Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

“Still,” Beauchurch persisted, “technically we’d be breaking the law.”

  “Technically,” Ginette said impatiently. “What difference would it make?”

  “My dear friends,” Mestre said, “please …” He spread his hands above the table pacifically. “I beg you not to argue on my account. If you have the slightest hesitation, I understand perfectly.…”

  “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Mestre,” Beauchurch said. “Supposing we hadn’t happened to come to France at this time, Ginette and I, and supposing she hadn’t called you up—what would you have done?”

  Mestre sucked in his cheeks thoughtfully. When he spoke, he spoke slowly and carefully. “I suppose I would have tried to get someone else to do it for me. But I would be very—very—” He searched for the word. “Very uneasy. As I told you, I am sure that from time to time I am under surveillance. I could only entrust something like this to a very close friend—whose relationship with me would be likely to compromise him. With bad luck, the friend might fall under suspicion, especially if he crossed the frontier to another country. Any Frenchman is likely to be searched upon trying to leave the country. He is likely to be questioned. In the times that I see ahead of us, the questioning that will be taking place here in France is liable to be most strict.” He smiled wanly at his understatement. “I would not like to have to depend upon the endurance or the good will or the discretion of any of my friends at that time for my safety. Still, that is no reason for you to concern yourself with me. A man who is in danger and demands help is always such a bore. One has only to remember how annoyed everybody was with the refugees during the war.” He looked around for the waiter and signaled him to come over. “I would be most pleased,” Mestre said, “if you would permit me to pay for the drinks.”

  “Wait a minute,” Beauchurch said. “How much would you want me to take to Switzerland for you?”

  “Four million francs,” Mestre said. “Old francs, that is.”

  “That’s only about eight thousand dollars, Tom,” Ginette said.

  “I know,” Beauchurch said. He took the check from the waiter’s hand, over Mestre’s protest. He paid the waiter and stood up. “Let me think about this and talk it over with Ginette. She has your number. We’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Mestre stood up, too. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I would prefer to call you. The fewer calls I get, the better.…”

  “… In Africa, for example,” one of the Americans at the bar was saying, “the old system of competitive bribery is breaking down. But nobody’s found anything better.…”

  Beauchurch followed Mestre and Ginette out of the room, down the alley of old ladies still taking their tea, solidly anchored among their fur coats, their poodles, their pastries, oblivious to all plots, troop movements, fighting in the streets. A dark phalanx of widows, bedecked with the jeweled trophies of their victories, they remained firm and reassuring against all the assaults of change. In that corridor of elaborately coifed, silvery heads, Mestre’s fearful words of prophecy seemed like the insubstantial report of a child’s dream.

  In the lobby, Mestre kissed Ginette’s hand, made a formal little bow to Beauchurch and went off. He was bent over surprisingly, Beauchurch noticed, for a man so young, and his walk was heavy and without resilience. When he put on his soft green hat, he did it carelessly, with no attempt at dash. Whatever he was, Beauchurch decided, he was no professional lady-killer. But when Beauchurch turned toward Ginette, he thought he detected a certain emotion in her eyes, only partially concealed. But whether it was desire or pity, it was impossible to tell.

  They went up to their room in silence. The sense of holiday they had shared since their arrival in Paris had entirely gone, and the high-ceilinged old room looked chilly and clumsily furnished in the light of the inadequate lamps. Ginette hung up her coat and pushed listlessly at her hair before the mirror. Beauchurch put the package with the book in it on a table and looked out the window at the gardens of the Tuileries across the traffic-jammed street below him. All the trees were bare and the people hurrying past the newly lit lampposts looked harassed and cold.

  Beauchurch heard the bed creak as Ginette sat down on it. “That four million francs,” she said. “That’s his life savings. That’s all he has in the world.”

  Beauchurch said nothing. He continued to stare out the window at the dark gardens.

  “If you won’t take it through for him,” Ginette said, “I will.”

  Beauchurch took a deep breath. He turned deliberately away from the windows. “That was a stupid thing to say,” he said.

