The Summer of Katya (9 page)

“The trick then,” Paul said, “is not to permit change to enter our lives.”

I glanced at him and found his level gaze upon me, his eyes creased with an arctic smile. Then he took a quick breath and said, “You’re a remarkable conversationalist, Father. As children we were trained that in polite conversation we should avoid religion, politics, and, above all, functional matters. We were told that the only totally safe subject is the weather. And here you have proven that even the weather can be dangerous. What do you think, Montjean? Do you view Mankind as teetering in precarious balance between sunburn and the sniffles?”

“I am more moved by the wonder of our existence than by the danger of it. That we exist at all is, as Monsieur Treville has pointed out, amazing. But the real marvel is that we know we exist and we ponder the amazement of it.”

Paul frowned. “Did I forget to list metaphysics along with religion, politics, and biological functions as maladroit subjects for polite conversation?”

“Oh, the metaphysical can be a fine exercise for the mind,” Katya said. “But the physical world has its delights as well. Consider how thoughtful Nature has been all this summer. She brings rain only at night. We have the refreshment of it, and the earth has the nourishment of it, but not a single day is spoiled. It’s a wonder She didn’t think of so admirable a system earlier.”

Monsieur Treville leaned towards his daughter and patted her hand. “I notice you speak of Nature as being feminine, darling.”

“Yes, of course. Fertility and all that. And the concept of ‘Father Nature’ is patently silly.” She rose. “Which of course leads us to the question of taking our coffee in the salon.”

As I followed Katya across the hall to the salon, my attention was so totally absorbed by the beauty of the nape of her neck, revealed by her high-piled coiffure, that I was startled when the trailing edge of the storm passed over, delivering a final barrage of thunder.

“Good Lord, Montjean,” Paul laughed. “You jumped as though you’d seen a ghost. You must have been miles away.”

I smiled. “Not miles away, but perhaps months away.” This meant nothing to anyone but me, but it gave me pleasure to say it aloud nonetheless.

“What’s all this about ghosts?” Monsieur Treville asked.

“Nothing important, Father,” Paul said, as he knelt to stir the fire.

“No, tell me. I want to know.”

Paul sighed. “Very well. Montjean is lost in reverie… thunder cracks… Montjean jumps and gasps… son offers inane comment about ghosts… Montjean parries with incomprehensible prattle about miles and months… and there you have it. The entire gripping episode.”

“I don’t understand,” Monsieur Treville confessed.

To divert us from this silly tangle, I joked, “You should be used to ghosts, harboring as you do your share of them.”

Paul’s shoulders stiffened, the piece of firewood poised in his hand. “What do you mean by that?” he asked without turning to me.

I shrugged. “Nothing really. I was merely referring to the ghost in your garden.”

“Oh, I see,” Monsieur Treville said, sitting in his favorite chair before the fire. Then he blinked and frowned. “Which ghost is that?”

“Local tradition has it that your garden is haunted by a…” I glanced at Katya with a smile to which she did not respond. “…by a charming young spirit who resents being called a ghost.”

Paul’s voice was flat. He spoke staring into the hearth, his back to the room. “Have you seen this spirit yourself, Montjean?”

“No, not actually. But I have testimony of its existence from a perfectly impeccable source.” I could not comprehend Katya’s frown and slight shake of her head.

Paul set the stick of wood down deliberately and rose to face me. “You don’t mind if we don’t take coffee this evening, do you, Doctor? My poor battered shoulder is giving me pain, so I think I’ll make an early night of it.”

“Nonsense,” Katya said. “Of course we shall take coffee. You, however, may go to your room if you must.”

“No, no, no,” Paul said. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving and running the risk of missing Father’s insights into the climactic frailty of Man or Dr. Montjean’s invaluable metaphysical footnotes. I have the rounding out of my education to consider. By the way, ‘invaluable’ is the opposite of ‘valuable,’ isn’t it?”

“Someone mentioned ghosts and spirits just now,” Monsieur Treville said, accepting his coffee and brandy from Katya with a negligent smile of thanks. “I’ve always been fascinated by the role played by the supernatural in the life of medieval man. Of course, Doctor, you are familiar with Louis Duvivier’s work on the subject, in which he presents the attractive, if rather weakly substantiated, contention that Christianity maintained its sway over the half-barbaric minds of the….”

