The Post Office Girl (8 page)

“It fits you very well! Like a glove,” says her aunt. “It doesn’t take a lot of tricks when you’re young. The dressmaker doesn’t have problems unless the dress has to hide rather than reveal. But, seriously, it’s a perfect fit, you’re hardly the same person. It’s clear now what a good figure you have. But you’ve got to hold your head up too, don’t be mad at me for saying it but you’re always so unsure of yourself, so hunched over when you walk, you cringe like a cat in the rain. You’ve still got to learn how to walk the way Americans do, free and easy, chest out like a ship in the wind. Lord, I wish I were as young as you are.” Christine blushes. So she’s really not betraying anything, she’s not ridiculous, not provincial. Meanwhile her aunt has
continued
the inspection, looking her over appreciatively from head to toe. “Perfect! But your neck needs something.” She rummages in her chest. “Here, put these pearls on! No, silly, don’t worry, get hold of yourself, they’re not real. The real ones are in a safe back home, honestly we wouldn’t bring them to Europe for your pickpockets to take.” The pearls feel cool and strange as they roll on her bare skin, making her shiver a little. Then her aunt is back for a last once-over: “Perfect! It all looks fine. It would make a man happy to buy you clothes. But let’s go! We can’t let Anthony wait any longer. Will he be surprised!”

They go together. Negotiating the stairs in the revealing new dress is strange. Christine feels as light as if she were naked. She’s floating, not walking, and the steps seem to glide up toward her. On the second landing they pass a gentleman in a smoking jacket, an older man with a razor-sharp part in his smooth white hair. He greets Christine’s aunt respectfully, pauses to let the two of them go by, and in that moment Christine senses a special attention, a masculine look of admiration and
something close to awe. She feels herself blushing: never in her life has a man of means, a real gentleman, acknowledged her presence with such respectful distance and yet such knowing appreciation. “General Elkins (I’m sure you know the name from the war), president of the London Geographical Society,” her aunt announces. “He made great discoveries in Tibet in between his years of service. A famous man. I’ll have to
introduce
you. The cream of the cream. He mixes with royalty.” Her blood roars happily in her ears. A genteel, traveled man like that, and he didn’t spot her right away as a gate-crasher or a pretender and turn up his nose: no, he bowed as though she were an aristocrat too, an equal.

And then reinforcement from her uncle, who gives a start as she approaches the table. “Oh, this is a surprise. Look what’s happened to you! You look damn good—sorry, you look
splendid
.” Again Christine feels herself blushing with pleasure, and a delicious shiver runs down her spine. “I guess you’re trying to make a compliment,” she tries to joke. “Am I ever,” he says with a laugh, puffing himself up unconsciously. The creased dickey suddenly tautens, the avuncular stolidity is gone, and there’s an interested, almost greedy light in the small red-rimmed eyes nestled in flesh. The unexpected pleasure of this lovely girl’s presence puts him in an unusually merry and eloquent mood. He delivers himself of so many thoughtful, expert opinions on her appearance, getting perhaps a little too analytical and personal, that Christine’s aunt good-naturedly reins in his
enthusiasm
, telling him not to let her turn his head, younger men know how to do it better and more tactfully too. Meanwhile the waiters have approached and are standing respectfully by the table like ministrants beside the altar, awaiting a nod. Strange, Christine thinks, how could I have been so afraid of them at lunch, these polite, discreet, wonderfully noiseless men who seem to want nothing but to be inconspicuous? She boldly helps herself. Her fear is gone now, and she’s starting to be
ravenous after her long journey. The light truffled pâtés, the roast meats artfully arranged on beds of vegetables, the delicate, frothy desserts brought to her plate by silver serving knives as if anticipating her wishes all seem fantastically delicious. Nothing requires any effort, any thought, and in fact she’s no longer even surprised. It’s all wonderful, and the most wonderful thing of all is that she’s allowed to be here, here in this bright, crowded, yet hushed room full of exquisitely adorned and probably very important people who … but no, don’t think about that, stop thinking about that, as long as you’re allowed to be here. But the best thing is the wine. It must be made of golden grapes ripened in the southern sun, it must come from some happy, faraway land; it gives off a transparent, amber glow and goes down unctuously like sweet chilled cream. At first Christine takes shy, reverent sips; but then, tempted by the constant kindnesses of her uncle, who’s enjoying her obvious pleasure, she allows him to refill her glass repeatedly. Unconsciously she’s becoming talkative. Effervescent laughter is suddenly pouring from her throat like uncorked champagne; she herself is amazed at the carefree bubbly swirl of it between her words. It’s as though a bulwark of anxiety has burst. And why would anyone be anxious here? They’re all so nice, her aunt, her uncle, these refined, grand people around her everywhere are so fancy and good-looking, the world is beautiful, life itself is beautiful.

