Джеймс Хилтон - Time And Time Again

‘So?’ answered Palan, regarding it judicially. ‘But I think not for me.’ His loud and bad French was already drawing attention from nearby tables. ‘I shall have Banane Split.’ He sat down and shouted the order to the nearest waitress. Then he pulled out a handkerchief and began mopping his forehead. ‘I must explain that this is just bonne chance. I am walking along and I see M’sieur Anderson through the window. He looks so happy, eating his ice cream. It is a sign of the times, is it not, that the French are acquiring so many of your American habits… It used to be English—the rosbif— the afternoon tea… but now it is all American—ice cream, soda fountain, jukebox. But you, M’sieur Anderson—somehow I did not think of you as an addict—yet why not, after all? It is doubtless a treat for you too.’ He turned again to Miss Raynor. ‘I am a great admirer of things American!’

The girl looked as if much of this had escaped her, but she caught its complimentary flavour and responded with a second smile that gave Charles a twinge of jealousy. It was not that he thought himself less physically attractive than Palan—on the contrary; but he could not help feeling that Palan’s style of success with women should somehow be picketed as unfair to gentlemen.

‘It’s Gerald’s seventeenth birthday,’ he said in French, relieved to have found an opening for a personal alibi. ‘We were just celebrating.’

‘But of course.’ Palan now turned his attention to Gerald. ‘Seventeen! Ah, a wonderful age! And how long are you to be in Paris, Gerald?’

(He called him Gerald already—and as easily as that! To Charles this was something else to be jealous of, yet confusingly to be appreciated as well.) Charles answered: ‘He’s leaving for England tonight.’ He added: ‘And Miss Raynor has to leave for America—also tonight.’ He felt as if he were quietly closing doors in Palan’s face.

Palan then transferred his attention to Charles. ‘Leaving us two old fogies here in Paris,’ he commented; and Charles did not like the phrase, for he was sure Palan was nearer sixty than fifty.

‘But SEVENTEEN!’ Palan was continuing. ‘Can you guess where I was at seventeen?… In a military hospital—already I was wounded in battle. That was the Balkan War.’ (Charles did the mental arithmetic—1911 —it would make him fifty-eight.) ‘I was what they called a hothead in those days—at sixteen I ran away from home to enlist—I lied about my age. I have told many lies since, but never one as crazy as that.’ He suddenly rolled up his sleeve. ‘You see? I have it still.’ Along the whole length of a hairy forearm there ran a scar like a highway between forests. ‘You think I was a great patriot, eh? But no, I ran away because I thought I would prefer war to being at home. But I found war was even worse. My father used to beat us when we were young. He was very rich and loved to beat people. One day at last I beat him—and that was why I had to run away… They killed him after the Revolution. So you have trains to catch tonight, both of you? If my father had caught his train he would not have been killed. But he was late at the station and the train had gone. There were no more trains. That time comes in all our lives some day—when there are no more trains. But I hated him. And now—just to make things equal—my son hates me.’

‘You have a son?’ Charles said, with so little reason to be astonished that he wondered why he was even interested.

‘I have five—and seven daughters—but the son who hates me is the only one who has anything to do with me. Life is like that.’

‘Why does he hate you?’

‘Because he is a hothead too—though not the kind I was. He is a cold hothead. He is in charge of soil conservation in the province of Alma Valchinia, but already he is talked of as a coming man. And at twenty-four! What a career! Why, when I was that age I was wrecking trains with dynamite —I was ACTIVIST! You could not have made me spend my life examining dirt!’

Charles wished that Palan would not shout; it was unseemly that such a conversation should be overheard, though he supposed that Palan cared as little for that as for his other eccentricities. Charles was glad when the Banana Split arrived. He noticed that Palan attacked it with a zest that was either childlike or wolfish—depending, Charles mused, on how far one had gone in finding excuses for the fellow.

‘You like it?’ Miss Raynor said, watching Palan quite tranquilly. She spoke in English, though she had no reason to suppose he understood. Then, however, he answered in English with a definite American accent: ‘Do YOU? I think they make them far better at Schrafft’s.’

Miss Raynor laughed incredulously. ‘SCHRAFFT’S? That’s where I often have lunch. There’s one next to my office.’

‘You have an office, Anne?’ (And even ‘Anne’ already!)

‘I work in one… So you know New York, Mr. Palan?’

‘For three years I lived there. Central Park West. I know the Stork Club and also the Automat. I have stayed at Ellis Island and also at the Waldorf-Astoria. I have eaten hot dogs and caviare.’

‘But not together? Or perhaps that’s no worse than cheese and apple pie.’

Palan laughed loudly and patted the girl’s hand. But Charles was reddening. He could not enjoy the joke because he was thinking that after all those Conference sittings during which he had suffered Palan’s bad French, it now turned out that the man could just as well have spared him such an ordeal —or at least have substituted the lesser one of his English! But it was not the memory of the French that bothered Charles most, but the possibility that on several occasions Palan might have caught a few words of English that Charles had whispered to Sir Malcolm—a few witty but tart asides, prompted by some specially irritating attitude of Palan’s, but not wholly excusable, not really sanctioned by the codebook of good manners. The thought that Palan might have heard and understood made Charles feel slightly ashamed, and the conclusion that, even if so, Palan had clearly not minded a bit, made Charles feel also annoyed. Perhaps, after all, the fellow was as thick-skinned as those who opposed him needed to be.

Palan was still continuing, in English: ‘But I was telling you about my son. He is a model. He does not smoke or drink or have women. You cannot bribe him—or plead with him—you cannot even make him laugh. When I laugh he probably reports it to the secret police.’

Charles moved uncomfortably. This was definitely not the sort of talk to be indulged in loudly by any diplomat of any nation in any language in a public place. He wondered if Palan were slightly drunk, or perhaps exceedingly drunk in some unique way of his own. This gave Charles a solicitude that was entirely professional—in the freemasonry of diplomacy, if it still existed to any degree at all, one could surely pass a hint of warning even to an adversary. Charles said, therefore, to change the subject: ‘I agree that stuff isn’t as good as it could be, though you certainly seem to be getting through it.’

Palan refused or was unaware of the hint. ‘My son is not like me,’ he continued. ‘He speaks carefully, he works carefully, he does everything carefully. And correctly. And quietly. He would not raise his voice in sending you to the firing squad. But it is worse when he lectures on soil-conservation. Then you are so bored you WISH to be sent to the firing squad.’

Charles turned abruptly to Miss Raynor. ‘I’m sorry about dinner. It’s too bad you weren’t with Gerald and me.’

‘Thanks, Mr. Anderson, but I knew it was a special occasion—I expect you had a good time on your own.’

‘Oh… so he DID mention it?’