The Tin Flute

by Gabrielle Roy

  The moment a sated customer rose to go, another took his place and the counter in front of him was wiped and set as if by magic. The waitress would shout an order in the microphone, the dumb-waiter would squeak into motion and a well-filled plate would appear steaming in the mouth of an opening just below the mirrors, coming directly, it seemed, from a deep and inexhaustible cavern of supplies.

  The cash register was ringing almost continuously. Diners

  hustled the waitresses along or caught their attention by snapping their fingers or, even more rudely, with a loud "Pssst!"

  But Florentine refused to be hurried. The midday rush no longer made her nervous. Now it was more like a respite from the noise and bustle, the moment when she started looking out for Jean or, when he had arrived, letting her thoughts spin about his presence. Her hip leaning against the inside of the counter, she was now chatting with the two young men. Sometimes in the rattle of the dishes she would miss what they were saying and lean toward them, lip-reading out of the corner of her eye. Then, pretending not to care, she straightened slowly as if she were, in any case, privy to everything that mattered. Her ear, beneath the pink paper flower stuck in her hair, caught every sound meant to catch her attention: a spoon rapping on the imitation marble, a boot scratching impatiently on the tile floor, the call of an angry fat woman. Florentine shrugged and her nose grew pinched; then she went back to smiling at Jean and Emmanuel.

  This morning her face showed an animation not quite vulgar but a little forced, nervous and obvious, almost defiant. Her expression was radiant, so that the makeup for once seemed natural, answering the sparkle in her eyes. On her small, thin face, with its shining, elongated eyes, cloudy in the steam of the broilers, Jean could see clearly as the shadow of a memory passed: the falling snow, their kiss in the snowstorm. Then he saw how she grew suddenly vivacious and all her movements became lively.

  Occasionally her eyes would rest on him, and a precise, passionate, living reminder would flash across to him. Then she would turn to Emmanuel to distract Jean and put him off the scent with her flirtatiousness, addressing the other in a very friendly way, with just a touch of daring, as if her being Jean's friend gave her certain rights over his chums. She was too greedy for admiration not to encourage Emmanuel's spontaneous reaction, and so excited by Jean's presence, so anxious to try out her power over him, that she thought she could attract him all the more by winning Emmanuel.

  Her glance flew from one to the other, and the half smile in suspense on her lips seemed to hesitate between them. Emmanuel, caught up by the game, teased her:

  "Haven't we seen each other somewhere, Mademoiselle Florentine?"

  "Could be," she said, and laughed, tossing her hair back. "The sidewalks aren't that wide in St. Henri, and they're not that crowded neither."

  "But haven't we talked to each other already?"

  "Maybe. But not that I remember."

  Then she began to question him in her quick way. He answered her, but absent-mindedly, paying more attention to her vivacity and curiosity about him than to her words, high-pitched and with sharp notes that hung above the rattling of the dishes.

  "You been in the army long?" she asked. And she polished the tips of her fingernails, held them up to the light, rubbed them again against her uniform and put on a friendly, detached air.

  "Six months," he replied.

  Each time he spoke he leaned forward over his plate to be sure she heard him, then retreated, and this constant movement was beginning to make him self-conscious.

  "How d'ya like it?" she asked.

  "Oh, not bad. . . "

  "Must be awful after a while, though, eh? Drilling an' all that stuff?"

  Emmanuel only smiled.

  "Think you'll be goin' overseas before long? I hear there's some took the boat alreadv, eh?" She asked without any secret longing for adventure, with no tremor of curiosity or admiration. But he misunderstood the sparkle in her green eyes and imagined that she, like he, felt the attraction of the unknown.

  "Oh, I hope so," he said. "Yep, I sure hope I get over there."

  "You're goin' to get to see some awful things there, ain't you?"

  Then, with a smile, "What was your name again?"

  "Hey! Don't tell me you forgot already!"

  She was not embarrassed, simply pretended that she was trying to remember, and murmured:

  "Létourneau, eh? Isn't that it?"

