by Ursula Bloom
‘But, Jan, nowadays they have become so clever with this complaint, they have done such a lot of work for it, they understand it.’
‘It is because I love her so much that I am so afraid,’ he said brokenly.
‘It is because you love her so much that you are blind to much of the joys that lie ahead.’
‘If only I could think that she would live.’
‘She will live,’ insisted Matina.
She poured hope into him. He had always felt that he could lean upon her, and now he was sure as he stood there looking at her. She could make him see the world through new eyes, she could make him brave of heart enough to cope with to-morrow’s journey, which, until now, he had dreaded so much.
He walked home with her.
They went slowly because neither of them wanted to hurry through this particular moment. They went along the shore, with the stars grown big and wise, and the moonlight threading the waves with gold. They talked of the future, and somehow she made him happier about it. He was not so sickly afraid. Hope suddenly showed him a path that might, after all, be easier than he had thought.
He did not want this walk to end. He had parted with the Golden Galleon, and would not be crossing its threshold ever again, which had made him feel strangely lonely and defeated; now he did not want to part with her.
‘We shall never see one another again,’ he said suddenly, as though for the first time the thought was borne down upon him.
Her mouth twitched a trifle.
She said: ‘We may. Listen, Jan. Listen here and now. If ever you want me I will come. Maybe there might be a time when I could help, and if that time ever arrived, I would want to know that you could rely on me and find me useful.’
‘You would come?’
‘Yes, Jan, I promise.’
He held out his hand and took hers in a long friendly clasp. He said: ‘I may hold you to that word, and you’ll keep it?’
Chokily she replied: ‘It is my bond.’
Then they parted quickly, because both knew that they could not bear to prolong such talk any more. Because perhaps then he realized how deeply she cared for him, and that he had no love as enduring to give her, because all his was given to Josette. He turned quickly, and went back in the direction of the house with the vine twisted across its white face.
II
The journey to Switzerland was tedious.
It was so hot, and the child was so heavy. Jan held him in his lap, one arm round the little fellow, and the other round the big plaited straw basket wherein were all his infant necessities, and the food they had brought for the journey. In the guard’s van there was a tin trunk which they had bought very cheaply, and into which they had packed all their clothes. The furniture was sold.
Josette had been quite excited.
When Jan wakened in the morning, he saw her lying there, with her eyes wide open, staring out of the window at the sea with the little fishing boats dancing on it, as they set forth on the morning’s work.
She had said: ‘It is the day; it is the day itself.’
And he, not realizing what she meant, had said: ‘What day? What do you mean?’
‘It is the day of the journey when we go to the new land, and where I shall be made better, so that I can dance again, and laugh again, and love you again, you and the little one.’
So she wanted to leave!
She had wanted to go to Switzerland; that gave him heart.
They started in the train. The third class compartment was no better than a cattle truck with its hard wooden seats, and the people who were crowded into it. At every station more got in, but none seemed to get out.
Once when he looked at Josette he thought that she had gone white, and that she looked quite faint. He spent money at the next station and bought her a bottle of chianti, and made her drink some. At first she was angry because she thought that it was an extravagance, but he laughed her out of that.
She slept a while, her head on his shoulder, then the bambino woke and cried, because he was hungry, and he had to be fed. The hours went on mercilessly. They crossed the frontier in the early evening, coming to a wayside station, with the mountains reaching down to it, and the waterfalls gleaming, and little ferns growing, so that one almost wanted to lean out of the train to pick them.
They got out to stretch their legs on the platform, because they were cramped with sitting so still, and for so long a time. The air was strong and sweet. Josette lifted her little head, and tired as she was, took in long gulps of the air.
‘It is true, it is true,’ she cried, ‘this will make me well again. I know it.’
And Jan also felt elated, as though the air were wine, and had made him a little drunk. He felt that he had done the right thing in coming here, and that, after this, their luck would turn, and they would be happy again, and life would be different.
‘It is a good omen,’ he said.
They got back into the train, which had been made fresh and clean by girls with long brushes, who would not permit it to go through their country, all grimy and dirty. It was now quite clean and tidy, and smelt fresher.
They took their seats again, and the child fell asleep curled against his father, and Josette fell asleep, feeling oh, so much lighter than the child did, and so much younger! She had always struck him as being young, a child herself, and such a happy one.
It was eleven at night when they got out at the station. They could see little. They went straight to a little lodging house in the station yard which they had been told of by a Swiss waiter who had come as an extra for the summer to the Golden Galleon. The place was tall and gaunt. It struck Jan as being airless, and he hated the thin bosomed woman who ushered them up the stairs. Two flights, and Josette had to stop to pant for breath. The woman turned, and looked at her, piercing her through, with the blackbird brightness of her eyes, as though she hoped to discern some guilty secret. She heard her cough, and nodded her head to herself as though it merely verified something that she had already thought.
‘This is the room,’ she said, and opened the door wide.
