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again. I looked at my watch and it was nearly a quarter to ten. Perhaps, after all, he had
been caught; perhaps that 'someone" in whom he believed had acted on his behalf and he
sat now in his Legation room fretting at a telegram to decode, and soon he would come
stamping up the stairs to my room in the rue Catinat. I thought. If he does I shall tell him
everything.'
Granger suddenly got up from his table and came at me. He didn't even see the chair in
his way and he stumbled and laid his hand on the edge of my table. "Fowler," he said,
"come outside." I laid enough notes down and followed him. I was in no mood to fight
with him, but at that moment I would not have minded if he had beaten me unconscious.
We have so few ways in which to assuage the sense of guilt.
He leant on the parapet of the bridge and the two policemen watched him from a
distance. He said, "I've got to talk to you. Fowler."
I came within striking distance and waited. He didn't move. He was like an emblematic
statue of all I thought I hated in America-as ill-designed as the Statue of Liberty and as
meaningless. He said without moving, "You think I'm pissed. You're wrong." "What's up,
Granger?"
"I got to talk to you. Fowler. I don't want to sit there with those Frogs tonight. I don't like
you. Fowler, but you talk English. A kind of English." He leant there, bulky and
shapeless in the half-light, an unexplored continent. "What do you want. Granger?"
"I don't like Limies,"* Granger said. "I don't know why Pyle stomachs you. Maybe it's
because he's Boston. I'm Pittsburgh* and proud of it." "Why not?"
"There you are again." He made a feeble attempt to mock my accent. "You all talk like
poufs. You're so damned superior. You think you know everything." "Good-night,
Granger. I've got an appointment." "Don't go, Fowler. Haven't you got a heart? I can't talk
to those Froggies." "You're drunk."
"I've had two glasses of champagne, that's all, and wouldn't you be drunk in my place?
I've got to go north." "What's wrong in that?"
"Oh, I didn't tell you, did I? I keep on thinking everyone knows. I got a cable this
morning from my wife." "Yes?"
"My son's got polio.* He's bad." "I'm sorry."
"You needn't be. It's not your kid." "Can't you fly home?"
"I can't. They want a story about some damned mopping-up operations* near Hanoi and
Connolly's sick." (Con-nolly was his assistant.) "I'm sorry. Granger. I wish I could help."
"It's his birthday tonight. He's eight at half past ten our time. That's why I laid on a party
with champagne before I knew. I had to tell someone, Fowler, and I can't tell these
Froggies."
"They can do a lot for polio nowadays." "I don't mind if he's crippled, Fowler. Not if he
lives. Me, I'd be no good crippled, but he's got brains. Do you know what I've been doing
in there while that bastard was singing? I was praying. I thought maybe if God wanted a
life he could take mine," "Do you believe in a God, then?"
"I wish I did," Granger said. He passed his whole hand across his face as though his head
ached, but the motion was meant to disguise the fact that he was wiping tears away.
"I'd get drunk if I were you," I said. "Oh no, I've got to stay sober. I don't want to think
afterwards I was stinking drunk the night my boy died. My wife can't drink, can she?"
"Can't you tell your paper. . .?"
"Connoily's not really sick. He's off after a bit of tail in Singapore. I've got to cover for
him. He'd be sacked if they knew." He gathered his shapeless body together. "Sorry I
kept you, Fowler. I just had to tell someone. Got to go in now and start the toasts. Funny
it happened to be you, and hate my guts."
"I'd do your story for you. I could pretend it was Con-nolly."
"You wouldn't get the accent right." "I don't dislike you, Granger. I've been blind to a lot
of things..."
"Oh, you and me, we're cat: and dog. But thanks for the sympathy."
Was I so different from Pyle, I wondered? Must I too have my foot thrust in the mess of
life before I saw the pain? Granger went inside and I could hear the voices rising to greet
him. I found a trishaw and was pedalled home. There was nobody there, and I sat and
waited till midnight. Then I went down into the street without hope and found Phuong
there.
CHAPTER II!
"Has M. Vigot been to see you?" Phuong asked. "Yes. He left a quarter of an hour ago.
Was the film
good?" She had already laid out the tray in the bedroom and
now she was lighting the lamp. "It was very sad," she said, "but the colours were lovely.
What did M. Vigot want ?" "He wanted to ask me some questions." "What about?"
"This and that. I don't think he will bother me again." "I like films with happy endings
best," Phuong said.
"Are you ready to smoke?"
"Yes." I lay down on the bed and Phuongset to work with her needle. She said, "They cut
off the girl's head." "What a strange thing to do." "It was in the French Revolution." "Oh.
Historical. I see." "It was very sad all the same." "I can't worry much about people in
history." "And her lover-he went back to his garret-and he was miserable and he wrote a
song-you see, he was a poet, and soon all people who had cut off the head of his girl were
singing his song. It was the Marseillaise." "It doesn't sound very historical," I said. "He
stood there at the edge of the crowd while they were singing, and he looked very bitter
and when he smiled you knew he was even more bitter and that he was thinking of her. I
cried a lot and so did my sister." "Your sister? I can't believe it."
"She is very sensitive. That horrid man Granger was there. He was drunk and he kept on
laughing. But it was not funny at all. It was sad."
"I don't blame him," I sai.d. "He has something to celebrate. His son's out of danger. I
heard today at the Continental. I like happy endings too." ,
After I had,smoked two pipes I lay back with my neck on the leather pillow and rested
my handinPbuong's lap. "Are you happy?"
"O'f course," she said carelessly. I hadn't deserved a more considerate answer. "li's like it
used to be," I lied, "a year ago." "Yes"
"You haven't bought a scarf for a long time. Why don't you go shopping tomorrow?" "It
isa'feast day." "0hyes,ofcourse,lforgot."
"You haven't opened your telegram," Phuong said. "No, I'd forgotten that too. I don't
want to think about v^ork tonight. And it's too late to file anything now. Tel] me more
about the film."
"Well, her lover tried to rescue her from prison. He smuggled in boy's clothes and a man's
caplike the one the goaler wore, but just as she was passing the gate all her hair fell down
and they called out 'Une aristocrate,* une aristocrate.' I think that was a mistake in the
story. They ought to have let her escape. Then they would both have made a lot of money
with his song and they would have gone abroad to America-or England," she added with
what she thought was cunning.
"I'd better read the telegram," I said. "I hope to God:l don't have to go north tomorrow. I
want to be quiet with you."
She loosed the envelope from among the pots of cream and gave it to me. I opened it and
read: "Have thought over your letter again stop am acting irrationally as you hoped stop
have told my lawyer start divorce proceedings grounds desertion stop God bless you
affectionately Helen." "Doyouhavetogo?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]