The Selected Stories of Mavis Gallant (33 page)

“Life is one sacrifice after another,” she said now, imagining that Carmen, and not Heidemarie, sat before her.

“That is true,” said Heidemarie. She looked sadly at Dr. Tuttlingen and said, as she so often did, “America.”

He’s not taking you, Mrs. Parsters thought, watching Heidemarie. The words flashed into her head, just like that. Past events had proved her intuitions almost infallible. You’re not married, and he’s not taking you to America. Mrs. Parsters began to drum on the table, thinking.

Beside her, Dr. Tuttlingen was pursuing his investigation of the American way of life. “What is the cost in America of a pure-white diamond weighing four hundred milligrams?” He looked straight into Mrs. Owens’s eyes and brought out each word with pedantic care.

“Well, really, that’s something I just don’t know,” Mrs. Owens said, gazing helplessly around.

“I have a nephew in South Africa,” said Mrs. Parsters. “He would know.”

Dr. Tuttlingen was not at all interested in South Africa. Annoyed at being interrupted, he said, with heavy, sarcastic interest, “Cigarettes are cheap in South Africa, yes?”—a remark intended to put Mrs. Parsters in her place.

“Very
expensive,” said Mrs. Parsters, drinking mineral water as if the last word on emigration had now been uttered.

Dr. Tuttlingen turned back to his cicerone, relentless. “What is the cost in America of one hundred pounds of roasted coffee beans?”

In her distraction, Mrs. Owens forgot how to multiply by one hundred. “Oh dear,” she said. “Just let me think.”

“I know a place where one can have tea for five pesetas,” said Mrs. Parsters.

“Goodness! Where?” cried Mrs. Owens, grateful for the change of subject.

“Unavailable today, I’m afraid. It’s being done up for the bazaar. It is run by a girl from Glasgow, for holders of British passports only.” She added, graciously, “I believe that she will accept Americans.”

“What do you get with this tea?” said Dr. Tuttlingen, suspicious but not noticeably offended.

“Tea,” said Mrs. Parsters, “with a choice of toast or biscuits.”

Dr. Tuttlingen looked as if he would not have taken the tea, or the talisman passport, as a gift. “I am going to swim now,” he announced, rising and patting his stomach. “Hot or cold, rain or shine, exercise before a meal is good for the health.” He trotted down to the sea, elbows tucked in.

The three women watched him go. Mrs. Owens relaxed. Heidemarie began to comb her hair. She opened a large beach bag of cracked patent leather and drew from it a lipstick and glass. With delicate attention, she gave herself a lilac mouth. She bit the edge of a long red nail and looked at it, mournfully.

“What a pretty shade,” Mrs. Parsters said.

“He doesn’t want to take me to America,” said Heidemarie. “He said it
on the eleventh of July, on the thirteenth of July, and again this morning.”

“He doesn’t, eh?” Mrs. Parsters sounded neither triumphant nor surprised. “You haven’t managed it very cleverly, have you?”

“No,” admitted Heidemarie. She reached down and picked up Bobby and held him on her lap. Her round pink face struggled, as if in the grip of an intolerable emotion. The others waited. At last it came. “I like dogs so much,” she said.

“Do you?” said Mrs. Parsters. “Bobby, of course, is particularly likable. There are a great many dogs in England.”

“I like dogs,” said Heidemarie again, hugging Bobby. “And all the animals. I like horses. A horse is intelligent. A horse has some heart. I mean a horse will try to understand.”

“In terms of character, no man is the slightest match for a horse,” Mrs. Parsters agreed.

Mrs. Owens, trying hard to follow the strange rabbit paths of this dialogue, turned almost involuntarily at the mention of horses and stared at the bar. Sometimes a half door behind the bar would swing open, revealing an old, whiskery horse belonging to one of the waiters. The horse would gaze at them all, bemused and kindly, greeted from the French side of the pavilion with enthusiastic seagull cries of
“Tiens! Tiens! Bonjour, mon coco!”

Heidemarie released Bobby. She looked as if she might cry.

“Now, then,” said Mrs. Parsters, drawing toward herself Dr. Tuttlingen’s empty chair. “You won’t help yourself by weeping and mewing. Come and sit here.” Obediently, Heidemarie moved over. “You must not take these things so seriously,” Mrs. Parsters went on. “Time heals everything. Look at Mrs. Owens.”

