Forgetfulness (22 page)

Who cares? Thomas said.

You should care. I want to get back to our French friends in good time. I don't want to miss the payoff, Bernhard said, striding off.

Go on ahead, I'll meet you there, Thomas said.

The day had left Thomas dispirited. He had risen very early. Too many hours on the trains, too many minutes in the loft room watching men being beaten. Antoine's slow-motion pantomime, and nothing to show for it except a low-grade depression in an unlovely port city. Thomas walked slowly in the direction of the harbor. The breeze stiffened and he no longer smelled woodsmoke but the inviting aroma of fish sautéed in butter. The cafés and restaurants were beginning to empty but in most of them a few old parties remained at the zinc bar, nursing calvados or marc, fortifying themselves for the rigors of the afternoon. Thomas stopped at one café
and sat at an outdoor table next to an electric heater and ordered a double espresso and a glass of beer. The waiter returned almost at once with the order, slipped the tab under the saucer, and went back inside. At the bar, three of the old parties were laughing about something, an escapade from the sound of it; also, they were flirting with the waitress, a very pretty sweatergirl, a redhead. They called her Grand-mère. Their laughter and flirting made Thomas smile and his mood began to improve. He sat drinking beer and watching traffic in the Rue Victor Hugo, wondering if Hugo as a young man had anticipated that after his death half—no, ninety percent—of the cities and villages in France would have a Rue Victor Hugo. Boulevard Victor Hugo. Avenue Victor Hugo. Of course he would, the great writer was not shy. Victor Hugo always expected great things of himself. Of France itself he was a little less certain. Thomas remembered that his father had had a street named for him in LaBarre. Railles Crescent, a curvy street in a subdivision west of town, the subdivision called, alarmingly, Sunset Acres.

Thomas paid the bill and resumed his stroll toward the harbor. He was in no hurry to get there and, once there, would be in no hurry to leave. He realized that he was ravenously hungry. The precipice drew near: he was on a perfect knife's edge of indecision, believing one moment that he never should have left St. Michel du Valcabrère, believing the next that his witness was important. Everything that can be known must be known, or that was the theory. But he was unable to identify the line between witness and voyeur. What he had now was an unfinished portrait, far from a work of art. He had tried to see under their skin but could not; the prisoners were as concealed as if they had sacks over their heads and Florette kept getting in the way. He hated what they had done to the boy but found it impossible not to watch, as if he were a spectator in the amphitheater of an anatomy lesson, the corpse naked on the table. To turn away would have been false but he believed he should have done so. Not for them, not for Florette, but for himself. He had not solved the problem of who was owed what or if anyone was owed anything. Yet here he was in Le Havre.

The streets were crowded now.

In the distance he saw Café Marine, Bernhard waiting impatiently at the door. Thomas slowed down, remembering the look of the redheaded sweatergirl. He thought that pedestrians in this port city walked with a different gait than the inhabitants of St. Michel du Valcabrère, a rolling light-footed walk in keeping with the motion of the sea. Everyone in St. Michel walked with a slight stoop, feet flat on the ground. They moved slowly, in part because of the hills; at times you felt you were climbing the Matterhorn simply walking from the church to the café. The redheaded girl had a rolling gait and a skirt as tight as any ship's hull. Thomas decided he needed a vacation, somewhere warm, somewhere remote, Sardinia or Madeira. Perhaps Ireland, where redheaded girls were native. He would rent a place by the sea and paint from dawn to sundown.

Where have you been?

I stopped for an espresso and a beer, Thomas said.

Took your time about it, Bernhard said.

I was tired. The morning wore me out.

You're not as tired as they are. And you're not hurting.

I saw a redheaded girl. Beautiful girl flirting with some fishermen who were even older than I am. They flirted back so a great time was had by all. I wish to hell I'd had my sketchpad.