….Half an hour later, Katya interrupted her father’s involute monologue by kissing him on the forehead and saying that she should be off to bed. I rose and took her offered hand.

“Will we see you tomorrow for tea, Jean-Marc?”

“Yes, of course. Good-night, Katya.”

“Good-night. Are you coming up, Paul?”

“As soon as I’ve seen our guest off.” Paul’s speech was slightly slurred in result of his excessive recourse to the brandy.

As Katya left the salon, Monsieur Treville pulled out his watch and said, “My goodness! How the evening has slipped by! And I have work I promised myself to finish before tomorrow. Still, it was an intriguing conversation. I must confess that I am addicted to the give and take of intelligent conversation. It’s fast becoming a lost art. Well, then! If you will excuse me?” And he left.

I remained standing, prepared to be on my way, but Paul didn’t rise from his chair. Instead, he hooked his leg over the arm and waved towards the brandy bottle. “Will you have another glass before you go?”

“I think not, thank you. Why do you laugh?”

“It’s just that you look so damned silly in my smoking jacket. I suppose I would look ridiculous if I were dressed up as a Basque shepherd. It’s a matter of what one is born to, I shouldn’t wonder.”

I had quite forgotten that I was wearing his jacket, and I took it off to exchange it for my own, which was hanging near the fire to dry out.

“You are Basque, aren’t you?” Paul pursued.

“Yes, I am. My natal village isn’t far from here up in the mountains. Why do you ask?”

“Just idle curiosity. Montjean isn’t a Basque name, after all. One expects names like Utuburu, or Zabola, or Elizondo… something darkly passionate like that.”

Actually, my name is Basque… a Frenchification of the stems mendi and jaun, meaning ‘mountain man.’ But I cannot bring myself to believe that you’re really interested in the sources of my name.”

“Fascinated beyond description, old fellow,” he said in his laziest drawl. “But there is something I would like to talk to you about. You’re sure you won’t accept a last brandy?”

“Very well, if you wish.”

“There’s my gracious friend.” But he did not pour it out; instead, he waved towards the bottle and left me to serve myself. “I’ve been reconsidering the matter of allowing you to visit Katya.”

“Oh? Have you?”

“Hm-m. Yes.”

“I wasn’t aware that your sister required your permission to entertain guests.”

He laughed. “Did you notice your tone of voice? That could have been me speaking. Do you think you’ve caught something from my jacket?”

“What possible objection could you have to my passing an hour or two each afternoon with Katya?”

“Ah yes, I’ve noticed that you and she have begun using first names.”

“There’s nothing to that. We talk together a good deal. It would be stilted for us to avoid Christian names.”

“Yes, I suppose so. You asked what objection I could have to your passing an hour or two each day with her in what is probably trivial and surely tedious conversation. Nothing in the world, old boy. But you are young and might be considered attractive by some; and she is young and attractive to all; and it is in the nature of things that they lead to other things.”

“I find your implication offensive.”

“Please don’t play the outraged Gascon with me. What a bore d’Artagnan must have been, always so sensitive of his imagined honor.”

“I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

“What an observant fellow you are! Look, I’m not accusing you and Katya of anything. But you’re both healthy people, and romantics. God gave Adam and Eve the run of the garden, and the next thing you know they’re swapping apples. It’s perfectly natural.” He rose and crossed the room to me. “But I don’t care how natural it is, I don’t want you and Katya swapping apples. Not even nibbles of apples. Is that understood?”

I rose. “I think I should leave.”

“What a wonderful idea. But I suppose you only meant that you should leave for tonight and that you’ll be back, bad-penny-like, at tea time tomorrow.”

I didn’t answer him. I was too angry, and I didn’t trust myself not to hit him. But he followed me to the door.

“Tell me, Montjean. Have you kissed my sister?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I have not.”

“Not even held her hand?”

“Not even that,” I lied. “No nibbles at all. Now allow me to wish you a good night.”

“Just a moment! Listen to me. I want your absolute promise that you will not attempt the slightest intimacy with my sister. Do I have it?”