Mrs. Owens took a deep breath, deciding the time had come to explain, once and for all, that she was not divorced. But, as so frequently happened, by the time she had formulated the sentence, the conversation had moved along.

“I wanted to see New York,” said Heidemarie, drooping.

“Perfectly commendable,” said Mrs. Parsters.

“He
says I’m better off in Stuttgart.”

“Oh, he does, does he?” Mrs. Parsters turned to look at the sea, where Dr. Tuttlingen, flat on his back, was thrashing briskly away from shore. “The impudence! I’d like to hear him say that to
me
. You want to give that man a surprise. Make a plan of your own. Show him how independent you are.”

“Yes,” said Heidemarie, biting the lilac tip of the straw in her glass. After a moment, she added, “But I am not.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Parsters. “Don’t let me hear such words. Was it for this that foolish women chained themselves to lampposts? Snap your fingers in his face. Tell him you can take care of yourself. Tell him you can work.”

Heidemarie repeated “work” with such melancholy that Mrs. Owens was touched. She tried to recall what accomplishments one could expect from a young, unmarried person of Heidemarie’s disposition, summoning and dismissing images of her as an airline hostess, a kindergarten teacher, and a smiling receptionist. “Can you type?” she asked, wishing to be helpful.

“No, Heidemarie doesn’t type,” said Mrs. Parsters, answering for her. “But I’m certain she can do other things. I’m positive that Heidemarie can cook, and keep house, and market far more economically than my ungrateful Carmen!” Heidemarie nodded, gloomy, at this iteming of her gifts. “My ungrateful Carmen,” said Mrs. Parsters, pursuing her own indomitable line of thought. “I said to her this morning, ‘It isn’t so much a cook I require as an intelligent assistant, with just enough maturity to make her reliable.’ A few light duties,” Mrs. Parsters said, looking dreamily out to sea. Suddenly, she seemed to remember they had been discussing Heidemarie. “I have only one piece of advice for you, my dear, and that is leave him before he leaves you. Show him you have a plan of your own.”

“I haven’t,” said Heidemarie.

“I might just think of something,” said Mrs. Parsters, with a smile.

“We all might,” said Mrs. Owens kindly. “I might think of something, too.” She wondered why this innocent offer should cause Mrs. Parsters to look so exasperated.

Farther along the beach, Dr. Tuttlingen was pursuing his daily course of exercise, trotting up and down the sands under the blazing sun. He looked determined and inestimably pleased with himself. He trotted over to the pavilion, climbed the steps, and drew up to them, panting. “I forgot to ask you,” he said to Mrs. Owens, who at once looked apprehensive. “What is the average income tax paid by a doctor in a medium-sized city in America?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Owens. “I mean it’s not the sort of thing you ask—”

“I expect it’s a great deal,” said Mrs. Parsters.

Dr. Tuttlingen began to hop, first on one foot, then on the other. “Water in the ears,” he explained. He seemed happy. He sat down and pinched Heidemarie above the elbow. “As long as we don’t have to pay too much, eh?” he said.

“I don’t understand the ‘we,’ ” said Heidemarie, morose. “On July the eleventh, and again on July the thirteenth, and again this morning—”

“Ah,” said the Doctor, obviously enjoying this. “That was a joke. Do you think I would leave you all alone in Stuttgart, with all the Americans?”

From the top of the cliff came the quavering note of the luncheon gong at Villa Margate, followed by the clapper bell of the
pension
next door. On both sides of the pavilion there was a stir, like the wind.

“Oh, well,” said Mrs. Parsters, watching the beach colony leave like a file of ants. She looked moody. Mrs. Owens wondered why.

“Good-bye, everyone,” said Heidemarie. Her whole demeanor had changed; she looked at Mrs. Owens and Mrs. Parsters as if she felt sorry for them.

“Life—” began Mrs. Parsters. “Oh, the hell with it.” She said to Mrs. Owens, “And I expect that you, too, have some concrete plan?”

“Oh, dear, no,” said Mrs. Owens, distracted, beckoning to her child. “I’m just waiting here for my husband. He’s in Gibraltar on business. The fact is, you know, I’m not really divorced, or anything like that. I’m just waiting here. He’s going to pick me up.”

