John Passos - 1919

Daughter couldn’t seem to think of anything to say as she didn’t know what they were talking about; she sat there in the restaurant looking at the waiters and the lights and the people at the tables. Opposite there was a party of attractive looking young French officers. One of them, a tall man with a hawk nose, was looking at her. Their eyes met and she couldn’t help grinning. Those boys looked as if they were having a fine time. A party of Americans dressed up like plush horses crossed the floor between her and the Frenchman. It was Dick and the pale woman and J. Ward Moorehouse and a big middleaged woman in a great many deep pink ruffles and emeralds. They sat down at the table next to Daughter’s table where there had been a sign saying Reservee all evening. Everybody was introduced and she and Dick shook hands very formally, as if they were the merest acquaintances. Miss Stoddard, whom she’d been so friendly with in Rome, gave her a quick inquisitive cold stare that made her feel terrible.

Miss Hutchins immediately went over and began talking about Don Stevens and trying to get Mr. Moorehouse to call up Colonel House right away and get him to take some action in his case. Mr. Moorehouse acted very quiet and calm and said he was sure she need have no anxiety, he was probably only being held for investigation and in any case he didn’t think the courtmartial in the Army of Occupation would take extreme measures against a civilian and an American citizen. Miss Hutchins said all she wanted was a stay because his father was a friend of La Follette’s and would be able to get together considerable influence in Washington. Mr. Moorehouse smiled when he heard that. “If his life depended on the influence of Senator La Follette, I think you would have cause to be alarmed, Eveline, but I think I can assure you that it doesn’t.” Miss Hutchins looked very cross when she heard that and settled back to glumly eating her supper. Anyway the party was spoiled. Daughter couldn’t imagine what it was that had made everybody so stiff and constrained; maybe she was imagining it on account of her and Dick. Now and then she gave him a sideways glance. He looked so different from the way she’d known him sitting there so prim and prissylooking, talking to the stout woman in pink in a low pompous whisper now and then. It made her want to throw a plate at him.

It was a relief when the orchestra started playing dance music. Mr. Barrow wasn’t a very good dancer and she didn’t like the way he kept squeezing her hand and patting her neck. After they were through dancing they went into the bar to have a gin fizz. The ceiling was hung with tricolor decoration; the four French officers were in there; there were people singing La Madelon de la Victoire and all the tough little girls were laughing and talking loud shrill French. Mr. Barrow was whispering in her ear all the time, “Darling girl, you must let me take you home tonight…. You mustn’t sail… I’m sure I can arrange everything with the Red Cross or whatever it is…. I’ve led such an unhappy life and I think I’d kill myself if I had to give you up… couldn’t you love me just a little… I’ve dedicated my life to unattainable ideals and here I am getting old without grasping true happiness for a moment. You’re the only girl I’ve ever known who seemed really a beautiful pagan at heart… appreciate the art of life.” Then he kissed her wetly in the ear.

“But, George, I can’t love anybody now… I have everybody.”

“Let me teach you… just give me a chance.”

“If you knew about me, you wouldn’t want me,” she said coldly. She caught again a funny scared look on his face and a thinning of his lips over his widely spaced teeth.

They went back to the table. She sat there fidgeting while everybody talked carefully, with long pauses, about the Peace Treaty, when it was going to be signed, whether the Germans would sign. Then she couldn’t stand it any longer and went to the ladies’ room to powder her nose. On the way back to the table she peeped into the bar to see what was going on in there. The hawknosed French officer caught sight of her, jumped to his feet, clicked his heels together, saluted, bowed and said in broken English, “Charming lady, will you not stay a moment and drink once with your umble servant?” Daughter went to their table and sat down. “You boys looked like you were having such a good time,” she said. “I’m with the worst old set of plush horses… They make me tired.” “Permettez, mademoiselle,” he said, and introduced her to his friends. He was an aviator. They were all aviation officers. His name was Pierre. When she told them her brother had been an aviator and had been killed, they were very nice to her. She couldn’t help letting them think Bud had been killed at the front. “Mademoiselle,” said Pierre solemnly, “allow me, with all possible respect, to be your brother.” “Shake,” she said. They all shook hands solemnly, they were drinking little glasses of cognac, but after that they ordered champagne. She danced with them all. She was very happy and didn’t care what happened. They were young goodlooking boys, all the time laughing and nice to her. They had clasped their hands and were dancing ring around the rosy in the middle of the floor while everybody around was clapping, when she saw Mr. Barrow’s face red and indignant in the door. Next time the doorway spun around she yelled over her shoulder. “Be back in a minute, teacher.” The face disappeared. She was dizzy but Pierre caught her and held her tight; he smelt of perfume but still she liked having him hold her tight.

