by Justin Go
—We’ll only have to go upstairs afterwards, he promises.
Most of the other diners are men in khaki or older couples in evening dress. When the waiter puts the menu before her, Imogen is astonished by the richness of the dishes.
—One would think there isn’t a war on.
—Not for those who can pay.
—Darling, I don’t want to eat us into the workhouse—
—You shan’t. Not tonight, anyway.
They eat bowls of potent consommé. They have roast shoulder of mutton in a rich brown onion sauce, served with plates of wax beans and lady cabbage. Ashley remarks that the mutton is dry, and as soon as he says this he wishes he had not. Imogen does not seem to notice. She seems distracted throughout the meal and Ashley does not know if she is nervous or impatient or simply unhappy.
For dessert they have pineapple ice followed by a wedge of Roquefort. Ashley portions the whole cheese with a golden knife, but in the end they do not finish the slices. Imogen asks the waiter if they can have the coffee brought to their room. The waiter bows in affirmation.
They take the elevator up the three stories, the uniformed operator eyeing them curiously, Imogen holding Ashley’s arm as they ascend. They get out of the elevator and Ashley looks at her.
—Are you all right?
Imogen shakes her head.
—Let’s forget it’s the last night. Let’s not even think of it. Can we do that?
—Of course. But is something wrong?
—Darling, we needn’t talk about it. Let’s simply be together.
They go inside the hotel room and Ashley begins to kiss her as soon as the door is closed. He kisses her neck as she takes off her hat and throws it on the floor. He says things to her he has never said before, things he did not know he would say.
—You’re everything, Ashley whispers. You’re more than everything. The things I never believed in.
They are standing beside the bed and she is kissing his face, holding him very tight, her arms firm and tense. Ashley’s hand runs over the linen-covered buttons at the back of her dress. He touches her cheek but Imogen guides his hands back to the buttons. She is looking at him all the time. Ashley pulls the buttons through the fabric loops and the dress slips lower down her body.
—Darling, Imogen says. The curtains.
Ashley draws the curtains shut and flips the switch on the electric light. It is easier now in the dark. He takes off his tunic and necktie and they get in bed under the counterpane, Ashley pulling the sheets over their heads until they are close together in the blackness. Their hands are free now and Imogen takes off her lace chemise and silk hose. Ashley can feel her bare legs against his. There is a knock at the door.
—The coffee, Ashley gasps. I completely forgot.
Imogen laughs. She pulls the counterpane over her shoulders and dashes into the bathroom. Ashley switches the light back on and dresses hurriedly. He opens the door and the waiter walks in with the coffee service on a silver tray. Ashley tips him a few coins. Ashley’s shirt collar is open and his necktie is balled up on the floor. The waiter salutes and closes the door behind him.
—Safe to come out now.
—Do you promise?
Ashley switches the light off.
—Safe as houses.
Imogen comes out and wraps the counterpane around him, her naked body pressed against him as she pulls him toward the bed. She is breathing fast now and she gasps a little as he kisses her neck and shoulders. He puts his hand to her face, trying to look into her eyes. It is very dark.
—Are you certain?
—Hush.
—It’s what you want?
—Hush.
She reaches for him and draws him closer.
—I’m not so good as you, Imogen says. But I don’t care.
The night stretches long before them and still it is not long enough. Hours pass and Ashley drifts toward slumber, but when he wakes holding her he sees Imogen’s watchful eyes looking back at him.
—You don’t want to sleep?
She shakes her head.
—I can sleep when you’re gone. We’ve only a few hours left.
Ashley nods and sits up in the bed. He pulls the sheet over his bare chest. His mouth is dry and his head has a dull ache.
—I had a dream. Though I scarcely slept.
—What did you dream of?
—I’m not sure.
—Perhaps you dreamt of me, she teases.
He shakes his head. —I’d have known if I had.
Ashley grazes his fingers along her cheek.
—That will come later, he adds.
Imogen goes into the bathroom and when she comes back she is wearing a silk dressing kimono. She walks to the windows and pulls a long rope, gold-tasseled at the end. The curtains part in the middle and gradually draw open.
—It’s dark, Ashley says. You won’t be able to see anything.
—We can see the searchlights. That’s something.
Imogen pours a cup of coffee from the china pot on the tray. She takes a sip and frowns slightly.
—It must be cold, Ashley says. We could ring for more—
—It’s fine, darling. I like it cold.
Imogen cradles her saucer in one hand, holding the cup with the other. She looks out the arched windows toward Portland Place, the dim beacon of a single blue streetlamp among the darkness.
—Ashley. I’ve another of my fool questions.
—All right.
—Do you believe in what happens in dreams?
Ashley blinks wearily. He is watching her back, his eyes on the blue sash girdling her waist.
—You mean the events in dreams, he says. You’re asking if they really happen.
Imogen nods. —If they happen somewhere. It needn’t be here.
Ashley considers for a moment.
—I expect you want a better answer. But they’re just dreams. I suppose our minds need something to work on in the night, so everything’s let loose, fear and desire. We may dream about real people and places, but that doesn’t make the dreams real.