  Ginette looked at him coldly, with hostility. “Was it?” she said. “I suppose so.” She swung her legs up on the bed and lay back, staring at the ceiling. “Still, I mean it.”

  “It would make an interesting headline,” Beauchurch said. “Wife of New York Lawyer Held in Paris for Smuggling Banknotes. Husband Claims Ignorance of Wife’s Activities.”

  “Does that mean you’re not going to help Claude?” Ginette’s voice was flat and she kept squinting up at the ceiling.

  “It means that in general I am a law-abiding citizen,” Beauchurch said. “It means that when I am a guest in a country I prefer not to cheat my hosts.”

  “Oh,” Ginette said. “What a lucky thing it is to be an American. And a Puritan. How convenient it can be.”

  “It also means that I am balancing the risks against the advantages,” said Beauchurch.

  “There are no advantages,” Ginette said. “There’s nothing to balance. A man’s in trouble, and we can help him. That’s all.”

  “A lot of men are in trouble,” Beauchurch said. “The question is, why do we pick out this particular one to help.”

  “You didn’t like him, did you?”

  “Not much,” Beauchurch said. “He’s self-important and impressed with his own intelligence, and he has a condescending attitude toward Americans.”

  Unexpectedly, Ginette laughed.

  “What are you laughing about?” Beauchurch demanded.

  “Because you’re so accurate,” Ginette said. “That’s exactly what he’s like. He’s the perfect model of the French intellectual.” She laughed again. “I must tell him that you ticked him off exactly. He’ll be furious.”

  Beauchurch regarded his wife puzzledly. Her laughter was real, and what she had just said was certainly not the sort of thing a woman would say about a man who attracted her. But against this, there was the enduring vision of the two of them so deeply engrossed in each other on the street in front of the hotel, and Ginette’s persistence in pushing Beauchurch to Mestre’s rescue.

  Beauchurch sat down on the edge of the bed. “The question is,” he repeated, “why do we pick out this particular one to help.”

  Ginette lay quiet for a moment, her arms along her sides, her hands flat on the brocaded bed cover. “Because he’s a friend,” she said. She waited. Then she said, “That’s not quite enough, is it?”

  “Not quite,” said Beauchurch.

  “Because he’s French and I was born in Paris,” Ginette said. “Because he’s talented, because I agree with his politics, because the people who want to kill him are vile.…” She stopped and waited again. Beauchurch still said nothing. “That’s not quite enough, either, is it?” Ginette said, staring at the ceiling.

  “Not quite,” said Beauchurch.

  “Because he was my lover,” Ginette said, without emphasis, looking up at the ceiling. “Did you expect that?”

  “I suppose so,” Beauchurch said.

  “A long time ago,” Ginette said. “During the war. He was the first one.”

  “How many times have you seen him since we’ve been married?” Beauchurch said. He didn’t look at his wife, but he listened intently for a tone of falsehood in her voice. Ginette was not a liar, but a question like this had never come up between them before, and Beauchurch believed that on this subject almost all women, and all men, too, for that matter, lied almost all the time.

  �
��I’ve seen him twice since 1946,” Ginette said. “Yesterday and today.”

  “Why did you decide, after all these years, to see him yesterday?”

  Ginette reached over to the bedtable and took a cigarette out of a pack that was lying there. Automatically, Beauchurch lit it for her. She lay back, her head on the bolster, blowing the smoke straight up. “I don’t know why,” she said. “Curiosity, nostalgia, guilt—the feeling that middle age was rushing up on me and I wanted to be reminded of a time when I was young—a feeling that maybe I wouldn’t see Paris again for a long time and I wanted to straighten out certain memories.… I don’t know. Don’t you ever want to see your first girl again?”

  “No,” Beauchurch said.

  “Well, maybe women’re different. Or Frenchwomen. Or me.” She squinted at the ceiling through the cigarette smoke. “You’re not worried about what went on, are you?”

  “No,” Beauchurch said. He didn’t say anything about the realization he had had on the street that it was possible for her one day to leave him.

  “We had two beers at the Dome, because he once took me there on my birthday,” Ginette said. “And after the first ten minutes it was all politics and his problem and the thing about Switzerland. Which I brought up, by the way, in case you’re thinking of blaming him.”