It was a small room, with a gaudy paper sprawling across the walls, with vivid bunches of red and yellow roses. The windows had not been opened for a long time, and although the room itself was spotlessly clean, there was about it, that frowst, that airlessness which neither of them could bear.
‘It will do,’ he said.
The woman held out her hand. She said: ‘Some of my lodgers are curious, and now, when I do not know them, I ask the money beforehand.’
He gave it to her without a word.
The door shut on her, and he helped Josette across to the bed. He took off her things, thankful that the baby did not wake. He lifted her between the blankets. ‘This is journey’s end,’ he said, ‘and you must sleep.’
She slept at once.
But he lay awake. He had wrested the windows open and there came in that clear heady air which is of Switzerland only. He did not sleep until the daylight was beginning to break, and then for only a little while because the bambino always awakened very early, and would be chuckling to himself, and playing with his feet (which interested him enormously). This particular morning, his father washed him, and dressed him, before he ever disturbed little Josette. At last he had to wake her.
She turned to him and smiled.
‘I was having such a beautiful dream. I thought I was well again and dancing. I believe I shall get well again and dance!’
‘Of course you will, my sweet.’
‘The doctors of to-day are very clever.’
‘They are,’ he agreed.
She said: ‘What do we do to-day?’
‘First,’ he said, ‘we will take the bambino to the convent and see that he is happy. Then I will take you to the sanatorium. After that I shall have to go to Papillon bleu!’
She said: ‘Yes.’
They had breakfast together, brought up by a spotless maid, who glanced at them suspiciously, and they had the idea
that Madame must have talked. They went out to the convent and found that it lay just outside the town, but that it was quite easy to take a tram to it. The child was in a gay mood, and chuckled as he sat in his father’s arms. He made himself ingratiating as though he knew they were about to send him away from them. He flung engaging fat arms round their necks, and patted their faces, and enticed them to kiss him. He chuckled, and blew bubbles, he bounced, and embraced the world for the sheer joy of living.
It made Jan’s heart very heavy.
They saw the convent when they got out of the tram. It stood back in a beautiful garden, where cypresses stood side by side, and a Banksia rose came trailing across the wall with its burden of sweetness. The convent itself was rambling, and when they rang the bell, a nun opened the little door and looked out at them calmly. She wore the white habit of a novice.
Haltingly, Jan explained his mission.
‘Oh yes,’ said the little novice, and asked them inside. It was a wide hall, with a calvary at one end, and a madonna with a Child in her arms. He knew that Josette glanced at these statues, and he felt vaguely that she gained some comfort from them.
‘Nuns are very good women,’ she said.
The mother herself came to see them. She was large with grey eyes, and a quiet smile. When the child saw her he flung out his arms in ecstasy, and blew bubbles gaily. Quite calmly she took him into her own arms, and held him against the breast which had forsworn the bearing of children.
‘He is a fine boy,’ she said.
Jan explained. His wife was going into the sanatorium on the hill, and he himself would be working as a waiter at the Papillon bleu. Somebody must care for the little boy, and they had the money to pay. She would be kind to him?
‘We love children,’ said the mother tenderly, ‘come and see them.’
She went on ahead carrying the child, and he gurgled and laughed, and patted her cheeks. It was plain that he had taken to her, and that he would be happy here.
In the big gardens of the convent there were little children playing, and on the loggia there were infants in white cots. So many children, such a big family, and such a happy one, he thought.
‘The child will like it,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said the mother, ‘he will like it. You must not be anxious about him. Come to see him when you can.’
‘I will,’ he promised.
Because he would have to report to Josette, who would not be able to see him whilst she stayed at the sanatorium.
Quite sharply she turned and passed through the door into the street where the trams run. She bade no good-bye. He knew then that it hurt her to say farewell to the baby, and that she purposely avoided it. He did not mention it.
They went to the sanatorium last.
It was big and white like a palace. Its huge windows got all the sunshine, never had there been a finer palace they felt.
‘It is too grand,’ said Josette softly, as though she had become shy.
‘It is the place the doctor said that you were to come to.’ Jan was grateful that it was so grand. He wanted the best for her.
‘I shall be quite happy there, and soon I shall be well again; quite well,’ she said.
‘Yes, my sweet.’
They had forgotten the bambino now that they had come to the great gates of the sanatorium, with the gardens beyond where petunias and fuchsias blew together, and roses straggled across the outdoor sleeping shelters. He had had no idea that it would be so pleasant.
A nurse came to meet them.
She was young, she had a kind smile and an engaging way with her. Yes, she said, she was expecting Josette, she had had a long letter from the doctor. There were certain tests that they had to make, they would take a few days and they would not bother her at all. Of course she would get better, that was what she had come here for!
Have faith, Jan told himself, and he pressed the nails of his fingers sharply into the palms of his hands so that it hurt him. But he must get a grip on himself.
He saw the little room where Josette would lie. It was fit for a queen. From the windows there was a view of mountains, and the cascades, with the snowy peaks beyond.
