Matters of Honor (18 page)

My own plans for the summer were neither so grand nor so piquant as Henry’s. I knew that, after the semester ended, I would stay in Cambridge, at Madame Shouvaloff’s, in a room one of her graduate student boarders was vacating, until the first of August, when Dr. Reiner started his vacation, and if I went away from Cambridge I would have to return in time for my first appointment, two days after Labor Day. I wasn’t sure that my parents wanted me in Lenox. Even if it turned out that they did, I didn’t think I could endure them for more than ten days. George was planning to travel in Europe and, promising that he wouldn’t get into brawls, proposed that I join him for the last part of his trip, which would be in France. He would have a car, he said; we would have fun. I told him I was tempted, but didn’t dare to make yet another application for money to Mr. Hibble, and clearly I couldn’t expect any from my parents. That’s all right, said George. His parents had told him to invite me and they fully expected to take charge of everything. They had even picked two sailings, from New York to Cherbourg and back, that would get me to Cambridge on schedule.

Please don’t say no, he said. My father even asked me to tell you that he will take the blame if there is trouble at home about your not getting to Lenox.

I didn’t want to refuse. We decided to meet in Paris, which I would reach by the boat train.

It must have been just before the reading period that Henry told me of another development. Margot had called to tell him that she wanted to see him in his room. He asked her to meet him at the porter’s lodge, signed her in, and took her upstairs. Once they were in the living room, she said here, read it, and handed him an envelope with his name on it. Inside was a two-page letter of apology.

Are we friends again? she asked after he had read it.

He said, Of course we are.

Archie was out, he continued, and I didn’t expect him to return until late. Can you imagine it, first she kissed me and then we necked. Really necked, although I was very careful to let her lead and not get ahead of what she wanted. She stayed until seven, when I had to push her out the door. And she has been back.

I said that was wonderful; he must have learned a great deal from Madeleine that he could show her.

XVIII

G
EORGE’S APPETITE
for mercenary sex had not diminished. Even in a small city as sober as Reims, where we spent one night, he insisted, with the stubbornness of a little boy determined to play with another kid’s toy, on prowling neighborhoods he thought were promising, usually near the railroad station, in search of a bar or corner where the magical contact might be made. I would tag along up to the moment when he seemed poised to conclude the transaction and then return to the hotel room alone. Most often I was asleep by the time he got back, or pretended I was. Otherwise, he would sit down on my bed and describe in minute detail what he had gotten for however much he had paid. Playing dead, however, only postponed the report until the following morning. The one exception to my abstinence occurred in Paris. A cousin of May Standish’s and her husband invited us to dinner at the restaurant of the great hotel on Place Vendôme. Later, George and I had a nightcap at the bar. George’s cousin was the political officer at the embassy, and we discussed the gossip and propaganda—or so it seemed to me—that he had used to monopolize the conversation at dinner. He was convinced that the Communist insurgents in Indochina had to be stopped. Since the French were incapable of doing the job alone, it was our duty to support their effort with money and supplies. I asked whether that meant putting in our troops. If absolutely necessary, he told me, yes, but every effort should be made to limit it to special situations. We were lucky in that we had them in there doing the heavy lifting. George and I were both Francophiles and so instinctively enthusiastic about helping the French. But we believed in decolonization and had both read
Man’s Fate.
We wondered whether whoever the French and, indirectly, we were backing could be the equal of Ho Chi Minh. Were we betting on the right horse? It was difficult to debate these questions with George’s cousin. He knew too much, and his mind was made up. Our nightcap turned into a couple of drinks. A bit on an edge, we left the hotel by the rue Cambon entrance. Almost immediately we were propositioned. The specific service offered made me feel faint. I took hold of George’s arm for support and said, Let’s do it. We didn’t have far to walk. The maid’s room they called their studio was on the rue du Faubourg St. Honoré, up five flights and at the end of a long corridor painted battleship gray. In it was a double bed, a washstand, and a bidet. They were transvestites. When George said that we should go another round, changing partners, I agreed. We didn’t leave until early morning.

W
E WERE IN
R
EIMS
for the cathedral and because it seemed a good place to spend the night before visiting Verdun and the adjoining battlefields. From there we intended to go directly to Dijon but didn’t know whether we could make it in time for a late dinner if we did justice to Verdun. Over breakfast, George had been less exuberant than usual about how his evening had ended. I had more coffee while he studied the road map.

I have an idea, he said. What would you think if after Verdun we headed northwest instead of south and dropped in on Henry? The van Dammes might put us up for the night.

