Emily said dismally, ‘I feel guilty. They seem to think we were over for an anti-red drive, or part of the crusade at any rate. I lost a lot of sleep this trip over that.’
Stephen was suddenly depressed. ‘God knows! Maybe our trip is a mixture of bragging cowardice and inept retreat. Maybe I’m doing just what Anna bids me. What would we do at home, Emily? The reactionaries are really in the ascendant, they’re in, strong, confident and smelling blood. It feels like Munich.’
Said Emily, ‘But Munich with the atomic bomb. Ay-ay. Our name is mud, but no one, except in New York City, in the entire surrounding world knows it. Even those crawlers on the boat eating our canapés are not going to spring to attention for us. They’ll take our caviar and leave us in the soup when the time comes to play their own game.’
‘Let them play their own game and push us out and we’re saved. To think the world is not run by Joliot-Curie and Einstein but by small-town, pettifogging birdbrains who think Europe ought to be like Kallikak, Ohio.’
‘Maybe we exaggerate,’ said Emily hopefully.
‘Yeh? What was Hiroshima for? Naughty boy stuff? To show the Russians what we could do if we got real mad. I’ll bring along my big brudder the atom bomb.’
‘Well, everyone at the cocktail party, except Mernie Wauters and that weight-lifting girl, agreed as to that. Why not bring over the atomic bomb and wipe out the Russians, wipe out Europe’s troubles in one big stinking blast! Gee, we’ve got to get out of this crowd, Stephen. Did we cross the water to get in with the enemies of mankind? Oh, let’s quit wailing and get settled in and we’ll make the right friends. In fact, we’d better, or it will be tumbrils for two.’
‘Oh, shut up, do,’ said Stephen.
‘Well, I’ve got to do the laundry list. Bring the dictionary, Stephen. I suppose this time next year, I’ll just rip it off on the typewriter in perfect French with subjunctives. What’s the word for underpants?’
‘We didn’t learn that kind of French in Princeton,’ said Stephen.
The telephone rang. Someone had found an apartment of five rooms. This was the eighth of that sort.
‘Oh, let’s take it,’ said Emily.
‘How can we fit into five rooms?’
‘The battle of life continues, then,’ she said, working at the dictionary.
At first, the children settled into Paris faster than the adults. Olivia started to collect photographs of French movie actors, Christy bought a beret and Giles began to hate the Catholics, according to the philosophy of the grocer’s boy, who managed to make himself understood to Giles on this new and strange subject. The parents found a respectable English woman who stayed with the children in the evenings, when they had dinner-dates.
Their first dinner-date was with a shipboard acquaintance, Madame Valais. She told them, ‘It will be potluck. But you Americans will understand that there are shortages and forgive.’ She also proposed that they should mull over together the problems of schools and tutors. She had three children of upper elementary and high-school age. Three boys. ‘Alas! We are training them for the professions, law, medicine and the professorate; but really in an age like ours, we should make them steam-fitters. First, there will be another war; they will some or all be taken. If they are taken by the Russians they will be sent to the saltmines. It would be better if they learned mining, I suppose; how to blow up bridges. But we do our best, we follow the old tradition. We live according to history—let them have ten years of western civilization and then let the deluge roar!’
Emily sighed, on the way there in a taxi, ‘Poor thing! After all, she is a mother. What can we do with ours? Make them steam-fitters? No, Christy must study something. Law or Sanskrit or anything. How lucky the English are. Any boy like Christy just goes naturally into the Foreign Office. Maybe I’ll make Giles a steamfitter but Anna would never speak to him. Oh, faugh, Giles has to be at least an architect. Oh, dear, dear, why weren’t we born fifty years back Or fifty years forward. The Chinese are right. It’s unlucky to be born in an exciting age.’
The house was in a small street off the boulevard St.-Germain. Madame Valais had built up a story about how Bohemian they, the Valais family, were, not fashionable at all, living on the Left Bank and among the Americans, who had already started to come over in thousands and occupied the quarters that their generations had occupied for a hundred years. It was an old narrow street with high stone walls on each side.