—But this hardly seems real, Imogen says. It’s only been a few days and here we are together.
—This isn’t ordinary.
She smiles.
—No, she says. I suppose it isn’t.
Imogen sets the empty cup and saucer on the tray and climbs into bed beside Ashley, staring up at the ceiling. She says that at times this world seems certain to her, but at other times the world of dreams seems equally certain, or even more certain, for dreams cast a shadow over this world, while the present world hardly figures in the world of the night.
Imogen sits up and asks which of the two domains is more human, for this world is cold and stark and banal, and here all is governed by exacting calculation, from the moment of our birth to the chemical causes of our death. She says that all of science and mathematics is but the feeble discovery of these ruthless mechanisms, and in this world all the affection or pathos one could ever summon would not shift a single physical atom. She says that it is an unholy world where human souls are decided through mean reckoning of the trajectories of bullets or the multiplication of diseased cells.
Ashley moves to touch Imogen, but she catches his hand and grasps it.
—We deserve more than that, she says.
It is the domain of dreams, Imogen continues, that is crafted on the scale of the human heart and constructed of the same materials, and for this reason feels warm and vivid and familiar even as it is strange. It is in the world of the night, she tells him, that we are at last set loose from the trivial and the crass, and left to seek what is truly worthy. Imogen says finally that in dreams neither distance nor even death can prevent the meeting of two hearts of sufficient will, and surely this is the way our world ought to have been fashioned, and if it was not so fashioned she wants no part in it.
—It isn’t fair otherwise, she says. It just wouldn’t be fair.
Ashley comes to
Imogen and wraps his arms around her. He holds her tight, watching her eyelids sink slowly with fatigue. When her breathing becomes soft and regular, he sets a feather pillow beneath her head.
Clothed only in his underwear, Ashley goes to the desk and takes a white card from the drawer. He writes a few lines on the card and studies them. He frowns and tears the card up, droppings the pieces in the wastebasket. He writes another card and reviews it carefully. When he is satisfied he hides the card inside her bag where it is not easily seen.
Ashley goes to the window and begins drawing the curtains closed with the rope. Through the paneled glass he sees the sky lightening faintly at its edges. He wonders if dawn is truly breaking, or if he is only imagining the coming of this light. He wishes he had not seen it. The two curtains meet in the center and cinch shut. Ashley climbs back into bed. He looks at the sleeping girl beside him.
—You’d want me to wake you, he whispers. We ought not to sleep tonight.
He smoothes the dark band of hair on her forehead. She stirs slightly. Ashley lies down beside her and shuts his eyes.
MIREILLE
It’s my last night in Paris and I want to see as much as I can. When I come up the métro stairs at Châtelet the sky above is blue and black, beneath this a chandelier of yellow streetlamps. I cross the Seine on the Pont d’Arcole, the water riding fast below, and I sit on a bench in front of Notre Dame. For half an hour I stare at the cathedral, snapping photos and sipping wine from my water bottle, imagining the laborers and masons and bishops that pulled Notre Dame from the dirt of the Île de la Cité. They knew what they were doing. Even if it took a hundred years, they got it right in the end.
I take the Petit Pont to the Left Bank and pass into the Latin Quarter, skirting the periphery of the Sorbonne, then I climb the hill to the Pantheon, mausoleum of dead French heroes. On a nearby side street I pass a bar that looks interesting. I walk on half a block, then I turn back and go inside. The walls are layered with posters blackened from years of smoke. I sit on a stool and order a pression. The bartender pulls a small glass of lager from the tap and flips a beer mat before me and sets the foaming beer down.
On the way to Paris I’d bought a tin of cigarillos from a duty-free store in the airport. I’d seen them in pictures and always wanted to try them. I take the tin from my shoulder bag and light a cigarillo, smoking it until my throat begins to ache. A girl stands beside me, leaning on the counter as she waits to be served. She asks if I can spare a cigarillo. I pass her one.
—I can give you a cigarette in return, she says in French.
The girl has cropped hair and light gray eyes and there is a white flower pinned to her blouse. I thank her and tell her I don’t need a cigarette. We talk a little and when the girl learns I’m American she switches to English, which she speaks fluently with only a slight accent.
—That’s a beautiful camera. Can I see it?
I look at the girl. She wears a wool skirt and ballet flats, dressed up as though she expected to go somewhere nicer than this grimy bar. She asks the bartender for a whisky and soda. I unsling the camera from my shoulder and hand it to her. She turns it slowly in her hands.
—Where did you get this?
—It was my dad’s.
—He was kind to give it to you. You can’t buy such things these days.
The girl looks through the camera’s viewfinder toward the front door.
—How does it work? It’s different from my camera.
—See the two images in there? You have to line them up. It’s dark in here, you’d better open the aperture all the way. Probably won’t come out anyway. Maybe if you prop your elbows on the bar. And hold your breath—
She points the lens at me and turns the barrel to focus, sucking in a breath.