I looked at the map. Once we got to Verdun, it would be a short drive to Bayencourt. But could we do such a thing, both knowing about Henry and Madame van Damme? I thought I would be uncomfortable even if Henry hadn’t told me that he had spoken to George. As beneficiaries of Henry’s indiscretion, we would be looking at Henry and Madame van Damme through the prism of our guilty knowledge. And he would be aware of the low comedy being enacted.

Do you think we really should do it? I asked George. In view of the circumstances?

He turned red and said, I should have figured out that he would have told you. I nodded.

He thought about it and said, It was Henry’s idea to tell us, nobody made him.

I could see that Bayencourt and perhaps the opportunity for voyeurism as well tempted him. Then he shrugged and said, I guess it would shake up old Henry to see us pull in the drive or roll across the drawbridge. I bet they have one at the château. Let’s call ahead; he can always tell us not to come. Have you got their number?

I shook my head.

Too bad, George said. Sure would’ve liked to see her, but I think we had better concentrate on getting a good meal in Dijon.

H
ENRY ARRIVED IN
C
AMBRIDGE
on the last day of registration. We saw each other that evening during dinner at the house. It was my first meal there; I had been living at Madame Shouvaloff’s since returning from France, waiting for the dormitories and houses to open. In the meantime, I went to my appointments with Dr. Reiner. We made little progress that I could discern, but I was able to function. Whether this was due to his ministrations I couldn’t tell. I had managed to pick up the thread of the novel I had begun during the spring semester and had worked on it at Madame Shouvaloff’s until I left for France. Although I had my Olivetti with me, while traveling with George I got little done beyond taking notes and mapping out a few scenes. Having been admitted to Archie MacLeish’s writing class, a literary summit of sorts, I was relieved not to have bogged down just as the course was about to start. When I asked Henry how his summer had turned, he gave me a broad grin; he’d been given a regular day off each week, which he had used to go on long hikes, sometimes with his friend Denis, who was at Bayencourt for part of August. There couldn’t be a place more beautiful than the van Dammes’ part of the Ardennes, with its forests, fortified farms, and tiny villages where you could stop for a beer and a sandwich of fresh baguette and butter and local ham.

That’s nice, I said, but what about your romantic life?

He was less nervous about Madeleine this time—certainly he no longer felt he had wronged Monsieur van Damme. During their hikes, Denis became very voluble, confiding the secret of the harmony in his brother’s and Madeleine’s marriage: the brother’s mistress in Brussels. The mistress’s husband, an important politician, and Madeleine were au courant; in fact the two couples were on the best of terms, the affair being conducted with great discretion and dignity. As a result, Denis continued, his brother made few demands on Madeleine. At most, from time to time he exercised his conjugal rights; otherwise, she had her total freedom.

Hearing this, Henry said, made me nervous. I wondered whether he was trying to tell me that he knew about me and his sister-in-law. To smoke him out, I asked whether Madeleine also had affairs. He replied that she is the most secretive of women. There must be other men, he said, because she surely isn’t a lesbian, but there are no traces.

And Margot? I asked.

She hadn’t been to Bayencourt, Henry told me, although Etienne, who was now working for the family business in Paris, had come twice for the weekend. According to Madeleine, Margot was staying at her parents’ place in Cap Ferrat, where Etienne would spend his August vacation with her. This was not welcome news to Madeleine, who hoped that her son would find someone more suitable through the new connections he was making in Paris. Henry said nothing about where he stood with Margot. I supposed that he hardly knew; they wouldn’t have had the chance since the summer to see each other.

Henry’s being a senior, absorbed by his courses and beginning to work on his honors thesis, led to our spending less time together. George wasn’t an honors candidate, but he was going out with Edie Bowditch, a Radcliffe freshman, and what with Edie, the crew, and classes, he too was short of time. I liked Edie. Without repeating herself, she talked a mile a minute, saying whatever came into her mind on her great subject, the milieu of old New York families—her parents’ milieu—about which I knew nothing that I hadn’t read in Edith Wharton. But she was deadly serious about her work and not losing George’s attention. Those twin occupations at best allowed us to have coffee together after our respective eleven o’clock classes. That left Tom Peabody, Jack Merton, and Archie as people I saw most frequently. As soon as the surgeon gave me permission, Archie and I resumed our squash games, Archie showing remarkable patience about letting me get back in form. I had the feeling that he was more relaxed when we were together than in the past, probably taking my breakdown as proof that I wasn’t quite right in the head. That must have taken some of the sting out of the air of disapproval I had worn during our freshman year. I too had relaxed, though my new attitude toward him was closer to tolerance than to approval. We went to the movies, and in the course of one of those evenings he told me that he couldn’t use his room during parietal hours. Margot’s visits had become a daily occurrence, and Henry was much happier if he could have the suite to himself.

