ire in her eyes.
But evidently she was a bit cowed, too, for it subsided quickly. However, as
she sat down at the cafe she said quietly and grimly that he needn't think
it was going to be forgotten so quickly; he'd hear more about it later on
... perhaps to-night.
And sure enough she kept her word. When I met him the next day his face and
hands were all scratched up. Seems she had waited until he got to bed and
then, without a word, she had gone to the wardrobe and, dumping all his
things out on the floor, she took them one by one and tore them to ribbons.
As this had happened a number of times before, and as she had always sewn
them up afterwards, he hadn't protested very much. And that made her
angrier than ever. What she wanted was to get her nails into him, and she
did, to the best of her ability. Being pregnant she had a certain advantage
over him.
Poor Fillmore! It was no laughing matter. She had him terrorized. If he
threatened to run away she retorted by a threat to kill him. And she said it
as if she meant it. "If you go to America," she said, "I'll follow you! You
won't get away from me. A French girl always knows how to get vengeance."
And the next moment she would be coaxing him to be "reasonable," to be
"sage," etc. Life would be so nice once they had the stationery store.
He wouldn't have to do a stroke of work. She would do everything. He could
stay in back of the store and write -- or whatever he wanted to do.
It went on like this, back and forth, a seesaw, for a few weeks or so. I was
avoiding them as much as possible, sick of the affair and disgusted with the
both of them. Then one fine summer's day, just as I was passing the Credit
Lyonnais, who comes marching down the steps but Fillmore. I greeted him
warmly, feeling rather guilty because I had dodged him for so long. I asked
him, with more than ordinary curiosity, how things were going. He answered
me rather vaguely and with a note of despair in his voice.
"I've just gotten permission to go to the bank," he said, in a peculiar,
broken, abject sort of way. "I've got about half an hour, no more. She keeps
tabs on me." And he grasped my arm as if to hurry me away from the spot.
We were walking down towards the Rue de Rivoli. It was a beautiful day,
warm, clear, sunny -- one of those days when Paris is at its best. A mild
pleasant breeze blowing, just enough to take that stagnant odor out of your
nostrils. Fillmore was without a hat. Outwardly he looked the picture of
health -- like the average American tourist who slouches along with money
jingling in his pockets.
"I don't know what to do any more," he said quietly. "You've got to do
something for me. I'm helpless. I can't get a grip on myself. If I could
only get away from her for a little while perhaps I'd come round all right.
But she won't let me out of her sight. I just got permission to run to the
bank -- I had to draw some money. I'll walk around with you a bit and then I
must hurry back -- she'll have lunch waiting for me."
I listened to him quietly, thinking to myself that he did need someone to
pull him out of the hole he was in. He had completely caved in, there wasn't
a speck of courage left in him. He was just like a child -- like a child who
is beaten every day and doesn't know any more how to behave, except to cower
and cringe. As we turned under the colonnade of the Rue de Rivoli he burst
out into a long diatribe against France. He was fed up with the French. "I
used to rave about them," he said, "but that was all literature. I know them
now ... I know what they're really like. They're cruel and mercenary. At
first it seems wonderful, because you have a feeling of being free. After a
while it palls on you. Underneath it's all dead: there's no feeling, no
sympathy, no friendship. They're selfish to the core. The most selfish people
on earth! They think of nothing but money, money, money. And so god-damned
respectable, so bourgeois! That's what drives me nuts. When I see her mending
my shirts I could club her. Always mending, mending. Saving, saving. Faut
faire des economies! That's all I hear her say all day long. You hear it
everywhere. Sois raisonnable, mon cheri! Sois raisonnable! I don't
want to be reasonable and logical. I hate it! I want to bust loose, I want to
enjoy myself. I want to do something. I don't want to sit in a care
and talk all day long. Jesus, we've got our faults -- but we've got
enthusiasm. It's better to make mistakes than not do anything. I'd rather be
a bum in America than to be sitting pretty here. Maybe it's because I'm a
Yankee. I was born in New England and I belong there, I guess. You can't
become a European overnight. There's something in your blood that makes you
different. It's the climate -- and everything. We see things with different
eyes. We can't make ourselves over, however much we admire the French. We're
Americans and we've got to remain Americans. Sure, I hate those puritanical
buggers back home -- I hate 'em with all my guts. But I'm one of them myself.
I don't belong here. I'm sick of it."
