The Tin Flute

by Gabrielle Roy

  "Will you come?" asked Emmanuel.

  "Well, I haven't said yes, not quite. I've got to think. . . "

  "Say yes," he insisted gently, "and don't think about it."

  "Well, I'm going to feel like an outsider. I won't know anybody there."

  She was enjoying the suspense, thinking that Jean would admire her for prolonging it, and taking pleasure in teasing Emmanuel. But she began to worry that he'd grow tired of asking her, and made up her mind with a little pout.

  "Okay then. I'll go. I'll go, yeah, I'll be there." And she added in a tone that was half grateful, half sulky, "It's very kind of you to think about me. Thanks."

  He began to laugh, relieved and happy.

  "Should I come and pick you up?"

  She thought it over, wondering about Jean's silence.

  "The thing is, I gotta work late this Saturday," she said. "It is this Saturday, isn't it?" "That's right, tomorrow."

  She was waiting for a word from Jean, a look, an implicit promise, a word of encouragement. But he was getting up to leave, knotting his scarf.

  "No, I'll go. . . I mean, it's okay, that's it, I'll get there by myself."

  "Don't forget now!"

  Emmanuel smiled at her, his head cocked to one side, his arms hanging awkwardly.

  "And above all," he said, "don't change your mind."

  Her eyes folio wed Jean. She leaned toward him, devoured by the fear of losing him that she felt each time he left. Jean. She had the impression that it was as cold in his heart as the winter night in which they had warmed each other. Jean was the hard, whipping wind, he was winter, the sworn enemy of the sudden softness you feel at the approach of spring. He and she . . . they'd recognized each other the night of the storm. But the storm and cold would come to an end.- And although he had come into her life like a destroying gust of wind, perhaps when the first storms were past it would turn out that he had come to help her see more clearly all the ugliness and poverty around her. Never before today had she noticed the long-suffering resignation on her clients' faces, or at least never had it seemed so obvious, along with her own resemblance to them and her fury as she recognized the fact. Never had all these smells of hot grease and vanilla turned her stomach so. And Jean was marching off as if his mission were accomplished and he had nothing more to do here. Yet Jean was her own escape, which she had struggled against so long. He was the one she had to follow, to the ends of the earth, forever. She would never let him get away.

  Long after the two young men had disappeared, snatched away by the street where a burst of sunlight was struggling against the grey sky, Florentine was still inventing a thousand pretexts for rejecting an aspect of truth which she had almost glimpsed just now. Oh no! She would never give up loving Jean. She could never be resigned to that. And anyway, wouldn't it be stupid to give up just when she had a chance to see him again, to show herself proud and radiant, to dazzle him so that he would never in his life see anything but the face of Florentine? Already she was imagining his attitude and her own role at Létourneau's party, all the men surrounding her, the lights converging on her in the middle of a big room. For this was how Jean would really find out her worth, when all the other young men took notice of her.

  It must be a fine house, Létourneau's. She remembered only scraps of what Emmanuel had told her. . . "Phone me when you're free tomorrow, I'll come and get you. We live on Sir Georges-Etienne Cartier Square. ....." Very

  impressed, she kept repeating the address, imagining a modern drawing room with discreet lighting, well-mannered guests, and hosts who circulated pleasantly serving a distinguished late supper. She grew sentimental at the thought.

  Her hands deep in dishwater, she was singing to herself, because she was no longer Florentine the waitress who was angered and humiliated by her menial job. Let them call for' her with rough words, plague her with vulgar approaches, that didn't bother her now, she was warmed against all the disgust she had felt at her dull daily life. She was a new Florentine, unknown even to herself, freed from the past the night she ran to meet Jean in the storm — oh! how she liked herself in this whole undertaking!

  Her weariness had left her. She had flown so far in her own thoughts that when, just after one o'clock, she saw her mother enter the store, she was shocked and felt a kind of stunned vexation. Her mother. . . She was coming through the store, blinking at all the glitter. Her gait was slow, and she was upset as she saw herself in the mirrors, and busy hiding her old gloves with the holes in them.