  “I’m not blaming him for anything,” Beauchurch said. “Still—why didn’t you tell me about him yesterday?”

  “I was playing with the idea of just taking the money in myself and not worrying you about it at all. Then I decided, today, that that wouldn’t be fair to you, and that you had to talk to Claude yourself. I was right about that, wasn’t I?” She lifted her head inquisitively.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I didn’t realize that you’d turn so severe,” Ginette said. “You didn’t behave like your usual self with him at all. You’re usually so pleasant with new people. And you were against him from the beginning.”

  “That’s true,” Beauchurch said. He offered no explanations. “Look,” he said, “you don’t have to tell me any of this if you don’t want to.”

  “I do want to,” Ginette said. “So you’ll understand why I think I have to help him if I can. So you’ll understand him better. So you’ll understand me better.”

  “Don’t you think I understand you?” Beauchurch asked, surprised.

  “Not well enough,” Ginette said. “We’re so reticent with each other, so polite, so careful never to say anything to each other that might disturb or hurt.…”

  “Is that wrong?” Beauchurch said. “I’ve always thought that was one of the reasons our marriage has been so solid.”

  “Solid,” Ginette said vaguely. “What marriage is solid?”

  “What the hell are you driving at?” Beauchurch asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ginette said listlessly. “Nothing. Maybe I’m homesick, only I’m not sure where my home is. Maybe we shouldn’t have come to Paris. Maybe because I was a silly young girl when I was in Paris, I must behave like a silly young girl here, even now when I’m a sober American matron. I do look like a sober American matron, don’t I, Tom?”

  “No,” he said.

  “I walk along the street and I forget who I am, I forget how old I am, I forget my American passport,” she said, speaking softly. “I’m eighteen years old again, there are gray uniforms all over the streets, I’m trying to decide whether I’m in love or not, I change my mind at every corner, I’m wildly happy. Don’t be shocked. I wasn’t happy because there was a war and the Germans were here, I was happy because I was eighteen years old. A war isn’t all one color, even in an occupied country. Hold my hand, please.” She put her hand out toward him on the bed cover and he covered it with his, clasping the long, cool fingers, the soft palm, feeling the thin metal of the wedding ring. “We’ve never confessed enough, you and I,” she said. “A marriage needs a certain amount of confession and we’ve skimped each other.” She pressed his fingers. “Don’t worry. There won’t be any flood. There’s no scandalous list. Claude was the only one until I married you. I’m hardly the popular American idea of a Frenchwoman at all. Are you surprised by any of this?”

  “No,” Beauchurch said. When he had met Ginette, when she had first come over to America on a scholarship, just after the war, she had still been a rather gawky girl, intent on her studies, slender and lovely, but not coquettish or sensual. When they had married she had been unpracticed, reserved, and the sensuality had come later, after months of marriage.

  “He wanted to marry me,” she went on. “Claude. I was at the Sorbonne. Immersed in Medieval History. It was one of the few safe subjects while the Germans were here. They didn’t care much what people said about Charlemagne or St. Louis or the cathedral at Rouen. He was three or four years older than I. Very handsome and fierce-looking. It’s not there now, is it?”

  “No,” Beauchurch said. “Not really.”

  “How quickly it goes.” She shook her head, as though to stop herself from continuing this line of thought. “He wrote plays. He didn’t show them to anyone because he didn’t want to have any plays put on in Paris while the Germans were still here. Then, after the war, nobody put them on, anyway. I suppose he really wasn’t much of a playwright. After the Liberation of Paris, it turned out he hadn’t only been writing plays during the Occupation. He’d been in the Resistance and he was put into the Army and that winter he was badly wounded outside Belfort. He was in the hospital nearly two years. They changed him, those years. He became bitter, he hated what was happening to France, to the whole world. He had no hope for anything except … well, except for us, him and me. Whatever hope he had in the world he bound up in me. I promised to marry him when he got out, but then the scholarship came along, the chance to go to America.… He pleaded with me not to go, or to marry him before I went. He kept saying I’d find someone else in America, that I’d forget him, forget France. He made me swear that no matter what happened I’d come back and see him before I married anyone else. I swore I’d do it. It wasn’t hard to do—I loved him—I was sure there’d never be anybody else. Anyway, he was still in the hospital—he had to recover first, establish himself at something, we didn’t have a penny between us. Then I met you. I tried. I held back as much as I could. Didn’t I?” Her voice was harsh, demanding; before the image of her lover lying broken in his hospital bed so many years ago she was justifying the actions of the girl breaking out of adolescence, newly emerged from the privations and fears of war. “I did everything I could, didn’t I?”

