The Selected Stories of Mavis Gallant (72 page)

“I’ve never wanted to have it fixed,” she told Piotr. “It’s supposed to be lucky.”

“Are you lucky?” said Piotr.

“Naturally. Who isn’t? Aren’t you?”

They sat down, Piotr in a
Swiss
armchair, the girl on the floor. Remarks in a foreign language often left him facing an imaginary brick wall. Lucky? Before he could answer she said, “You’re the famous cousin? From there?”—with a wave that indicated a world of bad train connections and terrible food. “Do you know Solzhenitsyn? If Solzhenitsyn were to walk in here, I’d get right down on my knees and thank him.”

“What for?” said Piotr.

“I
don’t know. I thought you might.”

“He isn’t likely to come in,” said Piotr. “So you won’t have to make a fool of yourself.”

She was already kneeling, as it happened, sitting on her heels at Piotr’s feet. She slid nearer, placed her glass of rosy wine on the arm of his chair, her elbow on his knee: “I was just trying to show you I sympathized.” He wanted to touch her hair but clasped his hands instead. His cousin had told him he looked like a failed priest sometimes. He did, in fact, inspire confessions rather than passion from women.

In his later memories he thought it must have been then that Laurie began to tell about her neglected childhood and her school. She did not sound in the least mournful, though the story was as dismaying as the smiling girl could make it. After Bishop Purse, what she had hated most was someone called “my brother Ken.” “My brother Ken” was so neurotically snobbish that he’d had a breakdown trying to decide between a golden and a Labrador. His wife, whose name sounded like “Bobber Ann,” took the case to a psychotherapist, who advised buying one of each. Piotr did not know Laurie was talking about dogs, and after she explained he found the incident even more mystifying. What he loved at once was her built-up excitement. She was ignited by her own stories and at the end could scarcely finish for laughing. Yes, her brother’s wife was Bobber Ann. Barbara, that is—she had been imitating Bobber Ann’s Toronto accent. “Actually, my brother Ken’s a mean sort of bugger,” said Laurie, happily. “And she, Bobber Ann, she wears white gloves all the time, cleans ’em with bread crumbs—it’s true. How long are you in Paris for, Otter, Potter, I can’t pronounce it. Would you come to a party, if I gave one?”

She was living then in a borrowed apartment on Avenue Mozart. The name of this street remained incantatory to Piotr long after he knew he would never see Laurie again. He remembered of the strange rooms their stern blue walls, a plant that looked like a heap of lettuce leaves, which Laurie kept forgetting to water, and rows and rows of grim sepia views of bridges and rivers.

“My friends are well printed, eh?” said Laurie. Her friends worked at
UNESCO
“or some kind of culture racket like it.” As the last English-speaking stragglers left her party, having finished off the last of the absent hosts’ duty-free gin, Laurie said, with no particular emphasis, “No, you, Potter, you stay.”

The place on Avenue Mozart was one of so many that in time Piotr stopped counting. Her home was never her own but rooms she camped in while the owners were away. Sometimes she had a dog to walk or a budgerigar to feed, but mostly just the run of the house. She told Piotr she moved on because she wanted peace and could never find it. He supposed, not unkindly, that she had heard some such statement at one of Marek’s parties. A year after Avenue Mozart, the B page of his address book was such a hedgehog of scratched-out directions that he bought a book for Laurie alone. He recorded in it the enchanting names of her Paris streets, and mysterious Poste Restante or American Express directions for Cannes, Crans-sur-Sierre, Munich, Portugal, Normandy, Gstaad, Madrid. She sent him bright scraps of news about eccentric living quarters, funny little jobs that never lasted for long, and she sent Piotr all, yes, all of her love. Word came from sunny beaches that Laurie was eating too much, she was lazy and brown and drinking delicious wine. Often she sounded alone. If she wrote “we,” there seemed to be three of them; she traveled with couples, never the same pair twice. “You and I will come here together,” she would promise, of places he would never see in his lifetime. He had told her about the passport and how having it for even three weeks was an erratic favor, because once, twenty years ago now, he had been arrested for political lèse-majesté. He explained, but she kept forgetting. She had no memory, except of her school days; she was like a blackboard wiped clean every week or so. Laurie could not recall restaurants where their most important conversations had taken place. Her life seemed to him fragile and silvery, like a Christmas bauble. When he and Laurie were apart, which was to say nearly always, her life reflected a female, Western mystery: It reflected hotel rooms and crouched skiers and glasses of wine and distorted faces. He could hear her voice and remembered her light hair. He was exiled from Laurie—never Laurie from Piotr. She simply picked up her world and took it with her. He resented his exile. He wanted to take her world, compress it, make sparkling dust of it. He could almost have made himself hate her, because of her unthinking, pointless freedom, her casual way with frontiers. She went from place to place without noticing where she was—he could tell that. What was she doing? Eating, drinking, loving probably, being silly. But even her silliness was a tie, a conspiracy. It had drawn him, made him share private jokes that stayed alive, compelled him to send drawings, pictures, reminders, whatever would strengthen the bond. But by the time these arrived Laurie had usually forgotten the joke and was on to another.

