The Selected Stories of Mavis Gallant (94 page)

“What if we are arrested?”

Perhaps he would not mind. Perhaps he saw himself the subject of a sensational case, baying out in a police court the social criticism he saved up to send to newspapers. She remembered the elaborate lies and stories she had needed for the week in Paris and wondered if they were part of the pattern he had mentioned. Suddenly Herbert begged her to marry him—tomorrow, today. He would put little Bert in boarding school; he could not live without her; there would never again be interference. Herbert did not hear what he was saying and his words did not come back to him, not even as an echo. He did not forget the promise; he had not heard it. Seconds later it was as if nothing had been said. The corridor was empty, and outside were the same plain of dried grass and the blind, hot, gray stucco box-houses they had been seeing all afternoon. She felt angry with Herbert, hateful even, because he had an unfailing hold on her and used it.

She said, “Herbert, that Norwegian is not interested in me; he is interested in you. And you know it.”

Herbert accepted the accusation as though he were used to every kind of homage. He was tall, intelligent, brave, and good-looking. He was generous and truthful. A good parent, a loyal friend. Never bore grudges. His family was worthy of him, on both sides. His distinguished officer father had performed his duty, nothing worse; his mother had defended her faith to the extreme limit. He was thirty-one and had made only one error in a lifetime: He had married a girl who ran away. He sat still and did not protest uselessly or say, “Unhealthy imagination. Projecting your own morbid desires. Insane jealousy,” though he may have been thinking it. He accepted the Norwegian as a compliment.

She plunged on recklessly, just as she had kept the window open when there could have been fires, and said, “If it’s men you want, you needn’t think I am going to be a screen for you.” He turned slightly and said, “Only one thing matters now—this train, which is running all over the map.”

She did not wish to lose him. She
was
afraid of choosing—that was true—and she was not certain about little Bert. When he kept his head turned the other way, she quickly told the story about Lenin. He smiled, no more. There was a way out of their last exchange, but where? She had tried telling her joke with a Russian accent, but of course it didn’t come off. She knew nothing about him. One thing she had noticed: When he had to speak
on the telephone sometimes he would say “Berlin speaking,” like a television announcer, or imitate some political figure, or talk broad Bavarian, which he did well, but it took seconds to get the real conversation moving, which was strange for a man as busy and practical as Herbert. She looked round for a change of subject—the landscape was hopeless—and said, “These seats aren’t reserved. Why not move our things here?”

“No point, we’ve nearly arrived,” said Herbert, and he opened the door and walked out, as if there were no reason for their being alone now. He strode along the rattling corridor with Christine behind him.

Interference came out to meet her halfway:

During the conflict we were enemy aliens. Went to be registered in a post office with spit all over the floor. From there to the police. Just as dirty. The jails must be really something once you’re in them. Police had orders, had to tell us we couldn’t go to the beaches anymore. Big joke on them—we never went anyway, didn’t even own bathing suits! Were given our territorial limits: could go into Jackson Heihts as jar as the corner of Northern and 81st. Never went, never wanted to. We could take the train from Woodside to Corona, or from Woodside to Rego Park, we had the choice, and ride back and forth as much as we liked. Never did, never cared to. We could walk as far as Mount Zion Cemetery but never did—didn’t know anyone in it. Could ride the subway from Woodside to Junction Boulevard and back as much as we wanted, or Rego Park to 65th and back. Never did it once that I remember. The men could take the train to Flushing, they still worked at the same place, closely watched to see they didn’t sabotage the submarine galley units. They had three stations from home to work, were warned not to get off at the wrong one. They never did. The thing was we never wanted to go anywhere except the three blocks between our two homes. The only thing we missed was the fresh bratwurst. We never went anywhere because we never wanted to! The joke was on the whole USA!

They were a happy party in the compartment now. Herbert seemed to feel he had put something over on the universe, and Christine felt she had an edge on both the Norwegian and little Bert. The other three were feeling splendid because they had slept. All were filled with optimism and energy, as if it were early morning. The Norwegian in particular was lively and refreshed and extremely talkative. Inevitably, being a foreigner, he began to do what Herbert called “opening up the dossier.”

“On the subject of German reparations I remain open-minded,” the Norwegian said amiably. “Some accepted the money and invested it, some refused even to apply. I knew of a lawyer whose entire career consisted of handling reparations cases, from the time he left law school until he retired after a heart attack.”

