“I laughed,” he answered, and then, with careful timing, added, “quite often.”
He had probably thought this out as a thing to say, and it served a purpose by giving him status among the elegant civilians.
She exclaimed gaily as she introduced him around: “Can you imagine— Norris has never seen me in a play before! That’s a fact! Darling, don’t you dare tell what you think of me!”
“Oh yes, I will. You were much better than I expected.”
More amusement, amidst which he thankfully reverted to the background till the others had left and he could remind her she had promised to have supper with him.
“Why, of course. I’ve been looking forward to it all evening. Oh, Norris, did you REALLY enjoy yourself? I warned you it wasn’t the kind of play you’d choose.”
“It wasn’t,” he answered. “But to see you on the stage was fun. You’re GOOD, aren’t you? So sure of yourself, up there—the audience eating out of your hand—your eyes bright and your voice and movements so perfectly controlled… but I guess all that just proves I’m as naďve as father says I am.”
“I didn’t know he did… but please go on. I’d rather have your opinion than most people’s.”
“Well… the sheer competence of it all impressed me—just as I’m impressed by championship tennis or Capehart record-changers or H. V. Kaltenborn adlibbing… The way you got the laughs—even the fact that you remembered all the lines. And then, on a different level, I was impressed by the play.”
“You WERE?”
“Because of the remarkable team-work between actors and audience. Both had to forget how stupid the thing really was.”
She giggled. “I shall quote that as my own… You did laugh, though, or were you just saying so out of politeness?”
“Sure I laughed. Couldn’t help it. You had me eating out of your hand, too. But I’d have enjoyed you better in something more important— something worthier of your abilities.”
“How do you know anything more important WOULD be? I’m not really an important actress, Norris. I just happen to have something that pleases an audience if it’s properly exploited—that is, in a certain kind of play. It doesn’t have to be a great part.”
“I still think you’d be good in films.”
“So does Hollywood, apparently. I’ve had one or two interesting offers lately.”
“But you’re still not tempted?”
She shook her head. “I have a feeling I wouldn’t like it there… Let’s have something to eat. I’m starving.”
She took him across the street to a restaurant much favoured by theatre people where the food was good and she knew she could get a table. “Now tell me about yourself,” she said, over their first drink. “You haven’t said much in your letters.”
“There’s not been much to say that’s sayable.”
She sensed a cloud of meaning and felt aching sympathy. “Have you… have you had a bad time?” she asked.
“Not particularly. Did you think I would?”
“Well… I worried about it, and so did your father. Not the dangers only, but… the whole army set-up. It didn’t seem the sort of thing you’d easily come to terms with.”
“It wasn’t. That’s why I avoided rank. Stay as low as you can when you know you’re on the wrong ladder. Be anonymous. I’ve found I can get along pretty well with most people—fellows in the same tent and Italian prisoners and Arab kids and girls we sometimes met in Cairo, and so on.”
“Girls?”
“Sure. Anonymous girls for anonymous men.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t believe what?”
“That even you could be anonymous so—so personally. That is, if it meant anything to you.”
“Who said it did?”
“Then it will, one of these days… Coming back to your opinion of the play, didn’t you think—?”
“No, let’s explore the other subject, it’s the most cheerful we’ve struck so far. Since you raised the point, I’d like you to know that all women are anonymous to me—with one exception.”
He looked excited, as if the first taste of liquor had released stored-up emotions that the entire evening had generated.
She answered: “I didn’t raise any point, Norris—”
“Then I will, because it’s about time. I fell in love with YOU when I was a boy. Didn’t you ever guess that?”
Of course she laughed, then felt herself blushing deeply. “Norris, that’s absurd…”
“True, though. All that vacation we had together—Glengarriff, Killarney, Dublin—everything we did and said—I haven’t forgotten a thing. Erste Freundschaft… Couldn’t have been more appropriate, though at the time I missed the meaning of it.”