  NINE

  Florentine stared, amazed to see her mother there. She realized that her first feeling had been one of relief that she hadn't come earlier, before Jean and Emmanuel left. But she regretted this thought so sincerely that she leaned over the counter and called out to her mother with an effort to be jolly:

  "Maw! What a surprise!"

  She couldn't get over her mother's appearance. As often happens to members of a family who see each other every day, she had ceased to observe Rose-Anna's face, and now saw all the changes that had escaped her: the faint wrinkles around the. eyes, the listlessness in her expression, the suffering and courage inscribed on her features. At a glance she realized all that had slipped in between today and the remembered image.

  For years she had seen her mother at home, working away in the half-light of evening or early morning. Rose-Anna had only to turn up now in the blaze of this bazaar for Florentine to see her clearly at last, with her poor smile and timid manner that gave away her intention to take up as little room as possible.

  Florentine was stunned. She had helped her mother out of fairness and pride, but without real tenderness, and often with a sense of injury to herself. For the first time she had occasion to be glad that she had never acted meanly toward her family. She felt a sudden desire, akin to happiness, to be good to her mother, to show herself more attentive, gentle and generous.

  She felt the imperious desire to mark the day with some special kindness, the memory of which would stay intact. She now perceived her mother's life as a long, grey voyage which she, Florentine, would never make; and today, in a way, they were saying good-bye to each other. Maybe their paths were beginning to separate this very minute. Some people need the threat of parting to make them attentive to their own feelings, and in that moment she knew that she loved her mother.

  "Mamma," she said warmly, "come on, sit down!"

  "I just dropped in, I was going by," Rose-Anna explained. "Your father's at home, as you know. And out of work, eh?"

  Oh, that was their mother, starting right off with their troubles! Away from home she had this embarrassed smile, and she didn't mean to dampen youthful spirits — on the contrary, she liked to warm herself by their fire and often adopted a forced gaiety — but her words of complaint came out all by themselves. They were her real words of greeting. And pe rhaps the y were the right words^ to reach her-familyjlfor apart irom their worries, whatTTept them together?

  She went on, speaking more softly, ashamed to talk of these things in the presence of strangers:

  "So ... I got away early this morning to look for a house, Florentine."

  She'd told her all that this morning. Florentine frowned at her own impatience, but she caught herself in time and answered kindly:

  "You did right to stop by. And I've got just the thing for you. We got chicken today, forty cents. I'm treating you."

  "Nothing of the kind, Florentine! All I wanted was a cup of coffee to perk me up."

  You could almost hear her murmur, Forty cents! That's a fortune! All her life, with her knowledge of the cost of food and her ability to make substantial meals from nothing, she had kept her peasant horror of paying in a restaurant for a meal she could prepare at home for half the price. At the same time she had always repressed a secret desire to treat herself some day to this extravagant pleasure.

  "Oh, very well then," she said, giving in to fatigue and temptation, "but just a smidgin of pie or maybe a doughnut. I could eat that, I guess.
"

  "No, no!" said Florentine, losing patience.

  Compared with her mother's fear of spending she saw Jean tossing down a tip. What she admired most about the young man was perhaps the way he threw his money on the counter. While her family kept their eyes on their money after it was gone, like a part of themselves, torn away and lost. Sometimes Rose-Anna would drag up for no apparent reason the reckless use to which she had put a few pennies on some past occasion.

  Florentine looked up, stung to the quick by these recollections.

  "No, no," she said again, "you're goin' to eat a big meal, Mamma. It's not often you get a chance to eat at my place, eh?"

  "That's true," said Rose-Anna, touched by the girl's gaiety. "It's the very first time, I do believe. But just the same, I'll just have a cup of coffee, really, Florentine, that's going to do me just fine."

