Mavis Gallant - Montreal Stories

“I stayed in my room till he went to the bank. Then the cleaning lady came. She helped me get a taxi.”

“Who told you he’d gone to the bank?”

“That’s where he works.”

“Get me the number in Vermont,” I said.

“They’ll only tell you what I’ve already told you,” she said. “You’ll see.”

Her stepfather, Benjamin Harrower, answered. He had an agreeable voice, English sliding into American; a clergyman’s voice. I had no idea what Harrower did. Someone had told my aunt he was an immigrant entrepreneur who ran a tourist bureau. “It’s a terrible imposition,” he said. “We’re very grateful to you. You’ve heard the story. Carlotta sounded pretty upset.”

“I’m glad she had my address.”

“Well, no, she didn’t. Lily told her to find out if your number was listed, and to let us know. She told Carlotta not to call you, to let us handle it from here.”

“She didn’t call. She just drove straight over in a taxi. Eight kilometers.”

“She’s never been away, not without Lily and me. She thinks adults are always where they’re supposed to be.”

“How long is she going to be homeless?”

“Just three days.” One more than Carlotta had said. “If it’s a nuisance, would you just put her on a return flight? We don’t want her to be on her own. She’s still awfully young, though she doesn’t believe it.”

“We don’t need to send her back. Not for the sake of three days. I’m leaving myself at the end of the week.”

“She’s a good kid.” Harrower seemed to be waiting for me to confirm the opinion. “She should have called collect. I suppose it’s too late to do anything about it now.”

I tried to entertain Carlotta, although her youth bored me, and her belief that she was here to learn and that I could teach made me sententious and prosy. On her second day, we went to a Fellini festival in Nice, saw two movies, had lunch in a courtyard. Carlotta had promised her mother not to eat meat or fish in France. While I searched the menu, she glanced past me, over my shoulder.

Presently she said, “Steve, there’s a really sick bird in a cage on the kitchen windowsill. It doesn’t like the hot sun. I’ll bet they haven’t changed its water. The kitchen doesn’t look too clean, either. Maybe somebody ought to report the restaurant.” Then, “Look at the two gays over there, eating fish soup. My stepfather says they mean the end of civilization as we know it. He says they caused the fall of Rome. The gays.”

Her maternal grandfather, Ernie Quale, quit the Montreal police force to become a private detective, making a special pursuit of divorce cases. He used to set up false evidence of adultery or stalk real lovers until he caught them in bed. Once he tried to blackmail a Quebec politician, and got the lobes of his ears slit. That was before Carlotta’s time; almost before mine.

In the evening, I took her along to a dinner party. Carlotta excepted, the youngest person at the table was sixty-one. The oldest ninety-four. A few of them had known Lily. There was Victor de Stentor, who had kept his hair and teeth and eyesight but lost his eyebrows; Watt Chadwick, a novelist Carlotta had not heard of but whose work she now gallantly proposed to read in its entirety; a couple of antique dealers, husband and wife, who traded in the furniture heirs try to sell off in a hurry. Across from Carlotta sat a retired American naval officer who had lost an arm and had to have his meat cut. Americans seldom washed up along this fragment of coast. His neighbors referred to him as “the Admiral,” and had never bothered to decide if he was Bessel, Biesel, or Beisel, while the antique dealers called him Ivor instead of Ira. Next to him, attentive to his requirements, was the former wife of a French minister of state. More as chatter than conversation, she announced to the table that her ex-husband was threatening to bring legal action against her for continuing to use his name.

Carlotta, whose French was better than fair, said she should never have given up her own name. Taking another name was like signing a brief for slavery. Carlotta had been in France nine days now — long enough to know the whole malefemale business was due for an overhauling.

Ira Biesel looked at me and said, “Lily’s daughter?” as if he could hardly believe it.

“Lily is my mother,” said Carlotta, “but Steve isn’t my father. At least, I don’t think so.” She seemed so startled, hurt almost, when we laughed that I wondered what nonsense was taking its slow course through the child’s head. To Victor de Stentor, sitting beside her, she said, “I’m a committed vegetarian,” and, holding a slice of roast beef between knife and fork, deftly removed it to his plate. I wanted to ask why she had helped herself to something she had no intention of eating, but remembered with some thankfulness that she was not mine, and that she was probably too old to be checked in public.

Later, as we left the party and climbed a number of steps to my house, she said, “I enjoyed that. I really did. You can learn a lot from older people. In Monaco, we just watched TV.”

We brought books to breakfast, as if we had been living together for a long time.

“Why do you call this a terrace?” Carlotta said.

“What would you call it?”

“More like a deck, but not exactly. I like to get things right.”

Irma Baes, already at grips with creation, waved from her garden. In only five weeks, progressing well beyond the symbolic hurdle of my “Chapter 1,” she had completed the freestanding structures Quaternion I, II, and III, and was pasting sequins one by one on the naked framework of IV. Irma belonged to the subversive, incompetent forces whose mission it is to make art useless. Her work, which I believe she unloaded on loyal friends, could not be got inside any normal dwelling except by dint of pulling down a wall and part of the roof. Cultural authorities the world over were prepared to encourage her by means of grants; indulgent relations were disposed to gamble on her future. I suppose it was a sign that I had lived a long time and seen a great deal that everything meant to reflect the era seemed out of date. Try to tell them it’s already been done, I thought. (I had told her; her eyes filled with tears.) I had reached the step of the staircase from which one cannot estimate age; I could only look down and think, Young. I’d have put Irma at thirty-odd. When her present grant, or her uncle’s patience, ran out, and she had to go back to the hardboiled and standpat world of filling out new application forms (“Age? Shows? Group? Single? Sponsors?”), something would need to be done with her summer’s work. There was no possible way the structures could be carried up to the road without smashing some of my windows. No van, no hired truck, no container could hold the complete Quaternion. Perhaps it could be conveyed the other way, beyond the cactus hedge, and burned on the beach.

“I like her hair,” said Carlotta, waving back. “That’s its natural color. I asked her. It’s a natural streak effect.” Carlotta dropped her voice. “You know? She had this racing-car driver who loved her? He went into a canal in Belgium and drowned. He could drive, but he couldn’t swim.”

“I’ve heard the story.”

“So now she just has her art.”

“Loved her” was surely fictitious, like her bogus facade of art. I thought she invented both to explain her solitude. Her tragedy, if she had one, was her own unwieldy enthusiasm. She was like a puppy bounding against one’s legs. One wanted to throw a stick far out in the water; anything to keep her away. I did not say so; in any case, Carlotta had gone back to her book.

“There was a French queen who threw her lovers out of a tower,” she said presently. “The tower’s been wrecked, so I won’t be able to see it when I go to Paris.”