‘Why, it’s a sumptuous manse,’ cried Emily. There was a tall iron railing mounted on a low stone wall and you could see the flagged courtyard built in carriage days, and unsheltered steps where the porch had been. The front was now smooth, a pleasing, rather low, three-storied façade with classic plain windows and a low, pitched roof. The concierge lived in a lodge at the gate. The Howards admired it. The Valais family did not occupy the whole building. The ground floor was occupied by an antiquary and through his old carved doors, beams, stones, his wooden saints dislodged from churches, his vases and odd pieces, a stone stair led up to the stone landing of the next storey, where the Valais lived. On this landing there were three oaken doors, low and broad, an old carved-oak wardrobe and a large carved chest with wrought iron metal fittings. A rubber plant stood in one corner. A small window looked out through the thick stone wall, to the courtyard. They rang. Emily shifted her feet,
‘I’m nervous. What do you suppose a dump like this costs?’
Stephen said, I’m freezing. Ye old yule logs, I suppose; or just shortages.’
They were greeted by a maid, with Madame Valais and her daughter crowding hospitably behind, and amid gracious and complex greetings and compliments, they went through a hall in which Persian carpets covered stone flags, into the reception rooms. The hall was very cold. Emily put her wraps in one of the bedrooms, a spacious dark place, also cold; and returned shivering to the warm sitting-room. This room was kept warm all the time, they said, because of the fine pieces of furniture in it. Emily and Stephen sank into deep, somewhat worn easy-chairs and were complimented on the amount of French they had picked up. This encouraged Emily to go into furious French in her Western accent; while Stephen became more and more discouraged and in the end appeared to know no French at all.
Fortunately Madame Valais knew English well. Mademoiselle had spent three years in New York City studying art; and perhaps looking for a husband. Monsieur Valais had learned English at school and had frequently visited the United States. Beside, they said, in the friendly company after dinner, everyone would speak English. There were a few from the boat, a few Parisians Madame Valais thought the Howards should know; among them Madame Leclerc, of an old French family, who ran a small school for the children of foreigners, diplomats, businessmen and rich exiles. She had most modern ideas of education, ‘a little leftist perhaps, extremist even perhaps, but a really nice woman and I am sure most dependable’; and Mademoiselle Valais, whose name was Irene, had a friend, named Suzanne Gagneux, a widow, who was a good tutor. The elders had lived in the house in Paris during the German occupation. Madame Valais had gone away with the family for the first eighteen days; but hearing that if they stayed away, their house might be taken over by the Germans, they sent Irene to the United States and returned; and having nothing on the slate against them, they lived quite peaceably under German rule.
‘Indeed, it was not too bad; bad, of course! Ah, you Americans can have no idea how bad! And as for the English, they talk of their part in the war, but what did they suffer? I assure you, Madame Howard, there were genuine privations and irritations; and yet we lived as quietly as possible and did not make ourselves objectionable. Ala guerre comme a la guerre. Things would have been much easier in Paris, for the Germans respected Paris and were quite happy here, had it not been for the hotheads, ill-advised, so-called patriots, thoughtless, selfish people, with improper, disgusting revenge tactics, for which we all suffered. Because of some thoughtless, conscienceless act against a German soldier doing his duty, we had to go in fear of t
he firing squad. And there you were, sitting at home, quite innocent, while some streets away some unhinged mind might be perpetrating an act for which they would take you hostage. I assure you! These people did not think of their fellow-citizens! When we saw the German police in the streets, every one of us trembled. We were innocent, absolutely innocent, no sabotage, no blood on our hands, yet we might be shot before morning. Yes, it did you no good to have a house, a business, a military career as my husband had. If a German was shot in the next street, they opened a dossier on you, too. Yes, you learn home truths in times of terror.’
Emily, feeling embarrassed, answered Madame Valais, ‘Yes, yes, well, well, very true. Well, I guess it’s different under an occupation. Yes, indeed.’