Sitting across from her, broad, comfortable, and
complacent
, her uncle is thoroughly enjoying her sudden high spirits. Ah, he’s thinking, to be young again and have a vivacious, glowing girl like that. He feels exhilarated, stimulated, lively, almost reckless. Normally he’s phlegmatic and on the grumpy side, but now he’s dredging up drolleries, even suggestive ones, unconsciously trying to stoke the fire that’s doing his old bones so much good. He’s purring like a tomcat, feeling hot in his dinner jacket, and there’s a suspiciously high color on his cheeks: he looks like Jordaens’s
Bean King
, flushed with drink
and good cheer. He toasts her repeatedly and is about to order champagne when his amused warden, Christine’s aunt, lays a warning hand on his arm and reminds him of the doctor’s orders.

Meanwhile a rhythmic rumble of dance music has started up in the adjoining lounge. Christine’s uncle sets down the butt of his Brazilian cigar in the ashtray and twinkles at her: “So? I can see it in your eyes, you’d like to dance, wouldn’t you?”

“Only with you, Uncle,” she says, gaily laying it on thick (my God, I’ve gotten a little tipsy, haven’t I). She’s close to laughing, there’s such a funny tickling in her throat, she can’t keep the happy trill out of her voice. “Don’t kid me,” growls her uncle. “These goddamn strapping boys here, three of them put together wouldn’t be as old as I am, and they all dance seven times better than a gouty gray rhinoceros like me. But it’s on your head. If you’re brave enough, by all means.”

He offers his arm in the Biedermeier manner, she takes it and chatters and laughs and doubles over and laughs, her aunt looks on with amusement, the music roars, the room glitters, full of bright colors, other guests watch with friendly curiosity, waiters move a table back, everything’s friendly, happy, and welcoming, it doesn’t take much courage to push off into the colorful swirl. Uncle Anthony is not in fact a brilliant dancer. The paunch that he’s put on heaves with every step; he leads clumsily and uncertainly. But the diabolical music drives everything along, strongly syncopated, lurid, lively and spirited and yet
rhythmically
precise, with a pleasantly slashing ride cymbal, a soothing fiddle, and a jarring, kneading, pummeling beat, hard and propulsive. The musicians are tawny Argentineans in brown jackets with gold buttons, and they play like fiends, in fact they look like fiends, like liveried and festooned demons, and every one of them seemingly out of his head. The thin saxophonist with glittering spectacles gurgles and squeals drunkenly on his instrument. The fat curly-haired pianist next to him, even more
frantic, seems to be hitting keys at random with a practiced zeal, while his neighbor the drummer pounds furiously, mouth open. All of them are jumping up and down as though electrified, or bitten by something, ferally, fiercely laying about them with their instruments like maniacs. But this demonic noise factory is actually as precise as a sewing machine (Christine realizes this); all the extravagant behavior, the grinning, the fluffed notes, the gesticulations, the showy fingering, the shouts and jokes as the musicians urge one another on, it’s all been practiced down to the last detail in front of the mirror and the music stand, the entire frenzy is totally put on. The leggy, narrow-waisted, pale, powdered women seem to know it too, for they’re not visibly distracted or excited by this simulated fervor (which is repeated every evening). With their fixed, lipsticked smiles, their rouged fluttering hands, they lean slackly on their partners’ arms, their cool far-off gazes seeming to indicate that they’re thinking of something else, or (most likely) of nothing. She’s the only one who has to hide her excitement and lower her eyes, her blood stirred by this wickedly thrilling, brashly gripping music with its pose of passion. And when it abruptly stops she takes a deep breath, as though out of danger. Her uncle is breathing hard too, wheezing heavily and with dignity. At last he can mop his forehead and catch his breath.

He leads Christine back to the table in triumph, and, a nice surprise, her aunt has ordered sorbets for both of them. Just now Christine was feeling in the mood for something cool, even if she hadn’t quite realized it, and here’s a frosty silver dish without her having to ask. What a fantastic world, where unspoken wishes are granted. How could anyone be anything but happy here?

