Mavis Gallant - The Selected Stories of Mavis Gallant

“No standing in first class!” This voice, growing louder and nearer, was so comically Bavarian that even the two adults had to laugh, though more discreetly than the children, who were simply doubled over. The voice was very like Herbert’s, imitating a celebrated Bavarian politician addressing a congress of peasants. But Herbert was not unexpectedly being funny out there in the corridor, and the voice belonged to the conductor, now seen for the first time. He stumbled along saying “No standing,” quite hopelessly, not really expecting anyone to obey, for who could possibly be afraid of such a jolly little person? He was only repeating something out of a tiresome rules book, and the children knew it. They leaned out the windows (also forbidden) trailing souvenir streamers of purple crepe paper, past miles of larches with bedraggled branches, past a landscape baked and blind. The bossy blonde peeped out to the corridor and giggled and covered her mouth. She had small green eyes and resembled a thief. Yes, Christine could easily see her snatching something and concealing it — a ring left on a washstand, say. She took her hand away to offer a gap-toothed smile to Herbert, struggling along past girls and crepe paper and long tangled hair and piles of luggage as if wading in seaweed. Instead of evicting the children at once he said a few comic words, which convulsed them anew, and asked for his briefcase. They would have murdered one another for the sake of being the favorite. The bossy blonde won, of course. She smiled adoringly. He appraised her as though she were twenty. All this took less than a minute. They were approaching Stuttgart.

The little girls filed off the train, leaving a curiously adult smell of sweat behind, followed by Herbert, the Norwegian, and little Bert. These three were still in pursuit of food and running water. She saw Herbert look at his watch. He had his briefcase in one hand and held on to little Bert with the other. The girls buzzed and swarmed. They seemed quite ordinary now; they were only children home from camp, waiting to be picked up by parents. The little gangster was overtaken by a mad mother pushing a pram and a grandmother who was the mother grown mean and fearful, plaintive and soft. The mother opened her thin mouth and cried to the little blonde, who was shaking hands all round with the friends she had so lately been abusing, “While you take hours to say good-bye to everyone, your poor grandmother is standing waiting …”

Waiting for what? said Christine to herself.

The grandmother put on the look of someone whose patience will never be rewarded enough. Her face said, “No one need think I ask for favors.” A lie, Christine decided. She asked for nothing but favors.

The once bossy, once confident little girl who had led the commando raid was all seriousness now, all worry, looking older than her grandmother ever would. She tried to say that she was sorry, but according to family timing it was too late. For a second longer Christine saw her small, upturned, elderly face.

“That was my grandmother,” said Christine. “Such a blackmailer. So humble.” She wondered if she had said this aloud, but the woman in the corner was busy with a chocolate bar and to all appearances had heard nothing except whatever went on in her own head.

Herbert and little Bert had not found everything they wanted at Stuttgart, but at least there had been time to brush their teeth. The Norwegian had become quite a friend of Herbert’s now; at least, he seemed to imagine he had. He asked easily, casually, what Herbert’s profession might be. Trying not to smoke, Herbert folded his hands and said he was an engineer. He described a method of clearing waste from rivers which consisted of causing an infinite number of tiny bubbles to rise from the bottom of the waters, each little bubble gathering and bearing upward a particle of poisonous trash, which could then be raked off at the top. Herbert’s information stopped there. If he had created an image of hand rakes, garden rakes, twig brooms; of women in bare feet and men in clogs raking away at the surface of ponds and inlets, he said nothing to change it. He was scrupulous about providing correct information but did not feel obliged to answer for pictures raised in the imagination. Christine thought that she knew what “information” truly was, and had known for some time. She could see it plainly, in fact; it consisted of fine silver crystals forming a pattern, dancing, separating, dissolving in a glittering trail along the window. The crystals flowed swiftly, faster than smoke, more beautiful and less durable than snowflakes. The woman in the corner said “Chck chck,” admiring Herbert’s method, and unfolded a new shopping bag labeled YOUR BEAUTICIAN HAS THE ANSWERS.

It was from the woman that the silvery crystals took their substance; she was the source. It started this way , Christine understood. She looked carefully at the woman who was creating information, all the while peeling paper stuck to a cream bun. She licked her fingers before taking the first bite. This was the beginning. Two first cousins from Muggendorf married two first cousins from Doos. Emigrated to the U.S.A., all four together. Two cousins, boy and girl, married to two cousins, girl and boy. The men got work right away in Flushing. Flushing was full of mosquitoes but these were got rid of in time for the World’s Fair. First factory ever to make good-class kitchen units for the unpretentious home. Disguised stove, vanishing sink, disappearing refrigerator, all that. First indoor barbecue, first electric spit for use in the smaller American residential facility. During the conflict the factory converted to making submarine galley units, after the war reconverted to kitchen conveniences, all the wiser for the experience .

The woman had finished her bun. She wet a handkerchief with eau de cologne, washed her hands and passed the handkerchief around the back of her neck. The trees rushing by were reflected in her eyes. We never lived in Flushing because of the mosquitoes. Settled at once in Elmhurst and remained without a break for forty-seven years. Lived in a duplex residence. First rented then bought the upper, were later in a position to purchase the lower. Rented the downstairs place to white Lutherans of which there was no shortage. Never owned a car — never needed one. Never went anywhere. Other couple had bungalow with heated garage, car, large yard and barbecue. Never used the barbecue — she couldn’t cook. Arrangement was that they would come to us for their evening meal. Had every evening meal together for forty-seven years. She didn’t shop, couldn’t market, never learned any English. I cooked around seventeen thousand suppers, all told. Never a disagreement. Never an angry word. Nothing but good food and family loyalty. I cooked fresh chicken soup, pea soup with bacon, my own goulash soup, hot beer soup, soup with dumplings, soup with rice, soup with noodles, prepared my own cabbage in brine, made fresh celery salad, potato salad our way, potato dumplings, duck with red cabbage, cod with onions, plum dumplings, horseradish salad, sweet and sour pork our way, goose giblets with turnips. Man in Brownsville made real bratwurst, used to go over on Saturday to get it fresh. I made apple cake, apple tart, apple dumplings, roast knuckle of pork, kidneys in vinegar sauce, cherry compote our way, cheese noodles, onion tart, trotters five different ways, cinnamon cookies, no brook trout — never saw any real brook trout .

“Do you want to read to me?” said little Bert, seeing that Christine was not doing anything in particular.

She opened the book with her customary slowness, which seemed to irritate the child and drive him to refuse the very thing he wanted. She said, “Bruno drives a racing car?”