Quiet Days in Clichy (9 page)

By the time the meal was over Carl felt so good that he decided to have a little snooze. When I saw that he had fallen sound asleep I paid my respects to Eliane and polted. I had no particular desire to go anywhere; I strolled over to the Etoile, which was only a few blocks away, and then instinctively headed down the Champs-Elysees in the direction of the Tuileries, thinking to stop somewhere along the line and have a black coffee. I felt mellow, expansive and at peace with the world. The glitter and frou-frou of the Champs-Elysées contrasted strangely with the atmosphere of the courtyard, where the baby carriage was still parked. I was not only well fed, well oiled, but well shod and well groomed, for a change. I remember having paid to have my shoes shined earlier in the day.

Strolling along the broad boulevard, I suddenly recalled my first visit to the
Champs-Elysées, some five or six years previous. I had been to the cinema and, feeling rather good, I had struck out for the Champs-Elysées to have a quiet drink before turning in. At a little bar on one of the side streets I had had several drinks all by myself. While drinking I had taken to thinking of an old friend of mine in Brooklyn, and how wonderful it would be if he were with me. I carried on quite a conversation with him, in my mind; in fact, I was still talking to him as I swung into the Champs-Elysées. Somewhat cockeyed, and extremely exalted, I was bewildered when I saw all the trees. I looked about in puzzled fashion, then made a bee-line for the café lights. As I neared the Marignan an attractive-looking whore, brisk, voluble, domineering, grabbed my arm and started to accompany me. I knew only about ten words of French then and, what with the dazzling lights, the profusion of trees, the spring fragrance and the warm glow inside me, I was completely helpless. I knew I was in for it. I knew I was going to be trimmed. Lamely I tried to call a halt, tried to come to some understanding with her. I
remember that we were standing directly in front of the
terrasse
of the Marignan, which was alive and swarming with people. I remember that she got between me and the crowd and, keeping up a patter which was altogether beyond me, unbuttoned my overcoat and made a grab for it. All this while making the most suggestive grimaces with her lips. Any feeble resistance I had intended to offer broke down at once. In a few minutes we were in a hotel room and before I could say Gallagher, she was sucking me off in expert fashion, having stripped me first of everything but the loose change in my coat pocket.

I was thinking of this incident and of the ludicrous trips to the American Hospital in Neuilly some few days later (to cure an imaginary case of syphilis), when suddenly I noticed a girl in front of me turning round to catch my eye. She stood there waiting for me to approach, as though absolutely certain that I would take her by the arm and continue strolling down the avenue. Which is exactly what I did. I don't think I even paused as I caught up with her. It seemed the most natural
thing in the world to say, in answer to the usual “Hello, where are you strolling?”—“Why nowhere, let's sit down somewhere and have a drink.”

My readiness, my nonchalance, my insouciance, coupled with the fact that I was well groomed, well shod, could well have given her the impression that I was an American millionaire. As we approached the glittering lights of the café, I noticed that it was the Marignan. Though there was no longer any need for shade, the parasols were standing open above the tables. The girl was rather lightly clad and wore about her neck the typical badge of the whore. Hers was a rather frowsy piece of fur, rather worn and moth-eaten, it seemed to me. I paid little attention to anything except her eyes, which were hazel and extremely beautiful. They reminded me of someone, someone I had once been in love with. Who it was I couldn't recall at the moment.

For some reason Mara, as she called herself, was dying to talk English. It was an English which she had picked up in Costa Rica, where she had run a night
club, so she said. It was the first time, in all the years I had been in Paris, that a whore had expressed a desire to talk English. She was doing so apparently because it reminded her of the good times she had had in Costa Rica, where she had been something better than a whore. And then there was another reason—Mr. Winchell. Mr. Winchell was a charming, generous American,
a gentleman
, she said, whom she had run across in Paris after returning from Costa Rica penniless and heart-broken. Mr. Winchell belonged to some athletic club in New York and, even though he had his wife in tow, he had treated her swell. In fact, gentleman that he was, Mr. Winchell had introduced Mara to his wife, and together the three of them had gone to Deauville on a lark. So she said. There may have been some truth in it, because there
are
fellows like Winchell floating about, and now and then, in their enthusiasm, they pick up a whore and treat her like a lady. And sometimes the little whore can really be a lady. But as Mara was saying, this man Winchell was a prince—and his wife wasn't a bad sort, either. Naturally,
when Mr. Winchell proposed sleeping three abed, the wife got sore. But Mara didn't blame her for that. “
Elle avait raison
,” she said.

