Short Stories: Five Decades (107 page)

The back of his neck and the base of his skull started to ache now, and his thoughts wavered across his consciousness, disconnected and slippery. He had never liked swimming much, he remembered. He just went in to cool off and play around. Swimming had always seemed like a boring sport. The same old thing, over and over again, lift one arm, lift the other arm, kick, lift one arm, lift the other arm, kick, never really get anyplace. And he had never learned to keep the water out of his ears and sometimes he’d feel deaf for hours and the water wouldn’t come out until he’d gone to bed and slept on one side for a long time.

His arms began to feel numb and he rolled more and more, in an effort to get his shoulders into the job, and he seemed to be swimming lower in the water than he ever had before. There’s no sense in wasting time, he thought, making himself worry about something else besides his arms, I might as well figure out what to do once I get there. Laboriously, he tried to phrase what he would say to the man in French when he approached him.
Monsieur, J’y suis. Doucement. Doucement
. He would stay off from the man and try to calm him down before grabbing him. Dimly, he remembered having seen a demonstration of life-saving at a pool when he was fourteen years old. He hadn’t paid much attention, because the boy behind him had surreptitiously kept flicking at him with a wet towel. But there was something about letting yourself sink if the drowning man put his arms around your neck, then twisting and putting your hand under his chin and pushing back. He hadn’t believed it when he was fourteen years old and he didn’t believe it now. It was one of those things that looked good in practice, on dry land. Then there were all the stories about hitting people on the chin and knocking them out. More dry land. He had never knocked anybody out in his whole life. His mother hated fighting.
Monsieur, soyez tranquille. Roulez sur votre dos, s ’il vous plaît
. Then he’d go in and grab him by the hair and start towing him, sidestroke. If the man understood him. He had an awful lot of trouble getting Frenchmen to understand his accent, especially here in the Basque country. Martha had no trouble at all. They all said what a charming accent she had. Well, why not, after all that time at the Sorbonne? She should have come with him as an interpreter, if for nothing else.
Tournez sur votre dos
. That was better.

He swam heavily and slowly, his eyes beginning to smart from the salt water. When he lifted his head there were white and silver spots before his eyes and everything seemed to be blurred and he couldn’t really see anything much. He kept on swimming. After fifty strokes he decided he’d stop and tread water and look around. The idea of treading water now seemed like the greatest pleasure ever vouchsafed the human race.

He started to count the strokes. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen … Lord, he thought, what if he’s bald? He tried to remember what the man’s head had looked like, far out, splashing away from the overturned boat. There had been a funny pale gleam. Bald, Munnie decided desperately. Nothing is going to go right.

He started counting strokes all over again. By the time he got to thirty-five he knew he would have to stop for awhile. He made himself do five more, then stopped and rolled over on his back, gasping and blowing water and looking up at the sky. He got his breath back and turned again and trod water, searching for the Frenchman.

He blinked his eyes and rubbed them with the back of his hand, sinking up to his mouth as he did so. The Frenchman wasn’t there. Oh, God, he thought, he went down.

Then he heard the chugging and twisted in the water. A fishing boat was bearing away from the spot where Munnie had last seen the Frenchman, and was going toward the overturned dory. Munnie trod water, watching while the tuna boat stopped, and two fishermen reached down and pulled the woman on board. The tuna boat, Munnie realized, must have been coming up from the south, concealed by the little headland on which the fort was built, and must have coasted along the seaward side of the wall and entered the channel while he was swimming blindly out from the beach.

The men on the tuna boat threw a line onto the dory, then swung around and headed for Munnie. He waited for it, fighting his lungs. The tuna boat, painted blue, and slow and old, approached him, looking big and safe as it drew nearer. Munnie saw grinning, tanned wide faces, capped by blue berets in the bow, and he waved, with great effort, as the tuna boat slowed down and came to a stop next to him.

