally suspicious nature he was reflecting how easy it would be (though perhaps unnecessary) to telephone his London flat to find if Gerald had already arrived there.

  She went on: 'I don't know how I can explain it without seeming either--priggish or--or boastful--
or something I hope I'm not.'

  'I don't think there's much fear of you seeming that.'

  'So I'd better just tell you the truth? Well . . . the fact is . . . Gerald has an idea he's in love with me.'

  He waited again, remembering that this too was what Palan had said.

  She went on: 'I don't suppose he told you.'

  'No.'

  'Probably he was afraid you'd think it too silly.'

  Charles said gently: 'I hope he wasn't afraid of that. I never think any kind of love is silly. And I'm not sure what the difference is between being in love and having an idea you are-- especially when you're young.'

  'But seventeen's perhaps TOO young--for thirty-three.'

  'Thirty-three?'

  'Yes. Quite a problem if we were BOTH in love.' She flushed a little. 'And rather embarrassing to have to explain all this to his father.'

  'It needn't be embarrassing. It could all very easily have happened. . . . But tell me how it did happen.'

  'We met a couple of weeks ago--at Mürren. Of course I liked him immediately--perhaps I encouraged him at first, without intending to. We talked and argued.'

  'What about?'

  'Oh, politics, religion, economics, the state of the world--life in general. He's at the age for argument, and I can always enjoy one.'

  'So can I--though--for him--perhaps I seem to have passed the age.' That sounded rather sad, so he went on gallantly: 'It's quite possible you know my son better than I do.'

  'Oh no, of course not.'

  'Tell me about him, anyway. What do you think of him?'

  'You really want my opinion?'

  'Very much.'