All along the arcade he went on like this. I wasn't saying a word. I let
him spill it all out -- it was good for him to get it off his chest. Just the
same, - I was thinking how strange it was that this same guy, had it been a
year ago, would have been beating his chest like a gorilla and saying:
"What a marvellous day! What a country! What a people!" And if an American
had happened along and said one word against France Fillmore would have
flattened his nose. He would have died for France -- a year ago. I never saw
a man who was so infatuated with a country, who was so happy under a foreign
sky. It wasn't natural. When he said France it meant wine, women,
money in the pocket, easy come, easy go. It meant being a bad boy, being on
a holiday. And then, when he had had his fling, when the tent-top blew off
and he had a good look at the sky, he saw that it wasn't just a circus, but
an arena, just like everywhere. And a damned grim one. I often used to
think, when I heard him rave about glorious France, about liberty and all
that crap, what it would have sounded like to a French workman, could he
have understood Fillmore's words. No wonder they think we're all crazy. We
are crazy to them. We're just a pack of children. Senile idiots.
What we call life is a five-and-ten-cent store romance. That enthusiasm
underneath -- what is it? That cheap optimism which turns the stomach of any
ordinary European? It's illusion. No, illusion's too good a word for it.
Illusion means something. No, it's not that -- it's delusion. It's
sheer delusion, that's what. We're like a herd of wild horses with blinders
over our eyes. On the rampage. Stampede. Over the precipice. Bango! Anything
that nourishes violence and confusion. On! On! No matter where. And foaming
at the lips all the while. Shouting Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Why? God
knows. It's in the blood. It's the climate. It's a lot of things. It's the
end, too. We're pulling the whole world down about our ears. We don't know
why. It's our destiny. The rest is plain shit....
At the Palais Royal I suggested that we stop and have a drink. He hesitated
a moment. I saw that he was worrying about her, about the lunch, about the
bawling out he'd get.
"For Christ's sake," I said, "forget about her for a while. I'm going to
order something to drink and I want you to drink it. Don't worry, I'm going
to get you out of this fucking mess." I ordered two stiff whiskies.
When he saw the whiskies coming he smiled at me just like a child again.
"Down it!" I said, "and let's have another. This is going to do you good. I
don't care what the doctor says -- this time it'll be all right. Come on,
down with it!"
He put it down all right and while the garcon disappeared to fetch
another round he looked at me with brimming eyes, as though I were the last
friend in the world. His lips were twitching a bit, too. There was something
he wanted to say to me and he didn't quite know how to begin. I looked at
him easily, as though ignoring the appeal and, shoving the saucers aside, I
leaned over on my elbow and I said to him earnestly: "Look here, Fillmore,
what is it you'd really like to do? Tell me!"
With that the tears gushed up and he blurted out: "I'd like to be home with
my people. I'd like to hear English spoken." The tears were streaming down
his face. He made no effort to brush them away. He just let everything gush
forth. Jesus, I thought to myself, that's fine to have a release like that.
Fine to be a complete coward at least once in your life. To let go that way.
Great! Great! It did me so much good to see him break down that way that I
felt as though I could solve any problem. I felt courageous and resolute. I
had a thousand ideas in my head at once.
"Listen," I said, bending still closer to him, "if you mean what you said
why don't you do it ... why don't you go? Do you know what I would do, if I
were in your shoes? I'd go to-day. Yes, by Jesus, I mean it ... I'd go right
away, without even saying good-bye to her. As a matter of fact that's the
only way you can go -- she'd never let you say good-bye. You know that."
The garcon came with the whiskies. I saw him reach forward with a
desperate eagerness and raise the glass to his lips. I saw a glint of hope
in his eyes -- far-off, wild, desperate. He probably saw himself swimming
across the Atlantic. To me it looked easy, simple as rolling off a log. The
whole thing was working itself out rapidly in my mind. I knew just what each
step would be. Clear as a bell, I was.
"Whose money is that in the bank?" I asked. "Is it her father's or is it
yours?"
"It's mine!" he exclaimed. "My mother sent it to me. I don't want any of her
god-damned money."
"That's swell!" I said. "Listen, suppose we hop a cab and go back there. Draw
out every cent. Then we'll go to the British Consulate and get a visa. You're
going to hop the train this afternoon for London. From London you'll take the
first boat to America. I'm saying that because then you won't be worried
about her trailing you. She'll never suspect that you went via London. If she
goes searching for you she'll naturally go to Le Havre first, or
Cherbourg.... And here's another thing -- you're not going back to get your
things. You're going to leave everything here. Let her keep them. With that
French mind of hers she'll never dream that you scooted off without bag or
baggage. It's incredible. A Frenchman would never dream of doing a thing like
that ... unless he was as cracked as you are."
