American Romantic

by Ward Just

  Harry put his binoculars away and looked at the letters, an offer from American Express and the electric bill, then picked up the newspaper at his feet. He turned to the weather page and noted that the day would be clear. Tomorrow, too. The sun was full and behind him now. He sat in soft shade. The breeze died until it was dead still. Harry yawned deeply and closed his eyes. He thought that after a nap he would drive into town for a late lunch and a game of dominoes, perhaps take a glass of wine with his moules marinière. He felt a surge of well-being, a kind of gravitational pull. He felt as good as he had felt in ages and wondered now if a weekend trip to Paris might be in order. Drive to Marseilles, take the fast train. Stay at the good hotel near the Musée d’Orsay, spend an afternoon looking at pictures. He thought they had one, perhaps two, Marsden Hartleys. He opened his eyes and looked again at the port and the sea beyond it, a Cézanne blue that seemed to go on forever. Harry focused his binoculars and took a last look at the sailing ship, high-masted, not an inch shorter than sixty feet long, a white hull, teak decks, a spacious salon on the afterdeck. He watched the crew gather aft, a sudden bustle, the monkeys and the woman, visible at last, nicely turned out in a pale blue sundress and a floppy hat. The skipper remained in his swivel chair drinking beer. He turned to say something and the woman laughed. What a fine thing it would be to roam the Mediterranean in a sailing ship, no particular destination. Harry yawned deeply once again and then, passing into sleep, he thought of the expression on the skipper’s face, a look of the most open contentment, no doubt pleased at his seamanship, pleased at his anchorage, and looking forward to the bright afternoon to come.

  The cook rowed Sieglinde to the dock. He went to visit the fishmonger and she stepped into the bar-restaurant, already full at noon. But she was the only customer in a sundress and a floppy hat. The men inside were rough-looking, and the women, too, in cutoffs and T-shirts. Sieglinde asked the bartender if he could spare a moment, she was looking for someone, an American who was said to live in the village, Colle St.-Jacques. The bartender said there were no Americans in the village, though two English had a summer villa on the far side of town. Sieglinde shook her head and added some detail. The man she was looking for was an older man. He would be in his seventies now. Perhaps someone like that nearby? Her French was slang French but fluent. The bartender shook his head and turned his back to draw a beer. She said the American was a very old friend from years past. They had met in French Indochina! The bartender shook his head again. Sieglinde said that her old friend was called Harry Sanders. He had been in the American foreign service, retired now. She had an approximate address from the Department of State. Took her years to get one and now she was here and unlikely to return and she would consider it a great courtesy if someone had an idea where her friend lived. The bartender had returned to his glassware but Sieglinde’s voice rose sharply as she spoke so that everyone in the bar-restaurant could hear. The bartender said he was sorry but the people in the port and in the village above tended to keep to themselves as a matter of course, and so, alas, he was unable to help. Sieglinde looked around her, trying and failing to smile. She turned away and stepped outside, looking at the steep rise of the road to the plateau above. One of the older women in the café brushed by her and murmured in a voice so low that Sieglinde had to strain to hear, The cottage at the top of the hill. I do not know his name but I believe he is American. Sieglinde did not move but whispered back her profound thanks. You are very kind, madame. The woman said Bonne chance and went on, and Sieglinde stepped to the edge of the dock, looking out at the sailing ship. Her friend Samuel had left the bridge. She waited a moment. She did not wish to appear rushed, and in fact she was not rushed, only amused at the clannishness and suspicion of those in the bar-restaurant on the quay. Probably they thought Harry was a fugitive, someone on the run and therefore one to be protected. She smiled to herself. She had been looking for Harry a long time and could afford to wait a few minutes more. She looked past the ship to the open sea, feeling the breeze freshen, ruffling her hair, loose under the floppy hat. The years, what she had done with them, had treated her kindly. Everyone told her she had beautiful skin and radiant blue eyes.

  Three times she tried to write him, three times she didn’t. Of course she did not possess a specific address. One night she told the story to Samuel, who listened with apparent sympathy and excused himself to make a telephone call and in five minutes returned with an address. He thrust a piece of paper at her and said, Here. Samuel knew people who knew other people and it wasn’t so hard after all. She waited awhile, about one year, before venturing forth. She did not know what to make of her indecision. She was not an indecisive person. Instead, she was impetuous. Perhaps it was this. Sieglinde had made her own way in the world. She distrusted return engagements, obeying her hard-won history. However, she found Harry a constant visitor to her memory. He refused to leave it. He went from visitor to guest to consort, and over time Sieglinde became accustomed to his ghostly presence. And so, as she rarely did, Sieglinde changed her mind.