“
Ça va?
” a fisherman shouted, grinning down at him. A cigarette, burned almost to the end, hung plastered to his lips.

Munnie managed to smile. “
Ça va bien
,” he called. “
Trés bien.
”

The man who had been rescued came to the rail, still naked to the waist, and peered curiously down at Munnie. Munnie saw that he had plenty of hair. The Frenchman didn’t say anything. He was a fat young man with a hurt and dignified expression on his face. At his side appeared a woman. She had been heavily made up and the seawater had done a great deal of damage to the rouge and mascara. She stared furiously down at Munnie, then turned to the Frenchman. She grabbed him by both ears and shook him. “
Crapaud!
” she said loudly. “
Espèce de cochon
.”

The Frenchman closed his eyes and allowed his head to be shaken, keeping his face sad and dignified. The fisherman grinned more broadly.

“
Alors
,” one of the fishermen said, throwing a line out toward Munnie, “
allons-y
.”

Munnie looked longingly at the line. Then he remembered that he was naked. He shook his head. One thing that was not going to happen to him that afternoon was to be fished out of the sea naked in front of that woman pulling her friend’s ears and calling him a pig and a toad. “I’m O.K.,” Munnie said, up to the brown, tough, amused faces, used to all sorts of comical, salty accidents and escapes. “
Je suis O.K
. I want to swim. I mean—
Je voudrais bien nager
.”

“O.K., O.K.,” the fishermen said, laughing, as though what he had said was enormously witty. They pulled in the line and waved and the tuna boat swung around and started in toward the harbor, towing the dory. As it went, over the sound of the engine, Munnie could still hear the sound of the woman screaming.

Well, Munnie thought, watching the boat sail off, at least they understood me.

Then he turned and looked at the beach. It looked miles away and Munnie was surprised that he had swum that far. He had never swum that far before in his life. On the beach, at the water line, with the tower of the fort behind them, Bert and Martha were standing, small, sharp figures, throwing long shadows now in the declining sun.

Taking a deep breath, Munnie started to swim in.

He had to turn over and float every ten yards or so and for awhile it seemed to him that he wasn’t moving at all, only going through the motions of swimming, but finally, putting his feet down, he touched bottom. It was still fairly deep, up to his chin, and he pulled his feet up and stubbornly kept on swimming. And as a gesture, which he didn’t try to understand, even as he did it, he swam all the way in, making himself spurt and do a proper crawl, until the water was so shallow that his finger tips scraped the sand.

Then he stood up. He wavered a little, but he stood up and, making himself smile, walked slowly, naked, with the water streaming off him, toward where Bert and Martha stood next to the little pile of his clothes on the beach.

“Well,” Bert said as Munnie came up to them, “what part of Switzerland are
you
from, Bud?”

As he bent over and picked up the towel and began to dry himself, shivering under the rough cloth, Munnie heard Martha laugh.

He rubbed himself dry. He took a long time, shivering badly, too weary and not interested enough to try to cover his nakedness. They drove back to the hotel in silence and when Munnie said that he thought he’d lie down and try to rest for awhile, they both agreed that it was probably the best thing to do.

He slept uneasily, his ears half deaf and stopped with water and the blood pounding in them like a distant, fitful sea. When Bert came in and said it was time for dinner, Munnie told him he wasn’t hungry and that he wanted to rest. “We’re going to the Casino after dinner,” Bert said, “Should we stop by and pick you up?”

“No,” Munnie said. “I don’t feel lucky tonight.”

There was a little silence in the darkened room. Then Bert said, “Good night. Sleep well, Fat Man,” and went out.

Alone, Munnie lay staring at the shadowed ceiling, thinking.
I’m not fat. Why does he call me that? He only started it in the middle of the summer
. Then he slept again and only awakened when he heard the car drive up outside the hotel and the steps going softly up the stairs, past his door, to the floor above. He heard a door open and close gently upstairs and he made himself shut his eyes and try to sleep.