  “Yes,” Beauchurch said, remembering the times he’d been ready to give her up, furious at her hesitations, her incomprehensible fluctuations. Now, after the long marriage, the children, the closely linked lives, they were comprehensible. He wondered if he would have been happier if he’d known, if the marriage would have been better or worse, if he would have behaved differently, loved her more or less. “Why didn’t you tell me then?” he asked.

  “It was my problem,” she said. “It was between him and me. Anyway, I didn’t go back. I didn’t tell him anything until the day of the wedding. I sent him a cable. I asked him not to write me. I asked him to forgive me.”

  The days of weddings, Beauchurch thought. The brides at telegraph offices. Forgive me. Four thousand miles away. It is over, it is too late.… You were in the hospital too long. Love. “Well,” he said, being cruel to her and to himself, “do you regret it now?” He remembered the phrase Mestre had used. “You could have spent your time redressing the demographic imbalance of France, as the man said.”

  “It’s not too late,” she said flatly. “Even now.” She was angry and she was reacting to the jibe. “If you must know, he still wants to marry me.”

  “As of when?”

  “As of this afternoon,” she said.

  “Four children and all?” Beauchurch said. “To say nothing of his wife and your husband and your children.”

  “I told him it was absurd,” Ginette said. “We had it all out th
ree years ago.”

  “Three years ago?” Beauchurch said. “I thought you said you’d only seen him twice since 1946—yesterday and today.”

  “I was lying,” Ginette said, evenly. “Of course I saw him when I was here before. I would have had to be a monster not to see him. I saw him every day.”

  “I’m not going to ask you what happened,” Beauchurch said. He stood up. He felt shaken, confused. The light through the ornate lampshades was dusty and melancholy, and his wife’s face, turned away now, was in evening shadow, hidden, unfamiliar. Her voice was cold and distant and devoid of affection. Whatever happened to the holiday? he thought. He went over and poured himself a drink from the bottle on the table near the window. He didn’t ask Ginette if she wanted one. The whiskey bit at his throat.

  “Nothing happened,” Ginette said. “I think I would have had an affair with him, if he had asked me.…”

  “Why?” Beauchurch asked. “Do you still love him?”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t know why. Atonement, restitution.… Anyway, he didn’t ask me. It was marriage or nothing, he said. He couldn’t bear losing me again, he said.”

  Beauchurch’s hands trembled as he brought the glass to his lips again. A wave of anger toward the man engulfed him, at the arrogance, the egotism, of that permanent, despairing, broken, unwavering love. He put the glass down slowly to keep from throwing it against the wall. He stood immobile, closing his eyes. If he made the slightest movement, he was afraid of what it would lead to. The thought of Mestre and Ginette sitting at café tables during a distant Parisian summer, conferring, cold-bloodedly offering and refusing terms for the looting of his life, was infinitely harder to bear than the thought of their two bodies clasped in bed together. It was less innocent; it lacked the grace and normality of the pardonable weaknesses of the flesh; it ignored, as though they had never existed, the fair claims Beauchurch had established in the years of marriage; it was a conspiracy against him by enemies who were the more hateful because they had never made themselves known to him. If Mestre had been in the room that moment Beauchurch would have gladly killed him. “God damn him,” Beauchurch said. He was surprised at how routine, how calm, his voice sounded. He opened his eyes, looked down at Ginette. If she said the wrong thing now, he felt that he would strike her and leave the room, the country, leave everything, once and for all.