He suggested they go somewhere else, “Mademoiselle Sistair,” he whispered, “allow us to show you the mystères de Paree… afterwards we can come back to your plus orsairs. They will probably become intoxicate… plus orsairs invariably intoxicate.” They laughed. He had grey eyes and light hair, he said he was a Norman. She said he was the nicest Frenchman she’d ever met. She had a hard time getting her coat from the checkroom because she didn’t have any check, but she went in and picked it out while Pierre talked French to the checkgirl. They got into a long low grey car; Daughter had never seen such speeding. Pierre was a fine driver though; he had a game of running full speed towards a gendarme and swerving just enough at the right moment. She said supposing he hit one; he shrugged his shoulders and said, “It does not mattair… they are… ow do you call it?… bloody cows.” They went to Maxims, where it was too quiet for them, then to a little tough dancehall way across Paris. Daughter could see that Pierre was wellknown everywhere and an Ace. The other aviators met girls in different places and dropped away. Before she realized it she and Pierre were alone in the long grey car. “Primo,” he was explaining, “we will go to Les Halles to eat soupe à l’oignon… and then I shall take you a little tour en avion.” “Oh, please do. I’ve never been up in a plane… I’d like to go up and loop the loop… promise you’ll loop the loop.” “Entendu,” he said.

They sat a little sleepily in a small empty eatingplace and ate onion soup and drank some more champagne. He was still very kind and considerate but he seemed to have exhausted his English. She thought vaguely about going back to the hotel and catching the boattrain, but all she seemed to be able to say was, “Loop the loop, promise me you’ll loop the loop.” His eyes had gotten a little glazy, “With Mademoiselle Sistair,” he said, “I do not make love… I make the loop the loop.”

It was a long drive out to the aviation field. A little greyness of dawn was creeping over everything. Pierre couldn’t drive straight any more, so that she had to grab the wheel once or twice to steady him. When they drew up with a jerk at the field she could see the row of hangars and three planes standing out in deepest blue and beyond, rows of poplartrees against the silver rim of the plain. Overhead the sky sagged heavily like a wet tent. Daughter got out of the car shivering. Pierre was staggering a little. “Perhaps you will go instead to bed… to bed it is very good,” he said yawning. She put her arm around him, “You promised you’d take me up and loop the loop.” “Allright,” he said angrily and walked towards one of the planes. He fumbled with the engine a while and she could hear him swearing in French. Then he went into the hangar to wake up a mechanic. Daughter stood there shivering in the growing silvery light. She wouldn’t think of anything. She wanted to go up in a plane. Her head ached but she didn’t feel nauseated. When the mechanic came back with Pierre she could make out that he was arguing with him trying to make him give up the flight. She got very sore: “Pierre, you’ve got to take me up,” she yelled at the two men sleepily arguing in French. “Aw-right, Mademoiselle Sistair.” They wrapped a heavy armycoat around her and strapped her very carefully in the observer’s seat. Pierre climbed into the pilot seat. It was a Bleriot monoplane, he said. The mechanic spun the propeller. The engine started. Everything was full of the roar of the engine. Suddenly she was scared and sober, thought about home and Dad and Buster and the boat she was going to take tomorrow, no it was today. It seemed an endless time with the engine roaring. The light was brighter. She started to fumble with the straps to unstrap them. It was crazy going up like this. She had to catch that boat. The plane had started. It was bouncing over the field, bouncing along the ground. They were still on the ground rumbling bouncing along. Maybe it wouldn’t go up. She hoped it wouldn’t go up. A row of poplars swept past below them. The motor was a settled roar now, they were climbing. It was daylight; a cold silver sun shone in her face. Underneath them was a floor of thick white clouds like a beach. She was terribly cold and stunned by the roar of the motor. The man in goggles in front of her turned around and yelled something. She couldn’t hear. She’d forgotten who Pierre was. She stretched her hand out towards him and waved it around. The plane went on climbing steadily. She began to see hills standing up in the light on either side of the white beach of clouds, must be the valley of the Seine full of fog; where was Paris? They were plunging into the sun, no, no, don’t, don’t, now it’s the end. The white clouds were a ceiling overhead, the sun spun around once first fast then slowly then the plane was climbing again. She felt terribly sick, she was afraid she was going to faint. Dying must be like this. Perhaps she’d have a miscarriage. Her body was throbbing with the roar of the engine. She had barely strength enough to stretch her hand toward him again and make the same motion. The same thing again. This time she didn’t feel so bad. They were climbing again into the blue sky, a wind must have come up because the plane was lunging a little, took an occasional sickening drop into a pocket. The face in the goggles turned around and swayed from side to side. She thought the lips formed the words, No good; but now she could see Paris like an embroidered pincushion, with all the steeples and the Eiffel Tower and the towers of the Trocadèro sticking up through a milky haze. The Sacré Cœur on Montmartre was very white and cast a shadow clear to the garden that looked like a map. Then it was behind them and they were circling over green country. It was rough and she began to feel sick again. There was a ripping sound of some kind. A little wire waving loose and glistening against the blue began to whine. She tried to yell to the man in the goggles. He turned and saw her waving and went up into another dive. This time. No. Paris, the Eiffel Tower, the Sacré Cœur, the green fields spun. They were climbing again. Daughter saw the shine of a wing gliding by itself a little way from the plane. The spinning sun blinded her as they dropped.