Forgetfulness

by Ward Just

  Is that her picture? She pointed at Florette's portrait, reaching to touch the frame, not two feet from where they stood.

  As she was five years ago, Thomas said.

  She is a lovely-looking woman. Was she French?

  Born in the village.

  How amazing!

  We were married in the church here.

  Extraordinary, she said.

  Florette insisted. And I was happy to oblige.

  I can hardly believe it!

  We wanted a quiet ceremony but the whole village showed up. Filled the church. Rained all day long.

  I can't imagine it! Victoria was silent a moment—dumbstruck, it seemed to Thomas, by these fantastic events. And then she said, I meant no harm, what I said about the French.

  It's a common enough opinion, he said.

  We're having a difficult time with them now.

  You are?

  Why, yes. Our government. It's a time of strained relations. We want one thing and the French want another.

  Ah, he said. You mean Bush's war.

  An American war, she said.

  And getting more so every day.

  It's the world's war, really. The world war on terror.

  Much of the world doesn't agree.

  So shortsighted, she said, sighing heavily. The French are the worst. They are afraid to look the future in the face. They're afraid of it. They're afraid history will repeat itself, so they want to stop the clocks. They're afraid of tomorrow and they've lost their spirit of adventure. They've lost confidence. Instead, they're attracted to pessimism. And when we say to them that we're working for a better tomorrow, they don't believe us because their better days are right now. This is the problem, you see. They hate and fear the twentieth century and they think that's coming around again. That's what the Americans have in store for them, a new world war. And when it's over only we'll be left standing. Perhaps the Chinese as well. They don't understand that a small war will prevent a larger war. Islamists must be punished for what they've done and plan to do, that's the simple truth of it.

  Not simple, he thought. Not the truth. But she was not as dumb as he thought. Thomas said, They're afraid of the future because they're afraid of America.

  You've been in France too long.

  It's a different perspective than Pennsylvania that's true.

  Thank God for George Bush. And—she smiled triumphantly—Maître Brun agrees with me.

  Maître Brun?

  My lawyer in Paris.

  Thomas looked at his watch and took another swallow of wine. He put a log on the fire and stood back as sparks flew. It had been years since he talked politics with an American outside his own orbit, a stranger. The American woman—he had forgotten her name—now stood with her hands primly clasped, staring at the portrait of St. John Granger. Thomas poured wine into his glass and stood waiting for her to say her goodbye. But she was not ready.

  And that is my great-uncle?

  Yes, it is.

  Is it a good likeness?

  I think so, Thomas said.

  He looks emaciated.

  No doubt the fault of the artist, Thomas said.

  The notaire said you were his closest friend.

  I suppose I was, he said.

  Other than you, he saw no one, according to the notaire. He lived alone except for that wretched servant girl. God knows what they were up to.

  Her name is Ghislaine and I doubt if they were up to much.

  He was a recluse, the notaire said.

  He enjoyed his own company, that's true.

  A selfish life, she said.

  Thomas, looking at the portrait from afar, knew it was not one of his best. Granger was a concealed personality at the best of times and he was most uncomfortable sitting. He only did it as a favor. Come on, get it over with, he said in a voice as thin as paper. In the event, Thomas had made a quick sketch, took half a dozen snapshots, and worked on the piece for more than a month. He never got it right, and when at last it was finished all he could do was frame it and hang it in his own house; Granger wanted no part of it. It was the concealment, the sense of a deeply hidden history, that Thomas was attempting to catch but the quality eluded him. And quite right that it should, he concluded. Staring at the portrait, sipping his wine, Thomas almost forgot about the American woman, who had fallen silent.

  He was a very good friend, Thomas said.

  She said, A recluse is one who has something to hide. What do you suppose it was?

  Sometimes a recluse is just a recluse.

  Oh, no, she said. Not him.

  He had lived a very long time. Probably he forgot what he was hiding.

  She said, Nonsense. I doubt if he ever forgot anything. Not forgetting, that would be his revenge.

