Forgetfulness

by Ward Just

  Even with all that tannin? he asked with a smile.

  Victoria laughed merrily and returned to her car, waving as it backed up and sped away down the driveway to the road.

  Thomas showered to rid himself of the paint smell and pulled on a fresh pair of khakis and a work shirt. As he was leaving the phone rang but he decided not to answer it. He thought, One thing at a time. He marched across his frozen yard and into the field that separated his property from Granger's. The night was clear, the sky filled with silver stars, Orion directly overhead. He noticed that the fruit tree in Granger's back yard was still down but the debris was gone. Ghislaine must have cleaned it up. The cold air felt good after his long day in the studio. He thought he needed to get out more, clear out his lungs, take advantage of the beauty of the landscape, the snow-blanketed mountains, the spire of the church in town. He paused to take it in while he lit a Gitane. The Americans were certain to have no-smoking rules in place. The night was windless so the wire of tobacco smoke rose straight up. He remembered Ballard saying something about seeing all the way to heaven when you were alone on the Great Plains at night. What Thomas saw was the mass of Big Papa crowding the valley. He threw away the Gitane and continued his march in the direction of the Granger house, lit from within. When Thomas rang the doorbell he heard rustling sounds and then a man's voice.

  Come in, Tom.

  They were seated in the easy chairs on either side of the fireplace. Victoria was in Granger's old chair, her husband in Thomas's usual place. The husband rose and greeted Thomas at the door, asked him what he wanted to drink, offered to take his coat, waved him amiably to the sofa. I'm Ed, he said.

  Thomas gave Ed his coat and said he'd like a glass of red wine.

  He took in the living room, unchanged since Granger occupied it except for the bare space where the billiards table had been. That made it a different room. Thomas said to Victoria, Did the German buy it furnished?

  Every stick, she said. And everything else, flatware, dishes, garden tools. The books in the bookcases. The rugs on the floor. He loved the furniture. Ed says that's because all of it is brown, the color of fascism. Isn't that right, Ed?

  You got it, Vic.

  How old is he? Thomas asked.

  Younger than you, she said. So he wouldn't know the Nazis firsthand.

  Historical memory, Ed said, handing Thomas a glass and returning to the chair by the fire. Ed was as big as a football lineman, his face ruddy, his blond hair close-cropped, military style.

  So you've met him, Thomas said.

  Oh, yes. He seems nice enough. He designs airplane fuselages. Speaks perfect English.

  We're rid of it, Ed said. That's the main thing. And I got what I asked for, Victoria said. Good for you, Thomas said. Yes, she said.

  So the notaire worked out after all, Thomas said.

  Her face clouded and she admitted not quite as well as she'd hoped. Her Paris lawyer seemed unable to find the time to devote to the sale so the notaire had a free hand. It took a very long time, she said. His fees were appalling, just appalling. How do they get away with it?

  Same reason that American lawyers charge a thousand dollars an hour, Thomas said. Because they can. Well, she said. It's disgusting.

  We're rid of it, Vic, Ed said. Look on the bright side. I'm trying to, she said.

  The goddamned house is haunted anyhow, Ed said. Let the Kraut deal with it.

  Ed thinks Granger's ghost lives here, she said to Thomas. I wouldn't be surprised, Thomas said. I think he's gay, she said. The ghost?

  The German, she said. He keeps talking about his partner. That's the word he uses, in English, "partner." My partner this, my partner that. He's worried that the partner won't like the drapes.

  The doors slam all the time, Ed said.

  That's the wind, Thomas said. The house has always been drafty.

  The damn drapes are brown, Vic.

  Maybe the partner's anti-Nazi, Victoria said.

  Strange noises, Ed said. In the night and the daytime, too.

  It's an old house, Thomas said. It creaks.

  Ed did not reply to that. Instead, he refilled his glass, Victoria's, and Thomas's, draining the bottle. Thomas observed that one of his portraits was still on the far wall. It was a sketch he had made of Ghislaine. Granger liked it so he gave it to him. Thomas supposed that the German bought the portrait along with the dishes, the flatware, and the Berchtesgaden furniture. Suddenly the house seemed not to be Granger's domain but another place altogether.

  That's one of yours, isn't it? Victoria said, following his eyes.

  It's Ghislaine, Thomas said.

