Three Soldiers (31 page)

“He lives that way. … They say he never goes out. Stays here and paints, and when friends come in, he feeds them wine and charges them double,” said Henslowe. “That’s how he lives.”

The lanky man began taking bits of candle out of a drawer of the table and lighting them. Andrews saw that his feet and legs were bare below the frayed edge of the dressing gown. The candle light lit up the men’s flushed faces and the crude banana yellows and arsenic greens of the canvases along the walls, against which jars full of paint brushes cast blurred shadows.

“I was going to tell you, Henny,” said Aubrey, “the dope is that the President’s going to leave the conference, going to call them all damn blackguards to their faces and walk out, with the band playing the ‘Internationale.’”

“God, that’s news,” cried Andrews.

“If he does that he’ll recognize the Soviets,” said Henslowe. “Me for the first Red Cross Mission that goes to save starving Russia. … Gee, that’s great.—I’ll write you a postal from Moscow, Andy, if they haven’t been abolished as delusions of the bourgeoisie.”

“Hell, no. … I’ve got five hundred dollars’ worth of Russian bonds that girl Vera gave me. … But worth five million, ten million, fifty million if the Czar gets back. … I’m backing the little white father,” cried Heineman. “Anyway Moki says he’s alive; that Savaroff ’s got him locked up in a suite in the Ritz. … And Moki knows.”

“Moki knows a damn lot, I’ll admit that,” said Henslowe.

“But just think of it,” said Aubrey, “that means world revolution with the United States at the head of it. What do you think of that?”

“Moki doesn’t think so,” said Heineman. “And Moki knows.”

“She just knows what a lot of reactionary warlords tell her,” said Aubrey. “This man I was talking with at the Crillon—I wish I could tell you his name—heard it directly from … Well, you know who.” He turned to Henslowe, who smiled knowingly. “There’s a mission in Russia at this minute making peace with Lenin.”

“A goddam outrage!” cried Heineman, knocking a bottle off the table. The lanky man picked up the pieces patiently, without comment.

“The new era is opening, men, I swear it is …” began Aubrey. “The old order is dissolving. It is going down under a weight of misery and crime. … This will be the first great gesture towards a newer and better world. There is no alternative. The chance will never come back. It is either for us to step courageously forward, or sink into unbelievable horrors of anarchy and civil war. … Peace or the dark ages again.”

Andrews had felt for some time an uncontrollable sleepiness coming over him. He rolled himself on a rug and stretched out on the empty couch. The voices arguing, wrangling, enunciating emphatic phrases, dinned for a minute in his ears. He went to sleep.

When Andrews woke up he found himself staring at the cracked plaster of an unfamiliar ceiling. For some moments he could not guess where he was. Henslowe was sleeping, wrapped in another rug, on the couch beside him. Except for Henslowe’s breathing, there was complete silence. Floods of silvery-grey light poured in through the wide windows, behind which Andrews could see a sky full of bright dove-colored clouds. He sat up carefully. Some time in the night he must have taken off his tunic and boots and puttees, which were on the floor beside the couch. The tables with the bottles had gone and the lanky man was nowhere to be seen.

Andrews went to the window in his stockinged feet. Paris was a slate-grey and dove-color lay spread out like a Turkish carpet, with a silvery band of mist where the river was, out of which the Eiffel Tower stood up like a man wading. Here and there blue smoke and brown spiralled up to lose itself in the faint canopy of brown fog that hung high above the houses. Andrews stood a long while leaning against the window frame, until he heard Henslowe’s voice behind him:

“Depuis le jour où je me suis donnée.”

“You look like ‘Louise.’”

Andrews turned round.

Henslowe was sitting on the edge of the bed with his hair in disorder, combing his little silky mustache with a pocket comb.

“Gee, I have a head,” he said. “My tongue feels like a nutmeg grater. … Doesn’t yours?”

“No. I feel like a fighting cock.”

“What do you say we go down to the Seine and have a bath in Benny Franklin’s bathtub?”

“Where’s that? It sounds grand.”

“Then we’ll have the biggest breakfast ever.”