“I am open-minded too,” said Herbert, every bit as amiable as the Norwegian.

The woman in the corner spoke up: “What I keep asking myself is where does the money come from?” She looked at Herbert, as if he should know. “And these payments go on! And on! Where does it all come from?”

“Don’t worry,” said Herbert. “The beneficiaries die younger than most other people. They die early for their age groups. Actuarial studies are reassuring on that point.”

It was impossible for the two strangers to tell if Herbert was glad or sorry.

“It is only right that you pay,” said the Norwegian, though not aggressively.

“Of course it is right,” said Herbert, smiling. “However, I object to your use of you.’ ”

At this the conversation ran out. Christine removed herself from what might have been her share of feeling by opening her book. Instantly little Bert was beside her. “Read,” he said.

She read, “ ‘Bruno lived in a house of his own. He had a bedroom, a living room, a dining room …’ ”

“And a playroom.”

“All right. ‘The living room had red curtains, the bedroom had blue curtains …’ ”

“No,” said little Bert. “Red in the playroom.”

Herbert looked at them both; across his face was written, “It’s working. They’re friends.” The woman in the corner had closed her eyes after the abrupt ending of the last conversation, but her mind was awake.
The other couple bought a car when the neighborhood went. The three blocks weren’t safe, they thought. Sometimes they were late for dinner because someone had parked in front of their garage. Otherwise they were always on time. At first they came just for lunch on Sundays, then got in the habit of staying for supper because Jack Benny came on at seven. The only words my sister-in-law ever learned in English were “Jello again.” Once learned, never forgotten. Before the blacks came we had the Catholics. That was the way it went. Once I was waiting with my sister-in-law to cross the street in front of the house when a lot of little girls in First Communion dresses crossed without waiting for the light. So near you could touch them. I said to her, “You’ve got to admit they look nice in the white, like little snow fairies.” One of those little girls turned right around and said in German, “We’re not snow fairies, you old sow, we’re angels—ANGELS!”

Their train slowed at an unknown station, then changed its mind and
picked up speed, but not before they’d been given a chance to see a detachment of conscripts of the Army of the Federal Republic in their crumpled uniforms and dusty boots and with their long hair hanging in strings. She saw them as she imagined Herbert must be seeing them: small, round-shouldered, rather dark. Blond, blue-eyed genes were on the wane in Europe.

Herbert’s expression gradually changed to one of brooding. He seemed to be dwelling on a deep inner hurt. His eyes narrowed, as if he had been cornered by beams of electric light. Christine knew that he felt intense disgust for men-at-arms in general, but for untidy soldiers in particular. His pacifism was certainly real—little Bert was not allowed to have any military toys. His look may have meant that even to a pacifist soldiers are supposed to seem like soldiers; they should salute smartly, stare you frankly in the face, keep their shoes shined and their hair trimmed. The Norwegian turned his mouth down, as though soldiering were very different where he came from. He exchanged a glance with Herbert—it was the first that Herbert returned. The woman in the corner opened her little eyes, shook her head, and said “Chck chck,” marveling that such spectacles were allowed.

The principal of Carol Ann’s school had good ideas for raising money. One was the sale of crosses for one ninety-eight. Black crosses with the words HE DIED FOR YOU in white. Meant to be hung on a bedroom wall, the first thing a child would see in the morning. Character building. First of all my cousin did not want any cross in the house. Then he said he wouldn’t mind having just the one so long as nobody said “crucifix.” He couldn’t stand that word—too Catholic. Then his wife said she didn’t want a black cross because the black didn’t match anything in the room. Everything in Carol Ann’s bedroom was powder blue and white. My cousin then said he did not want to see a cross with any person on it. Once you accept a cross with a person on it, they’re in, he said, meaning the Catholics. My cousin was stricter than your average Lutheran. His wife said what about a white cross with powder-blue lettering? My cousin was really worked up; he said, “Over my dead body will a black cross called a crucifix and with any person on it enter my home.” Finally Carol Ann got a white cross with no person on it and no words to read. It cost a little more, two forty-nine, on account of the white paint. The principal of that school had good ideas but went too far sometimes, though his aim was just to make people better Christians. The school earned quite a lot on the sale of the crosses, which went toward buying a dishwasher cut-rate from the Flushing factory. All the children were good Christians and the principal strove to make some better
.