“I rather expected that,” said Mrs. Parsters, cheering up. One of her guesses, at least, had been nearly right. “Just so long as he doesn’t forget you, my dear.”

Waiters walked about, listless, collecting glasses, pocketing tips. Nothing moved between the pavilion and the sea. Mrs. Parsters, Bobby, Mrs. Owens, and her child plowed through sand on their way to the steps that led up from the beach.

I
n Madrid, nine years ago, we lived on the thought of money. Our friendships were nourished with talk of money we expected to have, and what we intended to do when it came. There were four of us—two men and two girls. The men, Pablo and Carlos, were cousins. Pilar was a relation of theirs. I was not Spanish and not a relation, and a friend almost by mistake. The thing we had in common was that we were all waiting for money.

Every day I went to the Central Post Office, and I made the rounds of the banks and the travel agencies, where letters and money could come. I was not certain how much it might be, or where it was going to arrive, but I saw it riding down a long arc like a rainbow. In those days I was always looking for signs. I saw signs in cigarette smoke, in the way ash fell, and in the cards. I laid the cards out three times a week, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday were no good, because the cards were mute or evasive; and on Sundays they lied. I thought these signs—the ash, the smoke, and so on—would tell me what direction my life was going to take and what might happen from now on. I had unbounded belief in free will, which most of the people I knew despised, but I was superstitious, too. I saw inside my eyelids at night the nine of clubs, which is an excellent card, and the ten of hearts, which is better, morally speaking, since it implies gain through effort. I saw the aces of clubs and diamonds, and the jack of diamonds, who is the postman. Although Pablo and Pilar and Carlos were not waiting for anything in particular—indeed, had nothing to wait for, except a fortune—they were anxious about the postman, and relieved when he turned up. They never supposed that the postman would not arrive, or that his coming might have no significance.

Carlos and Pablo came from a town outside Madrid. They had no near relatives in the city, and they shared a room in a flat on Calle Hortaleza. I lived in a room along the hall; that was how we came to know one another. Pilar, who was twenty-two, the youngest of the four of us, lived in a small flat on her own. She had been married to Carlos’s stepbrother at seventeen, and had been a widow three years. She was eager to marry again, but feared she was already too old. Carlos was twenty-nine, the oldest. Pablo and I came in between.

Carlos worked in a bank. His salary was so small that he could barely subsist on it, and he was everywhere in debt. Pablo studied law at the University of Madrid. When he had nothing to do, he went with me on my rounds. These rounds took up most of the day, and had become important, for, after a time, the fact of waiting became more valid than the thing I was waiting for. I knew that I would feel let down when the waiting was over. I went to the post office, to three or four banks, to Cook’s, and American Express. At each place, I stood and waited in a queue. I have never seen so many queues, or so many patient people. I also gave time and thought to selling my clothes. I sold them to the gypsies in the flea market. Once I got a dollar-fifty for a coat and a skirt, but it was stolen from my pocket when I stopped to buy a newspaper. I thought I had jostled the thief, and when I said “Sorry” he nodded his head and walked quickly away. He was a man of about thirty. I can still see his turned-up collar and the back of his head. When I put my hand in my pocket to pay for the paper, the money was gone. When I was not standing in queues or getting rid of clothes, I went to see Pilar. We sat out on her balcony when it was fine, and next to her kitchen stove when it was cold. We were not ashamed to go to the confectioner’s across the street and bargain in fractions of pennies for fifty grams of chocolate, which we scrupulously shared. Pilar was idle, but restful. Pablo was idle, but heavy about it. He was the most heavily idle person I have ever known. He was also the only one of us who had any money. His father sent him money for his room and his meals, and he had an extra allowance from his godfather, who owned a hotel on one of the coasts. Pablo was dark, curly-haired, and stocky, with the large head and opaque eyes you saw on the streets of Madrid. He was one of the New Spaniards—part of the first generation grown to maturity under Franco. He was the generation they were so proud of in the newspapers. But he must be—he
is
—well over thirty now, and no longer New. He had already calculated, with paper and pencil, what the future held, and decided it was worth only half a try.