She was not always silly. He saw a face of true unhappiness sometimes, and always because of him—because she loved him and there was half a continent between them; because he had children; because the wife he no longer lived with, had admired but never loved, was like a book he could neither read nor shut. It seemed to him then that he bore a disease that might infect the confident girl and cripple her. He saw the self-doubt on her face, and the puzzled wretchedness. When she said, “There must be something wrong with me,” he heard his wife, too.

They parted twice; they had to. Piotr had to go back. Laurie picked up her life and never wondered about his; at least, she never asked. In Warsaw he woke up each morning with the same question: Is there a letter? Her letters were funny, friendly, loving, misspelled. They were not a substitute for Laurie; they were like medicine that can quiet a symptom but not the root of the malady. She phoned sometimes but he preferred the voice in his mind, and the calls left him empty.

The second time he came to Paris, it was at the end of a hot summer. He found her over an art gallery on Boulevard Malesherbes. She told him that Proust had lived somewhere near, perhaps in the next house. She was unsure who Proust was. Like the Solzhenitsyn remark, it was made to please; it was Laurie’s way of paying a compliment to someone she considered clever.

They lived behind closed shutters because of the heat, and came out to the still steaming streets after dark. He noticed that she was wearing a new watch with a white strap. The watch was transparent, with a multitude of stars spinning inside.

“I’ve always had it,” she said when he asked where such a marvel was to be found. She wore it for sleep and in love—that was how he happened to see it. He observed Laurie (she did not see him looking) removing the watch and kissing it before taking a bath. A little later she said, “I picked it up in Zurich once,” and then, such was her capacity for forgetting, “It was a birthday present.” When the time came to accompany Piotr to the airport she suddenly produced a car. To Piotr, who did not know one automobile from another, it was merely cream-colored and small. “It belongs to the girl who owns the apartment,” she said, though until now she had spoken of the owners as “they.” At the airport, at the last minute, she said she and Piotr had better forget each other. These separations were killing her inch by inch. She could not look at him, did not want him to touch her. It was a shifting, evasive misery, like a dying animal’s. She said, “I’m taking the car and
driving somewhere. I don’t know where. I don’t even know where I’ll be sleeping tonight. I can’t go back and sleep alone in that apartment.”

“Will you write?” said Piotr.

She turned, weeping, and ran.

For weeks he was stunned by her absence, her silence, her grief, his own guilt. Out of need, out of vanity, he had tampered with a young life. He had not expected this gift of deep sentiment. Perhaps he did not know what to do with it. He knew nothing about women; he had been in jail at the age when he should have been learning. Perhaps Laurie, so lighthearted and careless, had a capacity for passion that overshot Piotr. He had learned in prison that fasting, like any deprivation, made fullness impossible. He had been sick after eating an apple; it was like eating a wet stone. The solitude of prison made anyone else’s presence exhausting, and the absence of love in his life now made love the transformed apple—the wet stone he could not taste or digest.

