The Summer of Katya (15 page)

I have before me the notes I scribbled in my journal that night, and the parenthetical comments on those notes added several years later, after the war was over and I was established as the village doctor of Alos. I share them with you uncorrected, revealing the youthful pedantry of Greek-letter rubrics and my romantic pseudo-philosophic assumptions, and also sharing with you the bitter postwar disenchantment of the parenthetical notes.

Alpha: This horrid war will never materialize! (It did.)

Beta: If war does come, it will be brief because human flesh and emotions cannot withstand modern machines of death and mutilation. (It was not brief. The flesh did withstand the death and mutilation. The emotions did not.)

Gamma: If I am called to the colors, I shall flee to Switzerland in protest against this madness. (I did not. I no longer cared.)

Delta: Even in the brutality of war, a man of poetry, a man of inner resources, should be able to fight without becoming an animal, to rise above the slaughter and maintain his spiritual dignity. (Bullshit.)

* * *

After an uneventful morning, I was taking the plat du jour luncheon at my usual caf under the arcade, insensitive to the sparkling beauty of the weather, my thoughts concentrated on Katya and Etcheverria.

“Are you receiving guests?”

“What?” I was startled out of my reverie. “I beg your– Katya? What a surprise. Oh… and Paul.”

“I take it you recommend this restaurant?” Paul asked, looking around with distaste.

I rose and gestured them to join me, which Katya did with a warm smile. But Paul remained standing. “I have a few errands to attend to. But when I return I should be delighted to accept… oh, anything that can’t be ruined by the chef. A glass of water, perhaps? We’ve been trudging along that dusty road for hours… perhaps for weeks. I no longer recall. The torture of it has blurred my memory.”

“Yes,” Katya said, “I convinced Paul to walk with me. It’s a gorgeous day, and the fresh air and exercise are good for him.”

“I wonder why everything that is good for one is either dull or painful? Why is everything that is repulsive to the flesh assumed to be good for the character?”

“Oh, rubbish! It was good for you. For my part, I am ravenous. That looks good, Jean-Marc. Will you order some for me?”

“With pleasure.” I signaled the waiter.

“I should warn you,” Paul said, “that she has the gastronomic indiscretion of a Pygmy. I wonder we have any furniture left in the house.”

“Oh, really, Paul!”

“Don’t ‘oh, really’ me. I’ve seen you glance covetously at the ottoman when you’re feeling peckish. Don’t try to deny it. Do you know what she did on the way here, Jean-Marc? With total disregard of my social embarrassment, she pushed her way through a hedge and snatched an apple from a tree—a vulgar apple from a living tree! And she ate it. Fell upon the wretched vegetable and manducated it. Chomp, grind, munch, gnash… and all that was left was a disgusting core.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “she has an appetite for life that ought not to be denied expression.” A slight movement of his eyebrows told me that he had read my meaning.

“It was delicious, actually,” Katya said. “A little green and tart, but delicious.”

“Then what did she do?” Paul asked, all mock outrage. “In emulation of perfidious Eve, she offered to fetch one for me. For me! Can you picture Paul Etienne Jean-Marie de Treville trudging along the road, pushing pome fruits into his mouth? Then for the next two or three hundred kilometers she babbled on about the glories of nature, cooing over garish weeds that choked the roadside—”

“Wildflowers,” Katya clarified.

“—and pretending that the damned things had names (both Latin and vulgar) and that there was some unstipulated virtue in my learning them. As though I intended ever again to submit my body to the tortures of an overland trek! Now, I will concede that some of the names had a kind of ironic rightness… goatsbreath, frogsbane, stenchpoppy—”

“He’s making those up.”

“—but others were as stickily saccharine as her gushing enthusiasm. Sweetheart’s joy, love’s sigh, passion’s heart, lust’s elbow—”

“Didn’t you promise us that you had to run off to perform errands?” Katya asked.

