The Quirk (4 page)

He pushed forward angrily, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He squeezed through the gate just as it was about to clang shut in his face, feeling its damp, gritty surface against him. It clattered metallically behind him, slamming on a world of luxury and ease, and he found himself on the long gloomy platform elbow to elbow with shabby man and women awaiting the headlong rush of the approaching train. This was what he had chosen. This was where his freedom lay.

He sat beside a murderous-looking Arab, breathing the stench of sweat-sour cloth. In the middle of the car, entwined around a pole, a boy and a girl clung to each other, their heads one against the other. Opposite him a massive heavily made-up woman wore an expression that proclaimed her unshakable conviction that she was the summit of civilization’s achievement. Farther along, two schoolboys in cloaks and berets, both wearing enormous horn-rimmed spectacles, conversed sedately like little old men. Such wonderfully self-important people all clinging to their precious allotment of idiosyncrasies. A great deal of time and money had been wasted on trying to turn him into something he wasn’t. Every day it was coming clearer what he was. He would make it yet.

He changed trains almost without thinking about it, proud of the expertise he had acquired so quickly. He was getting to be an old Paris hand. He surfaced near St.-Germain-des-Prés and headed for the restaurant in the rue de Buci where his familiars usually ate. He didn’t take a romantic view of this recently discovered Bohemia. He knew the same sort of thing existed in New York–Andy’s crowd, Larry’s crowd, others–except that here the food was a bit cheaper and much better. There was a more important, less tangible difference. With the emphasis on dope and kooky sex, Bohemia in New York seemed alienated, irrelevant. Catchwords, but they meant something. He didn’t see how a painter could feel relevant in New York unless he was a commercial success. Here, people engaged in the arts were part of the city. They
were
the city. It made you feel important to be accepted by them regardless of whether you were making money.

He turned in at a low door and entered a narrow noisy room with an open kitchen at one end where men in tall white hats were milling about. Although it was early for dinner, the room was already beginning to fill up. He was on nodding terms with many of the people there, most of them his contemporaries, and he saw that a couple of members of his particular club were installed at the table they usually occupied. He hung his coat on a hook on the wall beside the blackboard on which the bill of fare was ornately chalked and went to join them. He was greeted, as he had expected, with ironic comments about his sartorial elegance. At the beginning the splendor of his wardrobe had caused him to be regarded as a harmless dilettante, but this attitude had been revised as word got around about his work. He had also stopped wearing his best clothes in order to make them last longer.

He asked Massiet if he had any news of the show he was hoping to have in a few months. Pichet described his plans for a wall he was going to decorate for a friend’s new shop. Madeleine, Massiet’s girl, filled his glass with wine while he was waiting for his own bottle. Lambert and Fargue joined them. They were all talented and tough and indifferent to fame or fortune. It was their toughness that Rod admired most. Hairy, bulky in shapeless woolen garments, they conveyed a total confidence in their indestructibility. By contrast, Lola and her lot, despite the surface toughness of acquisitiveness, seemed terribly fragile–like exquisite glass figures that could be smashed with a wave of the hand. With the exception of Nicole, maybe, but the less he thought about her the better.

He saw Jeannine enter and in a moment she had joined them, patting heads as she passed and stooping to kiss Rod’s ear before dropping into the vacant chair beside him.

“
Salut tout le monde. Ca va?
” Her voice was rough and cheerful. She turned to Rod. “
Et toi. Tu es trop beau.
For whom have you made yourself so handsome?

“You of course.” She was an ample girl bundled up in a thick gray suit. She wore an enormous knitted scarf looped around her neck and shoulders. Her hair was pushed about in an auburn tangle, and she had big green eyes, a long straight nose, and an inviting mouth. She managed to look both sexy and clever. “I hoped you were going to turn up.” He touched her cheek. It carried the night’s chill on it.

