Crescent City (23 page)

“So you were dancing with Perrin. Good. I want you to cultivate them,” Eugene said. “Invite them often; they’ll be living at a hotel for the next few months and they’ll be glad to come. Marie Claire’s a friend of yours anyway.”

She said faintly, “We’ve never been close, I hardly know her.”

“What difference does that make? It’s a contact that I want to encourage. He has connections all over the country and in Europe. Everywhere.”

Without knowing why, she was terribly afraid. Her control was ebbing. She had no hold on things, and she did not want to see André Perrin again.

By midnight the party was ending. Coachmen and footmen who had been playing marbles under the streetlamps now mounted the boxes and the carriages departed, leaving the quiet street under a murky sky.

“Let’s walk,” David said.

Gabriel fell in beside him. Sycamore leaves crackled dryly under their feet. There was a silence between them, carried over from the bickering of the early evening. When they passed the cathedral, soon to be rebuilt, Gabriel broke the silence.

“These distinctions between us mean very little in the end, David. It’s the principles of the faith that matter.” Saying so, Gabriel remembered that Miriam had used those very words only a few hours before.

“Principles! You talk of making changes in our form of worship, but you don’t change the very society in which we live. All this piety, and still the leaders of our Jewish community, the honored and respected, own slaves!”

“I do not own slaves,” Gabriel retorted.

“You live with your sister who does. And you are silent about it.”

Gabriel said coldly, “I would advise more silence on your part. Right now, in fact.”

As if to emphasize his meaning, a cat’s poignant cry startled the midnight stillness.

“Excuse me. You’re right,” David said suddenly. “I
don’t know why it is, but I always manage to turn the conversation around to the one thing that stands between us.” He glanced at his friend, whose profile under the streetlamps stood out with the aquiline gravity of a face on an ancient coin. “The truth is, Gabriel, I’m irritable, I’m worried, I’m not feeling good about anything. My sister worries me terribly. She’s miserable. You saw that tonight.”

“I know.”

David sighed. “A child, married off before she knows what living is all about, if one ever does know. Listen,” he said, grasping Gabriel’s elbow. “I shouldn’t ask and I’m not asking for anything about your client that I’ve no right to know. But is there anything you can tell me about my brother-in-law that I should know?”

Gabriel considered. All he could say about Eugene Mendes was that he was hardworking and shrewd in business, that he paid his bills and was truthful in his dealings.

He said only, “Mendes will never do anything that doesn’t befit his position in the community. He will follow the rules. He will maintain his house and family. He will be generous, but never extravagant.” Gabriel gave up. “The truth is, I don’t know anything more than you do.”

And again he saw Miriam’s Mideastern eyes, so passionate and mournful, eyes of Rebecca and Rachel, out of the biblical age.

“Have you ever thought,” David asked suddenly, “that there is a kind of slavery for women, too? It seems to me it must be very hard to be a woman.”

“Yes, I’ve thought so,” Gabriel said.

They walked together as far as David’s house, where they parted and Gabriel went on alone.

The fog, lifting, revealed a vast, mysterious oyster-colored
sky. Over the flat, silent city loomed the dark cupola of Charity Hospital. He walked slowly, in no hurry to reach home. When he put the key in the front door, he sensed that his sister was not yet home. Always the last to leave, she would have lingered at the party. She had a need for close companionship, a need which was lacking in himself. He wondered whether among her intimacies she had learned very much about Miriam Mendes. Probably not. And again he saw before him those passionate, suffering, lambent eyes.

Enough of this, he said sternly to himself. For a moment he stood in the hall, staring at nothing, then shook himself as if he were trying to shake off a burden, and climbed the stairs.

She lies awake in the sultry night. She lies, as she always does, at the very edge of the huge bed. The vacant hollow between her husband and herself is symbolic, she thinks; they are now totally apart. Thus it is that he has not noticed what has been happening to her during these many months and, satisfied that her appearance and behavior are “correct,” has looked no deeper. It comes to her mind that possibly something is really wrong with her, some poisoning of spirit, some seeping disease.

