We'll Always Have Paris (4 page)

It was a hot Saturday night in July in Paris, near midnight, when I
prepared to head out and walk around the city, my favorite pastime, starting at Notre Dame and
ending, sometimes, at the Eiffel Tower.

My wife had gone to bed at nine o’clock and as I stood by the door she said,
‘No matter how late, bring back some pizza.’

‘One pizza coming up,’ I said, and stepped out into the hall.

I walked from the hotel across the river and along to Notre Dame and then
stopped in at the Shakespeare Bookstore and headed back along the Boul Miche to stop at Les
Deux Magots, the outdoor café where Hemingway, more than a generation ago, had regaled his
friends with Pernod, grappa, and Africa.

I sat there for a while watching the
Parisians, of which there was a multitude, had myself a Pernod and a beer, and then headed back
toward the river.

The street leading away from Les Deux Magots was no more than an alley lined
with antiques stores and art galleries.

I walked along, almost alone, and was nearing the Seine when a peculiar thing
happened, the strangest thing that had ever happened in my life.

I realized I was being followed. But it was a strange kind of following.

I looked behind me and no one was there. I looked ahead about forty yards and
saw a young man in a summer suit.

At first I didn’t realize what he was doing. But when I stopped to look in a
window and glanced up, I saw that he had stopped eighty or ninety feet ahead of me and was
looking back, watching me.

As soon as he saw my glance he walked away, farther on up the street, where
he stopped again and looked back.

After a few more of these silent exchanges, it came to me what was going on.
Instead of following me from behind, he was following me by leading the way and looking back to
make sure that I came along.

The process continued for an entire city block and then finally, at last, I
came to an intersection and found him waiting for me.

He was tall and slender and blond and quite
handsome and seemed, somehow, to be French; he looked athletic, perhaps a tennis player or a
swimmer.

I didn’t know quite how I felt about the situation. Was I pleased, was I
flattered, was I embarrassed?

Suddenly, confronted with him, I stood at the intersection and said something
in English and he shook his head.

He said something in French and I shook my head and then both of us
laughed.

‘No French?’ he said.

I shook my head.

‘No English?’ I said, and he shook his head and, again, we both laughed
because here we were, past midnight in Paris, at an intersection, unable to talk to each other
and not quite knowing what we were doing there.

At last, he lifted one hand and pointed off down a side street.

He said a name and I thought it was the name of someone: ‘Jim.’ I shook my
head in confusion.

He repeated himself, and then clarified the word. ‘Gymnasium,’ he said as he
pointed again, stepped off the walk into the street, and turned to see if I was following.

Hesitant, I waited as he walked full across the street to the far curb and
then turned again and looked at me.

I stepped off the curb and followed, thinking, What am I doing here? And
then, again, What the
hell
am I
doing here? A strange young man at midnight, in hot weather, in Paris, going
where? To some strange gymnasium? What if I never come back? I mean, in the middle of a strange
city, how come I had the nerve to follow where someone else was leading?

I followed.

In the middle of the next block I found him waiting for me.

He nodded to a nearby building and repeated the word
gymnasium
. I watched as he started down some steps at the side of the building,
and ran to follow. Down we went to a basement door that he unlocked and nodded me into the
darkness.

I saw that we were indeed in a small gym with all the equipment that such
facilities have: workout machines and block horses and mats.

Most peculiar, I thought, and stepped forward as he closed the door.

From the ceiling above I heard distant music and voices speaking and the next
thing I knew I felt my shirt being unbuttoned.

I stood in the dark with perspiration running down my arms and off the tip of
my nose. I could hear the sounds of his taking off his clothes in the dark as we stood there at
midnight in Paris, not moving, not speaking.

Again I thought, What the hell am I doing here?

He took a step forward and almost touched me when suddenly there was the
sound of a door opening
somewhere nearby, a burst of laughter,
another door opening and shutting, and footsteps and people talking very loudly from above.

I jumped at the noise and stood there, trembling.

He must have felt my movement, for he put out his hands, placing one on my
left shoulder, one on my right.

