Mavis Gallant - The Selected Stories of Mavis Gallant

“Funny kid,” Howard remarked as Felix walked slowly out into the rain, his hands in his pockets.

“He’s horrible,” said Carol, so violently that he stared at her. “He’s not funny. He’s a parasite. He lives on Odile. He doesn’t work or anything, he just hangs around and stares at people. Odile says he has no passport. Well, why doesn’t he get one? Any man can work if he wants to. Why are there people like that? All the boys I ever knew at home were well brought up and manly. I never knew anyone like Felix.”

She stopped, breathless, and Howard said, “Well, let Odile worry.”

“Odile!” Carol cried. “Odile must be crazy. What is she thinking of? Her family ought to put a stop to it. The whole thing is terrible. It’s bad for the office. It ought to be stopped. Why, he’ll never marry her! Why should he? He’s only a boy, an orphan. He needs friends, and connections, and somebody his own age. Why should he marry Odile? What does he want with an old maid from an old, broken-down family? He needs a good meal, and — and help.” She stopped, bewildered. She had been about to say “and love.”

Howard, now beyond surprise, felt only a growing wave of annoyance. He did not like hysterical women. His sisters never behaved like that.

“I want to go home,” said Carol, nearly wailing.

He ran off to find a taxi, glad to get away. By “home” he thought she meant the apartment she shared with the two American girls in Passy.

For Carol, the concert was the end, the final clou . She stopped caring about Paris, or Odile, or her feelings for Howard. When Odile returned her green dress, nicely pressed and folded in a cardboard box, she said only, “Just leave it on my desk.” Everyone seemed to think it normal that now her only preoccupation should be the cut of her wedding dress. People began giving parties for her. The wash of attention soothed her fears. She was good-tempered, and did not ask Howard to take her to tiresome places. Once again he felt he had made the right decision, and put her temporary waywardness down to nerves. After a while, Carol began lunching with Odile again, but she did not mention the concert.

As for Felix, Carol now avoided him entirely. Sometimes she waited until Odile had left the office before leaving herself. Again, she braced herself and walked briskly past him, ignoring his “Good evening.” She no longer stopped on the staircase to watch the twilight; her mood was different. She believed that something fortunate had happened to her spirit, and that she had become invulnerable. Soon she was able to walk by Felix without a tremor, and after a while she stopped noticing him at all.

“Have you noticed winter is over?” Odile said. She and Carol had left the dressmaker’s street and turned off on a broad, oblique avenue. “It hasn’t rained for hours. This was the longest winter I remember, although I think one says this every year.”

“It was long for me, too,” Carol said. It was true that it was over. The spindly trees of the avenue were covered with green, like a wrapping of tissue. A few people sat out in front of shops, sunning themselves. It was, suddenly, like coming out of a tunnel.

Odile turned to Carol and smiled, a rare expression for her. “I’m sorry I was rude at Madame Germaine’s just now,” she said. “I don’t know what the matter is nowadays — I am dreadful to everyone. But I shouldn’t have been to you.”

“Never mind,” said Carol. She flushed a little, for Howard had taught her to be embarrassed over anything as direct as an apology. “I’d forgotten it. In fact, I didn’t even notice.”

“Now you are being nice,” said Odile unhappily. “Really, there is something wrong with me. I worry all the time, over money, over Martine, over Felix. I think it isn’t healthy.” Carol murmured something comforting but indistinct. Glancing at her, Odile said, “Where are you off to now?”

“Nowhere. Home, I suppose. There’s always something to do these days.”

“Why don’t you come along with me?” Odile stopped on the street and took her arm. “I’m going to see Felix. He lives near here. Oh, he would be so surprised!”

“Felix?” Automatically Carol glanced at her watch. Surely she had something to do, some appointment? But Odile was hurrying her along. Carol thought, Now, this is all wrong. But they had reached the Boulevard de Grenelle, where the Métro ran overhead, encased in a tube of red brick. Light fell in patterns underneath; the boulevard was lined with ugly shops and dark, buff-painted cafés. It was a far cry from the prim street a block or so away where the dressmaker’s flat was. “Is it far?” said Carol nervously. She did not like the look of the neighborhood. Odile shook her head. They crossed the boulevard and a few crooked, narrow streets filled with curbside barrows and marketing crowds. It was a section of Paris Carol had not seen; although it was on the Left Bank, it was not pretty, not picturesque. There were no little restaurants, no students’ hotels. It was simply down-and-out and dirty, and everyone looked ill-tempered. Arabs lounging in doorways looked at the two girls and called out, laughing.

“Look straight ahead,” said Odile. “If you look at them, they come up and take your arm. It’s worse when I come alone.”

How dreadful of Felix to let Odile walk alone through streets like this, Carol thought.

“Here,” said Odile. She stopped in front of a building on which the painted word “Hôtel” was almost effaced. They climbed a musty-smelling staircase, Carol taking care not to let her skirt brush the walls. She wondered nervously what Howard would say when he heard she had visited Felix in his hotel room. On a stair landing, Odile knocked at one of the doors. Felix let them in. It took a few moments, for he had been asleep. He did not look at all surprised but with a slight bow invited them in, as if he frequently entertained in his room.

The room was so cluttered, the bed so untidy, that Carol stood bewildered, wondering where one could sit. Odile at once flung herself down on the bed, dropping her handbag on the floor, which was cement and gritty with dirt.

“I’m tired,” she said. “We’ve been choosing Carol’s wedding dress. White, and very pretty.”

Felix’s shirt was unbuttoned, his face without any color. He glanced sidelong at Carol, smiling. On a table stood an alcohol stove, some gaudy plastic bowls, and a paper container of sugar. In the tiny washbasin, over which hung a cold-water faucet, were a plate and a spoon, and, here and there on the perimeter, Felix’s shaving things and a battered toothbrush.

“Do sit on that chair,” he said to Carol, but he made no move to take away the shirt and sweater and raincoat that were bundled on it. Everything else he owned appeared to be on the floor. The room faced a court and was quite dark. “I’ll heat up this coffee,” Felix said, as if casting about for something to do as a host. “Miss Frazier, sit down.” He put a match to the stove and a blue flame leaped along the wall. He stared into a saucepan of coffee, sniffed it, and added a quantity of cold water. “A new PX has just been opened,” he said to Odile. He put the saucepan over the flame, apparently satisfied. “I went around to see what was up,” he said. “Nothing much. It is really sad. Everything is organized on such a big scale now that there is no room for little people like me. I waited outside and finally picked up some cigarettes — only two cartons — from a soldier.”

He talked on, and Carol, who was not accustomed to his conversation, could not tell if he was joking or serious. She had finally decided to sit down on top of the raincoat. She frowned at her hands, wondering why Odile didn’t teach him to make coffee properly and why he talked like a criminal. For Carol, the idea that one might not be permitted to work was preposterous. She harbored a rigid belief that anyone could work who sincerely wanted to. Picking apples, she thought vaguely, or down in a mine, where people were always needed.