  Well, it's his now.

  I have to make a call, Ed said abruptly and left the room. Tokyo, Victoria said.

  Thomas looked at his watch, four A.M. in Tokyo. Thomas said, I hope they keep late hours.

  All hours, Victoria said. They follow the various exchanges, Seoul, Tokyo, Singapore. Currency speculators. Ed always calls at about this time. What's that bandage on your head?

  We had quite a storm a week or so ago and I got caught in it. Trees down, branches everywhere. Seventy-mile-an-hour winds.

  She nodded absently. She had no interest in the storm. She sipped her wine and said, Have you been getting on all right, Thomas?

  I've been worried about you, she added. You have?

  Yes, she said. I have. I'm fine, he said.

  I'm afraid I wasn't very cordial the last time we met. In fact, I was pretty much of a bitch.

  It was a difficult time, he said. For you, too.

  I was so angry at him, Granger. Glad he was dead, angry he had taken his secrets with him. I'm sorry I took it out on you. I had no right to do that. She looked up, saw his glass was empty, and said he should open the bottle on the sideboard. Ed's conversations go on forever, she said. Ed likes to stay in touch. He loves his BlackBerry. That way he's always in touch.

  Thomas was carefully working the cork from a bottle of 1983 Margaux, wondering what a BlackBerry was.

  Tell me something, Victoria said. Isn't it strange for you, being back in this house, Granger gone, strangers here, a German soon to be.

  Don't forget the partner, he said from the sideboard. Yes, the partner.

  New faces, he said. Maybe they play billiards.

  I went into town today, walked around the church for the first time. It's a beautiful structure. I walked into the café for a coffee and asked about you. No one would tell me anything.

  My instructions, he said.

  They protect you, she said.

  That they do, Thomas said. Common village practice.

  Still, she said. Don't you find it lonely here?

  Thomas paused a moment and said, Yes.

  Always, or just now?

  Not when Florette was alive.

  You could get married again, find a girlfriend—

  Thomas smiled and did not reply.

  Of course you have your work. That's fortunate.

  Thomas returned with the bottle and poured wine into their glasses. From somewhere upstairs he heard the rumble of Ed's voice.

  You can have the portrait of Ghislaine if you want it. The German will never miss it.

  No, it should stay with the house.

  As you wish, Victoria said.

  But thank you. I appreciate the offer.

  Does it look like her?

  Pretty much, he said.

  I've only seen her from a distance. She wasn't friendly. Thomas shrugged and sipped his wine. Thin, he thought. So you'll stay on here, she said. Looks like it, he said. I couldn't bear it.

  No wonder. You don't like the French.

  I never said I did. I like France and that's a different thing. And even so, this valley is not of the modern world. As opposed to Pennsylvania, he said.

  Pennsylvania's beautiful, she said. You can make a life in Pennsylvania. She went on to describe the hill towns of the Poconos and the mountains farther west, the border towns south of Pittsburgh. T
he suburbs were superb. The Susquehanna and the Allegheny north of Pittsburgh, beautiful rivers. Her mother's family had lived in Pennsylvania for generations, William Penn himself a shirttail relative. Surely he knew the work of the Wyeths, she herself could never keep them straight. Thomas listened with attention and after a while her Pennsylvania sounded as exotic as the Czech Republic or Bhutan, inland nations with rich histories. She said, Wouldn't you agree that St. Michel du Valcabrère is a closed book? But I'm intruding again. I promised I'd stop that. Victoria stared into the fire a moment, then began to laugh quietly. She said, I'm a tennis fanatic. I play every day when I'm home. Tennis is a game of repetition. You place your feet just so back of the baseline when you're serving. You toss the ball at a specific angle to a specific height, and if the angle is off or the height too high or too low you retrieve the ball and do it again. One small mistake with your feet or with the toss can throw your serve way off—the ball goes long or wide left or wide right or into the net and you lose the point. That's my chaos theory of tennis; the butterfly's wings flutter in Mexico and a year later a typhoon hits Japan. One of the things I don't like about St. Michel is that there are no tennis courts. No chaos theory either. So yes, I prefer Pennsylvania. Aren't you the least bit curious about the United States?

  Not personally, he said.

  People are friendlier in Pennsylvania.

  I'll keep that in mind, he said.