“I remember a lot, too—we certainly had a grand time. So if you did fancy yourself in love with me then, it must be rather delightful— as well as amusing—to look back to… Shall we catch the waiter’s eye and order some food?”
“After another drink.”
“For you, Norris, not for me.”
“Oh, now, don’t get angry.”
“ANGRY? My goodness, how could I possibly—?”
“You’re just refusing to take me seriously, is that it?”
“I’m not in a very serious mood, I will admit.”
“That’s too bad.”
“But I earn my living by not being, remember. Oh, darling, don’t YOU be serious either. This is such fun—I always dreamed about it— you seeing me on the stage and then meeting me in my dressing-room and taking me out to supper… How long are you home for? A good long leave, I hope.”
“Furlough, not leave. That’s for officers. I’ve got to be back in New Orleans by Wednesday, which means I have to start on Monday.”
“Oh dear, is that all you have—and after all this time?”
“They’re in a hurry to put me in a real uniform, I suppose. They probably have a feeling that the A.F.S. was a bit amateurish. And it was, in the beginning.”
“So tomorrow’s your one whole day—” She was just realizing it and thinking of nothing else.
“I’m afraid it is, so if you can spare any more of your time—”
“Of course I can. Lucky it’s Sunday.”
“And you aren’t by any chance giving a lunch party for the Jugo-Slav War Relief or Bundles for Timbuctoo or something?”
“If I were I’d have you along to help out. But I always try to keep Sunday as lazy as possible.”
“I’ll bet you need it, and from now on I promise to conform to all the proper habits—I’ll not be serious—I’ll be just as lazy as you want—get up late—breakfast in bed—”
“Oh, not TOO late—say ten. Then we can take a walk in the Park—”
“Fine—once round the reservoir and home for lunch—”
“No, lunch out somewhere. While your father’s away the servants go, on Sundays, after breakfast—”
“The Plaza, then. And home after that with the Sunday papers and the radio. A noble routine… Are you sure you won’t have one more drink before we order?”
“Yes, I’ll change my mind—and the drink. Let’s have a bottle of champagne.”
She did not know why she had given such a late signal for celebration, or why the two of them so easily slipped into an air of having something special and personal to celebrate. They stayed at the restaurant till almost two, his dark mood lifting till they were chatting and laughing as if the world were indeed unserious all around them; then they took a taxi to the house. The watchman, who sat up all night, let them in, greeting Norris and telling them that Austen had arrived after a long air journey and had gone to bed.
“You told him Norris was home on leave?” Carey asked.
“Yes, ma’am, and he said he was too sleepy to wait up, so he’d get a good night’s rest and see him in the morning for breakfast about nine.”
Carey and Norris stood close together in the small slow-moving self- service elevator that took them
up to their separate floors. Norris muttered: “Ten, WE said. But HE says nine. Matter of fact, I still say ten.” He yawned and swayed. “And by the way, Carey—it’s furlough, not leave. Remember that, even if you forget everything else I’ve said.”
“I’ll remember.” She pulled the sliding-door for him as the elevator stopped. “Sleep well. Ring for Collins if you want anything… Good night, darling.”
* * * * *
In the morning Austen was still suffering from the strain of travel. He had been down at nine, and had waited in the breakfast-room, drinking coffee and reading the papers. He greeted Norris warmly when the latter appeared about eleven. By coincidence Austen also had just come from Africa, having flown back by way of Bathurst and Brazil; he did not mean to be either pompous or mysterious about it, but Norris made him seem both, and as had so often happened, father and son soon touched the frayed edges of each other’s nerves. To Norris his own humble uniform conferred unlimited freedom to deride; to Austen it was a symbol of the boy’s obstinate folly. Neither knew of recent physical discomforts that were fairly even between them— that Norris had stood up in a packed chair car across half a continent, that Austen had been bumped about hour after hour over unmapped desert and jungle. But the latter, as a civilian, had travelled with importance, and Norris could not help matching it against his own self-chosen lack. He seemed at once proud and scornful of the difference. But bigger differences occurred to Carey as she looked at the two of them—that Austen was old and Norris young, yet that Austen, however exhausted, had got up early to meet his son, whereas Norris, fresh and eager after a late night and too much to drink, was in a mood to bait his father. She was unhappy about it and relieved when the day was over. The next afternoon Norris left, and, as she had a matinée, it was Austen who saw him off at the station. Later Austen did not say much, except that the train had been crowded and an M.P. had checked Norris’s pass and found something wrong with it, though afterwards it had turned out to be the man’s own mistake. “But no apologies. Just a surly admission. That’s the sort of thing he’s up against—the way he had to take insolence without protest, whereas an officer would have—”
“Oh, I don’t know, Austen. It isn’t all a matter of uniform. Suppose you were insolent to one of your employees at the office, do you think he’d answer back just because he’s a civilian?”
