Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  “Don’t worry; I made plenty money last year--ten or twenty francs for a Sunny Times that cost six.”

  He produced a newspaper clipping from a rusty wallet and passed it over to one who had become a fellow stroller--the cartoon showed a stream of Americans pouring from the gangplank of a liner freighted with gold.

  “Two hundred thousand--spending ten million a summer.”

  “What you doing out here in Passy?”

  His companion looked around cautiously. “Movies,” he said darkly. “They got an American studio over there. And they need guys can speak English. I’m waiting for a break.”

  Dick shook him off quickly and firmly.

  It had become apparent that Rosemary either had escaped on one of his early circuits of the block or else had left before he came into the neighborhood; he went into the bistro on the corner, bought a lead disk and, squeezed in an alcove between the kitchen and the foul toilet, he called the Roi George. He recognized Cheyne-Stokes tendencies in his respiration--but like everything the symptom served only to turn him in toward his emotion. He gave the number of the hotel; then stood holding the phone and staring into the café; after a long while a strange little voice said hello.

  “This is Dick--I had to call you.”

  A pause from her--then bravely, and in key with his emotion: “I’m glad you did.”

  “I came to meet you at your studio--I’m out in Passy across the way from it. I thought maybe we’d ride around through the Bois.”

  “Oh, I only stayed there a minute! I’m so sorry.” A silence.

  “Rosemary.”

  “Yes, Dick.”

  “Look, I’m in an extraordinary condition about you. When a child can disturb a middle-aged gent--things get difficult.”

  “You’re not middle-aged, Dick--you’re the youngest person in the world.”

  “Rosemary?” Silence while he stared at a shelf that held the humbler poisons of France--bottles of Otard, Rhum St. James, Marie Brizzard, Punch Orangeade, André Fernet Blanco, Cherry Rochet, and Armagnac.

  “Are you alone?”

  --Do you mind if I pull down the curtain?

  “Who do you think I’d be with?”

  “That’s the state I’m in. I’d like to be with you now.”

  Silence, then a sigh and an answer. “I wish you were with me now.”

  There was the hotel room where she lay behind a telephone number, and little gusts of music wailed around her--

  “And two--for tea.

  And me for you,

  And you for me

  Alow-own.”

  There was the remembered dust of powder over her tan--when he kissed her face it was damp around the corners of her hair; there was the flash of a white face under his own, the arc of a shoulder.

  “It’s impossible,” he said to himself. In a minute he was out in the street marching along toward the Muette, or away from it, his small brief-case still in his hand, his gold-headed stick held at a sword-like angle.

  Rosemary returned to her desk and finished a letter to her mother.

  “--I only saw him for a little while but I thought he was wonderful looking. I fell in love with him (Of course I Do Love Dick Best but you know what I mean). He really is going to direct the picture and is leaving immediately for Hollywood, and I think we ought to leave, too. Collis Clay has been here. I like him all right but have not seen much of him because of the Divers, who really are divine, about the Nicest People I ever Knew. I am feeling not very well to-day and am taking the Medicine, though see No need for it. I’m not even Going to Try to tell you All that’s Happened until I see You!!! So when you get this letter wire, wire, wire! Are you coming north or shall I come south with the Divers?”

  At six Dick called Nicole.

  “Have you any special plans?” he asked. “Would you like to do something quiet--dinner at the hotel and then a play?”

  “Would you? I’ll do whatever you want. I phoned Rosemary a while ago and she’s having dinner in her room. I think this upset all of us, don’t you?”

  “It didn’t upset me,” he objected. “Darling, unless you’re physically tired let’s do something. Otherwise we’ll get south and spend a week wondering why we didn’t see Boucher. It’s better than brooding--”

  This was a blunder and Nicole took him up sharply.

  “Brooding about what?”

  “About Maria Wallis.”