She is obsessed by André Perrin. He inhabits a permanent corner of her memory. His voice with its peculiar, slightly nasal timbre, repeats in her ear his most trivial phrases. Her eye recalls the blond hairs on his wrists, revealed by a too loose cuff. She remembers the kid-gloved hand on her back.

She reads a story to Angelique. Two plump, sleek curls dangle on either side of the child’s face; the mother twists the curls, drawing the child closer to her side, thinking
How sweet she is.
In the same moment she is thinking of André Perrin. In the marketplace she feels the melons, gray cantaloupes, netted and veined in darker green; when the ends give under the fingers, the flesh will be juicy and rosy. In the same moment she is thinking of André Perrin.

She counts the times she has seen him since their first meeting: Five times he has come home with Eugene for two o’clock dinner; there have been eighteen parties here and at other people’s houses; eight times they have met at the theater. Four times they have met on the street when he was walking with Marie Claire.

Isn’t it disgraceful that he should fill her mind? She has no right to these thoughts! He belongs to Marie Claire! They lie together at night, he with the remote and dreary Marie Claire. They lie together; his hands move wherever they want to move upon her body. Their arms and their mouths move wherever they want to move.

In the same way Eugene must lie with his woman. He lies now breathing heavily into the darkness; his heavy shoulders twitch in a dream.

What if Eugene were dead? What if Marie Claire were dead? What might happen then? Miriam throws the sheet back; she is suffocating with the heat and with these terrible guilty thoughts.

Why are you so unhappy? he asked me. I might have answered: Because my husband is not like you.

What can you know of me? he might have asked me then.

And I should have answered: How can three bars of music tear the heart with sorrow? How can a slow gray rain infuse the heart with delight? You see, there is no reason for any of these things.

She does not want to be alone with him ever again. Suppose some thought forms on her lips and sounds itself against her will? And now a horror seizes her. Someday, surely, that will happen. She will put out her hand and touch his arm in a way that will tell everything, or else her voice in making some ordinary remark will betray her.

In her dining room she places him far from herself
at the end of the table. Yet perversely, whenever she knows they are to meet, she takes particular pains with her dress. For years she has forgotten to be vain; probably the last time she had delighted in herself was at her first appearance at the opera, when Emma had taught her how to flutter a fan. Yet last week, buying a white straw bonnet heavy with lilacs, she wished that he might see her wearing it.

Occasionally she has met his glance. She knows he must remember her tears. Perhaps he wonders why she cried, or perhaps he thinks only that she is a weak and foolish woman, a spoiled and silly woman who ought to know better.

After all, your husband does not beat you, he—or anyone—might say.

Your children sleep safely under the solid roof.

How many women would not gladly change places with you?

First light breaks through the blinds and lies in stripes across the floor, striking the basket in the corner where Gabriel Carvalho’s dog lies still asleep, creeping across the marble tabletop where last night’s pearls lie coiled, to strike her at last full in the face, with the glare of another day.

On the riverboat going upstream, David stood at the rail, sorting out his thoughts. More than ever it was his sister who troubled those thoughts.

The perversity of human affairs! That after all this time he had come back to the South, and now it was she who wanted to go north!

Only a few months before, she had told him about her fantasy—and fantasy it was—he thought now, ruefully. She had told him, on that mild winter night, so much that he had felt the burden of it ever since.

On the way home from a late call, he had passed the Mendes’s darkened house and seen her sitting at a single light by the library window. He had stopped and mounted the steps.

“What are you doing up so late? And alone?” he’d asked.

“I couldn’t sleep. So I came downstairs again, that’s all.”

Her face was turned away, deliberately; not wanting him to see it, she allowed her hair to swing across her cheek. But her hands were clenched in her lap.

“What is it? What’s troubling you so that you can’t sleep?” he asked.

“Nothing. Nothing. I’m all right.”

“There’s always a reason why a person can’t sleep, you know.”

“You’re being a doctor,” she murmured, still turned away.

“Yes, but also your brother.” Her shoulders shook; she was making an effort not to weep.

