Beggarman, Thief (17 page)

“That’s most gentlemanly of you,” the lawyer said, his voice thin over the faulty telephone wires.

“It’s a simple business matter.”

“I see,” the lawyer said. They both knew he was lying. No matter.

After that Rudolph called Johnny Heath in New York and talked at length. “Oh, what a mess,” Heath said. “I’ll do my best. I await the letter from Mr. and Mrs. Kraler’s lawyer with impatience.”

Then Rudolph put on his swimming trunks and did forty laps in the pool, his mind empty in the swish of water, his body used and healthily tired by the time he had finished.

After the swim he sat drying off by the side of the pool, sipping at a cold beer.

He felt guilty for feeling so well. He wondered, displeased with himself for the thought, how he would act if the telephone rang and the call was for him and a voice announced that the plane with his family aboard had gone down into the sea.

Fire and ice, Dwyer had said.

«  »

CHAPTER 8

F
ROM
B
ILLY
A
BBOTT’S
N
OTEBOOK—

FAMILIES. THERE’S A SUBJECT.

LOVE AND DESTROY. NOT NECESSARILY. BUT OFTEN ENOUGH TO SHOW UP WELL IN THE AVERAGES. FOR FREUD THE STAGE FOR GREEK TRAGEDY—INCEST, PATRICIDE, OTHER INTIMATE DELIGHTS. DREADFUL TO IMAGINE WHAT THE GOOD DOCTOR’S FAMILY LIFE IN VIENNA HAD BEEN LIKE.

WAS JUNG MORE LENIENT? MUST ASK MONIKA, FOUNTAIN OF WISDOM. COME TO THINK OF IT, SHE NEVER TALKS ABOUT “HER” FAMILY. SKELETONS IN EVERY CLOSET.

HAVE NEVER MET WESLEY JORDACHE. POOR LITTLE BASTARD. LOST IN THE SHUFFLE. WILL THE MURDER OF HIS FATHER TURN OUT TO BE AN ENLARGING EXPERIENCE FOR HIS SOUL? MY GRANDFATHER DIED WHEN RUDOLPH AND MY MOTHER WERE COMPARATIVELY YOUNG AND THEIR SOULS DO NOT SEEM NOTICEABLY ENLARGED.

I LIKED MY GRANDMOTHER BECAUSE SHE DOTED ON ME. SHE DID NOT DOTE ON MY MOTHER AND EVEN ON THE DAY OF HER FUNERAL MY MOTHER HAD NO USE FOR HER. WILL MY MOTHER HAVE ANY USE FOR ME ON THE DAY OF “MY” FUNERAL? I HAVE A PREMONITION I WILL DIE YOUNG. MY MOTHER IS MADE OF STEEL, WILL LAST FOREVER, OUTWEARING MAN AFTER MAN.

DOES HER SEXUALITY OFFEND ME? YES.

DOES MY SEXUALITY, THAT OF MONIKA, OFFEND ME? NO. INJUSTICE IS THE COIN THAT IS EXCHANGED BETWEEN THE GENERATIONS.

MY MOTHER IS A PROMISCUOUS WOMAN. MY FATHER, WHEN YOUNGER AND COULD MANAGE IT, WAS, BY HIS OWN ACCOUNTS, A PROMISCUOUS MAN. I AM NOT. LIKE THE DRUNKARD’S CHILD, I STAY AWAY FROM THE VICE I SEE IN THE PARENT.

SONS REVOLT. DAUGHTERS RUN OFF. I DID NEITHER. I HID. THE ARMY HAS MADE IT EASIER. IT WOULD BE INTERESTING TO MEET WITH COUSIN WESLEY, SO FAR UNKNOWN TO ME, COMPARE NOTES, THE SAME BLOOD RUNNING IN OUR VEINS.

THE FLOWER CHILDREN REARRANGED THE IDEA OF FAMILY. I COULD NOT LIVE IN A COMMUNE. UNHYGIENIC ENTANGLEMENTS. DESPERATE EXPERIMENTS, DOOMED TO FAILURE. WE ARE TOO FAR PAST THE TRIBE. I DO NOT WANT SOMEONE ELSE’S CHILD TO DISTURB ME WHILE I AM READING OR SHAVING OR TAKING MY WIFE TO BED.