“I’ve walked all the way from the Louvre. If I’d known you were going to look like this I would have flown. I’m hungry. I’m hideously hungry.”

She ordered a substantial meal, including lentils with great lumps of fat pork, which made her moan with gluttony and regret. She was a girl of big appetites, both at the table and in the bed. She had a faintly unwashed smell, masked by cologne–the smell of Paris–which Rod had forced himself to get used to. A poor boy’s sort of girl, making no pretense of offering him exclusive rights or claiming any from him.

They ate and shouted good-naturedly at each other across the table. By the time he had his third glass of wine, Rod had decided to skip the evening sketching session at the Grande Chaumière. He’d almost forgotten how good it felt to get drunk. He hadn’t had to pay for it–the wine didn’t count–so he didn’t have to feel guilty. All around him hunks of bread were being vigorously applied to empty plates and thrust into hungry mouths. Glasses were being drained. He had never known people to make eating such an un-ceremonial business of getting food into themselves. When there was nothing left, they began to drift off, leaving in their wake a litter of empty bottles and well-cleaned plates and stained glasses.

“Shall we go someplace for a while, beauty?” he asked Jeannine, slurring some of the words slightly and pausing to laugh at himself as he repeated them.

“You’re in a very good humor tonight,
chéri.
We’ll go to the Pagode and listen to your rocking roll. Why do you always laugh when I say that? Isn’t that what it is?”

“Of course. Or rolling rock. Whichever you prefer.”

They shared out their bill scrupulously, and Fargue and his girl went out into the cold night with them. They cut across to the Boulevard St.-Germain and down to their destination. It was a great warren of a bar, branching off onto various levels, balconies, discreet alcoves, erratically lit either by merciless fluorescent tubes or dim-shaded lamps. Near the door there was a rank of flashing pin-ball machines and farther along a many-hued jukebox of such agonizing design that it hurt Rod’s eyes to look at it. They went to it and fed it money. It was the sort of place Rod wouldn’t have gone near at home, but here he found it bizarre and rather jolly. It was swarming with young people; they appeared unexpectedly from around hidden corners. No dance floor was clearly indicated; couples moved to the blare of the music wherever they found themselves.

Prompted by Jeannine, he performed an energetic dance with her. They caught their breath with other couples. He wandered off to get beer. When he returned, Jeannine was engaged in a lively discussion with the group around her. He chatted. He flirted with a couple of girls. He fed the machine more money and danced some more, without paying much attention to the partners he picked, and went off for more beer. He was feeling slightly giddy, under control but getting pleasantly close to the silly stage. He danced with Jeannine again, feeling wonderfully uninhibited and sexy.

“Do you want to go home?” he asked.

“Oh, no,
chéri.
Not yet. This is much fun.”

It was, although he wasn’t sure how long it would continue to be. He was developing an unquenchable thirst that could lead to disaster. Other dancers moved in with them, so he was no longer required as a partner, and he broke away and headed for the bar and another beer. He had barely cleared the brightly lit area where he’s been dancing when a youth barred his way. At First glance Rod took him for a schoolboy. He was short and wore a little beret on the back of his head from which escaped a mop of wavy dark hair. Rod saw that the cape he had taken for a schoolboy’s was much more elegantly cut, with a dramatic collar adorned with big embossed silver buttons and a silver chain.

“You’re a wonderful dancer,” the youth said cheerfully with a French accent. “You Americans always are. You see?” He nodded toward the couples Rod had just left. “We turn it into some sort of ballet.”

“You knew I was American?”

“Of course. I know many things about you. I’m a student of the occult.” He said it with an ironic lilt in his voice.

Rod looked at him and was amused. He had a tilted Pinocchio nose like a drawing in a children’s book. If caricatured, his wide mouth could belong to a ventriloquist’s dummy. All the boy needed was a monocle to stand in for Charlie McCarthy. He looked up with merry, mischievous eyes. Rod laughed. “What else to you know about me?” he demanded.