Both of us seemed not to know what to do next, but we stood there, facing
each other, after midnight, in Paris, like two actors onstage who had forgotten their
lines.

From above there was laughter and music and I thought I heard the popping of
a cork.

In the dim light I saw a single bead of perspiration slide down and fall off
the tip of his nose.

I felt the perspiration slip down my arms and drip off the ends of my
fingers.

We stood there for a long time, not moving, when at last he shrugged a French
shrug and I shrugged, too, and then we both laughed quietly again.

He bent forward, took my chin in one hand, and planted a quiet kiss in the
middle of my brow. Then he stepped back and reached out and put my shirt around my
shoulders.

‘Bonne chance,’
I thought I heard him murmur.

And then we moved quietly to the door and he put his finger to his lips and
said, ‘Shhhh,’ and we both went out into the street.

We walked together back up to the narrow avenue
that led in one direction to Les Deux Magots, and in the other direction to the
river, the Louvre, and my hotel.

‘My God,’ I said quietly. ‘We’ve been together a half hour and we don’t even
know each other’s name.’

He looked at me inquiringly and some inspiration caused me to lift my hand
and jab at his chest with my finger.

‘You Jane, me Tarzan,’ I said.

This caused him to explode with laughter and repeat what I had said: ‘Me
Jane, you Tarzan.’

And for the first time since we met, we both relaxed and laughed.

Again he leaned forward and planted another quiet kiss in the middle of my
brow, then turned and walked away.

When he was three or four yards off, without turning he said, in halting
English, ‘Sorry.’

I replied, ‘Very sorry.’

‘Next time?’ he said.

‘Next,’ I replied.

And then he was gone down the narrow street, no longer leading me.

I turned back toward the river, walked on past the Louvre, and to my
hotel.

It was two o’clock in the morning, still very hot, and as I stood inside the
door to the suite I heard the bedclothes rustle and my wife said, ‘I forgot to ask earlier, did
you get the tickets?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘The Concorde, noon flight
to New York, next Tuesday.’

I heard my wife relax and then she sighed and said, ‘My God, I love Paris. I
hope we can come back next year.’

‘Next year,’ I said.

I undressed and sat on the edge of the bed. From the far side my wife said,
‘Did you remember the pizza?’

‘The pizza?’ I said.

‘How could you have forgotten the pizza?’ she said.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

I felt a peculiar quiet itch in the middle of my forehead and put my hand up
to touch the place where that strange young man who had followed me by leading had kissed me
good night.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘how I could have forgotten. Damned if I know.’

Joe Tiller entered the apartment and was removing his hat when he saw the
middle-aged, plump woman facing him, shelling peas.

‘Come in,’ she said to his startled face. ‘Annie’s out fetchin’ supper. Set
down.’

‘But who—’ He looked at her.

‘I’m Ma Perkins.’ She laughed, rocking. It was not a rocking chair, but
somehow she imparted the sense of rocking to it. Tiller felt giddy. ‘Just call me Ma,’ she said
airily.

‘The name is familiar, but—’

‘Never you mind, son. You’ll get to know me. I’m staying on a year or so,
just visitin’. And here she laughed comfortably and shelled a green pea.

Tiller rushed out to the kitchen and confronted his wife.

‘Who in the hell
is
she, that nasty nice old woman?!’ he cried.

‘On the radio.’ His wife smiled. ‘You
know
. Ma
Perkins
.’

‘Well, what’s she doing here?’ he shouted.

‘Shh. She’s come to help.’

‘Help what?’ He glared toward the other room.

‘Things,’ said his wife indefinitely.

‘Where’ll we put her, damn it? She has to sleep, doesn’t she?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Anna, his wife, sweetly. ‘But the radio’s right there. At
night she just sort of–well–“goes back.”’

‘Why did she come? Did you write to her? You never told me you knew her,’
exclaimed the husband wildly.

‘Oh, I’ve
listened
to her for years,’ said
Anna.

‘That’s different.’

‘No. I’ve always felt I knew Ma better almost than I know–you,’ said his
wife.