  We're leaving tomorrow, she said. I expect we won't see each other again.

  Likely not, he said.

  Perhaps sometime when you get to Pennsylvania.

  He glanced at his watch and drained off his wine. I must go now.

  Thank you for coming, she said.

  I have one bit of news for you, Thomas said. A while ago I visited Thiepval, the graveyard and the monument. Your great-uncle's name is there along with the thousands of others who died at the Somme. In case you or your children are ever in the neighborhood you could visit. He paused at a blast of Ed's laughter from upstairs, something hilarious from Tokyo. He said, It's not cheerful. But it's interesting. And there he is, high up in the central vault.

  I'll take your word for it.

  No interest at all?

  Not personally, she said with a smile. It's worth a visit, he said.

  Not anymore, she said. There's a statute of limitations on everything. That's what Ed told me. Ed's good at putting things behind him. I can't fix what Granger did any more than I can change the course of the stars in their heavens. So I decided to let go. Does that make sense to you?

  Yes, it does, he said.

  I thought it would.

  Say goodbye to Ed for me.

  It's a good feeling, letting go.

  Let me know if there's anything I can do for the Germans. Or if you need help with the notaire.

  The notaire is out of my life, she said with a grimace. And good riddance.

  We're off to Holland tomorrow, she added. He said, Holland?

  The Hague. Ed has business in The Hague. Thomas shook his head. Holland seemed to enter his life at the strangest times.

  Goodbye then, Thomas said. He opened the door to a frigid night. He pulled his coat shut and buttoned up. The mountain wind was like a knife. It seemed to him that the stars were not fixed in the heavens but in motion, wheeling this way and that, rising and falling on the gentle swell of a fathomless ocean. Orion had disappeared. The starlight was wan, the southern sky invisible. He thought of saying something to her about the stars but decided not to and closed the door firmly. Thomas stood for a moment on the front steps of Granger's house, wondering why it was that people felt themselves small when they looked at the stars in their orbits. People were not small. Stars were small.

  Home, Thomas put a potato in the oven and stood for a long time in the kitchen looking across the field at Granger's house. He had the feeling he would never enter it again; the Germans would keep to themselves. They were lucky to have Ghislaine's portrait, and if they ever discovered its value it would be gone the next day. Thomas turned away to inspect the billiards table, the discolored surface where water had settled. It was damp to the touch but there was no depression that he could see. He rolled the cue ball from different angles and decided the line was true. Then he racked balls and played quickly, imagining Granger as his opponent. He realized with some satisfaction that he had become a decent player, good with finesse. If he ever moved from St. Michel he would take the billiards table with him, along with his portraits and the Matisse sketch that lived in the bedroom. He would not take the furniture, which seemed to him to belong to the house; it would not translate elsewhere. The furniture would always have Florette's signature, her scent, and its arrangement was as fixed as the marks on a ruler. He did not like to think about moving, a chore at any age.

  Six ball in the side pocket.

  Ten ball in the corner.

  Twelve in the corner.

  Thomas kissed the eight ball into the side pocket and put the cue stick away. He covered the table and went into the kitchen to check the potato, wondering if it was worthwhile to cook the steak outside, cold as it was. Thomas debated the matter, deciding finally that charcoal was definitely required. He stepped out the door with some newspaper and a basket of briquets. Thomas set a match to the paper, shivering all the while. Wine was cold in the glass. The night was eerily still, as if the universe had paused to catch its breath, a moment that could never be caught on canvas, although Vermeer tried. At last the fire caught and he hurried back inside where he noticed the blinking red light on his answering machine.

  The voice was Russ Conlon's, cracking here and there with laughter. Had Thomas seen the Washington Post? Well, no, of course he hadn't seen the Washington Post. On page one was a photograph of the secretary of defense, his assistants, and his generals gathered around a table in the Pentagon, battle maps in the background, a top-secret briefing from field commanders in Iraq. The war was going extremely well and improving every day and the question was whether there was time enough for the improvements to become definitive—that is to say, a time frame elastic enough to extirpate the insurgency in order to move the ball down the field. So it was a question of metrics. Russ said, Our secretary has invented a whole new war-language, the vernacular of mathematicians though it bore the stamp of the social sciences and the locker room also. Arranged along the wall behind the grandees was a row of about a dozen seated civilians, identified only as aides. One of them had ducked his head at the moment the photographer shot, so all that could be seen of him was Labrador hair, big ears, a thick neck, and broad shoulders made broader by the padding of a bespoke blazer. Bernhard Sindelar, Thomas. And the word is that he's received a marvelous cost-plus-guaranteed contract from the Department of Defense, his warriors now among the well-paid outsourced armed militia providing security, so necessary for success in Baghdad and elsewhere in that tragic war-torn land. Bernhard, it seems, has a place at the table.