"You're right!" he exclaimed. "I never thought of that. Besides, you might
send them to me later on -- if she'll surrender them! But that doesn't matter
now. Jesus, though, I haven't even got a hat!"
"What do you need a hat for? When you get to London you can buy everything
you need. All you need now is to hurry. We've got to find out when the train
leaves."
"Listen," he said, reaching for his wallet, "I'm going to leave everything
to you. Here, take this and do whatever's necessary. I'm too weak.... I'm
dizzy."
I took the wallet and emptied it of the bills he had just drawn from the
bank. A cab was standing at the curb. We hopped in. There was a train
leaving the Gare du Nord at four o'clock, or thereabouts. I was figuring it
out -- the bank, the Consulate, the American Express, the station. Fine! Just
about make it.
"Now buck up!" I said, "and keep your shirt on! Shit, in a few hours you'll
be crossing the channel. Tonight you'll be walking around in London and
you'll get a good bellyful of English. tomorrow you'll be on the open sea --
and then, by Jesus, you're a free man and you needn't give a fuck what
happens. By the time you get to New York this'll be nothing more than a bad
dream."
This got him so excited that his feet were moving convulsively, as if he were
trying to run inside the cab. At the bank his hand was trembling so that he
could hardly sign his name. That was one thing I couldn't do for him -- sign
his name. But I think, had it been necessary, I could have sat him on the
toilet and wiped his ass. I was determined to ship him off, even if I had to
fold him up and put him in a valise.
It was lunch hour when we got to the British Consulate, and the place was
closed. That meant waiting until two o'clock. I couldn't think of anything
better to do, by way of killing time, than to eat. Fillmore, of course,
wasn't hungry. He was for eating a sandwich. "Fuck that!" I said. "You're
going to blow me to a good lunch. It's the last square meal you're going to
have over here -- maybe for a long while." I steered him to a cosy little
restaurant and ordered a good spread. I ordered the best wine on the menu,
regardless of price or taste. I had all his money in my pocket -- oodles of it,
it seemed to me. Certainly never before had I had so much in my fist at one
time. It was a treat to break a thousand-franc note. I held it up to the
lights first to look at the beautiful watermark. Beautiful money! One of the
few things the French make on a grand scale. Artistically done, too, as if
they cherished a deep affection even for the symbol.
The meal over, we went to a cafe. I ordered Chartreuse with the coffee. Why
not? And I broke another bill -- a five-hundred-franc note this time. It was a
clean, new, crisp bill. A pleasure to handle such money. The waiter handed me
back a lot of dirty old bills that had been patched up with strips of gummed
paper; I had a stack of five and ten-franc notes and a bagful of chicken
feed. Chinese money, with holes in it. I didn't know in which pocket to stuff
the money any more. My trousers were bursting with coins and bills. It made
me slightly uncomfortable also, hauling all that dough out in public. I was
afraid we might be taken for a couple of crooks.
When we got to the American Express, there wasn't a devil of a lot of time
left. The British, in their usual fumbling, farting way, had kept us on
pins and needles. Here everybody was sliding around on castors. They were so
speedy that everything had to be done twice. After all the checks were
signed and clipped together in a neat little holder, it was discovered that
he had signed in the wrong place. Nothing to do but start all over again. I
stood over him, with one eye on the clock, and watched every stroke of the
pen. It hurt to hand over the dough. Not all of it, thank God -- but a good
part of it. I had roughly about 2,500 francs in my pocket. Roughly, I say. I
wasn't counting by francs any more. A hundred, or two hundred, more or
less -- it didn't mean a god-damned thing to me. As for him, he was going
through the whole transaction in a daze. He didn't know how much money he
had. All he knew was that he had to keep something aside for Ginette. He
wasn't certain yet how much -- we were going to figure that out on the way to
the station.
In the excitement we had forgotten to change all the money. We were already
in the cab, however, and there wasn't any time to be lost. The thing was to
find out how we stood. We emptied our pockets quickly and began to whack it
up. Some of it was lying on the floor, some of it was on the seat. It was
bewildering. There was French, American and English money. And all that
chicken feed besides. I felt like picking up the coins and chucking them out
of the window -- just to simplify matters. Finally we sifted it all out; he
held on to the English and American money, and I held on to the French
money.
We had to decide quickly now what to do about Ginette -- how much to give her,
what to tell her, etc. He was trying to fix up a yam for me to hand her --
didn't want her to break her heart and so forth. I had to cut him short.
"Never mind what to tell her," I said. "Leave that to me. How much are you
going to give her, that's the thing? Why give her anything?"
