Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“Ginette,” Beauchurch said, “I think you’d better explain.”

“A French citizen has no right to take money out of France,” Ginette said. “Or, anyway, very little. And since we’re going to Switzerland, I thought we could do it for Claude.”

“As I understand it,” Beauchurch, “nobody has a right to take much money out of France, not even Americans.”

“Two hundred and fifty new francs,” Mestre said.

“But the customs people never bother Americans,” Ginette said. “They never even open your bags. And if they do happen to ask you how many francs you have on you, you say a hundred or so, and that’s the end of it.”

“Still,” Beauchurch persisted, “technically we’d be breaking the law.”

“Technically,” Ginette said impatiently. “What difference would it make?”

“My dear friends,” Mestre said, “please …” He spread his hands above the table pacifically. “I beg you not to argue on my account. If you have the slightest hesitation, I understand perfectly.…”

“Let me ask you a question, Mr. Mestre,” Beauchurch said. “Supposing we hadn’t happened to come to France at this time, Ginette and I, and supposing she hadn’t called you up—what would you have done?”

Mestre sucked in his cheeks thoughtfully. When he spoke, he spoke slowly and carefully. “I suppose I would have tried to get someone else to do it for me. But I would be very—very—” He searched for the word. “Very uneasy. As I told you, I am sure that from time to time I am under surveillance. I could only entrust something like this to a very close friend—whose relationship with me would be likely to compromise him. With bad luck, the friend might fall under suspicion, especially if he crossed the frontier to another country. Any Frenchman is likely to be searched upon trying to leave the country. He is likely to be questioned. In the times that I see ahead of us, the questioning that will be taking place here in France is liable to be most strict.” He smiled wanly at his understatement. “I would not like to have to depend upon the endurance or the good will or the discretion of any of my friends at that time for my safety. Still, that is no reason for you to concern yourself with me. A man who is in danger and demands help is always such a bore. One has only to remember how annoyed everybody was with the refugees during the war.” He looked around for the waiter and signaled him to come over. “I would be most pleased,” Mestre said, “if you would permit me to pay for the drinks.”

“Wait a minute,” Beauchurch said. “How much would you want me to take to Switzerland for you?”

“Four million francs,” Mestre said. “Old francs, that is.”

“That’s only about eight thousand dollars, Tom,” Ginette said.

“I know,” Beauchurch said. He took the check from the waiter’s hand, over Mestre’s protest. He paid the waiter and stood up. “Let me think about this and talk it over with Ginette. She has your number. We’ll call you tomorrow.”

Mestre stood up, too. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I would prefer to call you. The fewer calls I get, the better.…”

“… In Africa, for example,” one of the Americans at the bar was saying, “the old system of competitive bribery is breaking down. But nobody’s found anything better.…”

Beauchurch followed Mestre and Ginette out of the room, down the alley of old ladies still taking their tea, solidly anchored among their fur coats, their poodles, their pastries, oblivious to all plots, troop movements, fighting in the streets. A dark phalanx of widows, bedecked with the jeweled trophies of their victories, they remained firm and reassuring against all the assaults of change. In that corridor of elaborately coifed, silvery heads, Mestre’s fearful words of prophecy seemed like the insubstantial report of a child’s dream.

In the lobby, Mestre kissed Ginette’s hand, made a formal little bow to Beauchurch and went off. He was bent over surprisingly, Beauchurch noticed, for a man so young, and his walk was heavy and without resilience. When he put on his soft green hat, he did it carelessly, with no attempt at dash. Whatever he was, Beauchurch decided, he was no professional lady-killer. But when Beauchurch turned toward Ginette, he thought he detected a certain emotion in her eyes, only partially concealed. But whether it was desire or pity, it was impossible to tell.

They went up to their room in silence. The sense of holiday they had shared since their arrival in Paris had entirely gone, and the high-ceilinged old room looked chilly and clumsily furnished in the light of the inadequate lamps. Ginette hung up her coat and pushed listlessly at her hair before the mirror. Beauchurch put the package with the book in it on a table and looked out the window at the gardens of the Tuileries across the traffic-jammed street below him. All the trees were bare and the people hurrying past the newly lit lampposts looked harassed and cold.

Beauchurch heard the bed creak as Ginette sat down on it. “That four million francs,” she said. “That’s his life savings. That’s all he has in the world.”

Beauchurch said nothing. He continued to stare out the window at the dark gardens.

“If you won’t take it through for him,” Ginette said, “I will.”

Beauchurch took a deep breath. He turned deliberately away from the windows. “That was a stupid thing to say,” he said.

Ginette looked at him coldly, with hostility. “Was it?” she said. “I suppose so.” She swung her legs up on the bed and lay back, staring at the ceiling. “Still, I mean it.”

“It would make an interesting headline,” Beauchurch said. “Wife of New York Lawyer Held in Paris for Smuggling Banknotes. Husband Claims Ignorance of Wife’s Activities.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to help Claude?” Ginette’s voice was flat and she kept squinting up at the ceiling.

“It means that in general I am a law-abiding citizen,” Beauchurch said. “It means that when I am a guest in a country I prefer not to cheat my hosts.”

“Oh,” Ginette said. “What a lucky thing it is to be an American. And a Puritan. How convenient it can be.”

“It also means that I am balancing the risks against the advantages,” said Beauchurch.

“There are no advantages,” Ginette said. “There’s nothing to balance. A man’s in trouble, and we can help him. That’s all.”

“A lot of men are in trouble,” Beauchurch said. “The question is, why do we pick out this particular one to help.”

“You didn’t like him, did you?”

“Not much,” Beauchurch said. “He’s self-important and impressed with his own intelligence, and he has a condescending attitude toward Americans.”

Unexpectedly, Ginette laughed.

“What are you laughing about?” Beauchurch demanded.

“Because you’re so accurate,” Ginette said. “That’s exactly what he’s like. He’s the perfect model of the French intellectual.” She laughed again. “I must tell him that you ticked him off exactly. He’ll be furious.”

Beauchurch regarded his wife puzzledly. Her laughter was real, and what she had just said was certainly not the sort of thing a woman would say about a man who attracted her. But against this, there was the enduring vision of the two of them so deeply engrossed in each other on the street in front of the hotel, and Ginette’s persistence in pushing Beauchurch to Mestre’s rescue.

Beauchurch sat down on the edge of the bed. “The question is,” he repeated, “why do we pick out this particular one to help.”

Ginette lay quiet for a moment, her arms along her sides, her hands flat on the brocaded bed cover. “Because he’s a friend,” she said. She waited. Then she said, “That’s not quite enough, is it?”