Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

When they left the cinema dusk was falling, and neither she nor Norris had much to say during the short taxi ride to the hotel. She wondered whether he was old enough not to have found the theme sentimental. He had been so enthusiastic over the other Saffron pictures; it would be ironic if this one had pleased him less.

“I thought it was very beautiful,” she said simply.

He replied, as they climbed the steps to the hotel: “I wonder why he called it Erste Freundschaft? That means ‘First Friendship’. But it was love, not friendship.”

That evening Austen took them to the theatre to see a popular play that none of them liked, and the next morning they left for Southampton and boarded the Normandie.

One morning in the spring of 1939 Carey was walking along Fifth Avenue when she saw a man coming out of a shop who looked so much like Paul that she caught her breath. She stared fascinatedly while he sauntered across the pavement to signal a taxi, lighting a cigar as he did so. Then, because he suddenly saw her and spoke her name, she caught her breath again, with astonishment not only that it was Paul indeed, but also, and illogically, that he had changed so greatly.

“Carey, this is really incredible. How ARE you?”

They shook hands, and for a moment she could not call herself to any kind of order. It was not so much that he looked older (after all, it was almost a decade since she had seen him, and presumably she looked older too), but he had become weightier in a way that somehow suggested mental rather than physical substance; his head seemed bigger and his eyes brighter and smaller, and there was a sombre twinkle in the greeting he gave, stooping slightly over her hand with a gesture that offered the verdict she had been fumbling for in her mind—that he looked every inch, and in all dimensions, a maestro. Which was (as Foy had once said at the old Hampstead theatre) a Continental trick; and in a flash of whimsy she saw this changed Paul, dressed more Gallically, but with the same brooding effervescence, on some Paris poster advertising an apéritif.

“Carey… have lunch with me… Of course you will… Taxi!…”

A cab came up, and before she could think of an objection (if there were any) he had bundled her inside and ordered the man to drive to Twenty-One. A bit of a character, this driver, independent-spirited but not surly, and honest enough to remark that since Twenty-One was only round the corner it was hardly worth getting in for. Whereupon Paul replied, mock-suavely (exactly as to some callow actor’s suggestion that a line in a play be changed): “May we have a ride, please, instead of a geography lesson?” To which the man retorted, with a shrug: “Okay, buddy, any way you want it.” This little incident, so convincing in its message that Paul had not changed altogether, would have amused Carey had she not been gathering her wits to realize what would happen if they did lunch at Twenty-One—a minor sensation on the spot and later in gossip columns. She was not going to let herself in for this at any price, but she had barely time to countermand Paul’s instructions and tell the driver to turn on Sixth Avenue and enter the Park.

“Okay,” Paul then said, grinning at her. “Any way YOU want it.”

“I’m sorry, Paul. I hope you don’t mind. But some other place— “

“Of course—wherever you like. Now tell me about yourself— all the news of what’s been happening to you.”

But it was not so easy to begin, besides which she knew how incapable he was of letting anyone else talk. Nor did he help by exclaiming, loudly enough for the driver to hear: “So you married Moneybags in that Mexican place that dogs are named after.” He spoke indulgently, as of a childish escapade for which she had already been forgiven, and she recognized his familiar technique of making a remark in such thoroughly bad taste that there was nothing to do but put up with it or start a row. As she did not want to start a row she said merely: “Please don’t shout, Paul.”

“Are you happy, that’s the main thing?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve retired from the stage?”

“I suppose so, though I’ve never definitely—”

“You like being idle?”

“I’m not idle.”

“Any children?”

“No.”

“Just the two of you, alone and rich?”

“My husband has a son by his previous marriage—a boy now at college. Rather clever. He’s interested in films. He’s studied your work and admires it.”

“Well, bully for him.”

She said, after a short pause: “You’ve been away from this country too long.”

“I have?”

“People don’t say ‘bully’ any more.”

“I know. I was a boy when they did. But _I_ didn’t, not then. I never cared to be in a fashion.”

“I suppose you speak other languages now?”

“French and German like a native… So he’s interested in films, is he? You’re not by any chance asking me to find him a job?”

“I think he’ll find one quite well himself when he leaves Harvard. What he seems to want to do is to write.”

“For films?”

“Not particularly. Not at all, so far as I know.”

“Written anything already?”

“A few short stories. You might like them.”

“Are you hinting I should buy them for pictures?”

“I don’t believe they’d do for pictures, and apart from that I wouldn’t recommend anyone to have business dealings with you.”

“Listen—I’ve made money lately. I can pay top prices for all the movie rights I want.”

“I dare say. I’ve followed your career. You’ve done very well.”

“So have you, by God.”

And then they both laughed. Antagonism between them, though genuine, had always had to take its turn with countless other emotions. She knew he had been trying to be as rude as he could, and she hadn’t been too polite herself; it was all some kind of preliminary bout, not to be held of much importance even if the traded blows were hard. She said seriously: “I saw Erste Freundschaft. A great picture, Paul.”

His face lit up with a delight in being praised that had enough wonderment in it to make his boasting almost tolerable. “You really think so? You MEAN that?”

“And I liked Als ob nichts vorgefallen sei nearly as well.”

“You liked WHAT?”

“Als ob nichts vorgefallen sei.” She did not know much German and to repeat the words, possibly mispronounced, with his smile widening on her, made her blush with embarrassment. “Isn’t that right?”

“Sure… But your native sounds even worse than mine.”

She began to giggle. “Paul…”

“And you laugh just the same—and as if that were not enough, you’re lovelier than ever when you do it. I hope our friend in front realizes how privileged he is.”

“You bet,” the driver called out over his shoulder. “I’ve driven ‘em all in my time—Groucho Marx, Dorothy Parker, Katie Hepburn, Maurice Chevalier, Sophie Tucker… Who are you two?”

“Did you ever hear of Carey Arundel?”

“Who?”

“Carey Arundel.”

“Can’t say I… sounds kind of familiar, though. Are you him?”

“No, my friend. But you are so right about the name. It sounds familiar, yet nobody remembers it… Well, Carey, what did you expect after ten years?”

She laughed again through her fresh embarrassment, and thought how exempt she had been from this kind of thing during the years of what Paul called ‘idleness’. Just to imagine Austen exchanging three-way badinage with herself and a taxi-driver was as fantastic as the concept of some natural law in reverse; yet she knew it did not prove that Austen was a snob, or even that Paul was democratic. It proved nothing, in fact, except that Paul was still Paul.