Mrs. Bridge (18 page)

“Well,” said Morgan Hager suddenly, “I guess I’d better be running along.”

“Oh, must you go?” inquired Mrs. Bridge.

“Yes, there’s a girl at the ho ah, I mean, I’ve got some plans for the next few hours.” He paused. “It’s just that I’d forgotten about Kansas City what the people were like, if you know what I mean.” He stopped again. “Well,” he said, picking up his portfolio, “it’s sure been an experience!”

Mrs. Bridge was not certain what he meant, but replied courteously, “Good-by, Morgan. We’ll tell your parents we saw you.” To which Hager responded with an uneasy grin and vanished swiftly into the crowd on the street.

“I never knew there were so many artists/* she observed as they wandered along the quay. “How do you suppose they keep from starving to death?”

Mr. Bridge had never been greatly interested in art, but if this was how she wanted to spend their final day in Paris it was all right with him. Some of the pictures in the book stalls he did rather like; then, too, it was a warm sunny afternoon near the end of August and he was pleased, and he made up his mind to buy her a painting. He said nothing, but he began to pay more attention, and near the cathedral of Notre Dame she paused to admire a watercolor of the city.

“Parlez-vous Anglais?” Mrs. Bridge politely inquired of the old gentleman who sat beside the stall in a canvas chair. He shook his head and went on smoking his pipe.

“Well, combien?” she asked, pointing to the one that struck her fancy.

“Vingt mille,” he answered without looking around, and continued smoking.

“Vingt mille,” she repeated, for she had been listening closely, knowing he would speak in French. “Now, let’s see. Vingt is twenty, I believe. And mille is thousand. Well, that sounds like a lot/* Whereupon she opened her handbag and took out a little booklet which equated American money with virtually everything on earth. Having learned how much it would cost in dollars, she exclaimed, “Oh, I’m afraid that’s much too much,” and shook her head and regretfully moved along, remarking to her husband, “I’m sure he’s spotted us as tourists.”

Mr. Bridge took a long, shrewd look at the picture so as not to forget it. He did not think it was very good in fact he was of the opinion that Ruth had done better paintings when she was in high school but he seldom offered an opinion on a subject with which he was not familiar. Later that afternoon, back at their hotel on the Champs Elys^es, while she was packing the suitcases, he went out, hired a taxi, and drove to the quay, where he bought the painting and arranged to have it shipped to Kansas City. The next day as they were getting settled on the train for the trip to the Riviera he observed rather dryly that he thought he knew how the Parisian artists kept from starving, but since she had no idea he had bought the painting for her this remark meant nothing, and she replied as she took off her hat that she supposed they must manage some way.

A telegram was waiting for them in Monte Carlo. Douglas, knowing the date of his parents’ wedding anniversary, sent this message: MAY I TAKE THE OPPORTUNITY EXTEND FELICI-TATIONS UPON MEMORABLE OCCASION AND IN BEHALF ENTIRE COMPANY EXPRESS HOPE YOUR CONTINUED SUCCESS.

Mrs. Bridge was touched by his thoughtfulness and wrote to him, “It was awfully sweet to hear from you on our anniversary, but I do think the American Express company must have gotten their messages mixed up… .”

Before leaving on the trip she had checked over the luggage in the attic and concluded they did not have enough, so she had gone downtown and bought three elegant, darkly burnished leather suitcases. They were so beautiful that she was easily persuaded by the salesman to buy a set of canvas covers to protect the leather. These covers, to be sure, were ugly as coarse as Boy Scout pup tents but she bought them and had them fitted onto the suitcases. The covers remained on the suitcases while they were aboard ship, and as they had been in each city only a few days she had not bothered to remove them, but now she decided to see if the leather was being protected. She unfastened one of the canvas jackets, peeled it halfway off, and there as beautiful as though still on display the leather gleamed. Well pleased, she buttoned on the cover.

Mrs. Bridge slept later than she intended to the second morning in Monte Carlo; they had visited the casino the previous night, and while she had not gambled she had found it nonetheless a rather strenuous experience. Her husband was gone when she finally awoke, but this was not surprising because he had gotten so accustomed to rising early in order to put in a full day at the office that he was no longer able to lie in bed past seven o’clock. Probably he was walking briskly around town, and no doubt he would be waiting to check on the Italian reservations as soon as the travel agency opened its doors for the day. She often wondered where he found so much energy.

The clock on the night table told her it was almost noon. She felt a trifle guilty. And yet it was delicious to lie in bed and to feel on her cheek and on her arms the mild breezes drifting up the hillside from the Mediterranean. A few minutes more, she thought, then she really must get tip. And so, with eyes half open, she lay motionless and knew how fortunate she was. And she inquired of herself what she had done to deserve all this. There was no answer. All at once she perceived something so obvious and vulgar that she could not imagine why it had failed to escape her attention. She could see herself in the mirror on the wall, the mirror faced the bed, and she had suddenly realized that in every one of their European hotel rooms a large mirror had faced the bed. At the significance of this her blue eyes opened wide and she quickly turned her head on the pillow. In Paris a beautiful ornate Louis Quatorze mirror had frankly revealed her intimacy with her husband, and In London, too, now that she thought about it, they had been mirrored.

Deeply troubled, puzzled, no longer thankful, Mrs. Bridge lay in bed with an expression of listless despair and gazed through the opened doors of the balcony, through the iron grillwork to the distant sea, to the purple clarity and the white sails.

Wherever they went they were promptly identified as American tourists. From every side street some young man would come gliding, a hand in his coat pocket, murmuring in broken English that he had a diamond ring for sale, a fountain pen, a Swiss watch.

“Psstl Hey, mister,” he would begin.

“How on earth do they always know we’re Americans?” Mrs. Bridge inquired.

It was not mysterious to Mr. Bridge, who, however, chose to reply bitterly, for the trip was costing twice what he had estimated, “Europeans can smell a dollar a mile away.”

Peculiar Roman

In Rome their hotel was situated near the Via Veneto, which the desk clerk, who had never been to America but who had a second cousin in Manhattan, insisted was the Broadway of Europe. Neither Mr. or Mrs. Bridge was inclined to dispute him, the principal reason being that the day was overcast and the humidity so high it was difficult to breathe.

“Goodness, this is certainly different from the Riviera/ 1 Mrs. Bridge remarked as they were unpacking in their room. It had been hot in Monte Carlo at least the temperature had been high but in the shadows of the stone buildings it was usually cool, and even in the direct sunlight they had not been uncomfortable.

“This really is awfully muggy/’ she said, looking through the blinds at the dank, motionless clouds. “I certainly miss that breeze from the Mediterranean/’

They showered, changed into their lightest clothing, and decided to sit at a cafe on the Via Veneto. A weak, hot rain had begun to fall and they selected a table with an umbrella. At the next table sat an Italian man in a white suit and white perforated shoes who soon addressed them in perfect English.

“You are Americans, are you not?”

Mrs. Bridge said they were, again amazed at such prompt identification.

“And how do you find Italy? Do you enjoy yourselves?”

“Well, it’s awfully warm/’ she said hesitantly, not wanting to be ungracious, and was relieved when he was not offended* So many Europeans were excitable.

He asked how long they had been in Europe and how much longer they intended to stay, and when she replied that after visiting Florence and Milan and Geneva they would be returning to Paris and from there to the United States he offered a curious little gesture which somehow expressed sympathy.

“Unfortunate,” he added.

“Have you ever visited America?” she inquired pleasantly.

“No, Madame, I have not.”

“I suppose you must be dying to go.”

The Italian laughed. Lifting both arms in the gesture they had come to know so well, he said, “My dear lady, why go to America?”

Later, when the rain had stopped, he bowed, told them what a pleasure it had been to make their acquaintance, and strolled along the boulevard.

“Don’t let them fool you/’ said Mr. Bridge. “These people would sell their souls to get to the United States.”

They came to enjoy sitting on the Via Veneto so much so that Mrs. Bridge said half jokingly, referring to the peculiar Italian who had no desire to go anywhere else, “I really think he has a point.”