  She began the slow slog up the hill, pausing often. Her espadrilles were not equal to the task. Twice laboring trucks passed her but did not stop, not a matter of discourtesy but the difficulty of the road. Halfway up, Sieglinde turned to look back at the port. No one was visible on the deck of Samuel’s boat. No doubt they had all gone down for a siesta. She labored on until at last she reached the crest of the crease, the land leveling abruptly, the fields golden in the sun. Nothing moved in the afternoon stillness, not even a bird. A peaceable place, Sieglinde thought. There were three houses in sight, and a kilometer or so down the road the village of Colle St.-Jacques. Some local authority had had the good sense to install a bench at the side of the road, and Sieglinde sat, breathing hard. She was sweating in the heat, scanning the land as she removed her floppy hat. What she saw brought to mind an Impressionist masterpiece on the white walls of a spacious museum. She smiled when she heard the distressed moo of a cow. So despite appearances, not entirely deserted. Sieglinde looked carefully at the closest house, a mailbox at the foot of the driveway, a small Citroën parked near the house. The porch was in deep shade. That was the house she wanted, she was sure of it. If it was not, she would return to the boat in the harbor. Samuel said he was up-sails at five p.m.

  She walked slowly along the driveway and saw the man asleep in his chair on the porch. He was snoring softly. His newspaper had spilled to the floor. His head was in shadows and she could not make out his features. She took a step forward with an uneasy sense that she was trespassing and wondered for an instant if all this was a mistake, a kind of provocation. She stood irresolute, then looked once again. He had a long face, worn around the edges, closely shaven. She moved closer to him, and as she did he seemed to retreat before her. His hands rested formally on the arms of the chair, giving him the appearance of a bashful used-up pharaoh. His hands were an old man’s hands, freckled, big-knuckled, a gold wedding ring on his left hand. That caused Sieglinde to take a step back, irresolute once more. She decided to ignore the ring, an unexpected, not to say unwanted, complication. Either he was married or he wasn’t married, and if he was there was nothing she could do about it. She was looking at an old man, not Harry, someone like Harry, an older brother of Harry. He was barefoot and when she looked at his feet she saw the scars on his insteps and ankles and drew back, startled. Her heart turned over. She did know it was him, but a different him, not her idea of him, not the him she had known and loved and then thought about for forty years, wondering where he was and who he was with, conjuring a biography. This is what had become of him. As she watched, he opened his eyes and closed them at once, his whistle-snore softer. Sieglinde had come to Colle St.-Jacques because she wanted to know how his life had turned out and how much he remembered of their time together in the war. Did he remember Chopin? Surely he would not forget the silk-string hammock. He was not the only love of her life but he was the first, an episode cut short. She could not for the l
ife of her explain her sudden departure on the hospital ship. What was in her mind? He had gotten under her skin. But why was she frightened? Was it because she was so young and had not formed an idea of a life for herself and was fearful of his life, the pull of it, the undertow? She thought it was that.

  Harry seemed to have left few traces of himself. He had made himself hard to find, but she had found him. And what she saw in front of her eyes was scarcely recognizable. Had his life been unlucky? Sieglinde looked again at his feet, the heavy scar-ridges, the missing toenails, old wounds, life’s undertow. She noticed the cane propped against the porch railing, perhaps a cane made from an elephant’s tusk. What did he do with himself in a place so remote? Harry was so companionable. He had energy to burn. She herself had led an adventurous life. She had lived far afield, this place and that on one continent or another. She avoided Southeast Asia and northern Europe. She had no further use for those places. And him? Personal appearance was a superficial thing. She would not judge him from scarred feet and a long face. Sieglinde touched his arm but he did not stir. Very well, she would wait. She sat down to wait, her floppy hat in her hands. Near and far nothing moved, the surroundings stuck fast, all but defenseless in the heavy heat of midday. She heard crickets and moved a little closer to Harry. She thought, What a pretty, pretty place.

  When he came to life at last Harry gave her a luminous smile and said, You.

  Me, she answered.

  About the Author

  WARD JUST’s seventeen previous novels include Forgetfulness, the National Book Award finalist Echo House, A Dangerous Friend, winner of the Cooper Prize for fiction from the Society of American Historians, and An Unfinished Season, a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize.