The Selected Stories of Mavis Gallant (77 page)

Except for his debt to Marek, which he now had no means of repaying, Piotr had no regrets about leaving. He seemed to have been sleeping in the doctor’s old office forever, hearing her wounded voice in the night, assaulted by the strident news broadcast at six, measuring the size of today’s stone in his chest, opening the shutters to a merciless sky, thinking of the mailbox and the key and the message from Laurie. Piotr suddenly realized that he had gone in and out of the house twice that day without looking for a letter. That was freedom! It was like the return to life after a long illness, like his wife feeding him smuggled soup out of a jar and saying, “You
will
get better.” When he called Maria to say good-bye, she took the news of his leaving calmly. Piotr was only another novel. She turned the pages slowly. Sometimes in novels there is bound to be a shock. She invited him to tea, as though he had just arrived and their best conversations were yet to come. On his way to this last visit Piotr forced himself to look in the letter box, out of distant sympathy for the victim he had once been. Inside, propped at an angle, was a view of San Pietro in Venice and a message in Laurie’s childish hand, with the inevitable spelling mistake:

It is over.

My friend and I seperating forever.

It is you I love.

Back Monday 8
P.M
. Please meet chez moi.

“Love” was underlined three times.

Piotr had been condemned to death by hanging but now the blindfold was removed. He descended the gallows steps to perfect safety. The hangman untied his hands, lit his cigarette. He was given a passport good for all countries and for eternity. His first poems had just been published. He had fallen in love and she loved him, she was “really chearfull,” and love, love, love was underlined three times. Today was Monday; there were still four hours to wait. The courtyard and the dull street beyond it became as white as Piotr’s imagined Venice. He stood in the transformed street and said to himself that he was forty-three and that at last, for the first time, a woman had given something up for him. Laurie had turned from the person who provided travel, friendship, warmth, material help (somebody was certainly paying for the seventh-floor studio) for the sake of Piotr. She had done it without asking him to underwrite her risk, without a guarantee. Now he understood the fable about the Matisse, about loving and doing without.

He began to walk slowly toward a bus stop. Now, think about this, he told himself. She is alone except for that one brother who never writes. She has no training, no real education to speak of, and no money, and money is oxygen here in the West. Well, she has me, he thought. She has only me, and she could have anyone. The feeling that her silvery world depended on him now made it all the more mysterious and desirable. Now, be practical, he said. Now, be practical.… But he did not know what to be practical about; it was part of his new, thrilling role as Laurie’s protector. What next? Piotr was separated, not divorced. He would return to Warsaw, divorce his wife, come back to France, and marry Laurie. He wondered how he had been so obtuse until now, why he had not thought of this sooner. Laurie had never mentioned any such arrangement—another proof of her generosity. He would apply for a post in France, perhaps at a provincial university. He would read poetry aloud to the wives of doctors and notaries and they would imagine he had escaped from Siberia and it was Russian they were hearing.

Piotr had forgotten that he was expelled, might never be allowed out of Poland or back into France in his lifetime, that he owed money to Marek,
that he was entangled, hobbled, bound. His children became remote and silent, as if they had never existed outside their father’s imagination.

Piotr, who never discussed his private affairs, told Maria about Laurie. His account of the long journey leading up to the arrival of the postcard, and Maria’s reaction to it, created a third person in the room. She was a quiet, noble girl who without a trace of moral blackmail had traded safety for love. “She is the wonderful woman you deserve,” said Maria, listening intently. Before bliss submerged him completely Piotr was able to see Maria and himself as two figures bobbing in the wake of a wreck. Their hopefulness about love had survived prisons. And yet every word he was saying seemed to him like part of a long truth. His new Laurie resembled the imaginary Matisse she had sent to Warsaw, which he had unrolled with wonder and admiration: She was motionless, mute, she was black-on-white, and she never looked at him.

“Promise me one thing,” said Maria. “That you will not ask her any questions. Promise.” He promised. Leaning forward, she took Piotr’s face in her hands and kissed him. “I wish you so much happiness,” she said.

His unpacked suitcase at his feet, Piotr sat on the edge of the bed. Laurie lay on her side, her head on her arm. The ashtray between them did not prevent her from sprinkling the white coverlet with ash. She had been under the shower when he arrived and she still wore a toweling bathrobe. Her hair, damp and darkened, lay flat on her neck and cheek and gave her a tight, sleek, unknown quality.

“Oh, it was all right when we were tramping around looking at those damned churches,” she said. “But right from the beginning I knew it was going wrong. I felt something in him—a sort of disapproval of me. Everything he’d liked until now he started to criticize. Those Catholics—they always go back to what they were. Sex was wrong, living was wrong. Only God was O.K. He said why didn’t I work, why didn’t I start training to be a nurse. He said there was a world shortage of nurses. ‘You could be having a useful life,’ he said. It was horrible, Potter. I just don’t know what went wrong. I thought maybe he’d met a girl he liked better than me. I kept fishing, but he wouldn’t say. He was comparing—I could tell that. He said, ‘All
you
ever think about is your lunch and your breakfast’—something like that.”

Piotr said, “What is the business he so enjoys running?”

“Watch straps.”

“Watch straps?”

“That’s what he was doing in Italy. Buying them. We were in Florence, Milan. Venice was the holiday part. You should have seen the currency he smuggled in—Swiss, American. The stuff was falling out of his pockets like oak leaves. His mind was somewhere else the whole time. We weren’t really together. We were just two travelers who happened to be sharing a room.”

“You didn’t happen to find yourself in the same bed?” said Piotr. He moved the ashtray out of the way and edged a box of paper handkerchiefs into its place. Although her face did not crumple or her voice change, tears were forming and spilling along her cheek and nose.

“Oh, sometimes, after a good dinner. He said a horrible thing. He said, ‘Sometimes I can’t bear to touch you.’ No, no, we were just two travelers,” she said, blowing her nose. “We each had our own toothpaste, he had his cake of soap. I didn’t bring any soap and when we were moving around, changing hotels, he’d pack his before I’d even had my bath. I’d be there in the bathtub and he’d already packed his soap. He’d always been nice before. I just don’t know. I’ll never understand it. Potter, I can’t face going out. I haven’t eaten all day, but I still can’t face it. Could you just heat some water and pour it over a soup cube for me?”

“Watch straps,” said Piotr in a language she could not understand. He turned on the little electric plate. “Watch straps.”

“He pretended he was doing it for me,” said Laurie, lying flat on her back now. “Letting me go so I could create my own life. Those Catholics. He just wanted to be free for some other reason. To create his, I suppose.”

“Is he still young enough for that?” said Piotr. “To create a whole life?”

“He’s younger than you are, if that’s young.”

“I thought it might have been a much older person,” said Piotr. “Your first friend of all. He took you home for holidays, out of Bishop Purse.”

“That
one. No-o-o. What finally happened with
him
was, his wife got sick. She got this awful facial neuralgia. It made a saint out of him. Believe me, Potter, when you get mixed up with a married man you’re mixed up with his wife, too. They work as a team. Even when she doesn’t know, she knows. It’s an inside job. They went all over the place seeing new doctors. She used to scream with pain in hotel rooms. It’s the sickness of unhappy wives—did you know?”

“I know about the ailment of bachelors. I thought you said it was the Venice person”—he was about to say “the Austrian”—“who knew you when you were young.”

“Everybody got me young, when it comes to that. Oh,” she said, suddenly alert, sitting up, dry-eyed, “don’t sit there looking superior.”

“I am standing,” said Piotr. “I am here like a dog on its hind legs with a bowl of soup.”

She took the bowl, with a scowl that would have meant ingratitude had its source been anything but mortification. “Well,” she said abruptly, “I couldn’t count on you, could I? You come and go and you’ve got those children. Who do they live with?”

“Their mother.”

A tremor, like a chill, ran over her, and he recalled how she had trembled and spilled her coffee long ago. “How old are they?”

“Twelve and six.”

“Why did you have the second one?” (Her first sensible observation.) “Girls?”

“Two boys.”

“I hope they die.”

“I don’t,” said Piotr.

“Do they love you?”

He hesitated; where love was concerned he had lost his bearings. He said, “They seem to eat up love and wait for more.”

“Is there always more?”

“So far.”

“They’re like me, then,” said Laurie.

“No, for children it is real food. It adds to their bones.”

“Then it’s not like me. I soak it up and it disappears and I feel undernourished. Do they like you?”

“They are excited and happy when they see me but hardly notice when I
go.”

“That’s because you bring them presents.” She began to cry, hard this time. “They won’t need you much longer. They’ve got their mother. I really need you. I need you more than they do. I need any man more than his children do.”

Piotr found sheets in the wardrobe and made the bed; he found pajamas in one of her plastic boxes, and the Polish sleeping potion in the bathroom. He counted out the magic drops. “Now sleep,” he said. Something was missing: “Where is your white watch?”

“I don’t know. I must have lost it. I lost it ages ago,” she said, and turned on her side.

Piotr hung up Laurie’s bathrobe and emptied the ashtray. He rinsed the yellow bowl and put it back on the shelf. He still had to break the news of his going; he did not feel banished but rather as if it were he who had decided to leave, who had established his own fate. Who gave you the
Palmström
poems, said Piotr silently. Another Potter? The man who had you at fifteen and then shipped you to Europe when you started getting in his way? Was it the Austrian? The man in Venice who suddenly feels he is sinning and can’t bear to touch you? At the back of his mind was a small, anxious, jealous Piotr, for whom he felt little sympathy.

Laurie, though fresh from a shower, had about her a slightly sour smell, the scent that shock and terror produce on the skin. She was young, so that it was no worse than fresh yeast, or the odor of bread rising—the aura of the living, not yet of the dead. He remembered his wife and how her skin, then her voice, then her mind had become acid. “Am I plain?” she had said. “Am I diseased? Don’t you consider me a normal woman?” You are good, you are brave, you are an impeccable mother to your children, but I don’t want you, at least not the way you want me to, had been his answer. And so she became ugly, ill, haunted—all that he dreaded in women. It seemed to him that he saw the first trace of this change in the sleeping Laurie. She had lost her credentials, her seal of aristocracy. She had dropped to a lower division inhabited by Piotr’s wife and Piotr himself; they were inferiors, unable to command loyalty or fidelity or even consideration in exchange for passion. Her silvery world, which had reflected nothing but Piotr’s desperate inventions, floated and sank in Venice. This is what people like Maria and me are up against, he thought—our inventions. We belong either in books or in prison, out of the way. Romantic people are a threat to civilization. That man in Venice who wanted to make a nurse of poor Laurie was a romantic, too, a dangerous lunatic.

Laurie lay breathing deeply and slowly, in a sleep full of colored dreams—dreams of an imaginary Matisse, a real Lake Constance, a real Venice, dark and sad. “On a sailing holiday at Lake Constance …” Even now, when it no longer mattered, the truth of this particular dream clamped on Piotr’s chest like the ghost of an old pain. Quietly, in order not to disturb her, he took one of his pink placebos. He thought of how frightened she would be if she woke to find him in the grip of an attack—she would be frightened of nearly everything now. He could still see the car hurtling all over the map as Laurie tried to run away from him and what she called “the situation.” He could see it even though the journey had been only in
her imagination, then in his. She had flown to Zurich, probably, and been met by, certainly, the man whose business was watch straps, or even … It doesn’t matter now, he said. She had been telling the truth, because her mind had been in flight.

He lay down beside her and, reaching out, switched off the light. The pattern of reflected streetlights that sprang to life on the ceiling had, for three nights long ago, been like the vault of Heaven. After tonight Laurie would watch it alone—at any rate, without Piotr. Poor Laurie, he thought. Poor, poor Laurie. He felt affection, kindness—less than he could feel for his children, less than the obligation he still owed his wife. Out of compassion he stroked her darkened hair. No one but Piotr himself could have taken the measure of his disappointment as he said, So there really was nothing in it, was there? So this was all it ever was—only tenderness. An immense weight of blame crushed him, flattened him, and by so doing cleansed and absolved him. I was incapable of any more feeling than this. I never felt more than kindness. There was nothing in it from the beginning. It was only tenderness, after all.