Authors: Brian Moore
“Hello, Tom,” Peg said.
So he was not the boy friend.
“Sheila, this is Tom Lowry. Sheila Redden.”
“Hi,” he said, then turned to Peg. “I’m the bringer
of bad tidings, I’m afraid. Ivo’s put his back out again.”
“Oh no.”
He sat down, casually, his legs astride the café
chair, his arms resting on the chair back. He stared at Mrs.
Redden, then said to Peg, “He was on his way up here to join you,
but, a moment after he went out the door, I heard him yell and
found him in the courtyard all seized up.”
“He’ll blame me,” Peg said. “You’ll see.”
“No, no,” the boy said, but as he spoke he was no
longer looking at Peg, he was staring again at Mrs. Redden, making
her wonder if there was something wrong with her. She looked down
at her skirt, but it was not that. It’s my face he’s looking
at.
“So what should we do?” Peg asked.
“Why not come around to the flat? Ivo would like to
see you and I could give you a drink.”
“I don’t know,” Peg said. “Well, maybe if we just
pop in for a moment. Would that be all right with you, Sheila?”
“Yes, of course.” What else could she say? And,
wouldn’t you know, the moment she agreed, Peg was up on her feet
again, ignoring the cognacs, which were not even finished. “Wait,”
Mrs. Redden said. “I have to pay.”
“Let me get it”—this Tom Lowry said.
“No, no.” And so, after a fuss, Mrs. Redden paid,
and they found themselves going down a dark side street behind the
Marché Saint-Germain, Peg in hell’s own hurry, forging on ahead,
leaving her alone with the stranger. The first thing she thought
about him was that he was taller than she, which was a relief, but
still, from habit, she squinched down as she walked beside him. He
seemed the quiet type.
The Quiet American
, by Graham
Greene. But then she remembered that Quiet American was a sinister
sort of character.
“You’re from the North?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I thought I recognized a touch of Ulster. Are you
on a holiday?”
Other Yanks said “vacation.” He was different.
“Yes.”
“You’re here alone?”
She glanced at him, under the light of the street
lamp.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was just that Peg told me
something about you coming with your husband.”
“Oh. He’s joining me at Villefranche tomorrow.”
“So you’re only in Paris for one night?”
She nodded, and he did not speak again until they
reached his building, where Peg waited impatiently outside the
locked street door. As he took out his key to open it, Mrs. Redden
saw him glance at her again, much as she herself looked at people
when she was curious but didn’t want them to see it.
“Wait till I get the light,” he said, ushering them
into a pitch-black courtyard, fumbling somewhere, until a light
came on, a dim French contraption which only stayed lit long enough
to let them hurry across the courtyard to the ground-floor flat
where he lived. As he put the key in his own door, the light went
out again. He unlocked in darkness, then, entering, let them into a
brightly lit hall.
Very small, was her first impression of the flat.
There was a tiny neat kitchen on the right, a little bathroom, one
small bedroom in the back. A man’s dark suit jacket was hung over
the back of a chair in the hall, knife points of white handkerchief
sticking up from its breast pocket. They went into the little
sitting room where, lying on his back on the floor, was a very
good-looking man formally dressed in dark suit trousers, white
shirt, and red wool tie. Mrs. Redden thought of a dead person laid
out for a funeral.
“Good evening.” The man on the floor had a deep
foreign voice. “Excuse me, receiving you like this.”
“Oh, Ivo, dear,” Peg said, at once going down on one
knee beside him, running her fingers through his graying hair. That
is not a man who likes to have his hair tossed, Mrs. Redden
decided, as the man on the floor turned his head away from Peg.
“This is my friend Sheila Redden. Ivo Radie.”
The handsome man smiled at her and said he was
pleased to meet her. Tom Lowry came into the room with a bottle and
four thimble glasses. “Ah,” said Ivo. “Slivovitz. May we offer you
ladies a
digestif
?”
“Darling,” Peg said, “first let’s get you up and
onto your bed.”
“I prefer the floor. It is therapy.”
“Surely you’d be more comfortable sitting up?”
“If I do not lie flat, I will not be able to teach
tomorrow. And if I do not report for work, then
le Docteur
Laporte will again underpay me at the end of the month.”
“But you have a board in your bed. We’ll put you on
the bed and we’ll all sit in the bedroom.”
The handsome man laughed, unamused. “Your friend,”
he said to Mrs. Redden, “wants to run my life.”
“Ivo, please,” Peg said. “At least lie on the
settee.”
“The settee is too soft,” Ivo said. He kept smiling
at Mrs. Redden. “Did you have a pleasant journey from London,
Madame
?”