He stood confounded. Ten years, he thought. Ten years alone in this chintz
cell with her warm radio humming, the pink silver tubes burning, voices murmuring. Ten secret
years of monastic conspiracy, radio and women, while he was holding his exploding business
together. He decided to be very jovial and reasonable.

‘What I want to know is’–he took her hand–‘did you write “Ma” or call her up?
How did she
get
here?’

‘She’s been here ten years.’

‘Like hell she has!’

‘Well today is
special
,’ admitted his wife. ‘Today’s the first time she’s ever “
stayed
.”’

He took his wife to the parlor to confront the old woman. ‘Get out,’ he
said.

Ma looked up from dicing some pink carrots and showed her teeth. ‘Land, I
can’t. It’s up to Annie, there. You’ll have to ask
her
.’

He whirled. ‘Well?’ he said to his wife.

His wife’s face was cold and remote. ‘Let’s all sit down to supper.’ She
turned and left the room.

Joe stood defeated.

Ma said, ‘Now there’s a girl with spunk.’

He arose at midnight and searched the parlor.

The room was empty.

The radio was still on, warm. Faintly, inside it, like a tiny mosquito’s
voice, he heard someone, far away saying, ‘Land sakes, land sakes, land sakes, land o’
Goshen!’

The room was cold. He shivered. The radio was warm with his ear against
it.

‘Land sakes, land o’ Goshen, land sakes—’

He cut it off.

His wife heard him sink into bed.

‘She’s gone,’ he said.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Until tomorrow at ten.’

He did not question this.

‘Good night, baby,’ he said.

The living room was filled only with sunlight at
breakfast. He laughed out loud to see the emptiness. He felt relief, like a good
drink of wine, in himself. He whistled on his way to the office.

Ten o’clock was coffee time. Marching along the avenue, humming, he heard the
radio playing in front of the electrical parts store.

‘Shuffle,’ said a voice. ‘Lands, I wish you wouldn’t track the house with
your muddy shoes.’

He stopped. He pivoted like a wax figure, turning on its slow, cold axis, in
the street.

He heard the voice.

‘Ma Perkins’s voice,’ he whispered.

He listened.

‘It’s
her
voice,’ he said. ‘The woman who was at
our house last night. I’m positive.’

And yet, late last night, the empty parlor?

But what about the radio, humming, warm, all alone in the room, and the faint
faraway voice repeating and repeating, ‘Land sakes, land sakes, land sakes…’?

He ran into a drugstore and dropped a nickel into the pay telephone slot.

Three buzzes. A short wait.

Click.

‘Hello, Annie?’ he said gaily.

‘No, this is Ma,’ said a voice.

‘Oh,’ he said.

He dropped the phone back onto its hook.

*    *    *

He didn’t let himself think of it that
afternoon. It was an impossible thing, a thing of some subtle and inferior horror. On his way
home he purchased a bundle of fresh moist pink rosebuds for Anna. He had them in his right hand
when he opened the door of his apartment. He had almost forgotten about Ma by then.

He dropped the rosebuds on the floor and did not stoop to retrieve them. He
only stared and continued to stare at Ma, who was seated in that chair that did not rock,
rocking.

Her sweet voice called cheerily. ‘Evenin’, Joe boy! Ain’t you thoughtful,
fetchin’ home roses!’

Without a word he dialed a phone number.

‘Hello, Ed? Say, Ed, you doing anything this evening?’

The answer was negative.

‘Well, how about dropping up, then, I need your help, Ed.’

The answer was positive.

At eight o’clock they were finishing supper and Ma was clearing away the
dishes. ‘Now for dessert tomorrow,’ she was saying, ‘we’ll have crisscross squash pie—’

The doorbell rang, and, answering, Joe Tiller almost hauled Ed Leiber out of
his shoes. ‘Take it easy, Joe,’ said Ed, rubbing his hand.

‘Ed,’ said Joe, seating him with a small glass of sherry. ‘You know my wife,
and this is Ma Perkins.’

Ed laughed. ‘How are you? Heard you on the radio for years!’

