The Hesitant Hero (6 page)

“What’s that?”

“That you let me pay you back when I begin to sell my work.”

“You won’t need to pay me back, because when you come back we’ll get married. You’ll be successful. I’ll be the wife of a famous painter. Then it won’t be my money or your money, it’ll be
our
money. Oh, Tyler, I’m so excited!” She put her arms around him and kissed him. “I’ll miss you so much, but we’ll write all the time, won’t we? And when you come back, we’ll get married. I’ll be so proud to have a famous husband.”

Tyler held her tightly and at that moment all of his doubts fled away.
Why, of course I can do it. It’s what I’ve been needing all the time, and Caroline’s right. She would have thrown the money away on booze or a fur coat or jewelry. And I’ll pay her back.

****

On the night of January the third, Tyler stood at the dock
saying good-bye to Caroline. The two clung together, and as the whistle blasted in the morning air, she held to him tightly. “I’ll miss you so much! You write me as soon as you get to France.”

“I will, and if I ever amount to anything, Caroline, it’ll be your doing.”

“No it won’t,” she whispered. “I don’t have the talent for much of anything, but you do. This way I’ll be a part of your life. I want it this way so much!”

The two hugged again, and then the last call sounded. Tyler kissed her once more, made his way up the gangplank, and stood at the rail. She was waiting, a small figure in the crowd, her eyes fixed on him. When the ship began to move out, Tyler waved at her, smiling.

Before long, he could see her no more. The passengers began to disperse, but he went to the stern of the ship and watched America recede. Suddenly it all seemed wrong, but it was too late now. He had a crazy impulse to jump off the ship and swim to shore, to tell her that it wasn’t going to work—but he pushed that idea away with some effort.

“I’ll make it up to her,” he murmured. “I’ll work hard and be a success, and she’ll be proud of me. And so will my folks.” With that thought in mind, he left America and headed for the Old World.

CHAPTER FOUR

More Disappointment

Although the ship that carried Tyler Winslow from America to France bore the rather magnificent name
The Flying Eagle,
in reality, it had none of the speed of an eagle. It seemed to crawl over the gray surface of the Atlantic so slowly that if it weren’t for the vibrations of the engines, Tyler oftentimes would have felt that the ship was standing absolutely still. For the first day or two he prowled the ship out of curiosity, but after he had thoroughly explored the vessel, he spent as much time as possible on deck. He had not always been a deep thinker, but he had a lot on his mind these days.

While the meals were adequate, each day they became less satisfying. The cook had apparently never heard of seasoning, and Tyler had to add salt and pepper to whatever was set before him for it to have any flavor at all. There were activities of various kinds at night, with the passengers gathering to play games or dance. One woman in her late thirties apparently took a fancy to Tyler and flirted with him, but there was something predatory about her. Tyler found himself remaining in his cabin or walking around the deck rather than be thrown into her company.

When word finally came that land was in sight, the passengers crowded around the railings to watch
The Flying Eagle
approach Le Havre. Tyler was one of the first passengers to disembark, and as he passed through customs, he enjoyed hearing the musical sounds of people speaking French. He had studied French in college and quickly discovered that he
could speak the language better than he could understand it. He wanted to ask everybody to slow down, but he knew that he was the one who would have to change. He determined to avoid speaking English as much as he could and to try to speak French at all times.

Anxious to get to Paris, Tyler went at once to the railroad station and bought a ticket to Paris. He found that the train was leaving in three hours, and since he was not at all sleepy, he bought a good meal at a restaurant and sat at the table listening to the babble of voices.

The train pulled out of Le Havre exactly on time, and Tyler found himself in a car with only four other people. The young couple who looked to be in their early twenties were totally involved with each other and ignored the rest of the passengers. A tall older man with white hair and something of a military bearing sat beside the window staring out and saying nothing, and a talkative Frenchman who spoke very good English and looked every inch a businessman sat beside Tyler.

He had a sallow face and a pair of eyes that seemed to pop out of his head, and he spoke almost explosively. He also had the irritating habit of knowing more about any subject than anyone. The man had first tried to engage the silent man sitting across from him but got limited responses. He then turned his artillery of words on Tyler. He inquired into Tyler’s reason for coming to France and determined the part of the United States he came from, and when he learned that Tyler had been raised in Africa, he proceeded to give a lecture on Africa’s role in the world economy.

When the businessman finally fell silent, perhaps to gasp for air, Tyler asked, “What do you think of this war?”

“Ah, the war. It will come to nothing.”

Tyler stared at him. “Come to nothing? How can you say that, sir? It’s already come to something. Hitler’s already taken big chunks out of Europe, like Czechoslovakia and Poland.”

“He’s a bad man, but he’s not a stupid man. He has taken territory, but he knows that if he tries to take any more, France will stop him.”

“They haven’t done much in that line so far,” Tyler remarked.

Tyler’s words seemed to irritate the businessman. “You do not understand, sir. You are not European. Hitler is an astute man. He knows that if the British joined with France, they would stop him in a minute. Believe me, he will take no more territory.”

“You are a fool!” exploded the older man by the window in heavily accented English.

Both Tyler and the businessman and even the young couple turned swiftly to look at the man.

“Do you speak to me?” the businessman asked. “You call me a fool?”

“Yes. You
are
a fool. So is anyone a fool who believes Hitler will stop. The Boche will never stop. He will take all of Europe before he’s stopped, and even then he will attack Russia.”

“But France and England—”

“France has no army. All it has is a dream.”

“A dream, sir! What do you mean?” the businessman demanded.

“The generals put their trust in the Maginot Line. They are trying to prepare as if this war will be like the last one, but it will not be.”

“You were in the Great War, I take it, sir?” Tyler asked quietly.

