Jérôme knew that something had taken place in the chapel. The street had emptied and they could walk side by side now, but they had more trouble walking together than ever before. When they came to a corner, they collided, each attempting to cross in a different direction.
“Do you see that policeman?” said Jérôme, speaking to Lucie, only to her, now that she had stopped trying to listen. “I’m sure he was here twenty years ago. Look at his face. Red and stupid. Look at him with his red nose. Why won’t you look? I remember this café,” he went on. “We came here after a film.” It was a café where they served nothing except pancakes. The waitresses wore Breton costumes, here, miles from the sea. It reminded him of the baroque ceiling in the chapel. The street was all a mistake, as if it had been knocked together by a child.
At home everything looks the same, said Lucie. We don’t want these landslides, this strangeness. Who is “we”? What film? Was it Madame Arrieu? He doesn’t want to see her again. He’s afraid of seeing her. That is why he spent the night walking around the room instead of sleeping.
Nadine had left the car unlocked and the key stuck in the ignition; it showed how anxious she had been to get away from the Girards. Jérôme and Lucie sat in the back of the car holding hands. He told her about a girl he had brought to this town, a long time ago. Corinne was the girl’s name. As soon as he had seen the Breton café the memory returned. Corinne worked in a bookshop in Montparnasse. She wanted Jérôme to think about nothing but her, and when she saw that he was interested in differences of opinion—oh, and in himself, and in girls in general, because they were unlike himself, they belonged to a different culture—Corinne could not understand it. Lucie was not like Corinne, he said. She had a natural goodness that welled up like a spring. Even if she wanted to be selfish and to put herself first, she would not know how to begin. He meant every word of this; she was not to forget what he was telling her now. “Even when you’re asleep, you’re better than other women,” he said.
This was felicity. No one but Lucie knew what Jérôme could be like. He told her things he had never told anyone; even the doctors had said so. She gave him the simplest, most loving response she could think of, which was, “You didn’t sleep well last night. You must be tired. Did you take anything this morning? Not even an Equanil?”
“For God’s sake, stop asking me how I am,” he shouted, and he flung out of the car and left her just as Nadine and her grandmother came walking across the square.
Through shock and horror that suddenly seemed like rain on a window, Lucie saw this new person—saw her sunglasses, her straw summer handbag, her linen suit; watched her greeting Jérôme, who now strolled back to the car as though he had left it for no purpose but this meeting. With the quick tally came a feeling of injustice, of unfairness, as though Lucie had been harshly treated. She could not attach the conviction to any one word or event. Jérôme was often impatient when she turned the conversation to his health, a turning she found too natural to avoid. Was it Lucie’s fault if she had not looked her best yesterday? And what ought to be her best now, at the age of twenty-eight? Her sturdy blond beauty had suffocated under hospital training, and then this marriage. Was it Lucie’s fault? Jérôme’s?
“My grandmother,” said Nadine.
“Did you have a good dinner last night?” said Madame Arrieu, shaking hands. “Are you pleased with your room? Did this child take good care of you?” Settled in, her profile to Lucie, she said, “Nadine, have you written your parents?”
“Oh, she has parents!” cried Lucie, from the back. “I am so glad.”
Madame Arrieu quickly looked round. A miniature, eager Lucie was held on the surface of her glasses. Nadine frowned, half turned, elbow on the back of her seat, as she moved the car away from the curb. “Nadine! Answer Madame Girard.”
“My parents are cruising around Greece,” said Nadine.
“Nadine! Not Greece. The coast of Jugoslavia—please. Your parents would never spend a holiday in a fascist country.”
“The postcards all look the same,” said Nadine.
“In Nadine’s ideal future there will be no need for holidays,” said her grandmother.
“Or life will be one long holiday and the word will fall into disuse,” said Jérôme. “If I could start my life over from the beginning, I would think along those lines.” Lucie opened her mouth; stared; but before she could speak, he said under his breath, “Stop watching me!”
“And how are you, Jérôme?” said Henriette Arrieu. She seemed to mean something more than an ordinary greeting.
“He gets a little tired sometimes,” said Lucie. It was not her fault—the words were out before she could stop and think about them. It was a bad habit, yes, but who had given her the habit? This time she met his eyes straight on. Why, I could hate him, she thought.
“I am all right,” he said. “As much as anyone is.”
“Oh, are you all right?” said Lucie. “What do you mean by all right? What about telling Nadine you wanted to buy a house here? What about last night, when you sat on your bed tearing paper? What about that other time, when the sun came out with Latin inscriptions in eighteenth-century lettering? One day you saw the sun with a perfect eye in its center—eyelashes, everything. When you saw the eyelashes again you called me and said, There, you can see them. You held your dark glasses at arm’s length and looked out the window. But I had left the iron connected. There must have been a short circuit. The cord, the socket, everything began to smoke. I started to cry but you did the right thing, turned off the meter, disconnected the iron. How long are you going to keep insisting you’re all right? Who else sees the sun with an eye and eyelashes? You can’t even take an Equanil if I’m not there to remind you. Suppose I have to start taking your medicine too? Then where will we be?”
“Was there thunder in Paris?” said Nadine to her grandmother. “Did you hear thunder last night?”
Lucie understood that somehow, unheard, in a private family message code, Nadine was warning her grandmother: Be careful. The Girards do nothing but quarrel with each other and Lucie Girard may even be a little mad.
Ah, but why be angry? said Lucie. Why blame Jérôme? Anyone would think he owed me something. Perhaps there is a large unpaid debt and that is the paper he keeps tearing. Perhaps he had a bill he is too kind to present me with.