Three days after returning to Warsaw he broke an ankle—just like that, stupidly, stepping off a curb. He wrote into the silence of Paris that he was handicapped, in pain, but the pain was nothing to his longing for Laurie. Weeks later, she answered that she still loved him and no one else. She seemed upset about the ankle; in some way she blamed herself. They were now as they had been, in love, miles apart, with no hope of meeting. He was flattered that she recalled enough of him to say she still loved him—she who had no memory.

Piotr became forty-three. After delayed, drawn-out, finger-crossed, and breath-holding negotiations he obtained a new passport and a three-month visa for France, where he had been invited to give a series of lectures. A young woman was coming to Warsaw, in exchange, to instruct Polish students on tendencies in French poetry since 1950. Piotr silently wished her luck. His departure date had been twice postponed, so he was in a state of tension, dizziness, and unbearable control when he boarded the Air France plane on a cold day of autumn. Until the plane lifted he expected to be recalled because they had all changed their minds. The steward’s unintelligible welcome over the intercom seemed for a sickening moment to be meant for him—the plane was going to land so that Professor S——could be removed. Among a dozen gifts for his love in Piotr’s luggage were two she had asked for: Polish birth-control pills, superior to any on the Western marke
(they prevented conception and also made you lose weight), and a soporific potion that was excitingly habit-forming and provided its addicts with the vivid, colorful dreams of opium sleep. In this way, wrote Laurie, sleep was less boring.

Marek met him in Paris, and wept as they embraced. He had taken a hotel room without a bath for his cousin in order to spare his limited funds. He gave Piotr confusing instructions about a locked bathroom down the hall, advice about the French franc exchange (Piotr had in his possession the allowed one hundred dollars and nothing more), and all the local Polish gossip. Piotr, who had never lied to Marek except over Laurie, invented a university dinner. Fifteen minutes after Marek departed, Piotr, carrying the smaller of his two suitcases, took a taxi to Laurie’s new address. The names of her streets were to haunt him all his life: Avenue Mozart, Boulevard Malesherbes, Impasse Adrienne, Place Louis-Marin, Rue de l’Yvette, Rue Sisley, Rue du Regard. This year she occupied a studio-and-bath on the top floor of a new house in Rue Guynemer.

“It’s my own, Potter. It isn’t borrowed” was the first thing she said to him. “It costs the earth.” Then, incoherently, “I’m not always here. Sometimes I go away.”

The studio was bright, as neat and almost as bare as a cell, and smelled of fresh paint. So that was what Laurie was like, too. He found her face a shade thinner, her figure a trace fuller; but the hair, the eyes, the voice—no change. Now he recalled her perfume, and the smell beneath the fragrance. She laughed at his suitcase, because, suddenly embarrassed, he tried to conceal it behind the door; laughed at a beret he wore; laughed because she loved him but still she would not make love: “I can’t, not yet, not just like that.” Their evening fitted his memory of older evenings—Laurie greedy with a menu, telling Piotr in a suddenly prim voice all about wines. She was certainly repeating a lesson, but Piotr felt immeasurably secure, and tolerant of the men she might be quoting. Laurie said, “Isn’t this marvelous?”—taking his happiness for granted simply because she was so entirely alive. He remembered how, once out, she hated to go home. “But it’s a children’s hour,” she protested when he said at midnight that he was tired. Four hours later, as they sat in a harsh café, she said, “Potter, I’m so glad I was born,” lifting her straight soft hair away from her neck in a ritual gesture of gladness. He took this to be a tribute to his presence. Piotr did not love being alive, but he absolutely did not want to die, which was another thing. At their table a drunk slept deeply with his head on his arms. The day behind
Piotr lay in shreds, like the old Métro tickets and strips of smudged paper on the café floor. Laurie said that the papers were receipts—the café was an offtrack betting shop. Like the old story about the golden and the Labrador, this information contained an insoluble mystery. All he knew was that in a hell of urban rubbish Laurie was glad she’d been born. Exhaustion gave Piotr hallucinations; he saw doors yawning in blank walls, dark flights of steps, nuns hovering, but still he did not lose track of the night. The night had to end, and even Laurie would be bound to admit that it was time to go home.