WILL I LIVE IN A SUBURB TEN YEARS FROM NOW AND PLAY BRIDGE AND WATCH FOOTBALL GAMES ON THE TELEVISION ALL WEEKEND LONG? COMMUTE? SWAP WIVES? VOTE FOR THAT YEAR’S NIXON?

IT IS LATE. I MISS MONIKA.

«  »

Wesley was sitting, cleanly shaved, neatly dressed in a suit that Rudolph had brought him from the
Clothilde,
waiting for the
agent
who was to take him to the airport. The suit had been bought for him by his father more than a year ago and was now very much too short in the arms and too tight across the chest. As he had expected, his Uncle Rudolph had somehow fixed it for him. Although having to leave France wasn’t such a great arrangement. He had never been happy in America—and he had been happy in France, at least until the day his father died.

It hadn’t been so bad in the prison in Grasse. The cop he had hit in the bar was stationed in Cannes and hadn’t been around to bug him, and among the guards and with the
juge d’instruction
who had examined him he had enjoyed a certain celebrity because of what had happened to his father and because he spoke French and had knocked out the Englishman, who had had a moderate reputation as a barroom fighter with the local police. Also he had been polite and had caused nobody any trouble. The occasional bill his uncle had slipped to the guards and a call from the American consulate, which his uncle had prompted, hadn’t hurt, either.

One good thing about Uncle Rudy, he never even hinted that Wesley ought to show some gratitude for what he’d done for him. Wesley would have liked to show gratitude but he didn’t know how. Eventually, he thought, he’d have to work on that. As it was, there was nothing much he could think of saying to his uncle, who seemed embarrassed to see Wesley behind bars, as though it was somehow his fault.

One of the guards had even smuggled in a photograph from the police files of the man called Danovic his father had had the fight with in the Porte Rose. Wesley would remember the face when it was necessary to recognize it.

He said nothing of this to anyone. He had never been an open boy-even with his father it had been difficult for him to talk about himself, although his father had told him almost everything he wanted to hear about his own life. Now, he kept what he was feeling to himself. He felt threatened, although he wasn’t certain what was threatening him. Whatever it was, silence was the first line of defense. He had learned that a long time ago, when his mother had put him in that damned military school.

His mother was another ball game. She had screamed and cried and scolded and slobbered all over him and promised him he would lead a different life when she got him back with her new husband in Indianapolis. He didn’t want to lead a different life. He had asked his uncle if he had to go to Indianapolis and Rudolph had looked sad and said, “At least while you’re still a minor.” It had something to do with money, he didn’t understand just what. No matter. He could take a look at the scene and blow if he didn’t like it.

He had learned about flight.

Meanwhile, he missed not being able to go to school when the year began. They were starting the basketball season in September. He had been the star of the team last year and he knew they had been depending upon him this year. He hoped they had a lousy season, so they would know how much they needed him. It seemed a piddling thing to be worrying about when your father had just been murdered, but school was a big part of his life and he couldn’t just turn it off because it would be unimportant to grown-ups at this time. He felt his father would have understood, even if nobody else did.

Some of the boys had made fun of him in school because he was American and spoke funny. He had never hit them, as he had wanted to, because his father would have beat the shit out of him if he had found out Wesley was fighting. It would be different now, he thought grimly. With the sorrow, there was a new sense of freedom. I make my own mistakes now, he told himself, and people can just lump them or leave them. The mistake his father had made would take a lot of getting over. He had prayed for his father, but he’d be damned if he forgave him. One night, one crazy grandstand act, and his father had left him in the shit. Shit, he thought, sitting in his clean clothes, shit.

The
agent
who was going to take him to the airport unlocked the door and came in. He was dressed in slacks and a sports jacket but he could be dressed like a ballet dancer and anybody would know he was a cop, right off.

The air smelled wonderful outside. He had forgotten how good air could smell.

They got into an unmarked car, Wesley sitting in front beside the
agent.
The
agent
had a big belly and let out a little poof through his broken nose as he squeezed in under the wheel. Wesley would have liked to ask if he had ever been hit with a beer bottle or shot a man, but decided it would be better to keep the conversation on other things.