They paused at the entrance to Café Marine to look at the écailler's bin, four kinds of oysters and a flock of langoustines on a bed of shaved ice surrounded by a picket line of uncut lemons. On the margins were moules, étrilles, tourteaux, bigorneaux. Inside, they took the nearest table and ordered three dozen oysters and a bottle of Sancerre. The café was brightly lit and not crowded. Through the window they watched the écailler go to work. It took him under five seconds to shuck an oyster. The wine arrived in a heavy plastic bucket, sweat beading its exterior. By the time the wine was opened and poured the oysters arrived on a great pewter tray, arrayed according to type. For a while they ate and drank without speaking. Halfway through, Thomas ordered a second bottle, a demi. Bernhard added half a dozen oysters, three belons, three papillons. Thomas did not care for belons and told him so. Bernhard said the belons were for him, the papillons for Thomas. Finally the tray was empty except for crushed ice. Oyster shells were stacked on three white plates. They ordered coffee and when the waiter asked if they wanted a digestif, Thomas requested a calvados and Bernhard a cognac. The waiter smiled his approval, muttering something about their being serious men. In a zone of enviable well-being, they relaxed and drank coffee. When Thomas looked at his watch, he discovered they had been in Café Marine for exactly forty-five minutes, about one minute per oyster. He was hungrier than he realized.

He said, Do you know what I remembered? There's a street named for my father in LaBarre.

What reminded you of that?

Rue Victor Hugo. Rue Georges Braque.

My old man, Bernhard said. Bookies Hall of Fame.

How long since you've been back?

I was back last year, Bernhard said. Drove up from Chicago just for the hell of it.

Twenty-five years for me, Thomas said. I haven't even been in the country for ten years.

You wouldn't like it, Bernhard said.

Why not?

It's a spoiled, peevish country. Whines a lot. Mad at everybody. National politics is broken and no one knows how to fix it. Economy's broken, too, because America doesn't believe it has to pay for what it buys. Someone else can pay because America's owed a free ride because it's the beacon of democracy et cetera. But what the hell. Doesn't matter to me. I only work for the government. And I don't want to talk about it anymore.

Thomas nodded, understood. Are we going to see Russ this afternoon?

Problem there, I'm afraid. He's back in the States. His daughter's laid up again.

Caitlin?

No, the other one. Grace. Russ got a call yesterday morning and
was on the afternoon flight to New York. He felt he had to be with her and he probably did. He promised to call this afternoon with details.

That poor girl, Thomas said.

She's been through a lot. And she was such a great kid when she was young.

That's true, she was.

That's what everyone called her, a Great Kid. That Grace, isn't she something? From about age thirteen, most poised kid you ever saw. Polite without making a big deal of it. Filled with good cheer, smart as a whip, president of her class at whatever prep school she went to. And a knockout to look at. Then one morning she presents herself at the emergency room at Bellevue Hospital dressed in a bathrobe and nothing else. Wouldn't talk. Had no ID on her. The doctors suspected rape or some other trauma but an examination revealed nothing. No rape, no trauma. She had not been beaten. And still she wouldn't talk. It took three days for Russ and her mother to find her, and when they did, she didn't recognize them. She was away for a year and when she got out she didn't return to college. But at least she was speaking a few words. They never discovered the cause, and believe me, they tried. The best headshrinkers money could buy. But you know what I think? I think it was the burden of being a Great Kid. Maybe she didn't feel so great all the time but that was her identity. She'd walk into a room and everyone would light up. What's Grace been up to lately? Did she have a boyfriend? She's such a Great Kid she deserves the best. That look, that smile. I think it became an intolerable burden for her, a burden as heavy as the world itself. And so she bent under its weight, as she had every right to do.

I knew some of that, Thomas said. Not all.

She broke Russ's heart.

And her own, I would imagine.

That, too, Bernhard said. And her mother's. Broken hearts all around.

That's a sad, sad story.

It's what they used to call you, you know.

What did they used to call me?

A Great Kid. Tommy Railles, the doctor's boy. Just a great kid. Smart at school, a decent athlete, great with the girls, wonderful with older people. And so talented. He'll make a name for himself, that Tommy.

Bullshit, Thomas said.

Bernhard laughed. True, every word. Meanwhile, I was that little prick Bernhard, the bookmaker's son. Come to no good end. Stay out of his way, don't let your boys grow up to be like Bernhard Sindelar. He's a strange one. No one could figure out what I was doing hanging out with you, a certified Great Kid.

That's not the way I remember it, Thomas said.

Maybe that's the reason you didn't end up in Bellevue in your bathrobe, mute, no ID, no explanation. You didn't listen to the things people said because at some level you didn't believe them. Maybe you didn't care. Maybe you didn't think you were so great. And that saved you.