They were in front of a different cafe farther up the boulevard, one they had not tried before. The weather being muggy and cloudy as it had been ever since their arrival in Rome, they decided to have some iced coffee. In a few minutes a waiter approached, a very Italian-looking waiter.

“Let’s hope this one understands English/’ she murmured. “Try him and see.”

“What else did you think I was going to speak?” Mr. Bridge replied. He had just finished changing the film in the camera and now placed it on an empty chair and gave the waiter their order.

“Very good, sir. Will there be anything else?”

“No,” he said. “Just coffee with plenty of ice.” The waiter bowed and went inside the cafe. Mr. Bridge wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and shook the sleeves of his linen coat. Mrs. Bridge was fanning herself with a sightseeing folder.

“It certainly does make things simpler when they speak English,” she said, “but my! doesn’t this one have an accent!”

They waited and waited. The iced coffee did not arrive. They looked around. It seemed that people were gathering inside the cafe and that an argument or a discussion of some kind was going on.

“They’re usually so good about the service,” said Mrs. Bridge, still fanning herself with the sightseeing folder.

They waited a while longer. Finally Mr. Bridge got up, saying he would go into the caf and find out what the trouble was.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t let yourself get involved,” she said, for it was obvious the Italians were excited about something. Several of them were waving their arms and denouncing one another; however this went on all the time in Italy and Mrs. Bridge was growing accustomed to it. While her husband went inside she studied the folder. They were planning to visit the Vatican later that afternoon and she was hoping their schedule would permit a drive through the countryside. She looked up with a smile when her husband returned.

“We’re getting out/’ he said as he picked up the camera.

Her smile faded. She knew from his expression that he was not angry.

“What is it?” she said. “What’s happened?”

“The Nazis are in Poland/’

“Oh, my word!”

Two days later Mr, and Mrs. Bridge were on their way home.

At luncheon the day after her return to Kansas City she was questioned about the situation in Europe and she replied that it had been frightening and that she really had no idea what was going on. They had not met any Nazis at least she did not think so and she could not honestly give an opinion. She felt more sure of herself when asked about the sights they had seen. Inevitably someone asked if they had gone to a bullfight,

“No, thank heavens/’ she replied. “We wanted to go to Spain, but Walter felt it would be dangerous so soon after the Civil War. But we did hear a great deal about it. Europe seems to be jam-packed with people who fought on the los-ing side.”

‘It’s hard to understand how the Spaniards can be so blood-thirsty/* Madge Arlen remarked.

“It certainly is,” said Mrs. Bridge promptly.

“The poverty of the Europeans must be simply appalling.”

“Yes, it’s simply unbelievable.”

“They say there’s no middle class at all, just the rich and the poor/’

“Yes, it seems so unfair/’

“I suppose they’re all dying to emigrate to this country/’

“Yes, though of course you can’t blame them,” she replied. “Grace, would you pass the cream?”

Luncheon being over they moved into the living room, where the hostess, Lois Montgomery, had set up card tables. On each table there was a fluted yellow paper basket filled with salted cashews and peppermints, and there were four tasseled tally cards and four tiny pencils.

Being asked what she thought about England, she answered that it was lovely and that the people were quite nice, though rather reserved. The cooking was not as good as French cooking because the English boiled everything. The roast beef, however, was delicious, and the plum pudding. London was foggy and the English accent sounded strange until one got used to it.

“Aren’t we lucky to be living in America!” someone said.

“Isn’t that the truth!”

“Oh, by the way,” said Mrs. Bridge, “all the time we were abroad I kept wondering if that awful hole in the pavement just off Ward Parkway had been fixed/’

“They finally got to it last week. We were just about to give it up as a lost cause.”

“That was so maddening. I was so provoked with Douglas one day that I forgot to watch for it and ran right over it.”

“Well,” said Madge Arlen, who was shuffling the cards with a cigarette in her mouth and one eye closed against the smoke, “you can thank Grace. She sent the mayor a telegram/’

“You’d think with taxes as high as they are the city could do something about those holes without waiting till kingdom come.”