That was like setting a bomb under his ass. He burst into tears. Such tears!
It was worse than before. I thought he was going to collapse on my hands.
Without stopping to think, I said: "All right, let's give her all this
French money. That ought to last her for a while."
"How much is it?" he asked feebly. "I don't know -- about 2,000 francs or so.
More than she deserves anyway."
"Christ! Don't say that!" he begged. "After all, it's a rotten break I'm
giving her. Her folks'll never take her back now. No, give it to her. Give
her the whole damned business.... I don't care what it is."
He pulled a handkerchief out to wipe the tears away. "I can't help it," he
said. "It's too much for me." I said nothing. Suddenly he sprawled himself
out full length -- I thought he was taking a fit or something -- and he said:
"Jesus, I think I ought to go back. I ought to go back and face the music. If
anything should happen to her I'd never forgive myself." That was a rude jolt
for me. "Christ!" I shouted, "you can't do that! Not now. It's too late.
You're going to take the train and I'm going to tend to her myself. I'll go
see her just as soon as I leave you. Why, you poor boob, if she ever thought
you had tried to run away from her she'd murder you, don't you realize that?
You can't go back any more. It's settled."
Anyway, what could go wrong? I asked myself. Kill herself? Tant
mieux.
When we rolled up to the station we had still about twelve minutes to kill.
I didn't dare to say good-bye to him yet. At the last minute, raided as he
was, I could see him jumping off the train and scooting back to her.
Anything might swerve him. A straw. So I dragged him across the street to a
bar and I said: "Now you're going to have a Pernod -- your last Pernod
and I'm going to pay for it ... with your dough."
Something about this remark made him look at me uneasily. He took a big
gulp of the Pernod and then, turning to me like an injured dog, he said: "I
know I oughtn't to trust you with all that money, but... but.... Oh, well,
do what you think best. I don't want her to kill herself, that's all."
"Kill herself?" I said. "Not her! You must think a hell of a lot of
yourself if you can believe a thing like that. As for the money, though I
hate to give it to her, I promise you I'll go straight to the post office
and telegraph it to her. I wouldn't trust myself with it a minute longer
than is necessary." As I said this I spied a bunch of post cards in a
revolving rack. I grabbed one off -- a picture of the Eiffel Tower it was --
and made him write a few words. "Tell her you're sailing now. Tell her you
love her and that you'll send for her as soon as you arrive.... I'll send it
by pneumatique when I go to the post office. And tonight I'll see her.
Everything'll be Jake, you'll see."
With that we walked across the street to the station. Only two minutes to
go. I felt it was safe now. At the gate I gave him a slap on the back and
pointed to the train. I didn't shake hands with him -- he would have slobbered
all over me. I just said: "Hurry! She's going in a minute." And with that I
turned on my heel and marched off. I didn't even look round to see if he was
boarding the train. I was afraid to.
x x x
I hadn't really thought, all the while I was bundling him off, what I'd do
once I was free of him. I had promised a lot of things -- but that was only
to keep him quiet. As for facing Ginette, I had about as little courage for
it as he had. I was getting panicky myself. Everything had happened so
quickly that it was impossible to grasp the nature of the situation in full.
I walked away from the station in a kind of delicious stupor -- with the post
card in my hand. I stood against a lamp-post and read it over. It sounded
preposterous. I read it again, to make sure that I wasn't dreaming, and then
I tore it up and threw it in the gutter.
I looked around uneasily, half expecting to see Ginette coming after me with
a tomahawk. Nobody was following me. I started walking leisurely towards
the Place Lafayette. It was a beautiful day, as I had observed earlier.
Light, puffy clouds above, sailing with the wind. The awnings flapping.
Paris had never looked so good to me; I almost felt sorry that I had shipped
the poor bugger off. At the Place Lafayette I sat down facing the church and
stared at the clock tower; it's not such a wonderful piece of architecture,
but that blue in the dial face always fascinated me. It was bluer than ever
to-day. I couldn't take my eyes off it.
Unless he were crazy enough to write her a letter, explaining everything,
Ginette need never know what had happened. And even if she did learn that he
had left her 2,500 francs or so she couldn't prove it. I could always say
that he imagined it. A guy who was crazy enough to walk off without even a
hat was crazy enough to invent the 2,500 francs, or whatever it was. How much
was it, anyhow, I wondered. My pockets were sagging with the weight of it. I
hauled it all out and counted it carefully. There was exactly 2,875 francs
and 35 centimes. More than I had thought. The 75 francs and 35 centimes had
to be gotten rid of. I wanted an even sum -- a clean 2,800 francs. Just then
I saw a cab pulling up to the curb. A woman stepped out with a white poodle
dog in her hands; the dog was peeing over her silk dress. The idea of taking
a dog for a ride got me sore. I'm as good as her dog, I said to myself, and
with that I gave the driver a sign and told him to drive me through the Bois.