When he awoke the pillow was wet, where the water had run out of his ears, and he felt better. When he sat up the blood stopped pounding inside his head, too. He turned on the lamp and looked at Bert’s bed. It was empty. He looked at his watch. It was four-thirty.

He got out of bed and lit a cigarette and went to the window and opened it. The moon was just going down and the sea was milky and was making an even, grumbling sound, like an old man complaining about the life that lay behind him.

For a moment, he wondered where he would have been at this hour if the tuna boat hadn’t come in around the breakwater. Then he doused his cigarette and began to pack. It didn’t take long, because they had been traveling light all summer.

When he finished he made sure that the extra key for the car was on his ring. Then he wrote a short note for Bert, telling him that he’d decided to take off for Paris. He hoped to get to Paris in time to catch the boat. He hoped this wouldn’t inconvenience Bert too much and he knew that Bert would understand. He didn’t mention Martha.

He carried his bag out to the car through the dark hotel and threw the bag into the empty space next to the driver’s seat. He put on a raincoat and a pair of gloves and started the car and drove carefully out the driveway, without looking back to see whether the sound of the engine had awakened anyone or whether anyone had come to a window to watch him leave.

There was mist in the low places on the road, and he drove slowly, feeling it wet against his face. With the sighing regular noise of the windshield wipers and the steady, damp light of the headlights on the road ahead of him almost hypnotizing him, he drove mechanically, not thinking of anything at all.

It was only far past Bayonne, when the dawn had broken and he had cut off the lights and the road stretched gray and glistening through the dark pine aisles of Les Landes, that he allowed himself to remember the day and night that had just passed. And then all he could think was, It’s my fault. I let the summer go on one day too long.

God Was Here
But He Left Early

“
B
e lugubrious, Love,” she remembered, as she rang the bell. Bert had said that on the phone, when he had called her back from London. “They dote on sorrow. Suggest suicide. Just the merest hint, Love. Name me, if you want. Everybody knows how weird I am, even in Geneva, and they’ll sympathize. I’m sure it’ll be all right. Three of my friends have been and have lived happily ever after.”

Bert’s vocabulary was airy but he was familiar with trouble in fifteen countries; he was a friend of outlaws; the police in several cities had taken an interest in him, he knew everybody’s name and address and what they could be used for. Thinking about Bert, his pleasure in complication, she smiled in the dark corridor before the closed door. She heard steps. The door opened. She went in.

“You are how old, Mrs. Maclain?”

“Thirty-six,” Rosemary said.

“You are American, of course.”

“Yes.”

“Your home?”

“New York.” She had decided not to let him know she spoke French. It would make her seem more helpless. Adrift, non-communicating in foreign lands.

“You are married?”

“Divorced, five years ago.”

“Children?”

“A daughter. Eleven years old.”

“Your … uh … condition dates back how far?”

“Six weeks.”

“You’re sure?” He spoke English precisely. He had studied in Pennsylvania. He was a small, youngish, precise man with neatly brushed brown hair in a neat brown office. There was a pale ceramic blankness about his face, like a modestly designed dinner plate. He was alone. He had opened the door for her himself. Diplomas and degrees in several languages hung on the brownish, neutral walls. There was no noise from the street. It was a sunny day. She didn’t feel lugubrious.

“Perfectly,” she said.

“Your health?”

“Physically …” She hesitated. There was no sense in lying. “Physically—I suppose I’d say normal.”

“The man?”

“I’d prefer not to talk about it.”

“I’m afraid I must insist.”

Inventions.
We were to be married but he was killed in a car crash. In an avalanche. I discovered in time that there was a strong streak of insanity in his family. He’s a Catholic and Italian and married and as you know there’s no divorce in Italy and besides, I have to live in New York. He was a Hindu. He promised to marry me and disappeared. It was a sixteen-year-old boy in a wagon-lit and he had to go back to school
. Absurd. All absurd.