‘It’s no laughing matter, Ed,’ said Joe.
‘Cut it.’

‘I didn’t mean to be facetious, Mrs Perkins,’ said Ed. ‘It’s just that your
name is so similar to that fictional character—’

‘Ed,’ said Joe. ‘This
is
Ma Perkins.’

‘That’s right,’ said Ma charmingly, shelling some peas.

‘You’re all kidding me,’ said Ed, looking around.

‘No,’ said Ma.

‘She’s come to stay and I can’t get her out, Ed. Ed, you’re a psychologist,
what do I do? I want you to talk to Annie, here. It’s all in her mind.’

Ed cleared his throat. ‘This has gone far enough.’ He walked over to touch
Ma’s hand. ‘She’s real, not a hallucination.’ He touched Annie. ‘Annie’s real.’ He touched Joe.
‘
You’re
real. We’re
all
real. How are
things at work, Joe?’

‘Don’t change the subject, I’m serious. She’s moved in and I want her moved
out—’

‘Well, that’s for the OPA to decide, I guess, or the sheriff’s office, not a
psychologist—’

‘Ed, listen to me, listen, Ed, I know it sounds crazy, but she really is the
original
Ma Perkins.’

‘Let me smell your breath, Joe.’

‘And I want her to stay on here with me,’ said Annie. ‘I get lonely days. I
stay home and do the housework and I need company. I won’t have her moved out. She’s mine!’

Ed slapped his knee and exhaled. ‘There you are, Joe.
Looks like you want a divorce lawyer instead of a psychologist.’

Joe swore. ‘I can’t go off and leave her here in this old witch’s clutches,
don’t you understand? I love her too much. There’s no telling
what
may happen to her if I leave her alone here for the next year without communicating with the
outer world!’

‘Keep your voice down, Joe, you’re screaming. Now, now.’ The psychologist
turned his attention to the old woman. ‘What do you say?
Are
you Ma
Perkins?’

‘I am. From the radio.’

The psychologist wilted. There was something in the direct, honest way she
said it. He began to look for the door, his hands twitching on his knees.

‘And I came here because Annie needs me,’ said Ma. ‘Why I know this child
better and she knows me better than her own husband.’

The psychologist said, ‘Aha. Just a minute. Come along, Joe.’ They stepped
out into the hall and whispered. ‘Joe, I hate to tell you this, but they’re both–not well. Who
is
she? Your mother-in-law?’

‘I told you, she’s Ma—’

‘God damn it, cut it out, I’m your friend, Joe. We’re not in the room with
them. We humor them, yes, but not me.’ He was irritable.

Joe exhaled. ‘Okay, have it your way. But you do believe I’m in a mess, don’t
you?’

‘I do. What’s the deal, have they both been sitting at
home listening to the radio too much? That explains them both having the same idea
at the same time.’

Joe was going to try to explain the whole thing, but gave up. Ed might think
he was crazy, too. ‘Will you help me? What can we do?’

‘Leave that to me. I’ll give them a little logic. Come on.’

They reentered, and refilled their glasses with sherry. Once comfortable
again, Ed looked at the two ladies and said, ‘Annie, this lady isn’t Ma Perkins.’

‘Oh, yes, she is,’ said Annie angrily.

‘No, because if she was I wouldn’t be able to see her, only you could see
her, do you understand?’

‘No.’

‘If she was Ma Perkins, I could make her disappear just by convincing you how
illogical it is to think of her as real. I’d tell you she’s nothing but a radio character made
up by someone—’

‘Young man,’ said Ma. ‘Life is life. One form’s as good as another. I was
born, maybe just in someone’s head, but I’m born and kicking and getting more real every year
that I live. You and you and you, every time you hear me, make me more real. Why, if I died
tomorrow, everybody all over the country would cry, wouldn’t they?’

‘Well—’

‘Wouldn’t they?’ she snapped.

‘Yes, but only over an idea, not a real thing.’

‘Over a thing they think is real. And thinkin’ is bein’, you young fool,’
said Ma.

