Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

They both looked up at the light. The bulb stared down at them, like the night clerk’s eye.

“You forgot to turn it off,” Guy said accusingly.

“I know,” she said. “Well, turn it off.”

“I’m not budging from this bed,” said Roberta.

“You were the last one up,” Guy said plaintively.

“I don’t care,” she said.

“That is absolutely unfair,” said Guy.

“Unfair or not,” Roberta said, “I’m staying right here.” Even as she spoke, she had the impression that she had had a conversation very much like this somewhere before in her life. Then she remembered. It had been with her brother, who was two years younger than she, and it had been in a cottage in a summer resort, when she was six years old. The echo disturbed her.

“But you’re on the outside,” Guy said. “I’ll have to climb over you.”

Roberta thought this over for a moment. She knew she couldn’t bear the thought of his touching her, even accidentally, with the light still on. “Stay where you are,” she said. With a convulsive movement she threw back the covers, leaped out of bed and fled across the room. She switched off the light and hurled herself back into bed, pulling the covers up around her neck.

Guy was trembling more than ever. “You are exquise ,” he said. “I cannot bear it.” This time he hadn’t turned his face away. He reached out his hand and touched her. Involuntarily, she gasped and gave a little jump. His hand was like a fistful of ice. Disastrously, he began to weep. Roberta lay rigid and alarmed on her side of the bed, as Guy sobbed heartbrokenly.

“It is awful,” he said, between sobs. “I do not blame you for pulling away. It is not the way it should be at all. I am too clumsy, too stupid. I do not know anything. It serves me right. I have been lying to you for three months.…”

“Lying?” Roberta asked, remaining absolutely still. “What do you mean?”

“I have been playing a role,” Guy said brokenly. “I have no experience. I am not studying to be an engineer. I am still in the lycée . I am not twenty-one years old. I am only sixteen.”

“Oh.” Roberta closed her eyes slowly, blotting out the night. “Why did you do that?”

“Because you would not have looked at me otherwise,” he said. “Is that not true?”

“Yes,” Roberta said, “it is true.” She opened her eyes, because you couldn’t keep your eyes closed forever.

“If only it had not been so cold,” Guy wept, “if only I had more than seven hundred francs, you would never have known.”

“Well, I know now,” Roberta said. No wonder he only drank pineapple juice, she thought. How can I be so inaccurate? Will I ever change?

Guy sat up. “I suppose I ought to take you home,” he said. His voice was broken, dead, devoid of hope.

She wanted to go home. She thought of her single bed with longing. She wanted to retreat and stay hidden and start everything, her whole life, all over again. But there was no starting all over again with the echo of that forlorn, childish voice to haunt her. She put out her hand and touched his shoulder. “Lie down,” she said gently.

After a moment, Guy slid down and lay motionless, away from her, on his side of the bed. She moved toward him and took him in her arms. He put his head high on her shoulder, his lips touching her throat. He sobbed once. She held him and after a while they were both warm under the covers. He sighed and fell asleep.

She dozed fitfully during the night and woke each time to feel the warm, slender, adolescent body curled trustingly against her. She kissed the top of Guy’s head with modesty and pity and affection.

In the morning, she got out of bed without waking him and dressed quickly. She drew back the curtains. It was a sunny day. Guy was sleeping, flat on his back, under the covers, his face defenseless and happy. She went over to him and touched his forehead with her fingertips. He woke and stared up at her.

“It’s morning,” she whispered. “You’d better get up. It’s time for you to go to school.” She smiled at him and after a while he smiled gravely up at her. He sprang out of bed and began to get dressed. She watched him candidly.

They went down to the lobby. The night clerk was still on duty. He regarded them dully, thinking a night clerk’s thoughts. Roberta nodded to him without shame or embarrassment, and helped Guy trundle the Vespa out of the lobby and down the steps to the street. They mounted the Vespa and sped through the morning traffic, and in ten minutes were at the entrance to the building in which Roberta lived. Guy stopped the Vespa and they both got off. Guy seemed to have trouble speaking. He started several sentences with, “Well, I …” and, “Someday I suppose I should …” In the morning light his face looked very very young. Finally, playing nervously with the brake handle, his eyes downcast, he said, “Do you hate me?”

“Of course not,” Roberta said. “It was the most wonderful night of my life.” At last, she thought exultantly, I’m learning to be accurate.

Guy looked up uncertainly, searching her face for signs of mockery. “Will I ever see you again?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said lightly. “Tonight. As usual.”

“Oh, God,” he said. “If I do not get out of here I am going to cry again.”

Roberta leaned over and kissed his cheek. He swung back onto the saddle of the Vespa and spurted down the street, swift and showy and careless of danger.

She watched him disappear, then entered the building, moving serenely, womanly, amused, innocent, pleased with herself. She climbed the dark stairway and put her keys into the locks of Madame Ruffat’s door. But she hesitated a moment before turning the last key. She made a firm resolve. Never, NEVER would she tell Louise that Guy was only sixteen years old.

She chuckled, turned the key and went in.

“ I did it,” Alex kept saying. “I swear I did it.”

“Tell me more stories,” Flanagan said, standing right over him, “I love to hear stories.”

“I swear to God,” Alex said, beginning to feel scared.

“Come on!” Flanagan jerked Alex to his feet. “We are going to visit New Jersey. We are going to revisit the scene of the crime, except there was no crime.”

“I don’t understand,” Alex said hurriedly, putting on his coat and going down the stairs between Flanagan and Sam, leaving his door unlocked. “I don’t understand at all.”

Sam drove the car through the empty night streets, and Alex and Flanagan sat in the back seat.

“I did everything very careful,” Alex said in a troubled voice. “I soaked the whole goddamn house with naphtha. I didn’t forget a single thing. You know me, Flanagan, I know how to do a job …”

“Yeah,” Flanagan said. “The efficiency expert. Alexander. The Greek general. Only the house didn’t burn. That’s all.”

“I honestly don’t understand it.” Alex shook his head in puzzlement. “I put a fuse into a pile of rags that had enough naphtha on it to wash a elephant. I swear to God.”

“Only the house didn’t burn,” Flanagan said stubbornly. “Everything was dandy, only the house didn’t burn. I would like to kick you in the belly.”

“Now, lissen, Flanagan,” Alex protested, “what would you want to do that for? Lissen, I meant well. Sam,” he appealed to the driver, “you know me, ain’t I got a reputation …?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, flatly, not taking his eyes off the traffic ahead of him.