Mavis Gallant - The Cost of Living - Early and Uncollected Stories

“Some cruise!” said Mrs. Ellenger, who had been listening to this with an expression of astounded shock, as if Emma had been repeating blasphemy. “All I can say is some cruise. Some selected passengers! What else did he tell you? What does he want with a little girl like you, anyway? Did he ever ask you into his stateroom — anything like that?”

“Oh, goodness, no!” Emma said impatiently; so many of her mother’s remarks were beside the point. She knew all about not going anywhere with men, not accepting presents, all that kind of thing. “His stateroom’s too small even for him. It isn’t the one he paid for. He tells the purser all the time, but it doesn’t make any difference. That’s why he stays in the bar all day.”

Indeed, for most of the cruise, Emma’s friend had sat in the bar writing a long journal, which he sent home, in installments, for the edification of his analyst. His analyst, Mr. Cowan had told Emma, was to blame for the fact that he had taken the cruise. In revenge, he passed his days writing down all the things at fault with the passengers and the service, hoping to make the analyst sad and guilty. Emma began to explain her own version of this to Mrs. Ellenger, but her mother was no longer listening. She stared straight before her in the brooding, injured way Emma dreaded. Her gaze seemed turned inward, rather than to the street, as if she were concentrating on some terrible grievance and struggling to bring it to words.

“You think I’m not a good mother,” she said, still not looking at Emma, or, really, at anything. “That’s why you hang around these other people. It’s not fair. I’m good to you. Well, am I?”

“Yes,” said Emma. She glanced about nervously, wondering if anyone could hear.

“Do you ever need anything?” her mother persisted. “Do you know what happens to a lot of kids like you? They get left in schools, that’s what happens. Did I ever do that to you?”

“No.”

“I always kept you with me, no matter what anyone said. You mean more to me than anybody, any man. You know that. I’d give up anyone for you. I’ve even done it.”

“I know,” Emma said. There was a queer pain in her throat. She had to swallow to make it go away. She felt hot and uncomfortable and had to do something distracting; she took off her hat, rolled her gloves into a ball, and put them in her purse.

Mrs. Ellenger sighed. “Well,” she said in a different voice, “if we’re going to see anything of this town, we’d better move.” She paid for their drinks, leaving a large tip on the messy table, littered with ashes and magazines. They left the café and, arm in arm, like Miss and Mrs. Munn, they circled the block, looking into the dreary windows of luggage and furniture stores. Some of the windows had been decorated for Christmas with strings of colored lights. Emma was startled; she had forgotten all about Christmas. It seemed unnatural that there should be signs of it in a place like Tangier. “Do Arabs have Christmas?” she said.

“Everyone does,” Mrs. Ellenger said. “Except—” She could not remember the exceptions.

It was growing cool, and her shoes were not right for walking. She looked up and down the street, hoping a taxi would appear, and then, with one of her abrupt, emotional changes, she darted into a souvenir shop that had taken her eye. Emma followed, blinking in the dark. The shop was tiny. There were colored bracelets in a glass case, leather slippers, and piles of silky material. From separate corners of the shop, a man and a woman converged on them.

“I’d like a bracelet for my little girl,” Mrs. Ellenger said.

“For Christmas?” said the woman.

“Sort of. Although she gets plenty of presents, all the time. It doesn’t have to be anything special.”

“What a fortunate girl,” the woman said absently, unlocking the case.

Emma was not interested in the bracelet. She turned her back on the case and found herself facing a shelf on which were pottery figures of lions, camels, and tigers. They were fastened to bases marked “ Souvenir de Tanger ,” or “ Recuerdo .”

“Those are nice,” Emma said, to the man. He wore a fez, and leaned against the counter, staring idly at Mrs. Ellenger. Emma pointed to the tigers. “Do they cost a lot?”

He said something in a language she could not understand. Then, lapsing into a creamy sort of English, “They are special African tigers.” He grinned, showing his gums, as if the expression “African tigers” were a joke they shared. “They come from a little village in the mountains. There are interesting old myths connected with them.” Emma looked at him blankly. “They are magic,” he said.

“There’s no such thing,” Emma said. Embarrassed for him, she looked away, coloring deeply.

“This one,” the man said, picking up a tiger. It was glazed in stripes of orange and black. The seam of the factory mold ran in a faint ridge down its back; the glaze had already begun to crack. “This is a special African tiger,” he said. “It is good for ten wishes. Any ten.”

“There’s no such thing,” Emma said again, but she took the tiger from him and held it in her hand, where it seemed to grow warm of its own accord. “Does it cost a lot?”

The man looked over at the case of bracelets and exchanged a swift, silent signal with his partner. Mrs. Ellenger, still talking, was hesitating between two enameled bracelets.

“Genuine Sahara work,” the woman said of the more expensive piece. When Mrs. Ellenger appeared certain to choose it, the woman nodded, and the man said to Emma, “The tiger is a gift. It costs you nothing.”

“A present?” She glanced toward her mother, busy counting change. “I’m not allowed to take anything from strange men” rose to her lips. She checked it.

“For Christmas,” the man said, still looking amused. “Think of me on Christmas Day, and make a wish.”

“Oh, I will,” Emma said, suddenly making up her mind. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.” She put the tiger in her purse.

“Here, baby, try this on,” Mrs. Ellenger said from across the shop. She clasped the bracelet around Emma’s wrist. It was too small, and pinched, but everyone exclaimed at how pretty it looked.

“Thank you,” Emma said. Clutching her purse, feeling the lump the tiger made, she said, looking toward the man, “Thanks, I love it.”

“Be sure to tell your friends,” he cried, as if the point of the gift would otherwise be lost.

“Are you happy?” Mrs. Ellenger asked, kissing Emma. “Do you really love it? Would you still rather be with Eddy and these other people?” Her arm around Emma, they left the shop. Outside, Mrs. Ellenger walked a few steps, looking piteously at the cars going by. “Oh, God, let there be a taxi,” she said. They found one and hailed it, and she collapsed inside, closing her eyes. She had seen as much of Tangier as she wanted. They rushed downhill. Emma, her face pressed against the window, had a blurred impression of houses. Their day, all at once, spun out in reverse; there was the launch, waiting. They embarked and, in a moment, the city, the continent, receded.

Emma thought, confused, Is that all? Is that all of Africa?

But there was no time to protest. Mrs. Ellenger, who had lost her sunglasses, had to be consoled and helped with her scarf. “Oh, thank God!” she said fervently, as she was helped from the launch. “Oh, my God, what a day!” She tottered off to bed, to sleep until dinner.

The ship was nearly empty. Emma lingered on deck, looking back at Tangier. She made a detour, peering into the bar; it was empty and still. A wire screen had been propped against the shelves of bottles. Reluctantly, she made her way to the cabin. Her mother had already gone to sleep. Emma pulled the curtain over the porthole, dimming the light, and picked up her mother’s scattered clothes. The new bracelet pinched terribly; when she unclasped it, it left an ugly greenish mark, like a bruise. She rubbed at the mark with soap and then cologne and finally most of it came away. Moving softly, so as not to waken her mother, she put the bracelet in the suitcase that contained her comic books and Uncle Jimmy Salter’s Merchant of Venice . Remembering the tiger, she took it out of her purse and slipped it under her pillow.