Джеймс Хилтон - Time And Time Again

‘I’ve sometimes found the new world not so young.’

‘It would be a comfort to think so. And back numbers ARE— occasionally—more readable than the latest. As an editor, hasn’t that ever worried you?’

‘Why are you talking to me like this?’

‘I really haven’t the slightest idea—unless it’s because I’m tired after bickering with Palan all day. To him I’ve got to appear always alert and combative—whereas with you I can relax and be myself.’

‘But you’re not yourself when you’re too modest.’

‘Yes, I am—and also when I’m conceited. I’m both.’

She turned to him with a slow serene scrutiny, then asked: ‘What sort of life have you had?’

‘LIFE? My life?’

‘Has it been happy—or—or rather unhappy?’

But this was going too far; he woke abruptly from the trance of self-revelation into which his tiredness and her comfort had made him slip. He answered, talking fast while he pulled himself into control: ‘You Americans—it’s the PURSUIT of happiness, isn’t it, not the happiness itself, that’s laid down as one of the aims of your republic? My father used to point that out… So to you it might seem that I haven’t pursued happiness very successfully. You might even say, if you knew, that once or twice it’s pursued me and I’ve run away from it. That, of course, is unforgivable, and I think had I been born in America I should at least have stood my ground… But as for calling my life—as a whole—UNhappy, I’d certainly say no to that. Oh, definitely no—at least nothing to complain of —mainly run of the mill… A little more wine? Good… Things kept happening—the usual mixed bag of events—and they still are. This evening, for instance—how delightful! Such a long time, Anne, since I enjoyed myself so—er—so UNSPEAKABLY. Meeting you last night was quite an event—for which, to be fair, I have to thank my son, haven’t I, and the fact that he was so willing to deceive his father! Unscrupulous but—in the circumstances—very fortunate. And not silly. Oh no. Love can be many things, but that isn’t one of them. People who say so have never known it—or else have forgotten it. I was a few years older than Gerald when I first had the experience, and the girl— she was actually younger than he is now. There were people then who said it was silly. I didn’t think so, and I’ve never thought so since.’

‘What became of her?’

‘She married somebody else—and happily, I believe.’

‘You also married somebody else?’

‘Yes. And that was happy too—until—’

‘I know.’

‘Gerald again the informer?’

‘Yes, if you put it that way.’

‘I hope, then, he also told you—though he could hardly have remembered—what a remarkable woman my wife was. She was great fun and she had courage and loyalty and she knew how to get her own way with people. She helped me tremendously in my work. She…’ The waiter came and took his order for another bottle of wine. He had drunk very little. He went on smoothly, but as if it were not what he had been going to say: ‘She usually stopped me from making a fool of myself… Now it’s your turn… I mean, to talk.’

‘All right.’ She smiled. ‘What shall I talk about?’

‘Yourself. I know so little about you. For all I know you’re…’ He tried to think of a way to finish the sentence. ‘… you’re engaged to a Texas oil millionaire.’

‘No… But how did you know I was an editor?’

‘I asked at the hotel desk. I found out all I could about you.’

‘I wouldn’t like you to get a wrong impression. It’s a children’s magazine and I’m really a teacher…’

He got back to his room about one o’clock, which was much later than usual during the period of the Conference. But he felt refreshed and did not plan to hurry the ritual of the last drink alone and the half-hour of pottering over his diary and letters. As always after an evening out in good company he missed Jane. ‘Now there’s the kind of girl you ought to have married,’ she had said, in joking self-disparagement on a very few occasions; but the peculiar thing was that she had had a rare knack of saying it about the right —or at least not the utterly wrong—women. There had been Clara Delagny at Santiago, and the German baroness at the Gismondi party at Villefranche… it had been fun, evaluating them with Jane, who knew so much and could make such good guesses even about what she didn’t know… So he mused now upon what Jane might have said about Anne Raynor, and was still musing a moment later when the telephone rang. It was exceptional to be called at such an hour and he hoped Bingay didn’t want him for anything; he didn’t feel like discussing business. But the thought that he might have to made him brace himself for the professional and official manner, so that when he heard and recognized the voice he was less taken aback than he might have been.

‘M’sieur Anderson, a thousand apologies for disturbing you… It is I, Palan…’

‘Yes?’

‘I would like, if I may, to see you for a few minutes.’

‘You mean—NOW?’

‘If you please.’

‘But I—I’m just about to go to bed.’

‘I am here, in the lobby downstairs.’

‘Well, I’ll come down if it’s really important, but—’

‘No, no, I will come up. It will be easier that way. What is the number of your room?’

‘It really IS important?’

‘Yes. May I come up now?’

There was a note in Palan’s voice that intrigued Charles at least as much as it warned him; it sounded like a child’s eagerness until one pictured Palan standing at the open desk within earshot of the hotel clerks, as he would be, presumably; and Charles found such lack of concealment far more puzzling than any amount of deviousness. That, he reflected, was the besetting neurosis of his profession; when a man did anything straightforwardly one was always suspicious. An obscure distaste for the neurosis made Charles answer: ‘All right. Come up. Three-three-four.’

A measure of excitement gained on him during the short interval of waiting. It was, he knew, the result of his evening with Anne; it had infected him with a curious sense of new adventure, of desire to step boldly where normally he would have been circumspect. He warned himself, but even the warning only added to the inward excitement. Presently he heard footsteps along the corridor. Assorted wisps of memory from a hundred spy and detective novels came to him as he went to the door. Bingay would certainly think he was doing a foolish thing. Suppose Palan were not alone? One heard fantastic stories of what those people were capable of… Anyhow, he opened the door, and Palan WAS alone, looking no more fearsome than he always would at that hour, for he was one of those men whose beards grow fast and dark.

‘Merci, mon ami. J’espčre que vous n’ętes pas fatigué.’

‘Not too much, but I shall need some sleep soon… Come in—and please speak in English.’

‘Si vous voulez.’ Palan walked across the room and pulled the blinds slightly aside at one of the windows overlooking the Place de la Concorde. Charles did not like this. ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked rather sharply.

‘To verify what I already guessed. One cannot go anywhere without someone watching.’

‘You mean YOU cannot. I can, I hope.’

‘Not always. You were watched tonight.’ Palan laughed. ‘ I watched you, my friend. I saw you take the American girl to dinner at Rousellin’s —the American girl who was supposed to have returned to America. You were there for four hours. Then you brought her back here, where she is staying also. Am I not right?’