They were all tired now and beginning to look despondent. Luckily the next station stop was a pretty one, with gingerbread buildings and baskets of petunias hanging everywhere. The woman stirred and smiled to herself,
as if reminded of all the charming places she had ever lived in during the past. The Norwegian leaped to his feet. “Good luck,” said Herbert. He had given up trying to find water, toilets, food.

My cousin-in-law never understood the television. She’d say, “Are they the good ones or the bad ones?” We’d say this one’s bad, that one’s good. She would say, “Then why are they dressed the same way?” If the bad and the good had the same kind of suits on she couldn’t follow
.

“Read something about Bruno,” said little Bert. “Read about Bruno not doing as he’s told.”

“ ‘The fact was that Bruno could not always tell right from wrong,’ ” read Christine severely. “ ‘When he was in Paris he whistled and called to other people’s dogs. He did not know that it is not polite to call other people’s dogs, even in a friendly way. He ate everything with his fingers. He put his fingers in the pickle jar.’ ”

“Careful. Our housekeeper does that,” said Herbert.

“Read about Bruno’s sisters and brothers,” said little Bert. “What did
they
do?”

“ ‘Bruno had five brothers. All five were named Georg. But Georg was pronounced five different ways in the family, so there was no mistake. They were called the Yursh, the Shorsh, the Goysh …’ ”

“Christine,
please,”
said Herbert. “It’s silly. The child is not an idiot.”

“But, Herbert, it happens to be true! All five brothers had five different godfathers named George, so they were each called Georg. Is there a law against it?”

He searched and said, “No.”

“Well then. ‘The Goysh, the Jairsh …’ ”

“Don’t confuse him,” said Herbert.

“Oh, God, Herbert, you are the one confused. My father knew them. They existed. Only one survived the war, the Yursh. He was already old when I met him. He might be dead now.”

“Well, all that is confusing for children,” said Herbert.

“You’re not reading,” little Bert complained, but just then the Norwegian came back carrying an ice-cream cone. Little Bert took it without saying thank you and at once began eating in the most disgusting manner, licking up the melting edges, pushing the ice down inside the cone, and biting off the end.

“Herbert,” said Christine. “Please make him stop. Make him eat properly.”

“Eat properly,” said Herbert, smiling.

Conscious of so many adult eyes on him, little Bert began to lark about with the ice cream and make a fool of himself, at which everyone except Herbert looked the other way.

There was a plan to save some German cities, those with interesting old monuments. The plan was to put Jews in the attics of all the houses. The Allies would never have dropped a bomb. What a difference it might have made. Later we learned this plan had been sabotaged by the President of the USA. Too bad. It could have saved many famous old statues and quite a few lives
.

“Now, little Bert,” said Herbert, trying to clean the child’s sticky face with a handkerchief, “we shall be leaving this train about two minutes from now. Another nice train will then take us to a place called Pegnitz. Pegnitz is a railway junction. This means that from Pegnitz there are any number of trains to take us home.”

Little Bert could not have been listening carefully, for he said, “Are we home now?”

“No, but it is almost like being home, because we know where we’re going.”

“That’s not the same as being home,” said little Bert. He turned swiftly from Herbert and his eyes grew wide and amazed as the pregnant Army wife, holding a wall for support, moved past their door. He looked at Christine and opened his mouth, but before he could ask anything loud and embarrassing, their conductor came in with new information: They must not wander too far away from the station during the stopover. They would soon see that they were just a few feet from a barbed-wire frontier, where someone had been shot to death only a week ago. They must pay close attention to signs and warnings concerning hostile police guards, guns, soldiers, dogs, land mines. Although this was good mushroom country, it was not really safe. Someone had been blown up not long ago while reaching for
Cantharellus cibarius
. The train to Pegnitz would be an unscheduled emergency transport for stranded passengers (theirs was not the only train to have been diverted), and this new transport might turn up at any moment. They were not to worry about their luggage: The conductor would look after everything. The train might arrive at any time, either five minutes or half an hour from now. All danger from the fires was over, the jolly conductor added. His hair was as shiny as leather and he bounded from one foot to the other as he gave the good news.