“Jérôme is fine,” she said. “There are men worse than Jérôme. Oh, much worse. My brother-in-law held a knife to my sister’s throat all one night. In the morning he went to the office as if nothing had happened. My sister thought it over and decided not to leave him. He had never done it before and might never again. Also, they hadn’t finished paying for their house. Jérôme has only one thing the matter. He does not quite understand the effect he has on other people. Jérôme has had a superior education and he does not care what other people think.”
“Did you pay Pierrette for the strawberries, Nadine?” said Madame Arrieu. “What about the key?”
Lucie turned and looked back at the town. Something was missing; once, during a long train journey in childhood, she had been disturbed to find the restaurant car had disappeared during the night. That is the way I feel now, she said. Forces are at work in the dark. We ought to reject sleep. Stay awake. Try to hear. Avoid being caught unawares. Jérôme is right when he walks up and down in the dark and refuses a sleeping pill. He would be right even to keep away from me; but he can’t.
5
“Do you want to take all those strawberries to Paris?” said Gilles. The seat next to Gilles was piled with fruit and flowers. The dog had been forced to lie on the floor. Jérôme and Lucie sat together; Lucie leaned forward so that she and Gilles could talk. “There was plenty to eat in Dijon, but nothing worth buying,” said Gilles. “Imagine a world with nothing to eat and nothing to buy. That would be hell. It’s probably the future, if anyone cares.”
“Jérôme nearly bought a house,” said Lucie.
Gilles repressed saying, With what
money? He went on, “Saturday we had the damndest thing to eat—sauerkraut. In Dijon. It was supposed to be exotic. The Japanese buyers didn’t only eat it, they asked for the recipe. I found out about your Madame Arrieu. Funny that I hadn’t heard about her. Laure would know, of course. He was famous.”
“He took cyanide,” said Lucie. “He was very fair, he could have passed for a German. He did, in fact, and they caught him.”
“They’re friends of Jérôme? Are you sure?”
“We’ve been invited to go on a cruise next year with the whole family,” said Lucie. “But not around any fascist state.”
“Saturday they gave us the sauerkraut,” said Gilles. “Sunday we had salmon. I could have sworn it was frozen. Then capon with a Beaujolais sauce. The sauce was gray. I think there was flour in it. Laure would have sent the whole thing back. Today we had shoulder of lamb. It was called à la Washington and basted in whiskey. That was to impress the American buyers, but there were complaints. Then we had soufflé Hiroshima for the sake of the Japanese. Do you know what soufflé Hiroshima is? Vanilla ice cream in an orange with a paper parasol. You don’t eat the parasol. Why am I so interested in menus, I wonder? I should be writing cookbooks.”
“Because you’re a bachelor,” said Jérôme. This was the first thing he had ever said to Gilles directly.
There, said Lucie to herself. He is making a contact. She hoped that Gilles understood and appreciated Jérôme’s progress.
“Yes, a bachelor,” Jérôme went on. “You are a bachelor with three children and whatever her name is. Laure. You’ll end up shuffling around that New Haven house counting your medieval saints and testing the door locks. Wondering what you’ll have to eat tomorrow and trying to recall yesterday’s pudding. You will be wearing old tennis sneakers and the dog will trail along carrying a third shoe even more disgusting than those you will have on your feet. When you come to Paris on your annual bachelor visit, Laure will hear you in the hall and say, ‘Is that you, darling?’ because she will have forgotten your name and what part you play in the family, but she will have finally recognized the little bachelor shuffle.”
“This weekend was good for Jérôme,” said Lucie. “Though in my opinion he is still behind with his sleep.”
Gilles reached over the pile of fruit and flowers to grope for the radio. “Shut up,” he said to the silent dog. He was remembering his brief glimpse of the Girards with narrowed faces, as unpredictable as animals, and he said to himself, I’ve got two killers there in the back of the car.
“Be sure you turn on the right Haydn,” Lucie said.
Between collar and cap, Gilles felt the coldest touch he had ever imagined. He gripped the wheel. It was a matter of keeping the car steady. But when he stole a look at them in the mirror he saw they had gone to sleep. He was alone in the world with something soothing—Vivaldi. No need to worry about the right one because there never had been another. He was not in any great danger, for the moment; the essential Gilles was not yet slumped, shot, hacked, with a dunce cap crowning the remains, though it seemed that nothing less than a murder could round off the Burgundy weekend. Why had he invited them into his car to begin with? If it was a matter of company, even the dog would have been better.
One of them stirred, sighed, leaned forward.
“Lucie?”
“Yes.”
Like all the poor, they were ungrateful. Like all the ignorant, they were unconcerned with knowledge. Like all of the past, they were filled with danger. “Is Jérôme all right?” he finally said.
“He has just proved it,” she said. “And he proved it all weekend. But nobody knows that I know.” She sat back and looked out the window, away from both men, wishing them vanished, for the rest of their time together.
1970–71
THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK
PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS
435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
www.nyrb.com
Cover image: Dora Marr, Sphinx Hotel, Paris; © 2009 by Artists Rights Society/ADAGP, Paris
Cover design: Katy Homans
Copyright © 2009 by Mavis Gallant
Introduction copyright © 2009 by Jhumpa Lahiri
All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gallant, Mavis.
The cost of living : early and uncollected stories / by Mavis Gallant ;
introduction by Jhumpa Lahiri.
p. cm. — (New York Review Books classics)
I. Title.
PR9199.3.G26C67 2009
813'.54—dc22
2009025258
eISBN 978-1-59017-421-0
v1.0
For a complete list of books in the NYRB Classics series, visit www.nyrb.com or write to:
Catalog Requests, NYRB, 435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
The Cost of Living Page 37