  She watched the rapid movements of the waitresses, impressed by their youth, and stole a look at Florentine, who seemed to have risen far above her family here in the glitter of mirrors and the colourful crowd. She was silent, feeling almost as much embarrassment as pride. In a confused way she realized how imprudent it was always to bother Florentine with their troubles, casting her shadow on this girl's youth; and suddenly, clumsily, she decided to put on a happier front.

  "I'd better not get in the habit of going out, you might get tired of seem' me here. It's so warm and nice in your store. And does it ever smell good! And don't you look pretty now!"

  This compliment was like balm to Florentine's heart.

  "I'm ordering chicken. You'll see, it's good," she cried, back to her first resolve to be kind to Rose-Anna.

  She wiped the counter in front of her mother, brought her a paper napkin and a glass of water, and lavished on her all the attentions she had to pay to strangers day after day without the slightest satisfaction. Today they filled her with joy, as if this was the first time she had ever wiped a counter or set a place; and a distant sound of music caught her, gave its rhythm to her body, and i lightened her heavy chores.

  "You know, you got a nice job. You're well off here," Rose-Anna said, misinterpreting the happiness on Florentine's face.

  "That's what you think!" cried the girl, forgetting her resolve. But then she laughed:

  "Had good tips today, though," she said.

  She thought of Jean and Emmanuel. Not seeing that their generosity toward her emphasized the distance between them, she could still be delighted at the coins they had left beneath their plates.

  "You know something?" she went on. "It's always me gets the most tips."

  Then she brought a plate piled high and, as the crowd was gone, took a few minutes to keep her mother company and watch her eat.

  "Is it good? Do you like it?" she kept asking.

  "Just first-class," said Rose-Anna.

  But she also kept saying, with the tenacity that ruined the smallest extravagance for her:

  "My, that's expensive though, forty cents. Seems to me it can't be worth that much. Just think, Florentine! That's a lot!"

  When she finished the chicken, Florentine cut her a piece of pie.

  "Oh, I couldn't!" said Rose-Anna. "I had too much already."

  "It's all included in the meal," Florentine insisted. "It doesn't cost any more."

  "Well, just a taste then," said Rose-Anna. "But it's not out of hunger anymore."

  "Try it anyway," said Florentine. "Is it good? Not up to yours, eh?"

  "Better," said Rose-Anna.

  Then Florentine, seeing her mother relaxed and almost happy, felt a tenfold desire to add to the joy she had already given her. She reached into her blouse and took out two new bills. She'd been keeping them to buy stockings, and the moment her hands touched the crisp paper she felt a terrible regret, but she sighed and held her hand out to her mother.

  "Here," she said, "take that. Take it, Mother."

  "But you gave me your week's pay already," Rose-Anna objected.

  Florentine smiled. She said:

  "This is a little extra. Come on, take it!"

  She was thinking: I'm goodjtp. my mother. Til get it back^Jt'll 'br-^qunted in my favour. She was still sad at giving up her^ silk stockings, but she felt a new certainty that she would be happy immediately. She thought of tomorrow's party and in her innocence believed that because of this generous act she would shine brighter there and earn Jean's complete submission.

  Rose-Anna had turned red. "Oh," she said, her fingers busy chasing bread crumbs from her coat, "I didn't come in to get something from you, Florentine. I know you don't get to keep much of your pay."

  She took the bills just the same and put them in her change purse which she slipped into the inside pocket of her bag. Carefully folded and buried so deep, they seemed almost safe from all the pressing needs making their calls upon them.

  "To tell the truth," she admitted, "I needed that money almost right now."

  "Oh, Maw," said Florentine, less pleased with her generosity than she had expected to be, "and you wouldn't have said a word!"

  She saw the dejected look on her mother, grateful and full of admiration for Florentine, saw her stand up with an effort and go away among the counters, stopping here and there to touch some material or examine an article.

  Her mother! Getting old. . . . She moved slowly, and her coat, too tight, made her belly stick out more prominently. With the two dollars deep in her purse she wandered off, more uncertain than ever, for now she saw the shining pots and pans and the cloth, so soft to the touch. Her desires grew vast and many, and she left, poorer certainly than when she had come in the store.