He hesitated. They might have had a simple quarrel, just a bad day; women were often oversensitive; what was a tragedy tonight could easily be forgotten in morning light and morning smiles; he might do better minding his own business.

Yet something made him persist.

“I wish you’d tell me, Miriam. How will I be able to go home and sleep while all sorts of thoughts about you go pounding in my head?”

For a minute or two she did not answer. A shutter swung and creaked in the night wind. Gretel, asleep on the carpet, whimpered in her dream, and was still. The silence was stifling. And suddenly Miriam broke it. She whirled up from the chair and flung out her arms.

“I want … I want …” She gasped. “I want to get out of here! I despise it! There is no freedom, not only for the Negroes, but for anyone! There is a line, drawn so”—she drew a line with her foot—“and so, and over it one dares not walk. You have a position, you are Mrs. Whoever-it-may-be, and there are rules. Rule number one: Put on a good face, never let anybody know the truth about the way you live .…” Miriam’s lips trembled.

She frightened David. He stood up and grasped her hands.

“What are you saying? Is it as bad as that?”

“Yes, yes, you don’t know how I dream .… I have a daydream .… I’ll take the children, and then
you and I … we’ll run away from here, go north, into another world, and—”

“Miriam, there is no paradise in the North. True, there’s no Negro slavery, but there are other ills. People can be unhappy there, too. Isn’t that just common sense?”

She pulled away and covered her eyes, swaying a little as she stood, and then, as abruptly as she had flung herself out of the chair, she came to David and laid her head on his shoulder.

“I have been so unhappy! You can’t know .…”

“I can’t know unless you tell me, my dear.”

“Why did I marry Eugene? Why?” she whispered. “A fatal mistake! For him, too! There’s nothing—there’s nothing
there,
do you understand? There’s not one way that we belong together. Not one way! I don’t say it’s anyone’s fault, it just happened!” And she repeated, “Do you understand?”

He thought perhaps he did, but out of delicacy—she was, after all, his sister—could not say. He could only ask, helplessly, “No way at all? Nothing that can be done?”

Miriam shook her head.

“Perhaps if I … if someone … were to talk to you, perhaps both of you together, and find out …” Find out what? That there was no love? Or how to put it there where there wasn’t any? He did not expect a reply, and she gave none.

And trying to conceal his heartache, he said, “I don’t know what you can do, but I know one thing you can’t do. Miriam, my dear, you must put these thoughts of running away right out of your head, or they will fester and make things harder for you.”

“I thought,” she said weakly, “if Papa would give me some money—”

He interrupted sharply. “Papa would never give you
money to leave your husband, you know that. And how would you live up North? As a single woman, ostracized, and your children without a father? No, Miriam, you have to be practical.”

He heard himself speaking platitudes; despising the sound of them, he still knew them to be true and necessary. He held his sister’s hands, and went on with his advice, knowing it to be more compassionate to pacify her than to encourage her despairing rebellion.

“Read, educate yourself, work in your charities, tend to the children. Busyness is everything .…”

And all the time, as he spoke, he wondered whether by any chance there could be an even deeper reason for her misery, another man perhaps?

Now recalling that night, he sighed. His tiredness was not physical, he knew; it came from his nerves, vibrating like taut fence wire that sings in a strong wind. He was unable to help Miriam. More than that, he was leading two Uves, one of them clandestine. He feared the risks he was taking.

Leaning over the railing, he let the breeze cool his flushed cheeks. The history of the South was written along these riverbanks. Here and there on a bluff, a great house stood like a proud classic temple, while in the fields below, the hoe gangs toiled. Between the great houses lay the holdings of the little farmer, a couple of acres with a log house for the family and two or three cabins for the Negroes, beside whom their owner could be seen bent over in the cotton. At this season the distant woods were all in blossom, the dogwood white as stars, the hawthorn pink, and the forsythia like melting gold. In the foreground the road followed the river. Blue innocents grew wild in trailing patches, and brown cattle lay under the trees chewing their noon cud. An English landscape artist, a Constable, would make much of the innocent rural scene, and
for a moment David wished he could see it through such eyes alone.