All the world’s sweetness might be in this one thin straw of scalding ice. Heart thumping, fingers trembling avidly, she looks about for someone or something to receive her
overflowing
gratitude. There’s her uncle, that fine old fellow, in the deep
chair next to her, looking a little done in, still puffing and gasping and wiping the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. He tried hard to please her, maybe too hard. Of course she
appreciates
it, and she gently strokes the heavy, lined hand resting on the back of his chair. This gesture of a shy young creature so recently come to life makes the old man brighten; he takes a fatherly pleasure in the look of gratitude in her eyes. But isn’t it unfair to thank him alone and not her aunt too? It was her aunt who brought her here, took her under her wing, dressed her in style, and gave her a measure of blessed protection in this rich, intoxicating atmosphere. So she reaches for her aunt’s hand too and sits between the two of them, her eyes shining in the
light-filled
room, like a child under the Christmas tree.

The music starts up again, on a darker note, more romantic and quieter, black and silky: a tango. Her uncle makes a
helpless
face and excuses himself—his sixty-seven-year-old legs are not up to this slinky dance. “No, Uncle, I’m a thousand times happier to sit here with the two of you,” she says and really means it, continuing to hold their hands on both sides. She feels good with these people, her blood relations, completely protected by them. But now a shadow looms: a tall,
broad-shouldered
man is bowing before her, his clean-shaven
hawk-like
face tanned like a climber’s above the snowy expanse of his smoking jacket. He clicks his heels in the Prussian manner and in a pure Northern German scrupulously asks her aunt’s permission. “Of course,” smiles her aunt, proud of her
protégée
’s rapid success. Christine gets to her feet awkwardly, a little weak in the knees. To be chosen by some unknown elegant man from among all these beautiful, smart women—it’s a bit of a shock. She takes a deep breath, then puts a trembling hand on the man’s shoulder. From the first step she feels herself being gently but authoritatively led by this impeccable dancer. All she has to do is yield to the barely perceptible pressure and her body fits itself to his movements; once she submits to the insistent,
coaxing rhythm, her feet magically know where to go. Dancing was never so easy. It’s no effort to follow her partner’s will; it’s as if she has a new body under the new dress, or has learned and practiced the caressing movements in a forgotten dream. A dreamy confidence has descended upon her; her head leans back as though pillowed, her eyes are half closed, she’s entirely detached, no longer part of herself, and to her own amazement she feels she’s floating weightless through the room. As she’s being borne along she occasionally glances up at the hard-eyed face close to hers and thinks she sees a glimmer of a pleased and approving smile; then it seems to her she’s grasping the leading hand with a more intimate pressure. A small, tingly, almost voluptuous worry flickers within her: How would she protect herself if hard masculine hands like these grasped her more firmly, if this strange man with the hard, arrogant face suddenly grabbed her and pulled her close? Wouldn’t she give in completely, submit the way she’s doing now? The sensuality of these half-conscious thoughts begins to spread throughout her increasingly relaxed and yielding limbs. People in the crowd have begun to notice this perfect couple. Again she has the strong, intoxicating feeling of being watched and admired. Responding to the will of her partner, she’s increasingly sure of herself, moving and breathing with him; and this new physical pleasure, entering through her skin, mounts within her—she’s never felt like this before.

When the dance is over, the tall blond man (he’s introduced himself as an engineer from Gladbach) politely escorts her back to her uncle’s table. The faint warmth of his touch vanishes and now she feels weaker and diminished, as though the loss of contact has caused some of her new strength to ebb away. As she sits down, still a little flustered, she smiles weakly and happily at her amiable uncle, not noticing someone else at their table: General Elkins. He stands politely and bows. He’s come to ask her aunt to introduce him to this “charming girl”: he’s
standing before her as though she were a fine lady, his back straight, his serious face bent forward respectfully. Christine tries to collect herself. My God, what can I say to such a
terribly
distinguished and famous man, whose picture (as she’s learned from her aunt) has been in all the papers and who’s even been in films? But there’s no getting around it, General Elkins is asking her to forgive his poor German. He did study at Heidelberg, he says, but that was more than forty years ago, sad as it is to have to own up to a number like that, and a magnificent dancer like her will have to show some
forbearance
if he ventures to ask her for the next dance: he still has a piece of shrapnel in his left leg from Ypres. But in the end one needs forbearance to get by in this world. Christine is too embarrassed to reply, but when she dances with him, slowly and carefully, she’s surprised to find that conversation comes easily. Who am I, anyway, she thinks with a chill, what’s come over me? How can I be doing this? I was always so stiff and clumsy, the dance teacher said so, yet now I’m leading him instead of the reverse. And how easily I’m talking, perhaps even with some intelligence, because he’s listening so graciously, this eminent man. Has this new dress, this new world made me so different? Or was this inside me all along, and I was just too fainthearted, too timid? That’s what Mother always said. Maybe everything’s not so hard, maybe life is so much easier than I thought, you just need courage, you just need to have a sense of yourself, then you’ll discover your hidden resources.