  She agreed to go to a play. It was a tradition between them that they should never be too tired for anything, and they found it made the days better on the whole and put the evenings more in order. When, inevitably, their spirits flagged they shifted the blame to the weariness and fatigue of others. Before they went out, as fine-looking a couple as could be found in Paris, they knocked softly at Rosemary’s door. There was no answer; judging that she was asleep they walked into a warm strident Paris night, snatching a vermouth and bitters in the shadow by Fouquet’s bar.

  XXII

  Nicole awoke late, murmuring something back into her dream before she parted her long lashes tangled with sleep. Dick’s bed was empty--only after a minute did she realize that she had been awakened by a knock at their salon door.

  “Entrez!” she called, but there was no answer, and after a moment she slipped on a dressing-gown and went to open it. A sergent-de-ville confronted her courteously and stepped inside the door.

  “Mr. Afghan North--he is here?”

  “What? No--he’s gone to America.”

  “When did he leave, Madame?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  He shook his head and waved his forefinger at her in a quicker rhythm.

  “He was in Paris last night. He is registered here but his room is not occupied. They told me I had better ask at this room.”

  “Sounds very peculiar to me--we saw him off yesterday morning on the boat train.”

  “Be that as it may, he has been seen here this morning. Even his carte d’identité has been seen. And there you are.”

  “We know nothing about it,” she proclaimed in amazement.

  He considered. He was an ill-smelling, handsome man.

  “You were not with him at all last night?”

  “But no.”

  “We have arrested a Negro. We are convinced we have at last arrested the correct Negro.”

  “I assure you that I haven’t an idea what you’re talking about. If it’s the Mr. Abraham North, the one we know, well, if he was in Paris last night we weren’t aware of it.”

  The man nodded, sucked his upper lip, convinced but disappointed.

  “What happened?” Nicole demanded.

  He showed his palms, puffing out his closed mouth. He had begun to find her attractive and his eyes flickered at her.

  “What do you wish, Madame? A summer affair. Mr. Afghan North was robbed and he made a complaint. We have arrested the miscreant. Mr. Afghan should come to identify him and make the proper charges.”

  Nicole pulled her dressing-gown closer around her and dismissed him briskly. Mystified she took a bath and dressed. By this time it was after ten and she called Rosemary but got no answer--then she phoned the hotel office and found that Abe had indeed registered, at six-thirty this morning. His room, however, was still unoccupied. Hoping for a word from Dick she waited in the parlor of the suite; just as she had given up and decided to go out, the office called and announced:

  “Meestaire Crawshow, un nègre.”

  “On what business?” she demanded.

  “He says he knows you and the doctaire. He says there is a Meestaire Freeman into prison that is a friend of all the world. He says there is injustice and he wishes to see Meestaire North before he himself is arrested.”

  “We know nothing about it.” Nicole disclaimed the whole business with a vehement clap of the receiver. Abe’s bizarre reappearance made it plain to her how fatigued she was with his dissipation. Dismissing him from her mind she went out, ran into Rosemary at the dressmaker’s, and shopped with h
er for artificial flowers and all-colored strings of colored beads on the Rue de Rivoli. She helped Rosemary choose a diamond for her mother, and some scarfs and novel cigarette cases to take home to business associates in California. For her son she bought Greek and Roman soldiers, a whole army of them, costing over a thousand francs. Once again they spent their money in different ways and again Rosemary admired Nicole’s method of spending. Nicole was sure that the money she spent was hers--Rosemary still thought her money was miraculously lent to her and she must consequently be very careful of it.

  It was fun spending money in the sunlight of the foreign city with healthy bodies under them that sent streams of color up to their faces; with arms and hands, legs and ankles that they stretched out confidently, reaching or stepping with the confidence of women lovely to men.

  When they got back to the hotel and found Dick, all bright and new in the morning, both of them had a moment of complete childish joy.

  He had just received a garbled telephone call from Abe who, so it appeared, had spent the forenoon in hiding.