Madame Valais said, ‘You are such a free independent people, full of initiative and such good organizers! If you ever have troubles over there you will organize yourselves, your communists will be shot at once, your foreigners put into concentration camps and your state will be free to act. You think straight. We, alas, are degenerate. We no longer have any enterprise. What we need is organization, order, as the Germans well saw, although of course, I certainly did not wish to go so far as to become a German state, as some did. They felt that would be a purification. The republic had gone rotten. Only the worst elements came to the top. We all felt it. If it could have come from within of course—alas, the times we live in! And then the Germans did not have a free hand, a fair chance. With the Russians hammering at the gates, how could they organize? And now we must look to the Americans to give us new ideas, new blood, new direction.’
Emily cleared her throat, ‘Yes, that’s very flattering. I’m glad you think so well of us. Of course, we think we could be improved a lot. Well, well—’
Stephen began with an air that Emily particularly detested, the smooth outdrawing air of a society special agent, ‘And so, you remained in Paris during the occupation?’
Madame Valais said, ‘Yes, with Madeleine my sister,’ and she nodded to the younger woman sitting, without conversation, beside her. This woman now spoke up, in a voice like that of Madame Valais, but a softer, more hesitant voice. ‘We had our house here you see. I can’t live away from Paris. I can’t breathe away from the Paris sidewalk. That is what my brother-in-law always says. And we all agree.’
At a slight, almost unnoticeable movement between the women, Emily was struck by a strange thought. Why was it that the two sisters behaved like twins? Jealous twins? Madame Valais was about sixty, but in appearance much older, excessively wrinkled perhaps by war privations, and with a starved and vulture look, which had nothing to do with her character. She had high cheekbones and high nose, and a little bun of hair on her head. Rags of skin hung round her slender, firm jaw. Her sister Mademoiselle Madeleine de la Roche was younger and was evidently critical of Madame Valais, looking at her sideways when she spoke, evidently thinking her words and ideas misplaced.
Mademoiselle de la Roche said, ‘Of course my sister went out little and saw little. We lived walled-in, you might say. My brother-in-law took care of everything for us. He was afraid for us. We knew very little of what went on. We breathed, we lived, that was all. But we were in Paris, we lived on the sidewalks of Paris.’
They began with asparagus soup, made with fresh, out-of-season asparagus, and with cream which could only be got on the black market. This was accompanied by a rather ordinary red wine for which the host apologized.
‘One just can’t get the right sort of thing these days! Don’t you find it a little green, a little rough, Monsieur Howard?’
Stephen said he did, but it was pleasant to find a passable wine at all these days. Then they had poached salmon with mussels sauce, little new potatoes, English style with parsley, and with this a little white wine, white rolls and butter; all black-market of course, as they explained, for at that time nothing but the coarsest yellow or black bread was to be had. Most people were eating it and some feeling ill from it. Everyone but Stephen ate two helpings of everything. The thought of the difficulties made them hungrier.
‘Good this, it’s swell,’ said Emily. Emily’s face shone. She said, ‘It’s poetic! And to think that I thought I was going to reduce in Europe. I bought two satin girdles two sizes too small, thinking I wouldn’t get those things here and that as I’d be shriveling—’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Stephen.
They were then offered their choice of waters, sparkling and still, and the Americans all took a deep glassful, Emily’s still, and Stephen’s sparkling, which began to make him ill at ease at once.
They next had cold jellied chicken encased in paté de foie gras and truffles. The guests who had felt well-fed before, now became hungry again.
Emily said to Monsieur Valais, ‘I think that I must soon start to reduce. What a surprise! Me! Who came to Europe to reduce and live high-mindedly.’
‘Tiens, did you mean to do that?’ he said.
‘I am delighted. This dish is our personal family house speciality,’ said Madame Valais.
Emily said, ‘Mighty, mighty good. I’ll try to imitate it, the first chance I get.’
Monsieur Valais said, ‘This wine now is a nice if not a great wine.’
‘It’s Lucullan,’ said Emily with great pride.
Stephen said, ‘I have a little, not much education. I’m not much of an eater, but when I read some of Horace’s Lucullan banquets, I myself feel tempted to try. In my opinion, both Horace and Cicero were dyspeptics. Excuse me! Not the word to use here. Now Horace mentions’—and here he gave one of Horace’s dinners.