He wanted to know where exactly. "Anywhere," I said. "Go through the Bois, go
all around it -- and take your time, I'm in no hurry." I sank back and let
the houses whizz by, the jagged roofs, the chimney pots, the colored walls,
the urinals, the dizzy carrefours. Passing the Rond-Point I thought
I'd go downstairs and take a leak. No telling what might happen down there. I
told the driver to wait. It was the first time in my life I had let a cab
wait while I took a leak. How much can you waste that way? Not very much.
With what I had in my pocket I could afford to have two taxis waiting for me.
I took a good look around but I didn't see anything worth while. What I
wanted was something fresh and unused -- something from Alaska or the Virgin
Islands. A clean fresh pelt with a natural fragrance to it. Needless to say,
there wasn't anything like that walking about. I wasn't terribly
disappointed. I didn't give a fuck whether I found anything or not. The
thing is, never to be too anxious. Everything comes in due time.
We drove on past the Arc de Triomphe. A few sightseers were loitering
around the remains of the Unknown Soldier. Going through the Bois I looked
at all the rich cunts promenading in their limousines. They were whizzing
by as if they had some destination. Do that, no doubt, to look important -- to
show the world how smooth run their Rolls Royces and their Hispano Suizas.
Inside me things were running smoother than any Rolls Royce ever ran. It was
just like velvet inside. Velvet cortex and velvet vertebrae. And velvet axle
grease, what! It's a wonderful thing, for half an hour, to have money in
your pocket and piss it away like a drunken sailor. You feel as though the
world is yours. And the best part of it is, you don't know what to do with
it. You can sit back and let the meter run wild, you can let the wind blow
through your hair, you can stop and have a drink, you can give a big tip,
and you can swagger off as though it were an everyday occurrence. But you
can't create a revolution. You can't wash all the dirt out of your
belly.
When we got to the Porte d'Auteuil I made him head for the Seine. At the
Pont de Sevres I got out and started walking along the river, toward the
Auteuil Viaduct. It's about the size of a creek along here and the trees come
right down to the river's bank. The water was green and glassy, especially
near the other side. Now and then a scow chugged by. Bathers in tights were
standing in the grass sunning themselves. Everything was close and
pal-pitant, and vibrant with the strong light.
Passing a beer garden I saw a group of cyclists sitting at a table. I took a
seat nearby and ordered a demi. Hearing them jabber away I thought
for a moment of Ginette. I saw her stamping up and down the room, tearing
her hair, and sobbing and bleating, in that beast-like way of hers. I saw
his hat on the rack. I wondered if his clothes would fit me. He had a raglan
that I particularly liked. Well, by now he was on his way. In a little while
the boat would be rocking under him. English! He wanted to hear English
spoken. What an idea!
Suddenly it occurred to me that if I wanted I could go to America myself. It
was the first time the opportunity had ever presented itself. I asked
myself -- "do you want to go?" There was no answer. My thoughts drifted out,
towards the sea, towards the other side where, taking a last look back, I
had seen the skyscrapers fading out in a flurry of snowflakes. I saw them
looming up again, in that same ghostly way as when I left. Saw the lights
creeping through their ribs. I saw the whole city spread out, from Harlem to
the Battery, the streets choked with ants, the elevated rushing by, the
theatres emptying. I wondered in a vague way what had ever happened to my
wife.
After everything had quietly sifted through my head a great peace came over
me. Here, where the river gently winds through the girdle of hills, lies a
soil so saturated with the past that however far back the mind roams one can
never detach it from its human background. Christ, before my eyes there
shimmered such a golden peace that only a neurotic could dream of turning
his head away. So quietly flows the Seine that one hardly notices its
presence. It is always there, quiet and unobtrusive, like a great artery
running through the human body. In the wonderful peace that fell over me it
seemed as if I had climbed to the top of a high mountain; for a little while
I would be able to look around me, to take in the meaning of the landscape.
Human beings make a strange fauna and flora. From a distance they appear
negligible; close up they are apt to appear ugly and malicious. More than
anything they need to be surrounded with sufficient space -- space even more
than time.
The sun is setting. I feel this river flowing through me -- its past, its
ancient soil, the changing climate. The hills gently girdle it about: its
course is fixed.
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