  “It was one of the most extraordinary telephone conversations I’ve ever held.”

  Dick had talked not only to Abe but to a dozen others. On the phone these supernumeraries had been typically introduced as: “--man wants to talk to you is in the teput dome, well he says he was in it--what is it?

  “Hey, somebody, shut-up--anyhow, he was in some shandel-scandal and he kaa possibly go home. My own personal is that--my personal is he’s had a--” Gulps sounded and thereafter what the party had, rested with the unknown.

  The phone yielded up a supplementary offer:

  “I thought it would appeal to you anyhow as a psychologist.” The vague personality who corresponded to this statement was eventually hung on to the phone; in the sequence he failed to appeal to Dick, as a psychologist, or indeed as anything else. Abe’s conversation flowed on as follows:

  “Hello.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, hello.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Well.” There were interpolated snorts of laughter.

  “Well, I’ll put somebody else on the line.”

  Sometimes Dick could hear Abe’s voice, accompanied by scufflings, droppings of the receiver, far-away fragments such as, “No, I don’t, Mr. North. . . .” Then a pert decided voice had said: “If you are a friend of Mr. North you will come down and take him away.”

  Abe cut in, solemn and ponderous, beating it all down with an overtone of earth-bound determination.

  “Dick, I’ve launched a race riot in Montmartre. I’m going over and get Freeman out of jail. If a Negro from Copenhagen that makes shoe polish--hello, can you hear me--well, look, if anybody comes there--” Once again the receiver was a chorus of innumerable melodies.

  “Why you back in Paris?” Dick demanded.

  “I got as far as Evreux, and I decided to take a plane back so I could compare it with St. Sulpice. I mean I don’t intend to bring St. Sulpice back to Paris. I don’t even mean Baroque! I meant St. Germain. For God’s sake, wait a minute and I’ll put the chasseur on the wire.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t.”

  “Listen--did Mary get off all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dick, I want you to talk with a man I met here this morning, the son of a naval officer that’s been to every doctor in Europe. Let me tell you about him--”

  Dick had rung off at this point--perhaps that was a piece of ingratitude for he needed grist for the grinding activity of his mind.

  “Abe used to be so nice,” Nicole told Rosemary. “So nice. Long ago--when Dick and I were first married. If you had known him then. He’d come to stay with us for weeks and weeks and we scarcely knew he was in the house. Sometimes he’d play--sometimes he’d be in the library with a muted piano, making love to it by the hour--Dick, do you remember that maid? She thought he was a ghost and sometimes Abe used to meet her in the hall and moo at her, and it cost us a whole tea service once--but we didn’t care.”

  So much fun--so long ago. Rosemary envied them their fun, imagining a life of leisure unlike her own. She knew little of leisure but she had the respect for it of those who have never had it. She thought of it as a resting, without realizing that the Divers were as far from relaxing as she was herself.

  “What did this to him?” she asked. “Why does he have to drink?”

  Nicole shook her head right and left, disclaiming responsibility for the matter: “So many smart men go to pieces nowadays.”

  “And when haven’t they?” Dick asked. “Smart men play close to the line because they have to--some of them can’t stand it, so they quit.”

  “It must lie deeper than that.” Nicole clung to her conversation; also she was irritated that Dick should contradict her before Rosemary. “Artists like--well, like Fernand don’t seem to have to wallow in alcohol. Why is it just Americans who dissipate?”

  There were so many answers to this question that Dick decided to leave it in the air, to buzz victoriously in Nicole’s ears. He had become intensely critical of her. Though he thought she was the most attractive human creature he had ever seen, though he got from her everything he needed, he scented battle from afar, and subconsciously he had been hardening and arming himself, hour by hour. He was not given to self-indulgence and he felt comparatively graceless at this moment of indulging himself, blinding his eyes with the hope that Nicole guessed at only an emotional excitement about Rosemary. He was not sure--last night at the theatre she had referred pointedly to Rosemary as a child.