‘I thought they ate lampreys and slaves,’ said Emily.
Monsieur Valais said, ‘You’re making us all hungry.’
Stephen said, ‘I once cured Emily when she thought she was dying. I read her the specialities of Tours and Blois. She regained her appetite and became well within two hours. She determined she must live to eat those dishes.’
‘Really? That’s superb!’ said Monsieur Valais.
They had then a few slices each of roast fillet of beef with a heavier red wine, and with green beans, and after this a salad of lettuce, eggs, tomatoes and shrimps, of which Stephen wrongly took some. Then came a platter of cheeses, unobtainable of course, except by such people as had friends in the black market, and a wine with that; and then a zabaglione with Marsala wine, and with this the champagne was brought in. Stephen was feeling worse and worse, with a paler and bluer face. He sipped more sparkling water, which hurt him more. Emily took her third glass of dry champagne, Mademoiselle de la Roche took her third glass of sweet. Cake was brought; and then the guests were taken to the salon where they had small cakes, coffee and cognac or liqueurs. Emily got into an excited friendship with a Belgian girl she had met on the boat, and offered to give her introductions for her next visit to the States. She said,
‘We know everyone. Stephen is a fils a papa.’
People stared, and Stephen, feeling ill, laughed feebly, ‘My wife doesn’t know how she is painting me.’
Emily cried, ‘He is the son of millionaires and not ten-cent millionaires.’
‘Real millionaires with a hundred thousand dollars,’ said Stephen.
Emily, drunk and resplendent cried, ‘Who live under the big top. There’s a kind of Howard-Tanner network, coast-to-coast link up. Stephen’s family have got their fingers into every pie, they’re always married to someone and there are even celebrated Gold Coast reds in his family.’
Stephen was trying to forget his stomach-pain. He said to himself, ‘It’s no good. And that’s how the water comes down at Lodore.’
Emily took three or four of everything, coffees, cigarettes, cakes, glasses of cognac.
Emily was telling endless tales. She said she had bought her typewriter from a fine, honest young salesman who had begun his career in Nevada by squiring women divorcing in Reno. He had had several offers of marriage but wanted to make his own way. ‘Original, eh?’ said Emily. They laughed.
A young
American salesman said that something funny had happened to him in Chicago on his last trip east. He’d had to sleep in the foyer of a big hotel because there was a firemen’s convention. A fire had broken out but everyone was so drunk that it caught the whole east wing and several firemen were burned to death.
‘That’s excruciatingly funny,’ said Stephen gloomily.
‘Well, I know a thing as funny as that,’ said Emily. ‘A whole plane-load of pilgrims were going to Rome and they flew into the side of Mont Blanc, and bones and charred flesh and holy images were strewn for miles. There were three Muhammedans there too.’
This funny story cast a gloom. Presently people began to leave. Emily said, ‘But I don’t want to go home.’
Everyone laughed.
Emily said, ‘But I don’t want to go home. Don’t be so rude, Stephen. I could stay up all night. What are you doing, Stephen? Another half hour and then I’ll go.’ This remark was received curiously. Emily could not make out people’s expressions. She said, ‘Oh, all right; I don’t know. Perhaps you keep shorter hours in Europe. Well, OK, I’ll go home, but I’ll come another time. And you must come and dine with us as soon as we have our house.’
Handshaking, goodwishing now began, wishes for success, health, a fine house, good servants and teachers, and all kinds of counter-invitations were given, more courteous than pressing, for ‘in these days of shortages, we all know the difficulties’.
The Howards took the Belgian girl in their taxi. She said she thought she would like to practise law in the USA, where democracy affected the laws. Emily said she knew a Supreme Court judge. Stephen said he personally knew quite a few people who had been to jail or who were going, if that would help. One was his Uncle Benjamin, who had been in Teapot Dome and another was his cousin, Felicia, who refused to pay a fine for speeding, without even a licence. Another was a Hollywood friend of his who refused to pay alimony and then there was his sister, Florence, who had gone to jail during a strike for picketing.
I'm Dying Laughing Page 28