The
agent
drove slowly down the winding mountain road, with all the windows open. “The weather is beautiful,” he said, “we might as well profit from it.” It was an easy morning’s work for him and he was making the most of it. He already smelled from wine. “So,” he said, “no more France for you. Pity. Next time you will learn to hit people where there are no witnesses.” He laughed at his lawman’s joke. “What are you going to do in America?”

“Keep away from the police,” Wesley said.

The
agent
laughed again. “That’s a smart young man. My wife keeps after me. We ought to visit America, she says.” He wagged his head. “On a policeman’s salary, you can imagine.” He looked sidelong at Wesley. “Your uncle is a man of important wealth, isn’t he?” he asked.

“One of the richest.”

“It shows.” The policeman sighed, looked down at his rumpled jacket. “I admire his clothes. He is a man of great authority. That is evident. No wonder you’re on the way home.”

Home was not the word to describe where he was going, Wesley thought.

“You will come back here eventually—as a tourist—and spend a great deal of money, I suppose,” the
agent
said.

“If you don’t turn Communist first,” Wesley said. In the prison there had been two men who said they were Communists and the day was near.

“Don’t say things like that,” the
agent
said darkly. “Especially in America. They will turn their backs on us.” On the subject now of the bad opinion Americans had of the French, he said, “You are not going back and tell the newspapers how you were tortured by the police to make you confess?”

“I had nothing to confess,” Wesley said. “Everybody saw me hit the
salaud.
I might say something about how one of your friends beat me up in the car on the way to the
préfecture,
though,” he added mischievously. He was enjoying the ride through the ripe, flowery countryside after the weeks indoors. And just talking idly away with the man, who was friendly enough, postponed having to think what was waiting for him at the airport and in Indianapolis.

“Ah, what would you expect?” the
agent
said aggrievedly. “To be knocked down with one blow by a child in full view of the entire world and not get a little bit of your own back in a dark car? We are all human, you know.”

“All right,” Wesley said magnanimously, “I won’t say anything.”

“You’re a good boy,” the
agent
said. “You made a good reputation for yourself in Grasse. I have seen the man your father had the
fracas
with. He looked as though he had been run over by a locomotive.” He nodded, an expert in these matters. “Your father did an excellent job. Excellent.” He looked sidelong again at Wesley, his face serious now. “The fellow is known to the police. Unfavorably,” he said. “So far he has been able to escape the punishment he richly deserves. He associates with dangerous men. It is as much for your sake as for the sake of France that you are being sent on your way.”

“It just seems queer,” Wesley said, “that a man that everybody knows is responsible for a murder can get away with it.”

“You just forget about what people know, my friend,” the
agent
said censoriously. “You just forget everything and go home and be a nice young American.”

“Yes, sir,” Wesley said, remembering every detail in the photograph, the slit eyes, the high, sharp cheekbones, the thin mouth and dark curly hair.
You
forget the man who killed my father, he wanted to say, but didn’t. You just try and forget. “I wonder if you could do me a favor.”

“What is it?” The
agent’s
voice was professionally suspicious.

“Could you drive along the port? I’d like to take a look at the boat.”

The
agent
glanced at his watch. “It’s early yet,” he said. “We have time. Why not?”

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” Wesley said.
“C’est très gentil de votre part, monsieur,”
in French. It was one of the first things his father had taught him when he had brought him to Antibes. Although his father knew almost no French, he had said, “There’re two expressions the Frogs pay a lot of attention to. First—
S’il vous plaît,
that means please. And
C’est très gentil de votre part.
Got it? Repeat them.”

Wesley had not forgotten the lesson.

“I have a son about your age,” the
agent
said. “He’s crazy about boats, too. He’s always hanging around the ports, whenever he gets a chance. I told him I’d disown him if he ever became a sailor. If it wasn’t for all the boats down here, the police would be put out of work. The people it attracts,” he said gloomily, “Algerians, Yugoslavs, Greeks, Corsicans, Sicilians, nudists, English kids in trouble with the law back home, girls who’ve run away from home, rich playboys with giant dope habits …” He shook his head as he went over the list of seaborne malefactors.… “And now every stinking town with a view of the Mediterranean is building a new port. It will take the entire
gendarmerie
of France to control it. Witness your case.” He shook his finger angrily at Wesley, reminded by his outburst that he was conducting a criminal to exile. “Do you think what happened to you would have happened if you inhabited Clermont-Ferrand, for example?”