  He's moving to Geneva, Russ said, to a fine villa outside of town with a splendid view of the lake and a little dock in case he wants to provide himself a yacht. Switzerland's anonymous, Bernhard says. And he wants to be close to his money.

  He asked me to tell you he's on top of things.

  I hate to wonder what that means.

  Call me, Thomas.

  What are your plans?

  Russ's voice trailed away and the recording stopped. Thomas stood watching the machine, deep in thought. Then he remembered about the steak on the grill and hurried outside. He turned the steak and watched the flames leap, thinking about Bernhard living large in anonymous Switzerland. He wished he had seen the newspaper photograph, the battle maps, and Bernhard's big head and ax-handle shoulders, recognizable anywhere if you knew him well. It was hard imagining him in a Genevese villa with a boat dock; and then it was not only imaginable but logical. Bernhard Sindelar could find a place for himself in any city in the world with the exception of little LaBarre, Wisconsin. Thomas speared the steak and w
ent back inside, forgetting Bernhard. He was thinking now about his evening music.

  Thomas laid out flatware and a cloth napkin, lit two candles, placed the salt and pepper within reach, poured a glass of wine. He sat at his usual place while he ate his steak and potato. Billie Holiday's ruined voice filled the room so he could not hear the rafters creak. She was singing about a sailboat in the moonlight, though there didn't seem to be anything nautical about the song. It was an ordinary love song except for the way she sang it, the sailboat standing in for a hundred dreary hotel rooms in a score of cities. Thomas wondered if Billie Holiday had ever been on a sailboat in the moonlight, on Long Island Sound perhaps, or the Hudson River. Probably she had. She'd done everything else. A sailboat in the moonlight would be the normal thing for Lady Day, her many friendships and her fierce imagination. At the helm would be Prez Young, trying to figure out the compass and how the sails worked and what the tide was doing, struggling to keep his mind focused on navigation because all the while Billie Holiday was singing blues. At a certain point, weary of maritime chores, he'd drop anchor and heft his sax and soon be off on a signature riff and there they'd be, making music on the deep. Teddy Wilson was below decks playing a bone-white cabaret piano. Tide in, tide out, no difference because they were lost in music of their own making, moonlight dancing on the surface of the water. Now Billie Holiday was singing about getting some fun out of life, definitely not a normal thing for her or for Prez Young either, except when they were playing blues or recreating in other ways. Fun was always at the top of the agenda but the agenda was often mislaid, forgotten in the general turbulence of living. How could you keep an agenda in your head with so many competing desires, and always fear and unspeakable grief. She was putting her heart into the song, though. She was giving it everything she had and then some, her voice so worn out at the top of the register that it was more whisper than voice, yet a whisper with the force of a tornado, hushed at the eye of the melody, violent on the margins. Billie Holiday always gave full value, nothing less than everything she had and if what she had diminished day by day what remained was as hard-earned as any labor anywhere. Thomas had stopped eating and was listening to the music only. You could never know what transpired beneath another's skin. He knew the singer from the songs and that seemed evidence enough of what she chose to disclose of herself. He supposed what kept her alive was her knowledge of the world and her place inside the world, hoping for a reconciliation, an equilibrium, meaning a way to get from today to tomorrow. What she remembered was in balance with what she had forgotten, either deliberately or inadvertently; if she remembered everything, she could not possibly survive. She would be unable to sing. She died at forty-four and it seemed a miracle that she had lived that long. Probably it was a miracle even to her. Thomas was listening now to the sax, playing to the rhythm of a heartbeat. When Prez Young backed her up he often had tears in his eyes, especially the jam sessions toward the end of her life and his, too; they died but four months apart. He was at his most tender when she was singing. He was not normally tender, either as a musician or as a man. Tender would not be the word for Lester Young except when Billie Holiday was nearby.