However, Mr. Winchell was gone now, and the check he had left Mara on leaving for America had long ago been eaten up. It had gone fast because, as things turned out, no sooner had Mr. Winchell disappeared than Ramon turned up. Ramon had been in Madrid, trying to get a cabaret started, but then the revolution had broken out and Ramon had to flee, and of course when he arrived in Paris he was dead broke. Ramon was also a good guy, according to Mara. She trusted him absolutely. But now he was gone too. She didn't know quite where he had disappeared to. She was certain, however, that he would send for her one day. She was dead sure of it, though she hadn't had word from him for over a year now.

All this while the coffee was being served. In that strange English which because of her low, hoarse voice, her pathetic earnestness, her obvious effort to please me (perhaps I was another Mr. Winchell?),
moved me strongly. There was a pause, a rather long pause, during which I suddenly thought of Carl's words at dinner. She was indeed “my type” and, though he hadn't made any such prophecy this time, she was precisely the sort of creature whom he might have described for me on the impulse of the moment while dramatically pulling out his watch and saying—“in ten minutes she will be on the corner of such and such a street.”

“What are you doing here in Paris?” she asked in an effort to get on more familiar ground. And then, as I started to answer, she interrupted me to inquire if I were hungry. I told her I had just had a marvelous meal. I suggested that we have a liqueur and another coffee. Suddenly I noticed that she was looking at me intently, almost uncomfortably so. I had the impression that she was thinking of Mr. Winchell again, perhaps comparing me with him or identifying me with him, perhaps thanking God for having sent her another American
gentleman
and not a hard-headed Frenchman. It seemed unfair to let her mind travel on in this vein, if that were really her train
of thought. So, as gently as possible, I let her know that I was by no means a millionaire.

At this point she suddenly leaned over and confessed to me that she was hungry, very hungry. I was astounded. It was long past dinner hour and besides, stupid though it be, I had simply never thought of a Champs-Elysées whore suffering from hunger. I also felt somewhat ashamed of myself for being so thoughtless as not to inquire if she had eaten. “Why not go inside?” I suggested, taking it for granted that she would be delighted to eat at the Marignan. Most women if hungry, particularly if
very
hungry, would have accepted the suggestion at once. But this one shook her head. She wouldn't think of eating at the Marignan—it was too expensive. I told her to forget what I had said a moment ago, about not being a millionaire and all that, but she remained adamant. She preferred to seek out some ordinary little restaurant, she didn't care where—there were plenty of them nearby, she said. I pointed out that it was past closing time for most restaurants, but she insisted that we
look nevertheless. And then, as if she had forgotten all about her hunger, she drew closer, squeezed my hand warmly, and began telling me what a swell guy she thought I was. With this she began all over again the story of her life in Costa Rica and other places in the Caribbean, places I couldn't imagine a girl like her living in. Finally it boiled down to this, that she wasn't cut out to be a whore and never would be. If I could believe her, she was utterly sick of it.

“You're the first man in a long time,” she went on, “who's treated me like a human being. I want you to know that it's a privilege just to sit and talk with you.” At this point she had a twinge of hunger and, shivering a bit, she tried to wrap the crazy, skinny fur tighter about her neck. Her arms were covered with goose pimples and there was something incongruous about her smile, something too brave and nonchalant about it. I didn't wish to detain her a moment longer than necessary, but despite my readiness to go she continued to talk—a compulsive, hysterical flow of speech which, though it had nothing to do with hunger,
made me think of the food she needed and which I feared she might pass up after all.