  She glanced slyly at Jean, her eyes telling him:

  See! He likes me too! You're not the only one, but all the same you're the one I like best. I just want you to know you're not the only one in the world . . . even if you are. . .

  Her eyes grew soft, their lids fluttered, and for the space of a glance she tried to draw him into the memories that were burning in her mind, full of the wind, the cold, the snow, and the two of them alone together. Then she steadied herself and continued the conversation with Emmanuel, self-possessed and sociable.

  "It must be nice to be on leave. How much did you say you have?"

  "Just a few days."

  "Oh! Just a few days! That goes by very fast. ..."

  "Yes," he murmured.

  Intrigued by the mockery that occasionally shone in her green eyes, and by the jerky motions of her hands, which she folded, unfolded and crossed again, he wondered if she wasn't letting him know he could meet her. ... He blushed, and hated his shyness so much that he let the conversation drop, dissatisfied with himself, irritated by his own silence. He began to crumble a piece of bread. "Is the chicken okay?" she asked, playful and sprightly.

  "What about you," Jean broke in, "have you got lots of boyfriends?"

  Florentine managed to keep her smile, but her small, strongly veined hands clutched each other and turned white. Why was he insulting her this way? Hadn't she been nice to him? And to Emmanuel because of him? Hadn't she been friendly the whole time, looking after them and making other people wait? How she hated him, as much as she had the first day she saw him, with his mocking, bottomless brown eyes full of mischief, and his mouth, so hard and determined! And how she loved that very mouth! And to think that with all its arrogance it had touched her eyelids! She was excited, upset and humiliated at the same time. Would she never be able to make him suffer as he was doing to her now — but without risking losing him? Yet she was not going to swallow her shame without a comeback.

  "That's my business," she said, but she had been taken by surprise and her smile began to falter and her small bust rose and fell quickly under the thin cotton of her uniform, and all the animation left her face. Her gaze was rivetted to a scratch on the pink marble, where her fingernail scraped to and fro; her feet shifted aimlessly behind the counter, and she was wretched and upset, wretched from an old nightmare that was always ready to return like a cruel shadow.

  "I guess you don't want to tell us, eh," Jean went on, "whether you meet some guys from the Five and Ten after hours. Right? D'you think we'd have a chance, me or Emmanuel?"

  "That," she said, looking him straight in the face, "is a stupid thing to ask."

  Angry, she shifted about the bottles of sauce and the salt cellar and wiped them, all the while feeling a chill in her shoulders, as if someone had laid an icy hand on the back of her neck; and she was so miserable at not finding the right words to defend herself that she turned her face away to hide it. Usually she wasn't at a loss for words. What was happening to her? What a stupid feeling, not to be able to strike back!

  "Don't pay any attention to him, Mademoiselle Florentine, " said Emmanuel. "He's just trying to get you goin He doesn't mean it."

  "Well, he almost made me mad," she said, half smiling now, clinging to the hope that Jean had only wanted to tease her. "I'm next thing to mad. An' it wouldn't take much to make me real mad. And then I'd tell him where to get off at."

  "Where to get off at!" Jean repeated, and he burst out laughing.

  "Yes, where to get off. I say what comes into my head. I don't make up fine speeches."
>
  "Don't mind him," Emmanuel intervened again.

  He stretched his hand partway across the counter.

  "No, I won't mind, sure I won't," she said, then, trying to speak with more style, she repeated: "Certainly I won't," and was petrified with embarrassment. "But the fact is . . . that you. . . "

  Her smile as she looked at Emmanuel was lukewarm and barely grateful.

  "The fact is, you're better mannered than he is."

  "Well, well now!" Jean sneered.

  She stiffened.

  "If you don't mind," she said, "you might tell me what you want for dessert. I haven't got all day to talk." She looked into space and rhymed them off: "There's apricot, raisin and apple pie, and banana custard and lemon pie too." And she shook her curls impatiently, bored with the menu and still angry. "Well, all right, if you've not made up your minds yet, do it now."

  She turned on her heel and left them, swinging her shoulders a little as she went, and her moving hair shone in the reflections of nickel and copper: long, brown and silky.