She could see he was puzzled by her having asked such a question. “But I’d never dream of talking to anyone like that fellow at the station— “
“I know you wouldn’t, but IF you did… my point is that… oh well, never mind, it isn’t important. And I expect the insolence didn’t bother Norris half as much as it did you.”
“Actually he seemed glad I’d been a witness of it. As if he enjoyed proving to me how humble and insignificant he was. Does that make sense?”
“Probably—to him. You’re a big shot, so he’ll show you he’s a little shot.”
“Sheer perversity.”
“Well, it’s his method of scoring off people.”
“But why should he want to score off his own father? That’s what I can’t understand. Does he ever try to score off you?”
“Oh yes, often. He enjoys telling me I’m not a great actress. Of course I know I’m not, but he never loses a chance to remind me. And he was scathing about the play.”
“Collins also told me he got a little drunk last night.”
She was suddenly furious. “Collins had no right to say such a thing—”
“Oh, he wasn’t saying it against him. It ISN’T against him anyway— home on leave for the first time—”
“Furlough, not leave. And he WAS drunk slightly—so was I— we went to supper and had champagne.”
“Fine. Why not? I wish I’d got home in time myself—I’d have joined you. What I meant was… the only reason I had for bringing up the matter, I assure you… was that THAT might have been the reason why he criticized your play.”
She answered gaily: “Oh, Austen, don’t try to soften the blow. He was cold sober when he criticized it. He thought it deplorably insignificant compared with today’s events on land, sea, and in the air. And it is… But it made him LAUGH. I’m so glad about that. We had a very pleasant evening together.”
* * * * *
In the late spring of 1945, when the war in Europe was over and everybody’s story was beginning to leak out, Carey learned for the first time what had happened to Paul. She met at a party a British naval officer who had been in liaison with the French at Bordeaux during the confused days following the German collapse; it was near Bordeaux that a camp for internees had been located, and Paul, having been one of them, had passed through the city after his release. The Englishman had spoken to him. “He looked sad. It’s not unusual, though. When the first excitement wears off, those who’ve spent years behind barbed wire are apt to be like that. The reality never turns out to be as wonderful as the dream beforehand. Maybe that was so in his case. But there were others from the camp who read him differently —they said he was upset because the Germans lost the war. That doesn’t make sense and I simply don’t believe it. Talking to me, he hadn’t a good word for the Germans or for his fellow-prisoners either—in fact, he seemed pretty fed up with everybody, one way and another.”
A few weeks later she heard from a different source (a journalist) that Paul was back in America—in Washington, trying to stir up official interest in the fate of his unfinished film based on the Book of Job. Nobody in Washington cared, but his technique of being charming and a nuisance in well-adjusted doses was having some result—invitations to cocktail parties, meetings with a few minor government personages, and so on. “He might pull something,” the journalist admitted. “You never can tell. A lot of people don’t realize he’s American—that’s in his favour. Being able to jabber French to an attaché counts for more in some Washington circles than having been born in—where was it?—Iowa.”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I caught the accent and then looked him up in Who’s Who. But the accent’s a bit encrusted by now. You COULD take him for a foreigner—especially when he wears his opera cloak.”