“The man who gets me gets pure gold,” I suddenly heard her exclaim, and then her hands were lying on the table, palms up. She begged me to study them.

“That is what life can do to you!” she murmured.

“But you're beautiful,” I said, warmly and sincerely. “I don't care about your hands.”

She insisted that she wasn't beautiful, adding, “But I
was
once. Now I'm tired, worn out. I want to get away from all this.
Paris!
It looks beautiful, doesn't it? But it stinks, I tell you. I've always worked for a living . . . Look, look at my hands again! But
here
, here they won't let you work. They want to suck the blood out of you.
Je suis française, moi, mais je n'aime pas mes compatriotes; ils sont durs, méchants, sans pitié pour nous
.”

I stopped her gently to remind her of dinner. Hadn't we better be getting along? She agreed absent-mindedly, still smoldering with resentment towards her callous compatriots. But she did not budge. Instead she scanned the terrace searchingly. I
was wondering what had come over her when suddenly she got to her feet and, bending over me solicitously, she asked if I would mind waiting a few minutes. She had a rendezvous, she hurriedly explained, with some old geezer at a café just up the street. She didn't think he would be there anymore, but just the same it was worth investigating. If he were there it would mean a little jack. Her thought was to make it a quick one and rejoin me as soon as possible. I told her not to worry about me. “Take your time and get what you can out of the old buzzard. I have nothing to do,” I added. “I'll sit here and wait. You're going to have dinner with me, remember that.”

I watched her sail up the avenue and duck into the café. I doubted that she would return.
Rich geezer!
It was more likely her
maquereau
she was running off to mollify. I could see him telling her what a dope she must be to accept a dinner engagement with a fool American. He would buy her a sandwich and a beer, and out she'd go again. If she protested, she'd get a sound slap in the face.

To my surprise she was back in less than ten minutes. She seemed disappointed and not disappointed. “It's rare for a man to keep his word,” she said. Excepting Mr. Winchell, of course. Mr. Winchell was different. “He always kept his word,” she said. “Until he left for America.”

Mr. Winchell's silence genuinely perplexed her. He had promised to write regularly, but it was over three months since he had left and she hadn't had a line from him. She rummaged through her bag to see if she could find his card. Perhaps if I wrote a letter for her, in my English, it would bring a response. The card had been mislaid apparently. She remembered, though, that he lived at some athletic club in New York. His wife lived there too, she said. The
garçon
came and she ordered another black coffee. It was eleven o'clock or more, and I was wondering where at that hour we would find a cozy, inexpensive restaurant such as she had in mind.

I was still thinking of Mr. Winchell, and what a strange athletic club he must be stopping at, when I heard her say as if from
far off—“Listen, I don't want you to spend a lot of money on me. I hope you're
not
rich; I don't care about your money. It does me good just to talk to you. You don't know how it feels to be treated like a human being!” And then it broke out again, about Costa Rica and the other places, the men she had given herself to, and how it didn't matter because she had loved them; they would always remember her because when she gave herself to a man she gave herself body and soul. Again she looked at her hands, and then she smiled wanly and wrapped the stringy fur tight about her throat.

No matter how much of it was invention, I knew her feelings were honest and true. Thinking to make the situation a little easier for her I suggested, perhaps too abruptly, that she accept what money I had on me and we'd say good-bye then and there. I was trying to let her know that I didn't want to hang on and make her feel grateful for a little thing like a meal. I insinuated that perhaps she would prefer being alone. Maybe she ought to go off by
herself, get drunk, and have a good cry. I blurted it out as delicately and tactfully as I could.

Still she made no effort to go. A struggle was going on inside her. She had forgotten that she was cold and hungry. Undoubtedly she had identified me with other men she had loved, those to whom she had given herself body and soul—and who would always remember her, as she said.

The situation was getting so delicate that I begged her to talk French; I didn't want to hear her mutilate the beautiful, tender things she was spilling out by translating them into a grotesque Costa Rica English.