Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“After a war it is difficult to remain interested,” Smith said. “While it is on, a war is absolutely boring. But then when it is over, you discover peace is even more boring. It is the worst result of wars. Do you still fly?”

“Once in a while.”

Smith nodded. “Do you maintain your license?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, that’s wise,” Smith said.

He pulled the car sharply in to the curb and stopped, and Barber got out.

“Here you are,” Smith said. He put out his hand, smiling, and Barber shook it. Smith’s hand was softly fleshed, but there was a feeling of stone beneath it.

“Thanks for everything,” Barber said.

“Thank you, Mr. Barber, for your company,” Smith said. He held Barber’s hand for a moment, looking across the seat at him. “This has been very pleasant,” he said. “I hope we can see each other again soon. Maybe we are lucky for each other.”

“Sure,” Barber said, grinning. “I’m always at home to people who can pick eighteen-to-one shots.”

Smith smiled, relinquishing Barber’s hand. “Maybe one of these days we’ll have something even better than an eighteen-to-one shot,” he said.

He waved a little and Barber closed the car door. Smith spurted out into the traffic, nearly causing two quatre chevaux to pile up behind him.

It had taken two weeks for Smith to declare himself. From the beginning, Barber had known that something was coming, but he had waited patiently, curious and amused, lunching with Smith in the fine restaurants Smith patronized, going to galleries with him and listening to Smith on the subject of the Impressionists, going out to the race tracks with him and winning more often than not on the information Smith picked up from tight-lipped men around the paddocks. Barber pretended to enjoy the little, clever man more than he actually did, and Smith, on his part, Barber knew, was pretending to like him more than he actually did. It was a kind of veiled and cynical wooing, in which neither party had yet committed himself. Only, unlike more ordinary wooings, Barber for the first two weeks was not sure in just which direction his desirability, as far as Smith was concerned, might lie.

Then, late one night, after a large dinner and a desultory tour of the night clubs, during which Smith had seemed unusually silent and abstracted, they were standing in front of Smith’s hotel and he made his move. It was a cold night, and the street was deserted except for a prostitute with a dog, who looked at them without hope as she passed them on the way to the Champs-Elysées.

“Are you going to be in your hotel tomorrow morning, Lloyd?” Smith asked.

“Yes,” Barber said. “Why?”

“Why?” Smith repeated absently, staring after the chilled-looking girl and her poodle walking despairingly down the empty, dark street. “Why?” He chuckled irrelevantly. “I have something I would like to show you,” he said.

“I’ll be in all morning,” Barber said.

“Tell me, my friend,” Smith said, touching Barber’s sleeve lightly with his gloved hand. “Do you have any idea why I have been calling you so often for the last two weeks, and buying you so many good meals and so much good whiskey?”

“Because I am charming and interesting and full of fun,” Barber said, grinning. “And because you want something from me.”

Smith chuckled, louder this time, and caressed Barber’s sleeve. “You are not absolutely stupid, my friend, are you?”

“Not absolutely,” said Barber.

“Tell me, my friend,” Smith said, almost in a whisper. “How would you like to make twenty-five thousand dollars?”

“What?” Barber asked, certain that he had not heard correctly.

“Sh-h-h,” Smith said. He smiled, suddenly gay. “Think about it. I’ll see you in the morning. Thank you for walking me home.” He dropped Barber’s arm and started into the hotel.

“Smith!” Barber called.

“Sh-h-h.” Smith put his finger playfully to his mouth. “Sleep well. See you in the morning.”

Barber watched him go through the glass revolving doors into the huge, brightly lit, empty lobby of the hotel. Barber took a step toward the doors to follow him in, then stopped and shrugged and put his collar up, and walked slowly in the direction of his own hotel. I’ve waited this long, he thought, I can wait till morning.

Barber was still in bed the next morning when the door opened and Smith came in. The room was dark, with the curtains drawn, and Barber was lying there, half asleep, thinking drowsily, Twenty-five thousand, twenty-five thousand. He opened his eyes when he heard the door open. There was a short, bulky silhouette framed in the doorway against the pallid light of the corridor.

“Who’s that?” Barber asked, without sitting up.

“Lloyd. I’m sorry,” Smith said. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you later.”

Barber sat up abruptly. “Smith,” he said. “Come in.”

“I don’t want to disturb—”

“Come in, come in.” Barber got out of bed and, barefooted, went over to the window and threw back the curtains. He looked out at the street. “By God, what do you know?” he said, shivering and closing the window. “The sun is shining. Shut the door.”

Smith closed the door. He was wearing a loose gray tweed overcoat, very British, and a soft Italian felt hat, and he was carrying a large manila envelope. He looked newly bathed and shaved, and wide awake.

Barber, blinking in the sudden sunshine, put on a robe and a pair of moccasins and lit a cigarette. “Excuse me,” he said. “I want to wash.” He went behind the screen that separated the washbasin and the bidet from the rest of the room. As he washed, scrubbing his face and soaking his hair with cold water, he heard Smith go over to the window. Smith was humming, in a soft, true, melodious tenor voice, a passage from an opera that Barber knew he had heard but could not remember. Aside from everything else, Barber thought, combing his hair roughly, I bet the bastard knows fifty operas.

Feeling fresher and less at a disadvantage with his teeth washed and his hair combed, Barber stepped out from behind the screen.

“Paris,” Smith said, at the window, looking out. “What a satisfactory city. What a farce.” He turned around, smiling. “Ah,” he said, “how lucky you are. You can afford to put water on your head.” He touched his thin, well-brushed hair sadly. “Every time I wash my hair, it falls like the leaves. How old did you say you are?”

“Thirty,” Barber said, knowing that Smith remembered it.

“What an age.” Smith sighed. “The wonderful moment of balance. Old enough to know what you want, still young enough to be ready for anything.” He came back and sat down and propped the manila envelope on the floor next to the chair. “Anything.” He looked up at Barber, almost coquettishly. “You recall our conversation, I trust,” he said.

“I recall a man said something about twenty-five thousand dollars,” Barber said.

“Ah—you do remember,” Smith said gaily. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, do you want to make it?”

“I’m listening,” Barber said.

Smith rubbed his soft hands together gently in front of his face, his fingers rigid, making a slight, dry, sliding sound. “A little proposition has come up,” he said. “An interesting little proposition.”

“What do I have to do for my twenty-five thousand dollars?” Barber asked.

“What do you have to do for your twenty-five thousand dollars?” Smith repeated softly. “You have to do a little flying. You have flown for considerably less, from time to time, haven’t you?” He chuckled.

“I sure have,” Barber said. “What else do I have to do?”