‘It’s no use,’ said Ed. He turned once more
to the wife. ‘Look, Annie, this is your mother-in-law, her name really isn’t Ma Perkins at all.
It’s your
mother-in-law
.’ He pronounced each word clearly and
heavily.

‘That’d be nice,’ agreed Annie. ‘I like that.’

‘I wouldn’t object,’ said Ma. ‘Worse things have happened in my life.’

‘Are we all agreed now?’ said Ed, surprised at his sudden success. ‘She’s
your mother-in-law, Annie?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re not Ma Perkins at all, right, ma’am?’

‘Is it a plot, a game, a secret?’ said Annie, looking at Ma.

Ma smiled.

‘If you want to put it that way, yes.’

‘But look here,’ objected Joe.

‘Shut up, Joe, you’ll spoil everything.’ To the other two, ‘Now, let’s repeat
it. She’s your mother-in-law. Her name is Ma Tiller.’

‘Ma Tiller,’ said the two women.

‘I want to see you outside,’ said Joe, and lurched Ed out of the room. He
held him against the wall and threatened him with a fist. ‘You fool! I don’t want her to stay
on, I want to get rid of her. Now you’ve helped make Annie worse, made her believe in that old
witch!’

‘Worse, you nut, I’ve cured her, both of them. Fine appreciation!’ And Ed
struggled to get free. ‘I’ll send a bill over in the morning!’ He stalked down the hall.

Joe hesitated a moment before entering the
room again. Oh God, he thought. God help me.

‘Hello,’ said Ma, looking up, preparing a home-packed bottle of cucumber
pickles.

At midnight and breakfast again, the living room was empty. Joe got a crafty
glint in his eyes. He looked at the radio and stroked the top of it with his trembling
hand.

‘Stay away from there!’ cried his wife.

‘Oho,’ he said. ‘Is this where she hides at night, in here, eh? In here! This
is her coffin, eh, this is where the damn old vampire sleeps until tomorrow when her sponsor
lets her out!’

‘Keep your hands off,’ she said hysterically.

‘Well, that settles her hash.’ He picked the radio up in his hands. ‘How do
you kill her sort of witch? With a silver bullet through the heart? With a crucifix? With
wolfsbane? Or do you make the sign of a cross on a soapbox top? Eh, is that it?’

‘Give me that!’ His wife rushed over to grapple with him. Between them, they
swayed back and forth in a titanic battle for the electric coffin between them.

‘There!’ he shouted.

He flung the radio to the floor. He tromped and stomped on it. He kicked it
into bits. He ravened at it. He held the tubes in his hands and smashed them into silver
flinders. Then he stuffed the shattered entrails into the wastebasket,
all the time his wife danced frantically about, sobbing and screaming.

‘She’s dead,’ he said. ‘Dead, God damn it! I’ve fixed her good.’

His wife cried herself to sleep. He tried to calm her, but she was so deep in
her hysteria he could not touch her. Death was a terrible incident in her life.

In the morning, she spoke not a word. In the coolness of the separated house,
he ate his breakfast, confident that things would be better by evening.

He arrived late to work. He walked between the typing, clicking rows of
stenographers’ desks, passed on down the long hallway, and opened the door of his secretary’s
office.

His secretary was standing against her desk, her face pale, her hands up to
her lips. ‘Oh, Mr Tiller, I’m so glad you came,’ she said. ‘In there.’ She pointed at the door
to the inner office. ‘That awful old busybody! She just came in and–and—’ She hurried to the
door, flung it open. ‘You’d better see her!’

He felt sick to his stomach. He shuffled across the threshold and shut the
door. Then he turned to confront the old woman who was in his office.

‘How did you get here?’ he demanded.

‘Why, good morning.’ Ma Perkins laughed, peeling potatoes in his swivel
chair, her tidy little black shoes twinkling in the sunlight. ‘Come on in. I decided your
business needed reorganizing. So I just started. We’re
partners now. I had lotsa experience in this line. I saved more failing
businesses, more bad romances, more lives. You’re just what I need.’