by Irwin Shaw
“For the day,” he said and finished his beer. “You know what I would like to do?”
“What?”
“I’d like to go home with you and fuck.”
“Oh, dear,” she said with mock gentility, “soldier talk.”
“The afternoon’s activities have made me horny,” he said.
She laughed. “Me, too,” she whispered. “Pay the nice man and let’s get out of here.”
It was dark by the time they got to the street where they lived. They stopped on the corner to see if they were being followed. As far as they could tell they were not. They walked slowly on the opposite side of the. street from his house. There was a man standing, smoking a cigarette, in front of the building. It was still drizzling and the man had his hat jammed down low over his forehead. There wasn’t enough light for them to see whether they had ever seen the man before.
“Keep walking,” Monika said in a low voice.
They went past the house and turned a corner and went into a café. He would have liked another beer but Monika ordered two coffees.
When they came back fifteen minutes later, they saw, from the opposite side of the street, that the man was still there, still smoking.
“You keep walking,” Monika said. “I’ll go past him and upstairs. Come back in five minutes. If it looks all right, I’ll turn on the light in the front room and you can come up.”
Billy nodded, kissed her check as though they were saying good-bye and went on toward the corner. At the corner he looked back. Hazard of the trade, he thought. Eternal suspicion. The man was still there but Monika had disappeared. Billy turned the corner, went into the café and had the beer that Monika had vetoed. When he left the café he walked quickly around the corner. He saw that the front room light was on. He kept on walking, his head down, over to the side of the street where the man was waiting in front of the house and started up the steps, taking his keys out.
“Hello, Billy,” the man said.
“Holy God! Dad!” Billy said. In his surprise he dropped his keys and he and William Abbott almost bumped heads as they both bent over to pick them up. They laughed. His father handed Billy the keys and they embraced. Billy noticed that the smell of gin, which he had associated with his father since early childhood, was absent.
“Come on in,” Billy said. “How long have you been waiting?”
“A couple of hours.”
“You must be soaked.”
“No matter,” Abbott said. “Time for reflection.”
“Come on upstairs,” Billy said, opening the door. “Uh—Dad—we won’t be alone. There’ll be a lady there,” he said as he led the way upstairs.
“I’ll watch my language,” Abbott said.
Billy unlocked the door and they both went into the little foyer and Billy helped his father off with his wet raincoat. When Abbott took off his hat, Billy saw that his father’s hair was iron gray and his face puffy and yellowish. He remembered a photograph of his father in his captain’s uniform. He had been a handsome young man, dark, smiling at a private joke, with black hair and humorous eyes. He was no longer a handsome man. The body, which had been erect and slender, was now saggy under the worn suit, a little round paunch at the belt line. I will refuse to look like that when I am his age, Billy thought as he led his father into the living room.
Monika was in the small, cluttered living room. Monika did not waste her time on housework. She was sitting in the one easy chair, reading, and stood up when they came into the room.
“Monika,” Billy said, “this is my father.”
Monika smiled, her eyes giving a welcoming glow to her face. She has sixty moods to the hour, Billy thought as Monika shook hands with Abbott and said, “Welcome, sir.”
“I saw you come in,” Abbott said. “You gave me a most peculiar look.”
“Monika always looks at men peculiarly,” Billy said. “Sit down, sit down. Can I give you a drink?”
Abbott rubbed his hands together and shivered. “That would repair a great deal of damage,” he said.
“I’ll get the glasses and ice,” Monika said. She went into the kitchen.
Abbott looked around him approvingly. “Cosy. You’ve found a home in the army, haven’t you, Billy?”
“You might say that.”
“Transient or permanent?” Abbott gestured with his head toward the kitchen.
“Transiently permanent,” Billy said.
Abbott laughed. His laugh was younger than his iron-gray hair and puffy face. “The history of the Abbotts,” he said.
“What brings you to Brussels, Dad?”
