Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

Beddoes heard Christina’s footsteps coming down the hall toward the telephone and he thought he could tell from the sound that she was wearing high heels.

“Hello,” Christina said. There was a sudden crackle on the wire as Christina spoke, but even so Beddoes could recognize the breathless, excited tone of her voice. Christina answered the phone as though she expected each call to be an invitation to a party.

“Hi, Chris,” Beddoes said.

“Who’s this?”

“The voice of Egypt,” said Beddoes.

“Walter!” Christina said happily. “When did you get in?”

“This minute,” Beddoes said, lying by an hour to please her. “Are you wearing high heels?”

“What?”

“You’re wearing high heels, aren’t you?”

“Wait a minute while I look,” Christina said. Then, after a pause, “Did you turn psychic in Cairo?”

Beddoes chuckled. “Semi-Oriental fakery,” he said. “I brought back a supply. Where’re we going for lunch?”

“Walter!” Christina said. “I’m in despair.”

“You have a date.”

“Yes. When are you going to learn to cable?”

“That’s O.K.,” Beddoes said carelessly. He made a point of never sounding disappointed. He had a feeling that if he asked Christina to break the date she would, but he also made a point of never pleading for anything. “We’ll make it later.”

“How about a drink this afternoon?”

“We can start with that,” Beddoes said. “Five?”

“Make it five-thirty,” Christina said.

“Where’re you going to be?” Beddoes asked, minutely annoyed at the postponement.

“Near the Étoile” Christina said.

“Alexandre’s?”

“Fine,” Christina said. “Will you be on time for once?”

“Be more polite,” Beddoes said, “the first day the man comes to town.”

“ A tout à l’heure, ” Christina said.

“What did you say, Ma’am?”

“All the kids are speaking French this year.” Christina laughed. “Isn’t it nice to have you back in town.”

There was a click as she hung up. Beddoes put the phone down slowly and went over to the window. He stared at the river, thinking that this was the first time in a long while that Christina hadn’t come over immediately when he arrived in Paris. The river appeared cold and the trees were bare and the sky looked as though it had been gray for months. But with all that, the city looked promising. Even the sunless, snowless winter weather couldn’t prevent Paris from looking promising.

He had lunch with a man from the A. P. who had just come back from America. The man from the A.P. said that things were in unholy shape in America and that even if you ate in drugstores it cost at least a dollar and a half for lunch and Beddoes ought to be damned glad he wasn’t there.

Beddoes got to the café a little late, but Christina hadn’t arrived. He sat on the glass-enclosed terrace, next to the huge window, feeling it cold from the winter afternoon against his sleeve. The terrace was crowded with women drinking tea and men reading the evening newspapers. Outside, under the trees, a little parade was forming, the veterans of some World War I unit, huddling, middle-aged, and chilled in their overcoats, with their flags and decorations, preparing to walk behind an Army band up to the Arch and put a wreath on the tomb in memory of comrades who had fallen in battles that no one any longer remembered. The French, Beddoes thought sourly, because Christina was late and the afternoon had failed its promise, are always finding occasions to block traffic. They have an endless supply of dead to celebrate.

He ordered a beer, because he had drunk too much at lunch. He had also eaten too much, in the first wave of gluttony after Egyptian food. His stomach felt uncomfortable, and he was suddenly very tired from all the miles he had traveled in the past twenty-four hours. After the age of thirty-five, he thought, in evening melancholy, no matter how swift the plane, how calm the air, how soft the cushion, the bones record the miles inexorably. He had turned thirty-five three months before and he had begun to reflect uneasily upon age. He stared at his face in mirrors, noticing wrinkles under his eyes and gray in his beard when he shaved. He remembered hearing that aging ballplayers shaved two and three times a day to keep managers and sportswriters from seeing the telltale flecks in beard stubble. Maybe, he thought, career men in the foreign service ought to do the same thing. Seventy minus thirty-five leaves thirty-five, he thought. It was an equation that came ominously to mind, especially late in the afternoon, more and more often after the midway anniversary. He stared out through the cold glass at the shuffling veterans, ranked shabbily behind their flags, their breath, mingled with cigarette smoke, rising in little clouds above their heads. He wished they’d start marching and get away from there. “Veteran” was a word that suddenly fell on his ear with an unpleasant sound.

He also wished that Christina would arrive. It wasn’t like her to be late. She was one of those rare girls who always got to places exactly on the appointed hour. Irrelevantly, he remembered that she also dressed with great speed and took only a minute or two to comb her hair. She had blond hair, cut in the short Parisian manner, which left the back of her neck bare. Beddoes thought about the back of Christina’s neck and felt better.

They would give themselves a gay evening, he thought. One should not permit himself to feel tired or old in Paris. If the feeling ever gets chronic, he told himself, I’ll move away for good.

He thought about the evening ahead of him. They’d wander around to a couple of bars, avoiding their friends and not drinking too much, and go to a bistro in the markets where there were thick steaks and a heavy red wine, and after that maybe they’d go to the night club where there was a queer, original puppet show and three young men who sang funny songs that, unlike so many night-club songs, really did turn out to be funny. When you came out into the street after their act you were charmed and amused and you had the sense that this was the way a man should feel in Paris at two o’clock in the morning.

The night before he left for Cairo, he had taken Christina there. The prospect of going back on this first night home gave him an unexplained but pleasant feeling of satisfactory design. Christina had looked very pretty, the prettiest girl in the room full of handsome women, he’d thought, and he had even danced, for the first time in months. The music was supplied by a pianist and a man who got quivering, rich sounds from an electric guitar, and they played those popular French songs that always made you feel how sweet was love in the city, how full of sorrow and tempered regret.

The music had made Christina a little moony, he remembered, which was strange for her, and she had held his hand during the show, and kissed him when the lights went out between numbers. Her eyes had filled with tears for a moment and she had said, “What am I going to do without you for two months?” when he spoke of his departure the next morning. He had felt, a little warily, because he was affected, too, that it was lucky he was leaving, if she was moving into that phase. That was the pre-yearning-for-marriage phase, and you had to be on guard against it, especially late at night, in Paris, in darkened rooms where pianists and electric guitars played songs about dead leaves and dead loves and lovers who were separated by wars.

Beddoes had been married once, and he felt, for the time being, that that was enough. Wives had a tendency to produce children, and sulk and take to drink or other men when their husbands were called away to the other side of the earth for three or four months at a time on jobs.