“I flew from Ireland, as a matter of fact.”
“Ah, Ireland.”
Tom Lowry began to hand around the thimble glasses.
Peg had risen from her kneeling posture and still stared at the man
on the floor, as though there were no other people in the room.
“Are you trying to tell me something, darling?” she said. “Are you
in a bad temper?”
“No, my dear, I am in a very good temper.”
“Well then, do get up.”
Tom Lowry, beckoning Mrs. Redden to a seat, smiled
as though to reassure her not to heed this tiff.
“It’s Sheila’s one night in Paris,” Peg went on. “It
can’t be much fun for her to sit here with you lying on the floor
like that.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Mrs. Redden said,
unwisely, and looked again at the Yugoslav: he had dark eyes; he
really was handsome, she decided, but at the same time he was one
of those men she was afraid of, the kind who looked as though they
might be cruel to you. He turned back to her now, smiling at her,
ignoring Peg, holding up his thimble glass of liqueur in a toast.
“
Nasdrovie
,” he said to Mrs. Redden. “And welcome to
Paris.”
All watched as he tried the impossible: to bring the
thimble glass to his lips and knock it back, without lifting his
head from the carpet. At the last second, a little of the liquid
trickled down the side of his mouth. Peg, who had retired to sit
dejectedly by the small writing desk, rose up at once, opened her
handbag, and took out a handkerchief, kneeling by him once more,
dabbing at his chin.
“Please!” he said, turning his head away. But she
insisted on finishing her task.
“How long have you had this flat?” Mrs. Redden asked
Tom Lowry.
“Oh, it’s Ivo’s place, really. He just lets me sleep
on the settee.”
“Well, I must say the pair of you are very
tidy.”
“Ivo, get up!” Peg said suddenly.
Ivo smiled, but did not move.
“All right, then. If you can’t receive visitors
properly, Sheila and I had better go home.”
Mrs. Redden looked at Ivo, saw the blood come up
under his skin. Peg turned to her. “Ready, Sheila?”
Mrs. Redden stood, embarrassed.
“You are flying on to the Riviera tomorrow,
Madame
?” Ivo asked.
“Yes. To Nice.”
“Ah, the land of sunshine. I cannot say as much for
this city. Gray, gray every day. It is no wonder people here cannot
keep their temper.”
“I am not in a bad temper,” Peg said. “But I’m going
home. Good night, Tom.”
“Thanks for the drink,” Mrs. Redden said to both
men.
“Not at all,” said the face on the floor, then
turned, basilisk, to Peg. “I apologize. You are in a
good
temper. It just pleases you to spoil my evening and perhaps this
lady’s evening as well.”
“Good night,” Peg said, turning and going out of the
room. Mrs. Redden smiled awkwardly at the men and went to
follow.
“I’ll show you out,” Tom Lowry said. “You’ll need
help with the courtyard light.”
“Good night,
Madame
,” Ivo said. “Enjoy the
sunshine.”
Light flooded the courtyard as though it were some
huge fish tank, revealing Peg hurrying, halfway across the open
space, impatient to be gone. They caught up with her by the locked
street door. “Listen,” Tom said. “Why don’t you go back and have a
word with him? I’ll take Sheila home.”
“No bloody fear. Sheila’s only night here, and that
selfish bastard has to put on an act.”
“Peg, if you don’t make up now, it will drag on for
weeks. Please, go back in there.”
The courtyard light went off. Tom Lowry disappeared
to find the switch. When the light flashed on again, Mrs. Redden
looked at Peg and saw she was wavering, so said, “Listen, go ahead.
I’ll walk down to the Atrium and wait for you there.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind? Oh, he doesn’t mean to
be such a pain in the neck. The bloody man can’t help himself. It’s
some sort of Yugoslav machismo nonsense.”
“Of course I don’t mind. Go on.”
“I’ll go with Sheila,” Tom Lowry said. “That way
you’ll have privacy. We’ll see you later at the Atrium.”
Peg smiled. “You’re both great.”
And so, minutes later, Mrs. Redden was walking down
a Paris street with this boy she had just met, the pair of them
beginning to laugh, helplessly.
“Ivo, get up!” Mrs. Redden cried.
“The land of sunshine!” he said, and they laughed.
She turned to him, seeing him toss his long dark hair, his eyes
shining, his walk eager, as though he and she were hurrying off to
some exciting rendezvous. And at once she was back in Paris in her
student days, as though none of the intervening years had happened,
those years of cooking meals, and buying Danny’s school clothes,
being nice to Kevin’s mother, and having other doctors and their
wives in for dinner parties, all that laundry list of events that
had been her life since she married Kevin.