“That’s the right spirit. … Where’s everybody gone to?”

“Old Heinz has gone to his Moki, I guess, and Aubrey’s gone to collect more dope at the Crillon. He says four in the morning when the drunks come home is the prime time for a newspaper man.”

“And the Monkish man?”

“Search me.”

The streets were full of men and girls hurrying to work. Everything sparkled, had an air of being just scrubbed. They passed bakeries from which came a rich smell of fresh-baked bread. From cafés came whiffs of roasting coffee. They crossed through the markets that were full of heavy carts lumbering to and fro, and women with net bags full of vegetables. There was a pungent scent of crushed cabbage leaves and carrots and wet clay. The mist was raw and biting along the quais, and made the blood come into their cheeks and their hands stiff with cold.

The bathhouse was a huge barge with a house built on it in a lozenge shape. They crossed to it by a little gangplank on which were a few geraniums in pots. The attendant gave them two rooms side by side on the lower deck, painted grey, with steamed over windows, through which Andrews caught glimpses of hurrying green water. He stripped his clothes off quickly. The tub was of copper varnished with some white metal inside. The water flowed in through two copper swans’ necks. When Andrews stepped into the hot green water, a little window in the partition flew open and Henslowe shouted in to him:

“Talk about modern conveniences. You can converse while you bathe!”

Andrews scrubbed himself jauntily with a square piece of pink soap, splashing the water about like a small boy. He stood up and lathered himself all over and then let himself slide into the water, which splashed out over the floor.

“Do you think you’re a performing seal?” shouted Henslowe.

“It’s all so preposterous,” cried Andrews, going off into convulsions of laughter. “She has a lion cub named Bubu and Nicolas Romanoff lives in the Ritz, and the Revolution is scheduled for day after tomorrow at twelve noon.”

“I’d put it about the first of May,” answered Henslowe, amid a sound of splashing. “Gee, it’ld be great to be a people’s Commissary. … You could go and revolute the grand Llama of Thibet.”

“O, it’s too deliciously preposterous,” cried Andrews, letting himself slide a second time into the bathtub.

Two M.P.’s passed outside the window. Andrews watched the yellow pigskin revolver cases until they were out of sight. He felt joyfully secure from them. The waiter, standing by the door with a napkin on his arm, gave him a sense of security so intense it made him laugh. On the marble table before him were a small glass of beer, a notebook full of ruled sheets of paper and a couple of yellow pencils. The beer, the color of topaz in the clear grey light that streamed in through the window, threw a pale yellow glow with a bright center on the table. Outside was the boulevard with a few people walking hurriedly. An empty market wagon passed now and then, rumbling loud. On a bench a woman in a black knitted shawl, with a bundle of newspapers in her knees, was counting sous with loving concentration.

Andrews looked at his watch. He had an hour before going to the Schola Cantorum.

He got to his feet, paid the waiter and strolled down the center of the boulevard, thinking smilingly of pages he had written, of pages he was going to write, filled with a sense of leisurely well-being. It was a grey morning with a little yellowish fog in the air. The pavements were damp, reflected women’s dresses and men’s legs and the angular outlines of taxi- cabs. From a flower stand with violets and red and pink carnations irregular blotches of color ran down into the brownish grey of the pavement. Andrews caught a faint smell of violets in the smell of the fog as he passed the flower stand and remembered suddenly that spring was coming. He would not miss a moment of this spring, he told himself; he would follow it step by step, from the first violets. Oh, how fully he must live now to make up for all the years he had wasted in his life.

He kept on walking along the boulevard. He was remembering how he and the girl the soldier had called Jeanne had both kindled with uncontrollable laughter when their eyes had met that night in the restaurant. He wished he could go down the boulevard with a girl like that, laughing through the foggy morning.

He wondered vaguely what part of Paris he was getting to, but was too happy to care. How beautifully long the hours were in the early morning!