Abbott looked at Billy reflectively. “An exploratory operation,” he said. “We can talk about it later, I suppose.”
“Of course.”
“What does the young lady do?”
“She’s a translator at NATO,” Billy said. He did not feel called upon to tell his father that Monika also was plotting the destruction of the capitalist system and had almost certainly contributed to the recent assassination of a judge in Hamburg.
Monika came back with three glasses, ice and a bottle of Scotch. Billy saw his father eyeing the bottle hungrily. “Just a small one for me, please,” Abbott said. “What with the plane trip and all and walking around Brussels the whole, livelong day, I feel as though I’ve been awake for weeks.”
Billy saw that his father’s hand shook minutely as he took the glass from Monika. He felt a twinge of pity for the small man, reduced in size and assurance from the father he remembered.
Abbott raised his glass. “To fathers and sons,” he said. He grinned crookedly. He made the ice twirl in his glass, but didn’t put it to his lips. “How many years is it since we’ve seen each other?”
“Six, seven …” Billy said.
“So long, eh?” Abbott said. “I’ll spare you both the cliché.” He sipped at his drink, took a deep, grateful breath. “You’ve weathered well, Billy. You look in good shape.”
“I play a lot of tennis.”
“Excellent. Sad to relate, I have neglected my tennis recently.” He drank again. “A mistake. One makes mistakes in six or seven years. Of varying degrees of horror.” He peered at Billy, squinting like a man who has lost his glasses. “You’ve changed. Naturally. Matured, I suppose is the word. Lines of strength in the face and all that. Most attractive, wouldn’t you say, Monika?”
“Moderately attractive,” Monika said, laughing.
“He was a nice-looking child,” Abbott said. “But unnaturally solemn. I should have brought along baby pictures. When we get to know each other better, I’ll take you to one side and ask you what he says about his father. Out of curiosity. A man always worries that his son misjudges him. The sting of siredom, you might call it.”
“Billy always speaks of you lovingly,” Monika said.
“Loyal girl,” said Abbott. “As I said, the opportunities for misjudgment are infinite.” He sipped at his drink again. “I take it, Monika, that you are fond of my son.”
“I would say so,” Monika said, her voice cautious. Billy could see that she was unfavorably impressed by his father.
“He’s told you, no doubt, that he intends to reenlist.” Abbott twirled his glass again.
“He has.”
Ah, Billy thought, that’s what brought him to Brussels.
“The American Army is a noble and necessary institution,” Abbott said. “I served in it once, myself, if my memory is correct. Do you approve of his joining up again in that necessary and noble institution?”
“That’s his business,” Monika said smoothly. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”
“If I may be inquisitive, Monika,” Abbott said, “I mean—using the prerogative of a father who is interested in his son’s choice of companions—I hope you aren’t offended …”
“Of course not, Mr. Abbott,” Monika said. “Billy knows all about me, don’t you, Billy?”
“Too much,” Billy said, laughing, uneasy at the tenor of the convers
ation.
“As I was saying,” Abbott said, “if I may be inquisitive—I seem to detect the faintest of accents in your speech—could you tell me where you come from? I mean originally.”
“Germany,” she said. “Originally, Munich.”
“Ah—Munich.” Abbott nodded. “I was in a plane once that bombed Munich. I am happy to see that you are too young to have been in that fair city for the occasion. It was early in nineteen forty-five.”
“I was born in nineteen forty-four,” Monika said.
“My apologies,” Abbott said.
“I remember nothing,” Monika said shortly.
“What a marvelous thing to be able to say,” Abbott said. “I remember nothing.”
“Dad,” Billy said, “the war’s over.”
“That’s what everybody says.” Abbott took another sip, slowly. “It must be true.”
“Billy,” Monika said, putting down her half-finished glass, “I hope you and your charming father will excuse me. I have to go out. There are some people I have to see.…”
Abbott rose gallantly, just a little stiffly, like a rheumatic old man getting out of bed in the morning. “I hope we will have the pleasure of your company at dinner, my dear.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Abbott. I have a date for dinner.”