—Don’t move.
She pushes the shutter button gently. There is a faint click. The girl smiles and hands me back the camera.
—I don’t think I did it right.
—That’s OK. Half of my photos never turn out anyway.
—Are you in Paris to take pictures?
—No, I was doing research in some libraries. I got here on Sunday and I’m going to Amiens tomorrow—
The girl raises her eyebrows.
—Why would you go there?
—More research. Historical stuff about the Great War.
—That’s funny, she says. I grew up near there.
The girl explains she is from Noyelles-en-Chaussée, a commune in the Somme département not far from Amiens. Her name is Mireille and her friend farther down the bar is named Claire. They are both in their first year of art school. When she hears her name Claire smiles at me from down the bar, making a circular wave as though polishing an unseen window. Claire sits beside a studious-looking man in eyeglasses, the man speaking to her with intense concentration.
—A friend of hers? I ask.
Mireille leans in and smiles. —They just met.
—You’re out to make new friends in Paris?
—Claire wants to make new friends, Mireille says. She says I’m staying in my apartment too much, like an old lady. So we got dressed up and went out.
The bartender comes around again and I order another beer.
—You speak French well, Mireille says.
—It should be better. I studied it all through college, but my grammar’s still pretty bad.
—It was your subject?
—No. I studied history.
—American history?
—European.
—Really? Why Europe?
I shrug. —Look at this city. Miles of catacombs under the street. A palace full of stolen treasure from all over the world. Revolution after revolution until nobody can remember which is which. They’d just pull out the same cobblestones to make barricades in the same places. Even the monuments here are crazy. A Roman-style victory arch made for Napoleon that Prussians march under in 1871, the French again in 1919, then Hitler in ’40, de Gaulle in ’44—
Embarrassed, I take a sip of beer. Mireille lights her cigarillo.
—But isn’t everywhere interesting? Where did you grow up?
—California.
—It must be very beautiful.
—It’s perfect. Everything you could ever need.
—Are you joking?
—I don’t know. Maybe I always liked things better that were far away.
Mireille looks toward the entrance. A group of people have come in and they are taking off their coats, glancing around the grotty interior as if surprised to find themselves here. Mireille turns back to me.
—You like things that are far away. But you’re here now, so you won’t like it for long.
—I’m leaving tomorrow, so I should be all right. But you said you’re from the north. What brought you to Paris?
—That’s a long story.
—I’ll tell you my story if you tell me yours.
—Do you have a good story?
—It’s not bad. But tell me yours first.
Mireille begins to roll a cigarette on the bar. She says that she moved to Paris three months ago from the south, where she had been living with her husband. She is twenty-three years old and she is divorced. Mireille sees that this surprises me and she laughs in embarrassment, looking down into her glass.
—I never tell people this. But you asked.
Three years ago Mireille and her boyfriend were at university in northeastern France. They were bored with college and wanted anything but the life they had. They ran off to the Mediterranean coast and got married. In the south they wrote fiction and lived mostly off welfare. Mireille learned seventeen different ways to cook a sack of potatoes and she hated them all. Their writing was published, but the marriage failed. This past summer Mireille had moved to Paris to begin an art degree.
—What made you get married?
Mireille shakes her head.
—I don’t want to say. I knew it was stupid, I just didn’t care. Maybe I thought that made
it romantic. For now I just try to forgive myself for the last three years. And start over, pretending I’m eighteen again.
I watch Mireille as she talks about her art school. At times she seems shy or even embarrassed, looking away when I ask questions about her, but at other moments she seems comfortable, even playful. She makes a few good-natured jokes as if to test the waters. The way the bartender bounces his head in time with the music. The way I keep my camera slung over my shoulder even when I’m sitting down.
—Are you about to leave? It looks like you’re ready to go—
—It’s just safer this way.
Mireille lights her cigarette and begins to roll another one as she smokes.
—You seem like a careful person.
—I wish. If I were careful, I wouldn’t have come to Paris at all.
—Why are you here? You never told me your story.
—You won’t believe me.
—I’ll believe you if it’s true.
I tell Mireille about my week in Paris, about the libraries I visited and all the mistakes I made. Soon I’m telling her about the painting and the estate, and just as I realize I’m breaking the confidentiality agreement I also realize that I don’t care. Because I can’t see how telling a person with no connection to any of this could make any difference, and how Prichard could ever find out. And even if I am drunk, I’m tired of having no one to confide in, no one to tell about everything that’s happened in the last three weeks. Mireille listens without interrupting. When I’m done she gives me the cigarette she has rolled.
She smiles. —It’s not much, but it’s all I have.
The bartender turns up the stereo very loud. He switches on the overhead lights.
—I think they’re closing, Mireille says.
—Do you believe my story?
Mireille looks toward the door. She stands and puts on her coat.
—No, she says. But I liked it anyway. Come on, we’d better go outside.
We leave the bar and stand uncertainly in the narrow street, looking at our shoes, at the shiny paving stones below us. Finally Claire comes out, pulling on a bright red overcoat.
