Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“Not quite,” said Beauchurch.

“Because he’s French and I was born in Paris,” Ginette said. “Because he’s talented, because I agree with his politics, because the people who want to kill him are vile.…” She stopped and waited again. Beauchurch still said nothing. “That’s not quite enough, either, is it?” Ginette said, staring at the ceiling.

“Not quite,” said Beauchurch.

“Because he was my lover,” Ginette said, without emphasis, looking up at the ceiling. “Did you expect that?”

“I suppose so,” Beauchurch said.

“A long time ago,” Ginette said. “During the war. He was the first one.”

“How many times have you seen him since we’ve been married?” Beauchurch said. He didn’t look at his wife, but he listened intently for a tone of falsehood in her voice. Ginette was not a liar, but a question like this had never come up between them before, and Beauchurch believed that on this subject almost all women, and all men, too, for that matter, lied almost all the time.

“I’ve seen him twice since 1946,” Ginette said. “Yesterday and today.”

“Why did you decide, after all these years, to see him yesterday?”

Ginette reached over to the bedtable and took a cigarette out of a pack that was lying there. Automatically, Beauchurch lit it for her. She lay back, her head on the bolster, blowing the smoke straight up. “I don’t know why,” she said. “Curiosity, nostalgia, guilt—the feeling that middle age was rushing up on me and I wanted to be reminded of a time when I was young—a feeling that maybe I wouldn’t see Paris again for a long time and I wanted to straighten out certain memories.… I don’t know. Don’t you ever want to see your first girl again?”

“No,” Beauchurch said.

“Well, maybe women’re different. Or Frenchwomen. Or me.” She squinted at the ceiling through the cigarette smoke. “You’re not worried about what went on, are you?”

“No,” Beauchurch said. He didn’t say anything about the realization he had had on the street that it was possible for her one day to leave him.

“We had two beers at the Dome, because he once took me there on my birthday,” Ginette said. “And after the first ten minutes it was all politics and his problem and the thing about Switzerland. Which I brought up, by the way, in case you’re thinking of blaming him.”

“I’m not blaming him for anything,” Beauchurch said. “Still—why didn’t you tell me about him yesterday?”

“I was playing with the idea of just taking the money in myself and not worrying you about it at all. Then I decided, today, that that wouldn’t be fair to you, and that you had to talk to Claude yourself. I was right about that, wasn’t I?” She lifted her head inquisitively.

“Yes,” he said.

“I didn’t realize that you’d turn so severe,” Ginette said. “You didn’t behave like your usual self with him at all. You’re usually so pleasant with new people. And you were against him from the beginning.”

“That’s true,” Beauchurch said. He offered no explanations. “Look,” he said, “you don’t have to tell me any of this if you don’t want to.”

“I do want to,” Ginette said. “So you’ll understand why I think I have to help him if I can. So you’ll understand him better. So you’ll understand me better.”

“Don’t you think I understand you?” Beauchurch asked, surprised.

“Not well enough,” Ginette said. “We’re so reticent with each other, so polite, so careful never to say anything to each other that might disturb or hurt.…”

“Is that wrong?” Beauchurch said. “I’ve always thought that was one of the reasons our marriage has been so solid.”

“Solid,” Ginette said vaguely. “What marriage is solid?”

“What the hell are you driving at?” Beauchurch asked.

“I don’t know,” Ginette said listlessly. “Nothing. Maybe I’m homesick, only I’m not sure where my home is. Maybe we shouldn’t have come to Paris. Maybe because I was a silly young girl when I was in Paris, I must behave like a silly young girl here, even now when I’m a sober American matron. I do look like a sober American matron, don’t I, Tom?”

“No,” he said.

“I walk along the street and I forget who I am, I forget how old I am, I forget my American passport,” she said, speaking softly. “I’m eighteen years old again, there are gray uniforms all over the streets, I’m trying to decide whether I’m in love or not, I change my mind at every corner, I’m wildly happy. Don’t be shocked. I wasn’t happy because there was a war and the Germans were here, I was happy because I was eighteen years old. A war isn’t all one color, even in an occupied country. Hold my hand, please.” She put her hand out toward him on the bed cover and he covered it with his, clasping the long, cool fingers, the soft palm, feeling the thin metal of the wedding ring. “We’ve never confessed enough, you and I,” she said. “A marriage needs a certain amount of confession and we’ve skimped each other.” She pressed his fingers. “Don’t worry. There won’t be any flood. There’s no scandalous list. Claude was the only one until I married you. I’m hardly the popular American idea of a Frenchwoman at all. Are you surprised by any of this?”

“No,” Beauchurch said. When he had met Ginette, when she had first come over to America on a scholarship, just after the war, she had still been a rather gawky girl, intent on her studies, slender and lovely, but not coquettish or sensual. When they had married she had been unpracticed, reserved, and the sensuality had come later, after months of marriage.

“He wanted to marry me,” she went on. “Claude. I was at the Sorbonne. Immersed in Medieval History. It was one of the few safe subjects while the Germans were here. They didn’t care much what people said about Charlemagne or St. Louis or the cathedral at Rouen. He was three or four years older than I. Very handsome and fierce-looking. It’s not there now, is it?”

“No,” Beauchurch said. “Not really.”

“How quickly it goes.” She shook her head, as though to stop herself from continuing this line of thought. “He wrote plays. He didn’t show them to anyone because he didn’t want to have any plays put on in Paris while the Germans were still here. Then, after the war, nobody put them on, anyway. I suppose he really wasn’t much of a playwright. After the Liberation of Paris, it turned out he hadn’t only been writing plays during the Occupation. He’d been in the Resistance and he was put into the Army and that winter he was badly wounded outside Belfort. He was in the hospital nearly two years. They changed him, those years. He became bitter, he hated what was happening to France, to the whole world. He had no hope for anything except … well, except for us, him and me. Whatever hope he had in the world he bound up in me. I promised to marry him when he got out, but then the scholarship came along, the chance to go to America.… He pleaded with me not to go, or to marry him before I went. He kept saying I’d find someone else in America, that I’d forget him, forget France. He made me swear that no matter what happened I’d come back and see him before I married anyone else. I swore I’d do it. It wasn’t hard to do—I loved him—I was sure there’d never be anybody else. Anyway, he was still in the hospital—he had to recover first, establish himself at something, we didn’t have a penny between us. Then I met you. I tried. I held back as much as I could. Didn’t I?” Her voice was harsh, demanding; before the image of her lover lying broken in his hospital bed so many years ago she was justifying the actions of the girl breaking out of adolescence, newly emerged from the privations and fears of war. “I did everything I could, didn’t I?”