Soon after Thanksgiving, the
Atlantic Monthly
accepted for publication an excerpt from my unfinished novel. It ran in the February issue. I would never have dared to submit it; Professor MacLeish all but ordered me to put it in the mail together with his letter of recommendation. At first the news of the acceptance, and then the actual appearance of the excerpt, had a variety of consequences some of which I found comical. For instance, Dr. Reiner told me at the end of a session that his wife, who read the
Atlantic
and was a connoisseur of fiction, had found my writing accomplished. This was the first time he had ever alluded to her existence or had any conversation with me other than in the line of business, usually to rebuff my questions or to prod me to work harder on themes we were developing. He never indicated whether he himself had read my piece, but I thought that I detected in his manner a new interest in me that wasn’t exclusively professional. I wondered whether he had told his wife that I was his patient. Also, Henry extended, on behalf of his parents, an invitation to visit them at Christmas. He said, My mother is determined to have Mr. Roommate, the future famous author, as her guest. As an added attraction, he told me Margot would surely organize a dinner or cocktails with her parents.

I had not seen Mr. and Mrs. White since the dinner at Henri IV, when we had celebrated Henry’s birthday, but I had been thinking about them, occasionally feeling nostalgic about the telephone conversations with Mrs. White and even my role as an answering service and buffer between mother and son. I had also asked myself whether, given her combative nature, she held it against me that I decided not to room with Henry and Archie after our freshman year. Apparently she didn’t, or had forgiven me, perhaps realizing that subsequent events, New Orleans and my breakdown, would have in any case upset any arrangement we had made to live together. Of course, there was no telling what Mrs. White knew; it was a good bet that New Orleans and my depression both fell into the category of information that Henry did not reveal to his parents or had heavily censored. I had no plans for the holidays, except that I didn’t intend to spend Christmas Eve or Christmas at home. This was a cruel decision; I realized that my absence at the few parties we had normally attended as a family would embarrass my parents and perhaps wound them as well, but I was going to stick to it, and offer as a salve a few days at home after Christmas. I accepted the Whites’ invitation and burned my bridges. Archie was going home to Houston and offered to lend Henry his car. It was no longer the Nash. After a debutante party, he had driven it into the stone gatepost of a North Shore estate. It was a freak accident: the engine block cracked, but, miraculously, neither he nor the Argentine beauty who was his date was hurt. By way of an ex voto, Mrs. Palmer gave him a Chevrolet convertible, which, Archie said, she believed had better pickup. How that would prevent future collisions, or might have prevented the one in Beverly, was left unexplained.

On the way to New York I discovered that Henry too was a dangerous driver, crossing the solid line to pass on two-lane highways and coming into tollbooths at full tilt as though he intended to crash through a barrier. I knew that any remarks about slowing down, keeping his eyes on the road when he talked to me, staying in his lane, or the like would only make matters worse; he would feel challenged and set about showing me what he was really capable of. It was best to find a neutral subject for conversation. He had told me to pack a dinner jacket for the evening at the Hornungs. This gave me an opening to find out about him and Margot, and I asked why we needed to be in black tie if he hadn’t had to dress for his first dinner at Margot’s parents’. He said that was right; he had forgotten to tell me that we were going to the Hornungs’ annual New Year’s Eve party. They hadn’t been sure that the party could be given this time. One of their oldest friends was sick, and they had felt obliged to wait to see whether she would take a turn for the worse. A few days ago the doctors assured them that she was getting better, and they didn’t have to risk having music in the house as she lay dying or dead.

I remarked that there was something ghoulish about this sort of calculation. Henry laughed and told me he had said just that to Margot, who got huffy and, speaking through her nose, assured him that it was done all the time: when people have sick relatives and they are planning a wedding or a coming-out party. Apropos of wedding plans, I asked whether any were likely for Margot and Etienne. He didn’t answer at first and then confessed that he really didn’t know. He understood Margot less and less, although they saw each other all the time, practically every day.

To be very specific, he continued, we haven’t done it yet, but it’s almost as though we had. I still let her lead—wherever that takes us. She’s satisfied, there is no question about it. As for me, it’s paradise.

As good as with Madame van Damme?

He gave me a dirty look and veered into the middle lane to pass the car ahead of us with not a moment to spare.

Yes, he said, as good as with Madeleine. It’s different, that’s all. What I’ve just told you about is part of the reason I don’t understand Margot. She and Etienne still write to each other all the time. He’s coming to Boston right after exams to speak at some kind of seminar about European banking at the business school, and she’s already told me that while he is here she won’t be seeing me. Perhaps I am some sort of avocation for her.