  "Why don't you try and get a date," Jean whispered to Emmanuel.

  "Are you crazy?" said Emmanuel.

  They could see themselves in the mirror against a background of pale-pink lingerie. Their eyes met in the reflection. Emmanuel's expressed hesitation.

  "She'll put us in our place, but good," he said.

  But he wasn't ready to turn down the game completely. Emboldened by Jean's self-confidence, he was thinking of some small kindness he could show Florentine, some gentle, charming word that might win her. He saw himself in the mirror, his right shoulder slightly advanced, not so much in impudence as signalling an effort at gaiety.

  u Want to bet?" asked Jean.

  He was on the verge of telling how he had got to know Florentine. Words like "It's easy, you can't imagine how easy it is" were on the tip of his tongue, but he changed his mind. He felt an urge to destroy the scrap of friendship and confidence in others, the vestige of attraction he still felt toward humanity, in order to remain in a loneliness he found uplifting because in it he found the full expression of his own being.

  "Ask her!" he insisted.

  "Aw, I don't know," said Emmanuel, uncertain again, and saddened.

  Florentine, at the far end of the long space behind the counter, was leaning over to pick up a pile of dirty plates. Her arms looked frail and were marked by swollen veins. Weariness had left its lines around her mouth and at this moment shadowed her eyes.

  "I don't know," said Emmanuel.

  Leave her alone, he thought. They should all leave her alone. Let her smile be a quiet one, as it must once have been. And let her eyes be calm when she comes face to face with life. And let everyone leave her alone!

  "Ask her," Jean persisted. "If she turns you down I'll ask her myself. . . Hey! Florentine!" he called.

  From a distance she made the beginnings of a gesture that might have meant resentment or impatience or submission — a little signal that was totally Florentine. She picked up more plates on her way toward them, and there she was before them with a pile of dirty dishes up to her chin and a wet lock of hair sticking to her cheek.

  "Well, what do you want now?"

  "Emmanuel wants to ask you something."

  She put down the plates, brushed back her straying hair and stared at them mockingly, no allurements in her challenge.

  "All right, let him ask!"

  Why don't people let her alone! Let her be natural, let her get rid of that look of being greedy and on her guard at the same time, thought Emmanuel. I'd like to make her happy somehow, and I don't know why but I'd like to dance with her too. She's thin and willowy, I'll bet she can dance.

  "Do you like dancing, Mademoiselle Florentine?"

  "Is that all you've got to ask me?" she said.

  A shadow of irritation showed in her face, but a glint of curiosity lit up her eyes. She looked at him sideways, breathing jerkily, excited as she always was by the least attention from a boy, excited and on her guard.

  "So that's all you had on your mind!" she said scornfully.

  We should let her alone, he thought. And get out of here.

  "So it's true, eh? You like dancing?"

  Despite herself, her hips began to weave as if to the echo ot distant jazz. And all she thought ot was dancing in Jean's arms. It must be Jean who put Emmanuel up to asking her what she liked. But what if it was a trap? Her eyes wandered toward Jean.

  "Depends who with," she said.

  Emmanuel, embarrassed now, and bothered more by Jean's ironic attitude than by the girl's agitation, carried away by his own timidity, rushed into his next question and was sorry for it even before the words were out.

  "Are you doing anything, Mademoiselle Florentine, say, tomorrow night?"

  "Such as?"

  Her delicate nostrils quivered. Suddenly it seemed she could see Jean's hardness, as if it had become visible, and her own as well, which she recognized: a hardness that would never flinch. She raised her arm and pointed a finger straight at Jean.

  "It was him, eh? He put you up to asking me that!"

  She pouted in disdain. Why not show Jean right now that she didn't care a snap about him? She too could pretend that their kiss in the snowstorm had been just a game, and that it was already a thing of the past. But if he went away and never came back! What good was revenge in that case?

  "Oh, you guys are crazy!" she said bitterly. "There just isn't anybody crazier than you two."

  Her lips were still smiling, but a desolate expression of anger and loss trembled on her face. Then she stared at Jean and her mouth grew tight.

