Rodney Whitaker - The Summer of Katya

“Please sit down,” he said as he poured out two large brandies, not having heard, or choosing to ignore, my refusal. With only his left hand free, his empty right sleeve pinned against his bound shoulder, he carried the brandy glasses rather precariously between his fingers. I accepted the glass, not wishing to appear petty, and when he took a chair beside the fire, there was nothing for me to do but join him, my chill skin absorbing the welcome warmth, whether I wanted it or not.

“I take it your sister failed to tell you that she was coming into Salies to collect her bicycle,” I said with some distant dignity.

“You take it correctly. But then, she is not in the habit of accounting to me for her actions. But for more than an hour I have been searching everywhere for her. Consideration for others is not one of Katya’s attributes.”

“We took some refreshment at a cafй on the square. The weather turned threatening, so I offered to carry her and her machine home. There was nothing more to it than—”

“My dear fellow, I require no explanation of Katya’s behavior. And if I did, I should ask for it from her. My sister’s character and breeding are such that her actions are not dependent on the moral rectitude of her company. Good heavens! Did you imagine for a moment that I thought—” He burst into a laugh that was rather insulting. “No, no, Montjean. I am sure there is nothing but casual friendship between you. After all…” He waved his glass towards me, but was kind enough not to complete the thought. “No, Katya’s been kept too much to herself by circumstances, and hers is too open and generous a personality to enjoy being alone. However, we live—I need hardly remind you—in a small-minded and narrow community where reputations can fall victim to rumor on the slightest foundation.”

“In fact, I did fail to consider the evil of local gossip. That was thoughtless of me. But, after all? A glass of citron pressй and half an hour’s conversation in the public square? What could they make of that?”

“Everything. As my family has come, to its sorrow, to know, having been victims of savage gossip often enough. Therefore…” He finished off his brandy and took my empty glass with his to the side table. “…I feel justified in demanding that you do something to retrieve Katya’s reputation.”

“Yes, of course. Anything. But… what?”

“The honorable thing, of course.”

“And that is?” I asked with open astonishment.

He measured out the brandy with more precision than was necessary, taking his time before turning to me and saying, “I want you to call on her at her home, as a young man should. Be seen with her in the company of her family. I hope I do not ask too much?” He smiled, and I was struck by how, particularly in profile, he was the very image of Katya. There was something reassuring in this. And something disconcerting as well.

“I should, of course, be delighted to call on Mlle Treville.”

He shrugged. “That goes without saying. But I must require that you join me in an innocent little subterfuge.”

I rose to receive my glass and used the opportunity to cross to the other side of the hearth to complete my drying out. “What little subterfuge is that?”

“It concerns my father. It is imperative—absolutely imperative—that my father never get the impression that you are visiting Katya as a young man visits a young woman. Is that understood?”

“But why not?”

He ignored the question, leaving me to understand that his insistence was reason enough. “During supper last night, my father noticed that I was one-armed—really quite a feat of observation for him, lost as he is in his world of medieval village life. We shall introduce you at supper as my doctor, and your visits here will be for the ostensible purpose of attending to my injury—assisting Father Time, as it were.”

“Am I to take supper with you then?”

He grinned. “My dear fellow, we could hardly send you out into the rain, now could we?”

“And yet you seemed perfectly capable of that not ten minutes ago.”

“I have always admired social flexibility in others, and I seek to develop that quality in myself.”

“Flexibility? Capriciousness, more like. May I tell you something quite frankly?”

“Oh, dear. Well, if you absolutely must.”

“I consider you to be willful and thoughtless of others’ feelings. Not ten minutes ago, you were storming about, the perfect image of the outraged brother, when you knew quite well you had nothing to be outraged about. You spoke offensively to me and, what is more, you quite crushed your sister. Then suddenly you became all reason and friendship—even to the ridiculous point of playing the matchmaker. And that when neither of us has the slightest reason to believe that Mlle Treville is the least bit interested in me. I believe anyone would describe such behavior as childish and irresponsible.”

Paul stared into the fire and I fell silent, my heart pounding, surprised by my frankness and daring. Then he looked languidly over at me. “Pardon me? You were saying?”

“I am sure you heard me.”

“In fact I did. But I did you the service of pretending not to. So far as your supper here goes, let me warn you that we live meagerly, if not meanly. Our peasant servants cook to their peasant taste, so our evening meal consists of a soup more notable for its density than its flavor, crusts of the local bread, which could easily double as paving material, and a garnish of greenish oddments plucked from the breast of the earth. The kindest description of our repasts would be… Spartan. They belong to that vast category of unpleasant events that we are enjoined to indulge in because they build character.” He rose. “Now, if leaving you to your own company for a few moments does not expose me to accusations of abandoning you to dull society, I shall go tell Katya to have another place laid. Who knows?” He grinned. “She may even be pleased. She has a capacity for deriving pleasure from the most insignificant things.” And he left the salon.

I wandered the room absently, examining the furnishings, which were a queer mйlange of heavy, ugly objects in dubious repair, and fine expensive old pieces. I assumed it to be a mixture of furniture left behind by the leasor and a few treasured things the Trevilles had brought with them. As I passed the double doors leading to the hall, I could not help overhearing parts of a whispered conversation between Katya and Paul who were standing without. Only occasional words were audible, but the timbre of the exchange was intense and strained.

“…of course. But was that wise, Paul?”

“What…. our options?”

(Something incomprehensible from Katya.)

“I assume…. fond of….?”

(A pause) “Yes…. very nice.”

“….sorry, Katya. If only…. different.”

“It’s pointless…. the impossible. Perhaps…. explain to Dr. Montjean?”

“….foolish. Very foolish indeed!”

“Yes, you’re right, of course. Well,…. for supper. Papa just rang.”

Papa’s “ringing” to announce that he was done with his studies for the day and ready for his supper was a topic of conversation, as the four of us sat around the oaken table in the dining room.

“It’s not exactly accurate to say he rings,” Katya told me, smiling from beyond the encrusted old candelabrum. “This poor pile of a house is falling apart and almost nothing functions. The kitchen signal bells have long ago disappeared. But one can hear the scratching of the wire in its channel quite clearly, so it works in its own fashion after all.”

I thought it delightful the way Katya maintained light chat at table with all the grace of an experienced hostess. So much did I endow her with exceptional gifts that I was surprised to discover she also possessed those common to all well-brought-up women.