‘It is very beautiful,’ he said.
‘And it will soon make her well,’ said the nurse.
She left them discreetly alone to say goodbye. Jan would be able to come up every day to see his wife if he wished, they were ready to welcome visitors, as long as they did not excite or tire the patient.
‘It won’t be for long,’ he said awkwardly, standing there facing Josette.
‘No,’ she said, ‘it won’t be for long.’
She looked so small, just as she had looked that night when she had pirouetted into the Golden Galleon in gold, and looking like a child!
Now there was so much that he wanted to tell her, but the words would not come. He had to leave things unsaid. Just take her into his arms, and hold her fast, and kiss her again and again, and murmur something quite unintelligent, but which both of them knew meant that he loved her very dearly, and that he would pray for her night and day until this waiting time was over.
‘I’ll be happy,’ she said.
He went to the door with that choked feeling in his throat, as though he could not bear a moment more of it. He turned to look back. Like a child she rose on to the points of her toes, for a moment she made an effort to dance, just to show him that hope was not dead, and that she believed she would be well again. Then she stopped, and blew him kisses.
‘As you said, Jan, it will not be for long.’
‘No, it will not be for long.’
He went outside.
III
The nurse in the corridor outside assured him that it would be an easy case because it had been caught so quickly. He went away almost happy. Now he must see about his own work. He made his way from the mountain-side down into the little town, and in the direction of the Papillon bleu. It stood in a square, where the lindens whispered together, and where there was a huge bed of petunias blowing in the wind. He liked the look of the square, and had high hopes that the restaurant itself would be attractive like the Golden Galleon.
But when he saw it he was bitterly disappointed. It was a tall dark building, with infrequent little windows, and with nothing to recommend it. The sign hung outside it, and rattled for it was swung on chains. He went inside the door, and was met by Monsieur, a man with a large paunch, and a silly little Imperial on his chin, and small furtive eyes.
Jan did not like him.
‘Ah, the doctor spoke of you,’ said Monsieur, ‘he said that you were a good waiter? Are you a good waiter? I only keep the very best waiters in my little establishment.’
He indicated it with a flourish of his arms.
Jan said that he was a good waiter.
It was obvious to him that Monsieur was not too anxious to engage him, even though the doctor had been a good patron in the past. Ultimately Monsieur agreed with a great deal of shoulder shrugging to allowing Jan to come for a time on approbation. One week, said Monsieur, wagging a long finger at him, one week, and if he were not a waiter of the very best quality, then it would indeed be sad for him!
Jan said that he was not afraid.
Very well, said Monsieur, but still watching him with those furtive slotted eyes of his, which somehow Jan did not trust. When would he start work, inquired Monsieur.
Jan said that he would start immediately. He could be on duty to-night. This made an impression on Monsieur, and by the night Jan had collected his luggage from Madame’s, and had found a cheap room for himself where he could live very economically, and he appeared at the restaurant to the very tick of the clock.
It was hard work.
For the first time he realized that he had been on clover in the hotel at Villefranche, and the Golden Galleon. Here Monsieur wanted his pound of flesh. The restaurant was darkish, its windows did not open easily and the air inside was stale and hard to breathe. There were tired ferns on the t
ables, and the menus were not fresh. In one corner a girl played a piano but she did not remind Jan of Matina, she was nothing of the madonna. She stooped as though she had sat there for years and found the work hard. She thudded out automatic tunes, without any sense of beauty. The whole place lacked beauty.
Jan was worn out with the long journey, he was anxious for the baby left in the arms of the quiet nuns, and for his wife in the sanatorium. He found it hard to concentrate on the orders, and to keep flying to and fro, with Monsieur for ever watching him through those furtive little eyes of his.
The evening will never pass, Jan told himself.
But it did pass!
Much later he came out into the street, and drank in a deep breath of air that was vivid, and strong, and keen, and which made him feel as though he was a new man. He went to the small cheap room that he had booked, it was almost a cupboard. It was set high up a tall staircase, which although poor and shabby, was very clean.
He lay down on the hard bed, but now he could not sleep. He had started on the great journey of his life; these were transition stages he told himself. Here he would rest for a time but only for a time. He would pass on. Whither? He could not think.
Maybe, he told himself, that she will be cured, and we shall go back to Amalia, and she will dance again, and there will be life and joy, and we shall love the life all the more because it was wrested from us for a time.
But he knew that was not true!
There was to be no returning. There was to be no going back.
IV
He did not distress Josette with the story of his adventures. He found her happy in the sanatorium. The doctors were kind to her, the nurses too. Soon, they said, she would be better, and able to walk in the gardens. She would gather flowers there, roses, and gentians which are blue with an incredible blueness. Maybe she would not stay long, not long enough to see the snows which melt, and the white crocuses which come in great fields to tell the world that spring is reborn.
They had made her very happy.
‘Soon I shall be well,’ said Josette joyously, ‘and we shall go back to Amalia, and I shall dance again.’
She leaned forward for information.
