Conrad Aiken: The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

“You speak English?” said Henry.

“Un peu.”

“A large, a very large one,” said Henry.

Here was a ray of hope. Perhaps, if he explained his predicament the waiter would make some brilliant suggestion. But if not—then what on earth was he to do? Go back to the hotel? Heavens, no. Every one would see it, and they would think—and the very first night he was there, too! Impossible to get in through that garish entrance, with all those uniformed Frenchmen standing about doing nothing, without being detected; clearly impossible. Something else would have to be improvised. One of them would probably have the cheek to come right up to him and speak about it. Pardon , he would say, but monsieur has neglected his necktie. Or something like that. And then a sly smirk.… Good lord.

“Whisky,” said the waiter.

This was the moment—but suddenly he felt shy about it. Better wait till after the next drink. But no, the longer it was left, the more difficult it was to explain. He lifted his finger again at the retreating waiter. What a blessing that he spoke English.

“A moment, waiter,” he said. “Perhaps you could be so kind as to tell me where I could get a necktie.”

“Pardon?” said the waiter.

“I have forgotten a necktie,” said Henry, feeling somewhat foolish.

“ Monsieur has forgotten something? A coffee?”

“No, a necktie! Do you understand? A necktie!”

Henry turned down his coat lapels and revealed his shame. The waiter’s hand at once made an intelligent gesture in the air.

“Ah! he cried, delighted, “ monsieur has lost his cravat! He left it behind him, perhaps—when?” He ogled Henry with an offensively knowing look. Exactly. Just what these Frenchmen would suppose. It became more and more obvious that it would be impossible to go back to the Angleterre until he had somehow possessed himself of a tie. He felt weary, and drank his whisky at one gulp.

“No, no, you don’t understand. I was changing my clothes after dinner at my hotel and forgot to put on a necktie. Do you know where I could get one? I would be much obliged.…”

“ Monsieur would like a cravat? Wait!” He dashed off to attend to a very fat Frenchman who had seated himself at a table. In a moment he was back again, skimming like a swallow. He wore a look of concentrated intelligence and held up one finger.

“If monsieur will wait five minutes,” he said, “I can get him a cravat. Very chic . A little black butterfly— comme ça .” He described two small wings in the air above Henry’s empty glass. “It is mine, but monsieur is welcome, if he will be so kind.”

“Thank you! I should be most grateful.… And another whisky, please.”

What a relief! Poof! The strain had been on the point of becoming quite unbearable. Now he would be able to resume his joyful excursion. The hotel again seemed a friendly place, and he felt a positive affection for the burly door-porter, as if he would like to shake him by the hand. The haughty girl at the desk also: a nice girl, very accommodating. Very very nice indeed, and rather handsome, if her eyes weren’t quite so protruding. Too bad, too bad. Ah—here he was, bringing the whisky in one hand and the tie—good lord, how frightful! one of those! One of those little machine-made things that hooked on to the stud! One of those abominations!

“Voilà, monsieur! Very chic, n’est-ce pas?” He held it off a little way, turning it admiringly. It was infinitesimal, not more than an inch and a half across, and on one wing was a spot.

“A little spot,” said the waiter, apologetically, “but it will see monsieur safely home. As you Americans say, any port in a storm! Ha! ha!”

He proffered the revolting insect, holding it exquisitely between thumb and finger—there was nothing to do but accept it.

“Thank you, thanks ever so much,” said Henry sadly. And now he would have to put it on! “Have you a mirror?”

“Inside, monsieur .”

Horror upon horror—with an ordinary collar it would not have been quite so bad; but with a stand-up collar it was appallingly plain to an observer that it was a made-up tie, for there were no strings. It perched on the stud with the detached air of a fly which had just alighted. How absurd! How odious! It gave him the look of a cheap comedian. Looking at himself in the mirror, through the white enamel letters which said “Amer Picon,” he suddenly felt sick—positively sick. Life had again became as black as the black hole of Calcutta.

“Very nice,” he murmured, “very nice.… I am most grateful to you.”

The waiter appeared slightly chagrined—he would perhaps have enjoyed seeing a little more enthusiasm than Henry at the moment could muster.

“It is very becoming,” he said.

“Oh, very,” said Henry, returning gloomily to his whisky. Very becoming. But becoming what? He drank his whisky morosely, paying no attention to the crowds that flowed past. Good heavens, to think of having his first night in Paris spoiled like this. And how on earth was he to manage his return to the Angleterre? It was now worse than ever. Walk into that grand lobby, under all those lights, with this absurd little clown’s necktie on? He would rather be killed: rather be killed. And on the other hand, if he stayed out late enough to escape the attentions of all save the door-porter what would Charlotte think? She I would be sure to wake—she always woke when it was inconvenient for her to do so. She would look at him in that mournful way, as if she were crying in her heart of hearts, and then lie awake all night. Poor little Charlotte! A martyrdom to jealousy, and so absolutely without cause. The visit to Paris would be spoiled for her; she would always suspect him of having spent the evening in the darkest of iniquity.…

Well, there was no use in staying here , anyway—he could hardly ask the waiter for another tie. Of course, he was less exposed here; but then he couldn’t just go on sitting all night. It was already ten o’clock as it was. Charlotte might be waking at any time and looking at her watch and then coming to his room to see if he had come back. Henry! are you here? Henry?… No Henry. No Henry for a long while yet, either. Better wander down to the river and then perhaps across to the other side—that was the Latin Quarter, and there perhaps they were more used to seeing middle-aged gentlemen who wore peculiar neckties. There would also be other cafés, where he might again try his luck.… A pity, too, when it was such a lovely spring night, so ideal for his first sight of the gay night-life of Paris. Good gracious, how disgusting it all was, a trifle like this upsetting everything. It was like a shabby little episode on the vaudeville stage, with himself as the ridiculous victim, laughed at by everyone. Well, at least he could turn up his coat collar again, though even that didn’t really conceal this poisonous little monstrosity.… No—there was a girl giggling at him this very minute! The strumpet! As for finding some nice girl and having a drink or two—quite innocently—before going home, that was now out of the question. Or almost. And he had rather looked forward to some such little adventure as that—just a little conversation—so interesting to see how life is lived in a foreign city. One of these midinettes you were always hearing about, so gay and carefree, so unselfish and warm-hearted! But no, it was impossible to look anyone in the eye, as long as he had on a tie like this. The brand of Cain, or the mark of the beast, or something.

He crossed the bridge. Ah, yes—there were the quayside bookstalls. How romantic to be sure. Oh, for a stall that sold neckties! He wandered on disconsolately, entered a wider street, a boulevard, and came then to some gardens, very pretty, with lights among green leaves of trees. Were these the Luxembourg Gardens? Very pretty, very pretty, and what a place for making love, as all these young people had discovered. My, my, that soldier and his girl. He began humming again