Грэм Грин - The Comedians

'They can say that of most of us. Wasn't I a comedian with my verses smelling of Les Fleurs du Mal, published on handmade paper at my own expense? I posted them to the leading French reviews. That was a mistake. My bluff was called. I never read a single criticism — except by Petit Pierre. The same money would have bought me a Bren perhaps.' (It was a magic word to him now — Bren.)

The ambassador said, 'Come on, cheer up, let us all be comedians together. Take one of my cigars. Help yourself at the bar. My Scotch is good. Perhaps even Papa Doc is a comedian.'

'Oh no,' Philipot said, 'he is real. Horror is always real.'

The ambassador said, 'We mustn't complain too much of being comedians — it's an honourable profession. If only we could be good ones the world might gain at least a sense of style. We have failed — that's all. We are bad comedians, we aren't bad men.'

'For Christ's sake,' Martha said in English, as though she were addressing me directly, 'I'm no comedian.' We had forgotten her. She beat with her hands on the back of the sofa and cried to them in French, 'You talk so much. Such rubbish. My child vomited just now. You can smell it still on my hands. He was crying with pain. You talk about acting parts. I'm not acting any part. I do something. I fetch a basin. I fetch aspirin. I wipe his mouth. I take him into my bed.'

She began to weep standing behind the sofa. 'My dear,' the ambassador said with embarrassment. I couldn't even go to her or look at her too closely: Hamit watched me, ironic and comprehending. I remembered the stains we had left on his sheets, and I wondered whether he had changed them himself. He knew as many intimate things as a prostitute's dog.

'You put us all to shame,' Phflipot said.

She turned and left us, but her heel came off on the edge of the carpet and she stumbled and nearly fell in the doorway. I followed her and put my hand under her elbow. I knew that Hamit was watching me, but the ambassador, if he noticed anything, covered up well. 'Tell Angel I'll be up in half an hour to say good-night.' I closed the door behind me. She had taken off her shoes and was struggling to fasten the heel. I took it from her.

'There's nothing we can do,' I said. 'Haven't you another pair?'

'I've twenty other pairs. Does he know, do you think?'

'Perhaps. I don't know.'

'Will that make it any easier?'

'I don't know.'

'Perhaps we won't have to be comedians any more.'

'You said you were no comedian.'

'I exaggerated, didn't I? But all that talk irritated me. It made every one of us seem cheap and useless and self-pitying. Perhaps we are, but we needn't revel in it. At least I do things, don't I, even if they are bad things? I didn't pretend not to want you. I didn't pretend I loved you that first evenings.'

'Do you love me?'

'I love Angel,' she said defensively, walking up the wide Victorian staircase in her stockinged feet. We came to a long passage lined with numbered rooms.

'You've got plenty of rooms for refugees.'

'Yes.'

'Find a room for us now.'

'It's too risky.'

'It's as safe as the car. And what does it matter, if he knows …?'

' "In my own house" he would say, just as you would say "in our Peugeot". Men always measure betrayal in degrees. You wouldn't mind so much, would you, if it were someone else's Cadillac?'

'We're wasting time. He gave us half an hour.'

'You said you'd see Angel.'

'Then afterwards …?'

'Perhaps — I don't know. Let me think.'

She opened the third door down, and I found myself where I never wanted to be, in the bedroom she shared with her husband. The two beds were both double beds: their rose coloured sheets seemed to fill the room like a carpet. There was a tall pier-glass in which he could watch her prepare for bed. Now I had begun to feel a liking for the man I saw no reason why Martha should not like him too. He was fat, but there are women who love fat men, as they love hunchbacks or the one-legged. He was possessive, but there are women who enjoy slavery.

Angel sat upright against two pink pillows; the mumps had not noticeably increased the fatness of his face. I said, 'Hi!' I don't know how to talk to children. He had brown expressionless Latin eyes like his father — not the blue Saxon eyes of the hanged men. Martha had those.

'I am ill,' he said in a tone of moral superiority.

'So I see.'

'I sleep here with my mother. My father sleeps in the dressing-room. Until the fever has gone. I have a temperature of …'

I said, 'What's that you're playing with?'

'A puzzle.' He said to Martha, 'Is there no one else downstairs?'

'Monsieur Hamit is there and Henri.'

'I would like them to come and see me too.'

'Perhaps they have never had mumps. They might be afraid of catching it.'

'Has Monsieur Brown had mumps?'

Martha hesitated, and he took note of her hesitation like a cross-examining counsel. I said, 'Yes.'

'Does Monsieur Brown play cards?' he asked with apparent irrelevance.

'No. That is — I don't know,' she said as though she feared a trap.

'I don't like cards,' I said.

'My mother used to. She went out nearly every night playing cards — before you went away.'

'We have to go now,' Martha said. 'Papa will be up in half an hour to say good-night.'

He held out the puzzle to me and said, 'Do this.' It was one of those little rectangular boxes with glass sides that contain a picture of a clown and two sockets where his eyes should be and two little beads of steel which have to be shaken into the holes. I turned it this way and that way; I would get one bead in place and then in trying to fix the other I would dislodge the first. The child watched me with scorn and dislike.

'I'm sorry. I'm no good at this sort of thing. I can't do it.'

'You aren't properly trying,' he said. 'Go on.' I could feel the time I had left to be alone with Martha disappearing like sand in an egg-timer, and I could almost believe that he could see it too. The devilish beads chased each other round the edge of the box and ran across the eye-sockets without falling in; they took dives into corners. I would get them moving slowly downhill towards the sockets on a low gradient and then with the slightest tilt to guide them they plunged to the bottom of the box. All had to be begun again — I hardly moved the box at all now except by a quiver of my nerves.

'I've got one in.'

'That's not enough,' he said implacably.

I flung the box back at him. 'All right. You show me.'

He gave me a treacherous, unfriendly grin. He picked the box up and holding it over his left hand he hardly seemed to move it at all. One bead even mounted against the slope, tarried on the edge of a socket and fell in.

'One,' he said.

The other bead moved straight for the other eye, shaved the socket, turned and dropped into the hole. 'Two,' he said.

'What's in your left hand?'

'Nothing.'

'Then show me nothing.'

He opened his fist and showed a small magnet concealed there. 'Promise you won't tell,' he said.

'And what if I won't?'

We might have been adults quarrelling over a trick at cards. He said, 'I can keep secrets if you can.' His brown eyes gave nothing away.

'I promise,' I said.

Martha kissed him and smoothed his pillows and laid him flat and turned on a small night-lamp beside the bed. 'Will you come to bed soon?' he asked.

'When my guests have gone.'

'When will that be?'

'How can I tell?'

'You can always say that I am ill. I may vomit again. The aspirin isn't working. I'm in pain.'

'Just lie still. Close your eyes. Papa will be up soon. Then I expect they will all go away and I will come to bed.'

'You haven't said good-night,' he accused me.

'Good-night.' I put a false friendly hand on his head and ruflled his tough dry hair. My hand smelt afterwards like a mouse.