“What? A real opera cloak? With top hat and gloves and cane—”
“No, you’ve got the wrong layout. A crushed black Homburg, a walking-stick that he carries into a room and leans on, and a very tattered brief-case. How old is he, by the way?”
“He must be—let me see—fifty—fifty-two.”
“Well, he looks sixty-two. Cultural Ambassador, Liberated War Victim, Man of Genius. It’s a good line with the hostesses of our nation’s capital. He has a good line with publicity too, if he doesn’t overdo it. When he said he’d never heard of Lana Turner he hit the news-wires… Am I being too flippant? I’ve often noticed that ex-wives enjoy a good laugh about their ex-husbands.”
Carey had been honestly glad to learn that Paul had come through the war years safely; she had also been amused at the picture of him at one of those Washington parties; but now she caught a conspiratorial air in the journalist’s attitude, as if he were inviting her to snicker a little in private. She said: “Well, I certainly hope he has luck,” and managed to catch the eye of someone she knew. She did not talk to the man again.
Nor did she pass on the news to Austen. Since her accidental meeting with Paul in 1939 she had sensed that Austen did not care to discuss him; she had sensed, too, that though Austen did not blame her for the meeting and had said not a word in criticism, he still wished it had not happened.
One Saturday morning in late August she grabbed up her mail in a hurry and did not glance at it till she was in the car on the way to the farm. Austen was driving, and when they reached the dull high-speed stretches along the park-way she began opening envelopes randomly and without much interest. One of them was a Western Union wire; it said, with a Washington return address: “Can you lunch with me same restaurant on Upper Broadway next Wednesday one p.m. Important. Paul.” She felt her cheeks warming
as she re-read the message and hastily slipped it with other mail into her purse; the warmth, she soon decided, was largely indignant. The wire might easily have been read over the telephone to Richards. And the phrase ‘same restaurant’, as if they had made a habit of secret meetings. Her first impulse was to tell Austen immediately, but then she saw his unclouded face; he was enjoying the drive and looking forward to his first post-war arrival at the farm—better wait till later in the day, perhaps till after dinner when they were both relaxed. But she told him before that. They took an afternoon walk to see what new land could be cleared, and returning across the fields she showed him the wire.
“I’d rather you didn’t go,” he said, handing it back.
“I hadn’t even thought of going.”
He walked some way without comment. Then he said: “If it’s important, as he says it is, he can write and give you details.”
“Yes, of course. This is really too absurd, whatever it is he wants.”
“Probably only money.”
She felt her indignation suddenly deflate. Austen’s mood was so reasonable, but his voice was cold; his guess was as plausible as any other, yet from him it came unsympathetically. It was like the wrong kind of line for a certain type of actor; in his case it was the wrong line for a rich man. She knew he had spoken it simply and uncynically, but somehow it made her switch to an indulgent feeling for Paul, even to a whimsical tolerance of the wire. She said: “I expect he thought it tactful to suggest meeting at that restaurant instead of outside the Players’ Club.”
They walked again in silence. Near the house he said ruminatively: “I’m afraid he isn’t getting what he hoped for in Washington.”
“What was that? I didn’t know you knew he was back here.”
“I’ve heard a few things about him. He’s been lobbying, you could almost call it, for support in some squabble he’s having with the French Government. Apparently when we entered the war he was caught over there, though he’d had ample warning to get out, and anyone but a fool or a pro-German would have. But he was working on a picture and when the Germans interned him as an enemy alien I’m sure he became anti-German enough for anybody. His chief peeve, though, seems to have been against the Vichy Government for not taking his side. Now he wants the State Department to back him up against the new French Government because they won’t let him stay there. Complicated, eh? It’s also rather preposterous. He hasn’t a grain of political wisdom and he doesn’t seem to grasp the fact that on the scale of current events he and his affairs count for nothing. Still, you can go a long way in Washington drawing-rooms with a well-kept grievance. I heard he’d been taken up by one of the weaker-minded senators, but even this couldn’t hold when the latest rumour got around.”