  The trio lunched downstairs in an atmosphere of carpets and padded waiters, who did not march at the stomping quick-step of those men who brought good food to the tables whereon they had recently dined. Here there were families of Americans staring around at families of Americans, and trying to make conversation with one another.

  There was a party at the next table that they could not account for. It consisted of an expansive, somewhat secretarial, would-you-mind-repeating young man, and a score of women. The women were neither young nor old nor of any particular social class; yet the party gave the impression of a unit, held more closely together for example than a group of wives stalling through a professional congress of their husbands. Certainly it was more of a unit than any conceivable tourist party.

  An instinct made Dick suck back the grave derision that formed on his tongue; he asked the waiter to find out who they were.

  “Those are the gold-star muzzers,” explained the waiter.

  Aloud and in low voices they exclaimed. Rosemary’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Probably the young ones are the wives,” said Nicole.

  Over his wine Dick looked at them again; in their happy faces, the dignity that surrounded and pervaded the party, he perceived all the maturity of an older America. For a while the sobered women who had come to mourn for their dead, for something they could not repair, made the room beautiful. Momentarily, he sat again on his father’s knee, riding with Moseby while the old loyalties and devotions fought on around him. Almost with an effort he turned back to his two women at the table and faced the whole new world in which he believed.

  --Do you mind if I pull down the curtain?

  XXIII

  Abe North was still in the Ritz bar, where he had been since nine in the morning. When he arrived seeking sanctuary the windows were open and great beams were busy at pulling up the dust from smoky carpets and cushions. Chasseurs tore through the corridors, liberated and disembodied, moving for the moment in pure space. The sit-down bar for women, across from the bar proper, seemed very small--it was hard to imagine what throngs it could accommodate in the afternoon.

  The famous Paul, the concessionaire, had not arrived, but Claude, who was checking stock, broke off his work with no improper surprise to make Abe a pick-me-up. Abe sat on a bench against a wall. After two drinks he began to feel better--so much better that he mounted to the barber’s shop and was shaved. When he returned to
the bar Paul had arrived--in his custom-built motor, from which he had disembarked correctly at the Boulevard des Capucines. Paul liked Abe and came over to talk.

  “I was supposed to ship home this morning,” Abe said. “I mean yesterday morning, or whatever this is.”

  “Why din you?” asked Paul.

  Abe considered, and happened finally to a reason: “I was reading a serial in Liberty and the next installment was due here in Paris--so if I’d sailed I’d have missed it--then I never would have read it.”

  “It must be a very good story.”

  “It’s a terr-r-rible story.”

  Paul arose chuckling and paused, leaning on the back of a chair:

  “If you really want to get off, Mr. North, there are friends of yours going to-morrow on the France--Mister what is this name--and Slim Pearson. Mister--I’ll think of it--tall with a new beard.”

  “Yardly,” Abe supplied.

  “Mr. Yardly. They’re both going on the France.”

  He was on his way to his duties but Abe tried to detain him: “If I didn’t have to go by way of Cherbourg. The baggage went that way.”

  “Get your baggage in New York,” said Paul, receding.

  The logic of the suggestion fitted gradually into Abe’s pitch--he grew rather enthusiastic about being cared for, or rather of prolonging his state of irresponsibility.

  Other clients had meanwhile drifted in to the bar: first came a huge Dane whom Abe had somewhere encountered. The Dane took a seat across the room, and Abe guessed he would be there all the day, drinking, lunching, talking or reading newspapers. He felt a desire to out-stay him. At eleven the college boys began to step in, stepping gingerly lest they tear one another bag from bag. It was about then he had the chasseur telephone to the Divers; by the time he was in touch with them he was in touch also with other friends--and his hunch was to put them all on different phones at once--the result was somewhat general. From time to time his mind reverted to the fact that he ought to go over and get Freeman out of jail, but he shook off all facts as parts of the nightmare.