  Strange sort of revenge, Thomas said.

  Depends on what he was not forgetting. And he was always reclusive, according to the notaire. For as long as he lived here. Yes, no doubt about it. He carried a secret. A nasty one.

  As you say, the notaire is a scoundrel. He can't be trusted.

  At that, she smiled, her first of the evening. She said, So I'm sure you know what he was up to. The nature of the secret.

  We didn't talk much, he said. We didn't tell stories. We didn't confide. We didn't share secrets. We played billiards. How easily these lies slipped from his mouth, in perfect actorly cadence. He surprised himself; he was out of practice.

  Yes, she said. I guessed.

  Guessed what?

  That you played billiards. Nothing straightforward about billiards. It's a sly game, isn't it? Positioning, always leaving your opponent—

  Uncomfortable, he said.

  Yes, she said. A game of nuance.

  He was deft at it.

  Oh, I just bet he was. Deft as all get-out. She was still gazing intently at Granger's portrait. She said, I like it. Would you sell it to me?

  It's not for sale.

  Even to his heir?

  Sorry, Thomas said.

  Too bad, she said. I have just the place for him in Pennsylvania. I have a set of Audubon prints in my living room. They're quite valuable. He could go at the end, next to the great crested grebe. She smiled thinly and added, I imagine he enjoyed posing for you.

  I had to talk him into it. Once he was settled he was all right. It passed the time.

  But he didn't give much away, did he?

  Thomas did not reply at once. The American woman bore no resemblance to Granger. It was hard to imagine they were members of the same family. She was solidly built to industrial specifications; he imagined her playing field hockey as a girl. Probably now she played golf at her Pennsylvania country club, long off the tee but not so good around the greens and disastrous in the rough. The rough was unacceptable and her temperament would work against her, never failing to yield to the temptation to improve her lie. Granger was built of piano wire; this American woman—he suddenly remembered her name, Victoria—of concrete, even her hair.

  She said, There's a family story. I don't know whether to believe it or not. It's an unpleasant story. Most unpleasant. A scandal. She waited for Thomas to reply, and when he didn't she reached for her wine and swallowed a thimbleful, making a face. She said, It's a story that has to do with the war. That would be his war, the First World War. He enlisted when he was very young, hardly more than a boy. He was headstrong. He didn't notify his parents or his brother. He apparently wanted to prove something, don't you see. Though it has to be said in his defense that in those days patriotism was a given. When your country was at war, you fought for it. The men went and the women waited for them to come back, or not. Pride was involved both ways, don't you think? The facts of my great-uncle's conduct in the war are scarce. But his name was never again mentioned in the family.

  I don't know anything about it, Thomas said.

  Too bad, she said. I thought you might be willing to help a fellow American fill in the blanks.

  Thomas shook his head, neither yes no
r no.

  He's gone now, she said. Whatever he was protecting has gone with him, unless he shared his story. Which I am highly confident he did. It's ancient history anyway. What difference can it make to you? Or is this the unspoken male code at work?

  I don't know anything about it, Thomas said again.

  He was my great-uncle, after all. I don't like family mysteries. I'd like to see this one cleared up. It has caused great distress in my family.

  We differ, then, Thomas said. I do like mysteries. I cherish them, as a matter of fact. Not everything in this world is destined to be known. And some things are better left unsaid. The dead have rights, same as everyone else. My God, he thought, I'm sounding like a New Age lawyer. Rights of the unborn, rights of the dead, both trumping the rights of the living. Probably a truly believing evangelical lawyer could find evidence that Jesus Christ himself had rights as the son of God, divine providence having been cited in the Declaration of Independence, no less. Suppressing a smile, Thomas said, In any case, it's really none of my business. I can't help you.

  But we have rights, too, she said. The family does.

  So many rights, so little time, he thought but did not say. He looked at his watch and said, Good luck.