More bullshit, Thomas said.

So we were brothers in that one way. Not caring.

Thomas raised his glass and said, LaBarre.

LaBarre, Bernhard said.

And good luck to Russ, Thomas said and they clinked glasses.

We won't be seeing him for a while. But I have a number. We can call him this afternoon, see how things are going for him and for Grace. The poor bastard. Bernhard threw some euros on the table and stood up.

He said, Let's go.

I haven't finished my calva.

Finish. Antoine's due back any time now. You don't want to miss the afternoon show. It'll be worth your while, I promise.

I'll wait a minute. Meet you there.

You know the way?

I know the way. Bernhard? One question. Did you ever regret not having children?

He said, Are you kidding? What about you?

Yes, Thomas said. I do.

Well, Bernhard said, that's out of the way. Au revoir, he said, and then he was through the door and walking back the way they had come.

Thomas finished his calvados and ordered another espresso, a double. He watched the écailler pull a canvas over his bin, secure it, and walk across the street to a café on the corner. Lunch was over. The streets filled up in midafternoon with shoppers, the light now an oystery gray, the sun trying to pierce the cloud cover but failing. The air seemed to him to smell of oysters. Thomas imagined his children with him, everyone giddy from the oysters and wine. There would be a son and a daughter, or two daughters and a son, or two sons and a daughter, surely no more than three. They would be playful with each other and with him. Their mother was away someplace. They had all come over from London on the car ferry, everyone having agreed to a fine lunch in Le Havre before driving to Honfleur for the evening. They would meander a few days in Normandy before going on to Paris, where he had a show at the end of the week. They would stay at the Ritz, adjoining rooms on the second floor. Across the square was Florette's atelier and at dusk with all the lights on they would gather at one of the bedroom windows and watch the models go about their business, Florette in constant attendance. The children were in their twenties, unmarried and footloose. He hoped to God none of them thought of themselves as a Great Kid. One of them wanted to be a doctor like her grandfather and the others were uncommitted. When they asked his advice as to a suitable career he told them, half seriously, follow your heart—and they roared with laughter and said, Oh, that's very helpful, Papa. Can we take that to the bank? His daughter, the doctor daughter, put her hand on his wrist and pretended to take his pulse, causing a fresh round of giggles.

Thomas smiled and finished off his calva, put a banknote on the table, and shrugged himself into his coat. When he stood he was lightheaded and had to grip the tabletop to steady himself. But the episode came and went in an instant and then he was outside in the cold and wind.

Of course there could have been three sons or three daughters.

But that would be unlikely.

He bought a newspaper at the kiosk on the corner and headed for the port. He had no idea what the French shipped from Le Havre, probably grain, manufactured goods, wine and cheese. Camembert was not far away. At the quay were two Korean freighters and one from China. There were no American vessels and he wondered if the nation's maritime industry had gone belly-up like so much else. Bernhard would have the answer; you had only to ask. Thomas was trying to work something out in his head but the thought was elusive, sidetracked as he had been by his fictitious children. He didn't want to spend any more time than absolutely necessary in Le Havre, a noisy, unlovely city. Was it not possible after all to conclude his business today? Wasn't the point to get it over with and return at once to St. Michel du Valcabrère?

He watched a slender black cat slither along the water's edge of the quay and disappear under a pallet, a grace note to the bustle of the docks, a clamorous environment of arrival and departure. The Chinese vessel loosed its hawsers and was under way, sliding from the quay dead slow. Seamen on the other ships halted work to watch it go. Thomas saw the captain looking out from the bridge rail, his face as impassive as a sack of wheat. He was a Chinese of middle age, balding, heavy pouches under his eyes; it seemed that he had seen every port in the Orient and elsewhere. He turned to say something to the helmsman and then looked directly at Thomas, conspicuous in his city clothes; and no doubt that was what caused the captain to offer a halfhearted smile and a gesture that was either a wave or a signal of dismissal. Thomas returned the gesture but the captain was already concentrating on the business at hand. A French tug nosed up to the freighter's bow, took a line, and the two vessels crept forward. The freighter towered over the tug. Thomas saw the captain gazing out to sea, heavy clouds gathering in the west, the wind stiff. If he was alarmed at the weather he did not show it.