“Another evening …”
“Of course,” Monika said.
Billy went into the foyer with her and helped her into her raincoat.
He watched as she wrapped a scarf around her tangled hair. “Will I see you later?” he whispered.
“Probably not,” she said. “And don’t let your father talk you out of anything. You know why he’s here, I’m sure.”
“I suppose so. Don’t worry,” he whispered. “And come back tonight. No matter what time. I promise still to be horny.”
She chuckled, kissed his cheek and went out the door. He sighed, inaudibly, fixed a smile on his face and went back into the living room. His father was pouring himself another drink, not a small one this time.
“Interesting girl,” Abbott said. His hand was no longer shaking as he poured the soda into his glass. “Does she ever comb her hair?”
“She’s not concerned with things like that,” Billy said.
“So I gathered,” Abbott said as he sat down again in the easy chair. “I don’t trust her.”
“Oh, come on now, Dad,” Billy said. “After ten minutes. Why? Because she’s German?”
“Not at all. I know many good Germans,” Abbott said. “I say that, although it isn’t true, because it is the expected thing to say. The truth is I don’t know any Germans and have no special feeling about them one way or another. Although I do have special feelings about ladies, a race I know better than I know Germans. As I said, she gave me a most peculiar look when she passed me coming into the house. It disturbed me.”
“Well,” Billy says, “she doesn’t give me any peculiar looks.”
“I suppose not.” Abbott looked judgingly at Billy. “You’re small—too bad you took after me and not your mother in that respect—but with your pretty eyes and manner, I imagine you arouse a considerable amount of female affection.”
“Most of the ladies manage to contain themselves in my presence,” Billy said.
“I admire your modesty.” Abbott laughed. “I was less modest when I was your age. Have you heard from your mother?”
“Yes,” Billy said. “She wrote me after you told her I was going to re-enlist. I didn’t know you kept in such close touch with her.”
“You’re her son,” Abbott said, his face grave, “and you’re my son. Neither of us forgets that, although we manage to forget many other things.” He took a long gulp of his whiskey.
“Don’t get drunk tonight, please, Dad.”
Abbott looked thoughtfully at the glass in his hand, then, with a sudden movement, threw it against the small brick fireplace. The glass shattered and the whiskey made a dark stain on the hearth. The two men sat in silence for a moment. Billy heard his father’s loud, uneven breathing.
“I’m sorry, Billy,” Abbott said. “I’m not angry at what you said. On the contrary. Quite the contrary. You have spoken like a dutiful and proper son. I’m touched by your interest in my health. What I’m angry about is myself.” His voice was bitter. “My son is on the verge of making what I consider a huge and perhaps irrecoverable mistake. I borrowed the money for the voyage from Chicago to Brussels from the last man in the world who can occasionally be prevailed upon to lend me a dollar. I came here to try to persuade you to … well … to reconsider. I walked around this town all day in the rain marshaling arguments to get you to change your mind. I managed not to order even one drink on the plane across the ocean, because I wanted to be at my best—” he smiled wryly “—which is not a very handsome best at best—for my meeting with you. I have antagonized you about your girl, whom I don’t know, as you pointed out, because of a peculiar look on a doorstep, and I have begun the proceedings by pouring a double Scotch, which is bound to remind you of painful weekends with your father when your mother lent you to me for paternal Sabbath guidance. Willie Abbott rides again.” He stood up abruptly. “Let us go to dinner. I promise not to touch another drop tonight until you deposit me at my hotel. After that I promise to drink myself into oblivion. I will not be in glorious shape tomorrow, but I promise to be sober. Where’s the John? I’ve been standing in the rain for hours and my bladder is bursting. For the sake of you and the United States Army I didn’t want to be caught pissing on the good burghers of Brussels.”
“Through the bedroom,” Billy said. “I’m afraid there’s a lot of stuff lying around. Monika and I have to get to work early in the morning and most of the time we don’t get back until dinner.” He didn’t want his father to think that Monika was a slob, although he occasionally complained to her about the mess they lived in. “There’s nothing in Marx or Mao or Ché Guevara,” he had said recently to her, “about good revolutionaries having to leave their underwear on the floor.” “We clean up on the weekends,” he said to his father.
“I will make no remarks, Billy,” Abbott said, “about the life-style of you and your lady. I am not the neatest man in the world, but paradoxically consider neatness in a woman a useful virtue. No matter. We make do with what comes along.” He looked searchingly at Billy. “You’re not in uniform, soldier. How is it if you’re in the noble and necessary army of the United States Army you’re not in uniform?”
“Off duty,” Billy said, “we can wear civilian clothes.”
“It was different in my day,” Abbott said. “I didn’t wear civilian clothes for four years. Ah, well, wars change.” He walked steadily out into the hall on his way to the bathroom. As he went out, Billy thought, That suit must be at least ten years old. I wonder if he’d let me buy him a new one.
« »
His father said a lot of things over dinner, on a variety of subjects. He insisted upon Billy ordering wine for himself but turned his own glass over when the waiter poured. He said the food was first-rate, but just picked at it. By turns, he was expansive, apologetic, regretful, cynical, optimistic, aggressive, self-denigrating and boastful.
“I’m not through yet,” was one of the things he said, “no matter what it looks like. I have a million ideas: I could eat up the field of public relations like a dish of whipped cream if I stayed off the booze. Ten of the top men in the field in Chicago have told me as much—I’ve been offered jobs in six figures if I joined Alcoholics Anonymous—but I can’t see myself making public confessions to a group of professional breast-beaters. If you’d forget this crazy idea of sticking with the army—I can’t get over that, I really can’t, a smart young man like you, with your education, not even an officer—what the hell do you do all day, just check out cars like a girl in a radio taxi office? Why, if you came out to Chicago with me, we could set up an agency—William Abbott and Son. I’ve read your letters—I keep them with me at all times—the first thing I pack when I mov
e from one place to another is the box I keep them in—I’ve read them and I tell you you can write, you really can turn a phrase with the best of them. If I had had your talent, I tell you I just wouldn’t have a pile of unfinished plays in my desk drawer, no sir, not by a long shot. We could dazzle the folks, just dazzle them—I know the business from A to Z, you could leave that end of it to me, we’d have the advertisers knocking the door down to beg us to take their accounts. And don’t think that Chicago is small time. Advertising started there, for God’s sake.
“All right, I have a pretty good idea of what you think of the advertising business—the whore of the consumer society, all that crap. But like it or not, it’s the only society we have and the rule of the jungle is consume or be consumed. Trade a couple of years of your life and you can do whatever you damn well please after it. Write a book—write a play. When I get back to Chicago I’ll have your letters Xeroxed and send them to you, you’ll be amazed at yourself reading them all at once like that. Listen, your mother made a living, a damn good living, writing for the magazines, and just the things you dash off to me in a few minutes have more—what’s the word I’m looking for?—more tone, more spirit, more sense of what writing is about than she had in her best days. And she was highly thought of, let me tell you, by a lot of intelligent people—the editors were always after her for more—I don’t know why she quit. Her writing was good enough for the editors, for the public, but not for her. She has some insane idea of perfectionism—be careful of that—it can finally lead to molecular immobility—there’s a phrase, my boy—and she quit. Christ, somebody in the family ought to finally make it. She complains to me you almost never write her. I’m pleased, of course, you write me as often as you do, but after all, she’s your mother, it wouldn’t kill you to drop her a line from time to time. I know I was shitty to her, I disappointed her, I was a lousy husband. The truth is, she was too much for me—in every department—physically, intellectually, morally. She swamped me, but that doesn’t prevent me so many years later from appreciating her quality. There’s no telling how far she could have gone, with another man, with better luck.… Colin Burke being killed.