  She said, Your wife's death is a mystery. Surely you don't cherish that. Surely you don't believe her death is destined to remain unsolved and that's the way it should be. Don't you want to get to the bottom of it? Fill in the blanks? See that justice is done? Discover who's responsible and have them punished? Even if you have to do it yourself, because if you don't, no one else will. Doesn't it hurt knowing the men who abused her are still at large?

  My wife is my affair.

  As my great-uncle is mine. Difference is, you can help me. I can do nothing for you.

  I can't help you, Thomas said.

  She said, Our family has been unlucky. It's like we're cursed, some dark spot in our blood, a never-ending wrong. We have illness. We have accidents. We have had two suicides. She turned again to look at Granger's portrait. My children, she said, lovely children, sweet-natured ... But she hesitated there and did not finish her thought. How am I supposed to account for these misfortunes? Our family is heir to misfortune and I have come to believe it begins with him, your great friend. He lived more than one hundred years. He retired from the world but that doesn't mean he was unhappy. That doesn't mean his life was not worth living, and he lived quite well. But he lived with a secret, and the secret was passed on to his descendants. I wish you would sell me the portrait. And if you did, I wouldn't hang it next to an Audubon bird. I would burn it.

  I don't know where to turn, she said, openly pleading now. Where would you turn? What would you do? She moved slowly to the center of the room, still looking at Granger's portrait. Her whole body trembled when she said, The story is that he deserted in the face of the enemy. Ran like a rabbit. Deserted his comrades, ran away to the south of France and allowed the world to believe he was dead. But not before he bullied his brother into sending money, his share of the inheritance. His brother was humiliated. He quit his job, began to drink, finally killed himself by driving into a tree. His widow had no wish to live in America but that's where she went, to our little town in Pennsylvania, with their child. And soon she died also, leaving my mother an orphan. My mother was just eight years old. Victoria sighed as if it were her last breath. The story never became known outside the family. That was where it belonged. But it had an awful effect on my mother. Awful.

  It was a very long time ago, Thomas murmured.

  So what? The when doesn't matter. The what matters. The who matters.

  Give it up, Thomas said. There's a statute of limitations on everything.

  Your wife. Is there a statute of limitations on her?

  I am very tired, Thomas said. And I wish you would leave.

  I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.

  No, you shouldn't ve.

  I'm not myself, she said.

  It's late, Thomas said.

  My husband was in the military, she said. He knows what people think of a deserter. And what the deserter thinks of himself.

  Not Granger, Thomas said. He was shell-shocked. He was lost.

  And what did he do then? He disappeared. And in due course, years later, he fetches up here, this place, to hell and gone. Victoria's voice rose to an accusatory soprano and Thomas thought she would break down. But she gathered herself and spoke once again. I had no idea he was still alive, she said. It's hard to conceive even now. Then I got the letter from the notaire telling me I was his heir. How did my great-uncle know my name? Where I lived? To me, the letter seemed to come from beyond the grave. The notaire knew nothing about my great-uncle's past, and believe me, I asked. He said there was only one person who might know and that was you, his great friend and confidant, his billiards partner. And then he told me about your wife and her accident and the abuse by persons unknown. So I believed that when we met I would find someone sympathetic, someone who would listen with an open heart and give me the help I need.

  I have told you what I know, Thomas said. Now I have work to do.

  You have a cold heart, Mr. Railles.

  You aren't the first to say so, Thomas said.

  He had a cold heart, too. He stepped out of his family like one of those characters who leave the house to buy a newspaper and are never heard from again. How I would have liked to be a fly on the wall at your dinners. What a treat! She walked off then, collecting her parka and her ski hat and gloves, giving one last loathsome look at Granger's portrait. The old man looked back at her with his fixed half-smile and his pale eyes that were not quite level. She turned to Thomas and said, I have never understood people who choose to live outside their own country. Why is it important to them to live among strangers, speaking a foreign tongue, eternally on the outside of things. Who do they think they're kidding? It's like trying to escape your own shadow, except every time you look over your shoulder it's there. Is it something you're afraid of? Something low and dishonest in your own past, some betrayal or misprision that makes it impossible to live among your own kind? That kind of decision always seemed disloyal to me, abandoning your family and becoming a voluntary orphan. Something scummy about it.