“I will tell you.” He took Rod’s hand and lifted it in front of him and prodded the palm with a forefinger. “You’re a painter.”

“You’re brilliant. Go on.”

The boy bent the fingers back slightly to flatten the palm and ran his finger along its lines. “This is very important. You’re going to meet–I’m not sure–perhaps you have already met a short dark stranger who will be very important in your life. You must do everything he says.”

“Everything? That’s a big order.” Rod dismissed an impulse to withdraw his hand. It was being held with curiously tranquil intimacy. If a girl held it like this, he would have taken it as a sexual advance. As it was, it seemed simply warm and affectionate. He liked it.

“He will tell you only things that are good for you,” the boy said with a gurgle of laughter. “He is your guardian angel.”

“Really? How will I know him if you can’t tell me if I’ve met him?”

“No. I see now.” A finger prodded his palm with the agreeable intimacy. “You have met him but not for very long.”

“Good,” Rod said, keeping a straight face and prolonging the game. “Can you tell me his name?”

“I can tell you his earthling name. Patrice. I can’t tell you the secrets of the spheres.”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t want you to do that. OK, Patrice, I suppose you know mine name’s Rod. My earthling name.” They looked at each other and laughed. Patrice squeezed Rod’s hand and then released it.

“You see?” You recognized me. You’re very clever too.”

“You’re my guardian angel? Are you in the guardian angel business for many people?”

“No, no, no. We’re given just one assignment at a time. You’re mine for now.”

“Good.” Rod smiled down at the comic face. It
was
comic, but he could see that a drawing that didn’t caricature the mischievous expression would bring out the elfin beauty that lurked in it. The mop of hair on his forehead was appealing. “I think I should have my guardian angel’s undivided attention.”

“Exactly,” Patrice exclaimed delightedly, as if Rod had put his finger on a crucial point. “That’s exactly how it works. That’s why you must come have a drink with me.”

“Fine. I was headed for the bar when you turned up. Come on.”

“Not here. I want you to come have a drink with me at home.”

“Is that one of the things I must do? It’ll be good for me?”

“Definitely. We must discuss how I can best take charge of your case.”

“I see. Do you live near here?”

“Quite near. Very near your hotel.”

“You know where I live?”

“Of course.”

Rod was taken aback. In his slightly befuddled state he was beginning to believe that this kid really
was
his guardian angel. He glanced back and saw that Jeannine was still dancing. He looked at the trim figure in front of him. He was immaculate in a very French way, more pressed and starched under the dramatic cloak than would be considered quite gentlemanly in some circles. He wasn’t a schoolboy, but he wasn’t much older, just barely in his 20s, Rod guessed. It was unusual for French kids to have places where they could invite their friends. At least, he hadn’t been invited to any. It made him feel like an outsider still. Jeannine would keep him here drinking beer for the next hour at least. The whole point of her was that they could come and go as they pleased. He shrugged his shoulders unconcernedly.

“OK, but it better be a quick drink. I’ve had a heavy evening.”

“Yes, you’ve had much to drink, but that does no harm from time to time.”

“Right.” He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and leaned toward him but found that his balance wasn’t all that it should be and pulled back. “I think you’re a very sensible guardian angel. Let’s go.”

“You had a coat.”

“So I did. Where do you suppose I left it? Over there.”

They went to a wall hung with coats. Patrice moved along them and picked one out and handed it to him. “This must be yours,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the best.”

Rod peered at it. “By golly, it
is
mine. You’re amazing.”

“You’ll see. It’s part of my job.” Patrice guided him out the door with a hand placed lightly on his arm, and they set off down the boulevard. Rod saw that he was almost a head taller than his companion, but the latter swung along briskly at his side, the cloak billowing out around him. They crossed in front of the Flore and encountered a young man coming out as they passed. He spoke a word of greeting, and they both replied.

“You know him?” Patrice inquired with quick sharp interest.