“What part of America do you live in?” she asked
him.
“New York. Greenwich Village.”
“That’s the Left Bank part, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I was born there, as a matter of fact. My
father’s on the staff at Saint Vincent’s. It’s the big hospital in
the Village.”
“He’s a doctor, then?”
“Yes.”
“My brother’s a doctor,” she said. She did not
mention her husband.
At the Atrium, he led her to the rear of the café to
tables used by the regulars. “Listen,” he said, “it’s your first
day in Paris. Will you let me buy you some champagne?”
“Champagne? It’s far too expensive.”
“No, let me,” he said. “I feel like it. Please?”
“Buy me a Pernod.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m certain.”
He signaled the waiter. “
Deux Pernod
.”
“
Je suis désolé
,” the waiter said. “
Il
n’y a pas de Pernod. Je n’ai que du Ricard
.”
“
Ricard, ça va
,” she said. “
Au fait, je
le préfère
.”
“
Deux Ricard, alors
,” he told the waiter.
And then said to her, “I don’t know why I’m ordering. Your French
is better than mine.”
“It’s what I did at university.”
“Queen’s?”
“Yes. You were at Trinity, weren’t you? Under Hugh
Greer.”
“Yes, do you know him?”
“I did, years ago.” She saw Hugh as she said it,
stout, stammering, with trousers that always seemed too short for
him. “Did you do Anglo-Irish Lit. with Hugh? His Joyce-Yeats
show?”
“That’s right.”
“And what are you going to do now? Teach?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to take a year off to think
about it.”
“A year off? You must be rich.”
“No, there’s a job. A friend of mine runs a small
resort hotel in Vermont and he wants to go to Europe next year. I
used to work for him summers, and now I’m going to manage his place
for him while he’s gone. It’s a beautiful spot. Skiing in winter, a
lake in summer.”
“It sounds great.”
“Why don’t you come and visit me? As acting manager
I can offer you a special rate.”
She laughed. The waiter brought the Ricard and
poured water in their glasses, turning the liquid from yellow to
chalk. This boy, this stranger, picked up his glass and looked into
her eyes.
“
Sláinte
,” he said, using the Irish
toast.
“
Sláinte
,” she said, and, as they touched
glasses, his hand touched hers, and she knew, at last, how it must
be for the other person, for those men, over the years, who Kevin
said had a crush on her. Now she shared it. In the past, so often,
the crushes were a joke, like Pat Lawlor down at Mullen’s Garage
who, when she drove in for petrol, would pull a comb out of his
overalls and arrange his hair over his bald spot. Or the young
butcher at Kennedy & McCourt’s who would bully his other
customers to make up their minds so that he could get over to serve
her. But there had been times when it wasn’t funny. She always felt
shy when she talked to a strange man, especially if the man was
brainy. She would make an effort to be nice and men would respond,
and, sometimes, they would get a look in their eyes and begin to
flirt with her. There had never seemed much harm to it, until, two
years ago, suddenly Kevin accused her of “making eyes at men
without even knowing you’re doing it.” “That’s a rotten thing to
say,” she had replied. “And even if it were true, what’s wrong with
a little harmless flirtation?” “Harmless, my eye,” Kevin said.
“Brian Boland is a case in point. Anyone with an eye in their head
can see the play you make for him the minute he comes into a room.
Why, your voice even changes, you start aping his bloody Oxford
accent. Poor Bridget Boland loathes your guts, and I don’t blame
her one bit. You make an absolute fool of yourself.” “I do not,”
she said. “I like Brian, I
don’t
imitate his accent but he
has
been abroad, he’s interesting to talk to, he can talk
about something else besides Paisley and the Provos. But if that’s
the way you feel about it, I won’t even speak to him any more. The
Bolands are supposed to be
your
friends, so if you’re
worried, just don’t invite them.” Beginning to cry as she said it,
but Kevin kept after her, mimicking her, mimicking Brian’s English
accent, showing how she got excited when Brian talked about books,
and then Kevin started to sing “Dancing in the Dark,” making fun of
her, and it was the most awful, hateful, hurtful row, malicious he
was, he wouldn’t stop. But afterward she lay awake in the night
wondering if Kevin was right; was it true that what she thought of
as just being nice was leading a man on? And, after that, she went
out of her way to avoid Brian Boland, and if by any chance a man
started flirting with her, she would at once make some excuse and
move away. She did not want to give Kevin a chance to start in all
over again.