  Goodbye, Mrs.—and he realized he did not know her surname.

  Granger, she said.

  So you kept his name.

  My mother's name. She insisted on it.

  She had paused at the door, a heavy woman, bulky in her parka, her face drawn as if she were in pain. She seemed uncertain what to do. Surely she would not relish an evening in her enemy's house, an old man's house with an old man's neglect and an old man's many memories. Thomas's sympathies were suddenly with her. She was wrong about many things but not about everything. Like Cézanne, you could admire the pugnacity without liking the man. She was very sure of herself. She was not an attractive personality and that would hold her back; things would be difficult for her here, and in a day or two she would be home in Pennsylvania with nothing resolved, except the farmhouse would be on the market. She would want to believe that when the farmhouse was gone the curse would go with it and her family would be free. But it also sounded as if the curse had done all the damage in its power.

  He was a nice man, you know.

  She made an abrupt, dismissive gesture with her jeweled hand and muttered something he did not hear.

  Lived harmlessly, Thomas said. Kept dogs. Read all day long—the English classics, mostly. Kept to himself. Kept out of the way. Kept busy according to his own lights. Kept his own counsel, definitely. Thomas paused before continuing, then found himself with a fresh thought. He said, I think Granger would be surprised to learn that he had laid a curse on his family. What happened to him had nothing to do with his family. He rarely spoke of them. It's true that he and his brother were not close. Different temperaments, different beliefs. In any case, Granger was not a superstitious man. He was modest in his expectations. He was worldly, though not much of t
he world. Really, Granger was only trying to survive.

  She laughed harshly. Survive what?

  His past, Thomas said.

  Thomas turned from her and drank some wine, considering the circumstances of the last night he saw Granger. They spoke very little, a word or two from him on the book he was reading, Strachey's Eminent Victorians, and a few more words from Thomas on the recent London subway bombings. Granger said he remembered the King's Cross station from his youth. After a long silence, Granger said, I never told you that I visited Thiepval once. It was sometime in the thirties, only time I ever left this valley. When Thomas asked him to explain Thiepval, Granger replied that it was the Franco-British memorial to the battles of the Somme, the missing and unaccounted-for in the period from July 1 to September 26, 1916. Seventy-two thousand names inscribed on the monument, he said. Ugly structure but affecting because of the names, row on row. I found my name high up in the center arch, needed binoculars to read it. Stayed a few hours, then left and came back to St. Michel. Shall we play billiards?

  That was all Granger said of his afternoon at Thiepval. Granger threw a log on the fire and he and Thomas bent to the table. They finished billiards and Thomas was walking away down the path to the road when he realized he had forgotten his hat. He returned and looked through the front window to see if the old man was still up and about. Granger was seated in his customary chair by the billiards table, his hands covering his face. He was motionless, as if he were frozen in ice. All the world seemed excluded from his meditation. When the hands came away, Thomas saw a stricken expression, one he had never seen before—and he was certain that the events of the old man's life were marching one by one across his vision. His attitude was that of a prisoner, not shackled but detained. He sat straight up in military posture. The terms of his confinement were that he was prohibited from looking away; each episode had to be accounted for and justified. Thomas stood at the window a minute or more, Granger as still as a statue, except for his right foot, which seemed to move to some mysterious rhythm. The field of the billiards table was as brilliant as a meadow in sunlight. Thomas turned away, the moment was unbearably private. He decided to leave his hat for another day, and when he turned back he saw Granger lit as if by fire. A chimney downdraft had caused logs to flare, and subside almost at once. But for that instant it seemed that Granger himself was ablaze, a sudden inexplicable illumination. Thomas wheeled at once and walked away down the path; two days later, the old man died in his sleep.