At a concert at the Salle Gaveau the day before he had heard Debussy’s Nocturnes and Les Sirènes. Rhythms from them were the warp of all his thoughts. Against the background of the grey street and the brownish fog that hung a veil at the end of every vista he began to imagine rhythms of his own, modulations and phrases that grew brilliant and faded, that flapped for a while like gaudy banners above his head through the clatter of the street.

He noticed that he was passing a long building with blank rows of windows, at the central door of which stood groups of American soldiers smoking. Unconsciously he hastened his steps, for fear of meeting an officer he would have to salute. He passed the men without looking at them.

A voice detained him.

“Say, Andrews.”

When he turned he saw that a short man with curly hair, whose face, though familiar, he could not place, had left the group at the door and was coming towards him.

“Hello, Andrews. … Your name’s Andrews, ain’t it?”

“Yes.” Andrews shook his hand, trying to remember.

“I’m Fuselli. … Remember? Last time I saw you you was goin’ up to the lines on a train with Chrisfield. … Chris we used to call him. . . . At Cosne, don’t you remember?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, what’s happened to Chris?”

“He’s a corporal now,” said Andrews.

“Gee he is. … I’ll be goddamned. … They was goin’ to make me a corporal once.”

Fuselli wore stained olive-drab breeches and badly rolled puttees; his shirt was open at the neck. From his blue denim jacket came a smell of stale grease that Andrews recognised; the smell of army kitchens. He had a momentary recollection of standing in line cold dark mornings and of the sound the food made slopping into mess kits.

“Why didn’t they make you a corporal, Fuselli?” Andrews said, after a pause, in a constrained voice.

“Hell, I got in wrong, I suppose.”

They were leaning against the dusty house wall. Andrews looked at his feet. The mud of the pavement, splashing up on the wall, made an even dado along the bottom, on which Andrews scraped the toe of his shoe up and down.

“Well, how’s everything?” Andrews asked looking up suddenly.

“I’ve been in a labor battalion. That’s how everything is.”

“God, that’s tough luck!”

Andrews wanted to go on. He had a sudden fear that he would be late. But he did not know how to break away.

“I got sick,” said Fuselli grinning. “I guess I am yet. It’s a hell of a note the way they treat a feller … like he was lower than the dirt.”

“Were you at Cosne all the time? That’s damned rough luck, Fuselli.”

“Cosne sure is a hell of a hole. … I guess you saw a lot of fighting. God! you must have been glad not to be in the goddam medics.”

“I don’t know that I’m glad I saw fighting. … Oh, yes, I suppose I am.”

“You see, I had it a hell of a time before they found out. Court-martial was damn stiff … after the armistice too. … Oh, God! why can’t they let a feller go home?”

A woman in a bright blue hat passed them. Andrews caught a glimpse of a white over-powdered face; her hips trembled like jelly under the blue skirt with each hard clack of her high heels on the pavement.

“Gee, that looks like Jenny. … I’m glad she didn’t see me. …” Fuselli laughed. “Ought to ’a seen her one night last week. We were so dead drunk we just couldn’t move.”

“Isn’t that bad for what’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t give a damn now; what’s the use?”

“But God; man!” Andrews stopped himself suddenly. Then he said in a different voice; “What outfit are you in now?”

“I’m on the permanent K.P. here,” Fuselli jerked his thumb towards the door of the building. “Not a bad job, off two days a week; no drill, good eats. … At least you get all you want. … But it surely has been hell emptying ash cans and shovelling coal an’ now all they’ve done is dry me up.”

“But you’ll be goin’ home soon now, won’t you? They can’t discharge you till they cure you.”

“Damned if I know. … Some guys say a guy never can be cured. …”

“Don’t you find K.P. work pretty damn dull?”

“No worse than anything else. What are you doin’ in Paris?”

“School detachment.”

“What’s that?”

“Men who wanted to study in the university, who managed to work it.”

“Gee, I’m glad I ain’t goin’ to school again.”

“Well, so long, Fuselli.”

“So long, Andrews.”

Fuselli turned and slouched back to the group of men at the door. Andrews hurried away. As he turned the corner he had a glimpse of Fuselli with his hands in his pockets and his legs crossed leaning against the wall behind the door of the barracks.