“Frankly, Treville, I consider your overly protective attitude towards Katya to be unhealthy.”

“Of course it’s unhealthy. We’re an unhealthy family. Didn’t Katya tell you we were down in this forsaken hole for our health. But the state of my family’s health has nothing to do with the promise I demand from you. Well?”

I could feel the Basque blood pounding at my temples. When I spoke, I kept my voice very quiet and very controlled. “If you were not Katya’s brother, I would knock you on your butt.”

“My, my. What a master of repartee! Wouldn’t it be a bit difficult for you to smash your fist into a face so identical to hers?”

My eyes flicked from one of his to the other. Then my shoulders slumped. He was absolutely right. It would have been impossible.

“It’s a good thing you have reconsidered, because if you had so much as made an angry gesture, I would have had the pleasure of punishing you, severely and adroitly. I have not had occasion to tell you that I was a champion kick-boxer in Paris. Not that I enjoyed all the sweat and grunting of athletics, but there was a period when it was fashionable for young men of my class to be proficient at kick-boxing. Allowed one to deal with street ruffians without soiling one’s gloves, you see. So naturally I became remarkably proficient.”

“Oh, naturally.” I drew a calming breath, then bowed curtly. “Good-night.” It was only with the exercise of restraint that I was able to close the door gently behind me.

* * *

Considering the content and timbre of our conversation the night before, I was quite surprised when, just as I was finishing my duties at the clinic the next afternoon, Paul appeared at my office door.

“May I come in?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

He explained that he had just finished some business in Salies and would be delighted to offer me a ride to Etcheverria, on the condition that I accept his invitation to take supper with them again.

I measured him charily for a moment, before saying that nothing would please me more. He responded that he couldn’t understand anyone who took pleasure in the local food, save for excessively devout persons who exposed themselves to the swill as a form of mortification of the flesh in the hope of shortening their time in purgatory.

We had no sooner settled into his surry then he said, “I’m afraid I might have drunk a bit too much last night.”

“Oh? Do you think so?”

“I’m not very good at making apologies… lack of practice, I suppose.”

“I had the impression you were good at everything—kick-boxing, insulting guests, impugning the actions of your sister—all the social graces.”

He laughed. “You’ve been saving that one up for me, haven’t you?”

I almost smiled. In fact, I had been rehearsing what I would say to him the next time we met.

We passed out of town and rode for a time in silence along the road to Etcheverria before he turned to me and said, “Look, Montjean. I am aware that Katya takes pleasure in your company. And it’s good for Father to have someone to listen to his interminable monologues. I love them both, and I couldn’t deny them this slight relief from the eternal boredom of this place. But I must insist on your promise that you will not engage in even the slightest intimacies with Katya—” I drew a breath to answer him, but he raised a hand, “—however innocent! However innocent. I don’t doubt your motives, Montjean. It’s just that my father… well, I’ve told you that my father must not suspect that you have the slightest interest in her. Don’t ask me for an explanation. It’s none of your affair.”

I sighed and shook my head. “Last night you were all acid and hate; this afternoon you’re all reason and friendliness. I must tell you that I consider your mercurial disposition most childish.”

He grinned at me. “Do you think so? Very well, I accept your diagnosis—under the condition that we drop the subject right now.”

During the rest of the ride, Paul entertained me with imitations of local merchants and dignitaries he had dealt with in Salies, and he displayed a capacity for scathing caricature that was surprising, together with a lack of sympathy for human foible that was not surprising at all.

“It’s a wonder you deal with merchants,” I said, “considering your contempt for them as a class.”

“One has no choice but to come into contact with them from time to time, old boy. After all, they own the world; not through right of birth or personal gifts, to be sure. They own the world because they bought it.”

“That may be true. But you must remember, it was your class that sold it to them.”

He was silent for a time, then he said quietly, “That’s true. How true.”

* * *

I was standing at the latticed arch of the summerhouse when I took from my pocket the pebble I had found and offered it to Katya.

“Oh, thank you, sir. I was afraid you had forgotten.” She put it into a little drawstring purse along with the others and dropped it into her reticule. “Did it ever occur to you that you are giving me the world… bit by bit?”