Russell Banks - The Reserve

He got into the car and started the motor. Then he drove slowly away from the clubhouse. Halfway down the hill to the main road, he looked into the rearview mirror and saw the ashen faces of his sons in the backseat, both of them sucking furiously on candy. He said, “Let’s go swimming at Wappingers Falls, boys.”

“That’s okay, Papa,” Bear said. “We want to go home now.”

“Home? Okay, we can go swimming at home instead.”

“We don’t need to go swimming or anything, Papa. We just want to go home.”

“What about you, Wolf?”

“Yes. Let’s go home,” Wolf said.

Jordan sighed. “All right.” Then, after a few seconds, he said to his sons, “What happened back there, it was bad, I know. Really bad. I’m sorry you had to see it. But when a person insults you, you can’t put your tail between your legs and act like you deserve it.”

“I know, Papa,” Bear said.

“So I can’t promise you that it won’t happen again.”

“I know, Papa,” the boy repeated.

In the east, the Spanish border crossing was located a few miles northwest of the Catalan village of Portbou. On January 2, the daily train from Paris arrived at the crossing at 4:15 P.M., right on time. It was the winter of 1937, and the train from Paris was not much, a stubby six-wheel locomotive and tender and two rickety passenger cars. The sky above the leaden sea was mottled gray and the air was damp and cold, which was unusual here, even for January. There were only four passengers, four rumpled unshaven men. They stepped from the second car to the platform one after the other and stood there for a moment. One of the men was Spanish looking, in his early thirties, and wore a dark suit and necktie and snap-brim felt fedora. He carried a briefcase and a single suitcase, as if he were returning from a minor diplomatic mission. A second passenger had a shock of pale blond, nearly white hair across his forehead. He was in his midthirties and wore a brown corduroy sports jacket and dark blue shirt open at the throat. He carried a large, much-scuffed leather suitcase. The third man, also in his midthirties, was short and square shouldered and had a pie-shaped face. He wore a trench coat and beret. His baggage consisted of a small black foot-locker, which he handled with difficulty. The fourth passenger was noticeably taller than the others and a few years older. He lugged a large canvas duffel down the steps to the platform. He walked a few steps with it and stopped and swung the duffel onto his shoulder and carried it there. Compared to his three companions, he was a big man, big overall, and though he was as dark as the fellow in the suit and fedora, he did not look Spanish, and unlike the other two would not have passed for European. He wore a short, fleece-lined leather jacket, plaid flannel shirt, and tan slacks, and he was hatless. More so than the others, his relaxed, self-assured demeanor and his clothing marked him as an American or possibly Canadian or Australian. In recent months there had been many such men crossing from France into Spain at this place, and while they stood out they were no longer unexpected. The four walked to the end of the platform where the conductor from the train directed them into the railroad station. The waiting area was empty and there was no one behind the ticket seller’s cage. There was only the conductor and the four passengers. In the near corner of the high-ceilinged room a coal fire in a round-bellied iron stove gave off a faintly sulphurous smell. The conductor led the men to a closed door next to a filigreed tin sign: ADMINISTRATION DES DOUANES. The conductor opened the door to a small, nearly dark room beyond and stepped aside and let them enter. There was a scarred desk at one end of the room. Behind the desk a bleary-eyed customs official with a long, narrow face smoked a cigarette and in the weak light from a single high window read a day-old copy of Le Temps . He slowly folded his newspaper and turned to the four travelers and held out his hand, palm up. One by one, they placed their passports into the customs officer’s hand. All four passports had been issued by the government of the Republic of Spain — three of them by the ministry of foreign affairs in Madrid. These three the customs officer quickly stamped and returned to their owners. The fourth passport, the one belonging to the tall man in the leather jacket, had been issued at the Spanish embassy in Washington, D.C. It had been issued to Juan Fernandez Carreja. The customs officer studied the photograph for a moment and measured it against the face of the traveler. C’est vous, monsieur? The traveler said, Oui. C’est moi. The officer rubbed out his cigarette and lighted a fresh one and continued to examine the passport. Finally, he asked, Quel est votre nom, monsieur? The traveler said, Je m’appelle…Juan…Juan Carreja. The officer pursed his lips and shook his head no. That was not his name. Quickly, the Spaniard in the fedora stepped forward and whispered in the traveler’s ear, and the traveler said, Juan Fernandez . Je m’appelle Juan Fernandez. The officer nodded. Yes, that was indeed the correct name correctly stated. He stamped the passport and gave it back to the man, who slipped it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. The customs officer kept his hand out, palm up. The traveler looked at the man’s hand for a few seconds, then reached down and shook it. Merci beaucoup, monsieur, he said. The customs officer said nothing, just swung his head from side to side, no again, and caught the eye of the Spaniard. Avez-vous quelque chose pour moi, messieurs? the officer asked him. The Spaniard nudged the traveler, who suddenly understood. He reached for his wallet and took out an American twenty-dollar bill. He folded it twice and shook the man’s hand a second time, leaving the bill behind. Then the four carried their luggage outside to the platform. From there they crossed into Spain on foot. They walked along the railroad tracks a distance of one hundred yards to a second platform and train station and customs officer, Spanish this time instead of French. Here they were greeted with broad smiles and embraces by a small party of uniformed military officers and half a dozen civilians.

“WON’T BE NO SIGN OR MAILBOX THERE,” THE OLD FELLOW said, pumping gas into the tan Packard sedan. He was a scrawny man in his late sixties in coveralls, with a plum-size lump of tobacco in his cheek and stumped brown teeth. “Every time he puts one up, somebody comes along and knocks it down.”

“Why is that?” Vanessa Cole asked him. A light rain had begun to fall. She stepped away from the car and stood under the gas station canopy and watched the old man pump gas.

The man shrugged and looked the Packard over bumper to bumper and pursed his lips as if about to whistle. Nice-looking vehicle. Nice-looking girl, too. “Can’t say. ’Course, there’s some folks that claims he’s a Red. You know, a Commie.”

“And is he?” She reached into her purse to pay for the gas.

“Could be. I keep out of it. Could be he’s only what you call abnormal, if you know what I mean. Friend of yours?” he asked and winked at her.

“Aren’t you the flirt,” she said. Funny old man, she thought. She paid him and lay a gloved hand on his shoulder in a friendly way and gazed deeply into his wide-open eyes, startling and pleasing him. She thanked him for the directions and walked slowly around the front of the car and got in, letting him watch her.

By the time she’d driven the four and a half miles north on Route 19 as instructed by the funny man at the filling station, the rain was falling steadily in cold, wind-driven waves. Through flapping windshield wipers she caught sight of the red farmhouse and horse barn he’d said to look for and pulled off the road. She bumped onto the dirt lane that passed by the farm and drove through the adjacent field where a blue sprawl of chicory spread from the lane into the field. A few hundred yards beyond the farm, she crossed the river on a narrow wooden bridge and entered the woods. After a few seconds the rain briefly let up, and from the car she could see fresh chanterelles glowing like nuggets among the sodden leaves.