Mavis Gallant - Overhead in a Balloon

“What does she mean by ‘little Frenchman’?” said Roger. He decided that Katia must be foreign — a descendant of White Russians, perhaps. There had been a colony in Biarritz in his father’s day, the men gambling away their wives’ tiaras before settling down as headwaiters and croupiers. Luc was entangled in a foreign love affair; he was already alien, estranged. Roger had seen him standing at the window, like an idle landowner in a Russian novel. What did Roger know about Russians? There were the modern ones, dressed in grey, with bulldog faces; there were the slothful, mournful people in books, the impulsive and slender women, the indecisive men. But it had been years since Roger had opened a novel; what he saw were overlapping images, like stills from old films.

“ ‘Where are you, where are you?’ “ read Simone. “ ‘There is a light in your parents’ room, but your windows are dark. I’m standing under the awning across the street. My shoes are soaked. I am too miserable to care.’

“She can’t be moping in the rain and writing all at the same time,” said Simone. “And the postmark is Biarritz. She comes to Paris to stir up trouble. How does she know which room is ours? Luc is probably sick of her. He must have been at a meeting.”

Yes, he had probably been at a meeting, sitting on the floor of a pale room, with a soft-voiced old man telling him about an older, truer Europe. Luc was learning a Europe caught in amber, unchanging, with trees for gods. There was no law against paganism and politics, or soft-voiced old men.

At least there are no guns, Roger told himself. And where had Simone learned the way to open other people’s letters? He marvelled at Katia’s doing for his son what no woman had ever done for him; she had stood in the rain, crying probably, watching for a light.

Ten days before Easter, Cassandra Brunt arrived. Her father was a civil servant, like Roger. He was also an author: two books had been published, one about Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow, the other about the failure of the Maginot Line and the disgraceful conduct of the French officer class. Both had been sent to the Clairevoies, with courteous inscriptions. When Simone had gone over to England alone, to see if the Brunts would do for Luc, Mrs. Brunt confided that her husband was more interested in the philosophy of combat than in success and defeat. He was a dreamer, and that was why he had never got ahead. Simone replied that Roger, too, had been hampered by guiding principles. As a youth, he had read for his own pleasure. His life was a dream. Mrs. Brunt suggested a major difference: Mr. Brunt was no full-time dreamer. He had written five books, two of which had been printed, one in 1952 and one in 1966. The two women had then considered each other’s child, decided it was sexless and safe and that Luc and Cassandra could spend time under the same roof. After that, Luc crossed the Channel for three visits, while Simone managed not to have Cassandra even once. Her excuse was the extreme youth of Cassandra and the dangers of Paris. Now that Cassandra was fifteen Mrs. Brunt, suddenly exercising her sense of things owed, had written to say that Cassandra was ready for perils and the French.

Roger and Simone met Cassandra at the Gare du Nord. The moment he saw her, Roger understood she had been forced by her parents to make the trip, and that they were ruining her Easter holiday. He marvelled that a fifteen-year-old of her size and apparent strength could be bullied into anything.

“I’ll be seeing Luc, what fun,” said Cassandra, jackknifed into the car, her knees all but touching her chin. “It will be nice to see Luc,” she said sadly. Her fair hair almost covered her face.

“Luc is at our country residence, studying with all the strength of his soul,” said Simone. “He is in the Yonne,” she added. Cassandra looked puzzled. Roger supposed that to a foreigner it must sound as though Luc had fallen into a river.

There had been no coaxing Luc, no pleading; no threat was strong enough to frighten him. They could keep the BMW; they could stop his allowance; they could put him in jail. He would not come to Paris to welcome Cassandra. He was through with England, through with the Brunts — through, for that matter, with his mother and father. Katia had taken their place.

“We’ll have her in Paris for a week, alone,” Simone had wailed. Luc’s argument was unassailable; alone, he could study. Once they were all there, he would have to be kind to Cassandra, making conversation and showing her the village church. Simone put the blame on Mrs. Brunt, who had insisted in a wholly obtuse way on having her rights.

“How are your delicious parents?” she asked, turning as well as the seat belt allowed, seeming to let the car drive itself in Paris traffic.

“Daddy’s at home now. He’s retired from the minstrel.”

“The ministry,” said Simone deeply. Cassandra’s was the only English she had ever completely understood. “My husband has also retired from public service. It was too much for his heart. He is much younger than Mr. Brunt, I believe.”

“Daddy was a late starter,” said Cassandra. “But he’ll last a long time. At least, I hope so.”

Like the dog bought to improve Luc’s arithmetic; like the tropical fish Simone had tended for Luc, and eventually mourned; like the tennis court in which Luc had at once lost interest and on which Roger had had his first heart attack, so Cassandra fell to Luc’s parents. With Simone, she watched television; with Roger, she walked uphill and down, to parks and museums.

“What was your minstrel?” she asked Roger, as they marched towards the Bois.

“Years ago, when there was a grave shortage of telephones, thanks to President de Gaulle —” Roger began. “Do you recall that unhappy time?”

“I’m afraid I’m dreffly ignorant.”

“I was good at getting friends off the waiting list. That was what I did best.”

He clutched her arm, dragging her out of the way of buses and taxis that rushed from the left while Cassandra looked hopelessly right.

“You like the nature?” he said, letting Sylvestre run free in the Bois. “The trees?”

“My mother does. Though this is hardly nature, is it?”

Sylvestre loped, snuffling, into a club of dusty shrubbery. He gave a yelp and came waddling out. All Roger saw of the person who had kicked him was a flash of white boot.

“You have them in England?” said Roger.

“Have what?”

“That. Male, female. Prostitutes.”

“Yes, of course. But they aren’t vile to animals.”

“You like the modern art?” Roger asked, breathless, as they plodded up the stalled escalators of the Beaubourg museum.

“I’m horribly old-fashioned, I’m afraid.”

Halfway, he paused to let his heart rest. His heart was an old pump, clogged and filthy. Cassandra’s heart was of bright new metal; it beat more quietly and regularly than any clock.

Above the city stretched a haze of pollution, unstirring, all of an even colour. The sun suffused the haze with amber dye, which by some grim alchemy was turned into dun. Roger saw through the haze to a forgotten city, unchanging, and it was enough to wrench the heart. A hand, reaching inside the rib cage, seemed to grasp the glutted machine. He knew that some part of the machine was intact, faithful to him; when his heart disowned him entirely he might as well die.

Cassandra, murmuring that looking down made her feel giddy, turned her back. Roger watched a couple, below, walking hand in hand. He was too far away to see their faces. They were eating out of a shared paper bag. The young man looked around, perhaps for a bin. Finding none, he handed the bag to the girl, who flung it down. The two were dressed nearly alike, in blue jackets and jeans. Simone had assured Roger that Katia was French, but he still saw her Russian. He saw Katia in winter furs, with a fur hat, and long fair hair over a snowy collar. She removed a glove and gave the hand, warm, to Luc to hold.