  "I say no," she said. "If you was to ask me to the Normandy Roof, why, I still wouldn't go."

  "Come on," said Jean, "you don't really mean no!"

  "Oh yes I do. No to the two of you, and I mean just that."

  Her voice grew shrill. Some of the younger customers nearby were watching, and egged her on with nods and laughter.

  "That's right," said one, "give it to 'em, Florentine!"

  "I said no!" she went on, still louder. 4t Who do you think I am?" She bit her lip. "Seems like some people think we're dumbbells. And they're not far away neither. I could tell you their names."

  Marguerite, noisily dragging a tub of marshmallow along the floor, interjected as she passed by:

  "Hey! Don't get mad, it's only fun."

  She had a loud, rough voice, childish and friendly.

  "It's only in fun, come on!" she said, and glanced in gentle reproach at Emmanuel and Jean.

  "I'll get mad if I like," said Florentine. "Fun! You call that fun, making a fool out of people? For fun! Some people go pretty far for their fun."

  "I wasn't joking," said Emmanuel.

  "No? Then what were you doing? We're not just here to be laughed at, you know!"

  "That's right, you tell 'em, kid," said a younger worker, laughing.

  "You can be good an' sure I'll tell them."

  "There's nothing to get mad about," Emmanuel tried to explain.

  "No. Nothing at all!" she said sarcastically. "That's what you think, you guys."

  But she was not talking to Emmanuel. Her eyes and their devouring flame were on Jean's face. He was looking down, smiling coldly, out of her range, languidly tapping his cigarette ashes to the floor. Oh, she thought, you belong to me just the same, you do. And so great was her fear of losing him, so violent her rebellion at her own attachment, such was her rancour at the distress of her heart, that everything she did became too difficult and she was saying anything that came into her head.

  "We're here to serve you, that's okay, we've got to do it," she went on. "But we don't have to listen to your stupid remarks, eh? None of that stupid stuff, okay? We just can't stand that!" Her cheekbones were shining, and she kept swinging her shoulders and tossing her head to keep her hair back. Then she took her long locks in one hand to hold them in place and, bending her neck slightly, flashed a smile that was at once defiant and expectan
t.

  "Now get mad. Go on, get mad," she said. "See if 1 care!"

  "Oh, but you're the one that's mad," said Emmanuel gently.

  Her two arms raised, she was tucking strands of curls behind her ears.

  "Me? Not a drop. Not even that much."

  "I wouldn't want you to be," said Emmanuel.

  "I'm not mad."

  "You sure? Really not?"

  "If I say so."

  "'Cause if you're not mad," said Emmanuel, "I'd really like to see you again."

  He was thinking of the party his parents were going to give for him before he left. Impulsively, without even waiting for advice from his mother, he wanted to invite Florentine. Why not? he thought. She must have a nice dress that would do. And she's pretty. He was happy already thinking of things he could do to please her and wipe out the ugly impression of their first meeting. He imagined how he would introduce her to his friends. "This is Mademoiselle Florentine," he would say, and perhaps he'd even add, "my girlfriend." Why not? If she was awkward or made little mistakes in company, he wouldn't mind. The prospect of the party, which had bored him, now seemed full of the mysterious and unexpected. He could see himself being attentive to her, discovering other aspects of her character.

  He leaned forward over his plate and gave the girl a smile full of impatience, friendliness and honesty.

  /// "Do you know what would please me, Mademoiselle Florentine?"

  "No, I don't know."

  "What would really please me?"

  "I don't know. No idea."

  "My mother's giving a party tomorrow night. . . " and he touched Jean's arm. "We just wondered, my friend and I, whether you'd like to come."

  "At your place!"

  "Is it yes?" asked Emmanuel.

  A smile of satisfaction touched her lips.

  "Wait a minute, will you?" she asked. "I don't know yet. I ... I don't know. . . "

  But already she could see herself in her pretty dress, her best stockings and her patent-leather shoes. At last Jean would see her dressed up, and not as poor as he thought. So that's what the two of them were cooking up. She purposely put off the moment of decision, tasting the power of being able to make her answer a haughty no.