  Suddenly all the joy Florentine had felt turned to gall. Her happiness at being generous gave way to an aching stupor. What she had done had led to nothing.

  At the back of the store Rose-Anna stopped at the toy counter. She was looking at a little^tij^flute, but she quickly put it back when a salesgirl approached. Florentine realized that between Daniel's wish and the shiny flute there would always be her mother's good intention — an intention repressed. And between her own wish to help Rose-Anna and the impossibility of doing so, nothing would be left but the hurting memory of today's small, vain attempt.

  She made herself smile at her mother who, in the ;distance, seemed to be asking her advice: Should I buy ithe shining flute, the slim and pretty flute, or the stockings, ithe bread, the clothing? Which is more important? A flute like a ray of sunshine in the hands of a sickly boy, a flute breathing sounds of happiness, or the daily bread for the family table? Tell me, Florentine, which should I buy?

  Florentine managed another smile when Rose-Anna, finally making up her mind to leave the store, turned to wave; but she would gladly have destroyed within herself all her impotent good intentions. Wary of its own softness, her heart was hardening again.

  TEN

  In a high brick house, the upstairs apartment cast the cozy light of its bright windows through the falling snow out into the quiet darkness of the square. At the foot of the iron staircase that climbed toward these lighted openings in the austere facade, Florentine listened to the party sounds, muffled by the soft snow. She hated arriving alone at the house of people she didn't know.

  Until the moment her store closed she'd hoped that Jean would come for her. She had counted on it, all ready with her silk dress under her uniform and her patent-leather shoes in a paper bag. Then at nine o'clock she had left by herself, so angry at being alone that she had decided I several times, as her feet took her willy-nilly toward Sir Georges-Etienne Cartier Square, not to go to the Letour-neaus; but just as often she decided that she would go -T and in both cases with a single end in view: to make a show of her indifference to Jean.

  But she knew she was determined not to miss this party, for Jean would be there sooner or later, and she mustn't lose this chance of seeing him. After all, this was her prettiest dress, and he hadn't seen it, and anyway it would be terrible just to go home now that she had it on, and felt her heart rustling with murmurs of a
celebration, her heart, like her dress, all disposed to please.

  The shadows passing, passing by the yellow windows up there — they must be dancing. The snowflakes also danced; outside in the shafts of light, they fluttered like moths around a lamp. Millions of flakes, soft and white, flew down and struck the windows, dying there, clinging to the light and warmth.

  Florentine ran up the stairs and rang quickly so as not to lose her nerve at the last moment. Emmanuel opened the door. He was in his uniform, as he had been the day she met him in the Five and Ten. He stood on the threshold and his vague smile sought her in the shadow into which she had withdrawn. Then he recognized her and the smile grew real.

  "Hey! Mademoiselle Florentine! You came after all!"

  She seemed so uncertain, ready to turn and flee, like an aerial form, a vision on the landing, created out of a play of light and shadow, that he hesitated to offer his hand. But then he drew her inside the warm house, full of smoke and succulent smells from the kitchen. Now he was looking at her with his friendly smile, finding again her ardent, stubborn face as he remembered it. Snowflakes were melting on her cheeks.

  "You really came!" he cried happily.

  He pulled off her gloves, took her purse while she unbuttoned her coat, then shook off the snow still hanging on the thin fur collar.

  "Come into Mother's room," he said.

  Leaning close to her as he guided her down the hall, he asked:

  "Come this way. . . I can. . . Hey, can 1 just call you Florentine?"

  "If you like," she said with a smile and the shade of a self-conscious pout. "I don't mind."

  "And will you call me Emmanuel?" "If you like. I don't mind."

  She was listening with anxiety to the voices from the living room.

  "Sounds like a lot of people!"

  "You're used to that," he said. "At the Five and Ten you see them from morning till night. You're not scared of people, are you?"

  "That's not the same," she said.