“And indeed I have. I must haggle with the local merchants about the storage and shipment of our impedimenta. You two will have to suffer along without my company for a quarter of an hour. But I warn you, Montjean. Feed her quickly, or be prepared to stand guard over treasured family knickknacks, porcelain vases, umbrella racks, that sort of thing. Anyone who would eat an apple in its raw state, with the stench of tree all over it, would eat anything.” And with a wave of his hand he departed down the arcade.

Katya smiled after him.

“Your brother seems chipper enough,” I said, after the waiter had brought her plat du jour and departed.

“Hm-m. We had a delightful walk. He knows how it makes me laugh when he plays at being shocked and horrified by everything pertaining to nature.”

“Katya, I am so sorry that things came up to interfere with our plans. I know I’ve ruined your father’s hopes to attend the fte d’Alos. You did get my message, I hope?”

“Yes, we did. And your Dr. Gros… what a charming man.”

“You found him charming?”

“Hm-m. Don’t you?”

“If I were asked to list a thousand words describing him, ‘charming’ would appear nowhere.”

“Why is that?”

“Because his philandering has cost me two days with you. Two precious days, when we have so few that—”

“—Don’t let’s talk about the time we shall not have together. It’s pointless and saddening. Let’s talk about the time we shall have. Our trip to the fte d’Alos is not ruined. We’ve simply decided to delay it until tomorrow. And I’ve heard that the last day of a fte is the most exciting anyway.”

“Well… it’s the least inhibited. It’s quite common for birth dates in Basque villages to fall nine months after the last day of the fte, with hasty marriages sandwiched in between.”

“Speaking of sandwiches, I’ve planned out the picnic we’ll have on our way. We’ll eat out in the fields—perhaps in an orchard.”

“I’m sure Paul is bursting with anticipation.”

“Oh, he’ll grouse and complain to amuse us, but I don’t care how he feels about it. We must take advantage of this magnificent weather. As soon as the idea occurred to me, I had to come into Salies to tell you. When I asked Paul if I might, he was hesitant, but then he offered to accompany me. I know you don’t like him, but he’s always been very kind to me. And, do you know what? I really think he likes you… in his own reluctant way. Does that surprise you?”

“It does indeed. He’s uniquely skillful at concealing his affection.”

“Oh, Paul’s like that.” She smiled at me, and my heart expanded in my chest.

“I thought about you constantly all through yesterday, Katya.”

“Constantly? Your attention wasn’t on your work for even a single second?”

“Well, almost constantly, then.”

“Relatively constantly?”

“Almost relatively constantly, at least.”

“I’m pleased. I thought about you, too. Not quite constantly, or even relatively constantly, but often… and with pleasure. I sat for hours down in my library at the bottom of the garden, reading a book… well, not exactly reading it. More reading at it. Staring through the words and letting my mind wander. The garden was so lovely… tangled, overgrown… the warmth of the sun on my face… the somnolent hum of insects. It was so peaceful.”

“And your little ghost? Was she peaceful too?”

She set her fork down and looked at me. “How on earth did you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That the young girl was… not happy, exactly… peaceful. Several times I felt her presence. Like a melody sung just out of hearing. But there wasn’t the sweet sadness that I used to feel flowing from her. There was a kind of… of muted joy. But how could you have known about that?”

“I didn’t really.”

“What are you trying to convince us you didn’t do?” Paul asked, appearing from behind the arcades and joining us at the table. “Don’t believe him, Katya. I am sure he did it. It’s just like him to do that sort of thing—whatever it was. Tell me, do you think the waiter might be prompted to give me a glass of the fluid that passes locally for wine?”

I beckoned the waiter and gestured for the wine. “Would you like some coffee, Katya?”

“Yes, please. No, on second thought, I must go around to the shops. There are a few things I want to get for tomorrow’s picnic.” She rose. “No, don’t get up. Thank you for the luncheon, Jean-Marc. That coat rack was particularly delicious.”

Paul and I smiled her away; then I turned to him. “Katya tells me she finally gave in to your begging and arranged a picnic for tomorrow.”