“Yes, I was.” He was silent for a minute and then said, “I saw men die until it became sickening. Then it was trench warfare. I remember battle after battle where we would lose hundreds or even thousands of men to gain a hundred yards of ground—and then lose it the next day.” He seemed to sag. “But this war. It will not be fought in trenches. If you read the papers, you know how mobile the Germans are.”

“The Maginot Line is impregnable, sir, I assure you,” the
businessman said. He seemed irritated and his voice took on a high-pitched angry tone. “It cannot be pierced, I tell you.”

“Apparently you cannot read. The Germans have no attention of attacking the Line. They will simply go around it or over it. Something that could not be done in the Great War, but now the Germans are using the blitzkrieg, the lightning war. They will overleap our defenses as they have already done with smaller nations. They will pay no attention to the line but will crush all opposition with their air power and their tanks and artillery.”

“Do you really think there’s no hope, sir?” Tyler asked.

“There’s hope only in a miracle, and miracles have become rather uncommon in our world.” The man turned to look out the window again, and the businessman began to speak loudly, as if by volume he could overcome the old soldier’s arguments.

As the train approached Paris, Tyler wondered how much of what the old man had said was true. It sounded ominous, and he filed his thoughts away, determined to ask more about the military dangers in which France seemed to be engulfed.

****

After Tyler got a room in Paris, finding it was somewhat more expensive than he had expected, he wrote at once to Caroline and to his parents. His letter was full of enthusiasm and excitement, for he felt that his luck had to change. He was determined to make it as an artist and said so in the letters. He wasn’t sure how to close his letter to Caroline. He knew that her feelings for him were much deeper than his for her, but it was her money and advice and help that had brought him this far and given him a second chance. So he ended the letter warmly and promised to write regularly.

For the next week Tyler roamed the streets of Paris. There was so much to see, and he was determined to see it all. By the end of the week he had found that he could make himself understood to most people, though with some difficulty.
Give me six months, and I’ll speak like a native.
He did not make this boast aloud, but he did constantly try to improve his French.

He spent several days going to the art museums and was stunned by the magnificence of the Louvre. Day after day he would stand before the masterpieces of the ages in awed silence. One day he studied a single painting by Rembrandt for almost two hours, unable to take his eyes off it.

A guard had watched him for a long time and finally said, “I trust you’re not planning to steal it,
monsieur?
”

Tyler grinned. “No, though I’d like to.”

“Many people would. Are you an artist yourself?”

“Well, to tell the truth, I thought I was. But now looking at these masterpieces, I think I’m just a dabbler.”

“You must take heart,” the guard said, smiling with encouragement. “All these artists, they had to begin somewhere.”

“But all of them had genius in them. I’m not sure I have that.”

The guard offered a few more encouraging words, and when Tyler finally moved on, he thought,
Not everybody will be as encouraging as he was.

****

The weather was not much different than it had been in New York. It snowed several nights in a row, but by midmorning the snow had been churned into a slush by the thousands of automobiles and trucks that plowed through the city. More than once, despite the cold weather, Tyler saw artists out braving the frigid air to paint on the street. He would inevitably stop and watch, and sometimes he would strike up a conversation. He found that some artists were almost sullen and would not return more than a monosyllable, but others were quite open with their views.

One Thursday afternoon, he stopped near a young woman who was painting a picture of the
Arc de Triomphe.
He stood
off to one side and did not bother her, and finally she turned and caught his eye.

“L’aimez-vous?”
she asked with a smile. She was a pretty girl who looked to be in her midtwenties with cheeks whitened by the cold.

“Yes, I do like it,” he answered in French. “Have you been painting long?”

“I can’t remember when I wasn’t painting. You are what, English?”

“No, I’m an American. I was raised in Kenya but went to college in New York.”

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to America.”

“Well, I always wanted to come to France,” he said, “and I made it. So maybe you’ll make it to America someday too.” He was starting to tell her about New York when a man wearing a uniform approached them and she introduced him as her husband.

“Your wife paints better than most of the painters who are actually making a living at their work in America.”

“That is good to hear,” the man replied.

“You’re in the army, I see. What’s the situation?”

A cloud crossed the soldier’s face. “It is not good. You have come to France at the wrong time, sir.”

As always, Tyler got what information he could, which was not a great deal. The soldier and his wife were happy, but there was a cloud over them, he saw.

****

The art institute that Tyler ended up enrolling in was not particularly well known. With so many art schools in Paris, he simply chose the one closest to his room in the heart of the city. It was housed in an ancient brick building with tall windows to allow as much light as possible. Tyler went there on the twentieth of January to enroll. He found himself speaking to a small man wearing a gray suit and a gleaming white shirt. His name was Dever, and he seemed preoccupied and
irritable. He had Tyler fill out several papers, which he glanced over with a frown on his face.

“You have samples of your work?”

“As a matter of fact I don’t, Monsieur Dever. I didn’t have room to bring them with my luggage.”

“We do not take people without talent.”

“I hope I have a little of that.”

“It takes more than talent. It takes devotion, dedication.”

“Well, I trust I have a little of that too, monsieur.”

“I will allow you to enter on probation, Monsieur Winslow.”

Tyler gave the man a check for the tuition, and then Monsieur Dever said, “I will assign you to one of our instructors. You will be here Monday morning at eight o’clock.”

“Certainly, sir. I trust I will be able to meet your standards.”

Dever’s look said,
I doubt it,
but he refrained from saying anything.

As Tyler left, he thought,
They need a better recruiter here. Quite a cold welcome.

On Monday morning he was at the school on time and found his instructor was quite different from Dever. His last name was Genis, and he was a huge bear of a man with fingers like bananas, and already, although it was early, he had spots of paint on his hands. He had a loud roar of a voice and seemed to shout everything. The teacher showed Tyler where the supplies were and got him set up by the window.