“I can hardly wait. Crouching uncomfortably on the ground, nibbling at dry sandwiches, dust blowing into the food, to say nothing of the small creatures that will attend as uninvited guests. In my view, eating out of doors is like fornicating on a busy boulevard. The basic biological impulses should be satisfied in private—or at least in company of a few understanding friends.”

The waiter brought his wine. “Ah,” he said, draining the glass then shuddering with a grimace. “It’s sometimes difficult to recall that, with the benefit of a few incantations, this swill can become the blood of Christ.”

“Katya tells me we shall all be going to the fte d’Alos after all.”

“Katya tells you everything, it would seem. Yes, we shall be going. Father is looking forward to it with the anticipation of a child.”

I was silent for a moment. “Paul,” I began—

“—There’s something in your tone that suggests you’re preparing to give me advice… the only thing genuinely more blessed to give than receive.”

“Not advice, exactly. I was thinking about your father.”

“And?”

“The other evening, in his study, he mentioned that he didn’t think he could stand another move… all his books and papers in chaos… nothing where he could find it.”

“It’s good of you to concern yourself so with my affairs. But you will forgive me if I find something self-serving in your desire to see my family remain here, won’t you?”

“I presume you haven’t told your father about your plans yet.”

“As it happens, you’re mistaken—a condition I suppose you’ve become used to after all your years of blundering about in other people’s affairs. In fact, I told Father about the move last night.”

“And how did he take it?”

“Not well, of course. However, he understood the necessity and trusted my judgment. But then, he is equipped with some knowledge of our circumstances and does not, like you, make evaluations from the basis of abysmal ignorance. I do hope that doesn’t sound harsh or critical. Listen here, Montjean. Let’s you and I make a pact. Let’s do what we can to make tomorrow a fine and amusing day for Katya and Papa. I shall do my part. I shall participate in the press and sweat of a rural festival, a smile of delight frozen to my face. I shall force cold food into my mouth while sitting on dirt. Greater love hath no man for his sister. Ah… and here comes the woman in question bearing in her basket, I fear, all kinds of nasty comestibles for alfresco gorging… lots of juicy things designed to drip onto clothing.” He rose. “May we expect you sometime midmorning?”

He joined Katya in the middle of the square, and they left towards Etcheverria, after she waved to me and mouthed, “Until tomorrow.”

I sat for a time, looking across the square dazzling with sunlight. I could not quite articulate the ambivalence of my feelings, because to do so required confessing to a petty resentment of Katya’s ability to face our forthcoming separation with so much more equanimity than I. To be sure, there was an element of courage in her attitude, of dealing gracefully with the inevitable. But where does strength leave off and callousness begin? What is the boundary between courage and indifference? And what of my own behavior? Had I not chatted urbanely with Paul, joking about picnics, when Katya’s happiness was at stake? Are we not all victims of social training, of “good form,” which requires us to face the greatest calamity with a certain grace and style? We would rather be destroyed than embarrassed.

And I thought of the forthcoming war that had been the talk of the caf the past night. Would the young men called to arms laugh and joke and exchange hearty platitudes in imitation of popular fiction, while they waited to be mutilated by the stupidity and arrogance of aged politicians? Could the youth of France be so gullible?

Eight months later, in the trenches of the Marne, I would have the answers. Yes. Yes, young men would indeed joke and exchange stiff platitudes on the last nights of their lives. Good form… being a man… playing the game.

* * *

Upon his return that evening, I sought out Doctor Gros to tell him I would want the morrow free for a little trip.

“Hm-m. Yes, of course,” he said, his mood uncharacteristically pensive and umber.

“Your adventure didn’t live up to expectations?” I asked.

“No, of course not, my boy. Yet, even in my case, where the whole business has become so… clinical, there is the irritating presence of Hope. No matter how much one ballasts his adventures with heavy cynicism, there is always that damned glimmer of expectation that must be doused out by reality, again, and again, and again.”

“You don’t sound all that refreshed by your escapade.”

“Oh, it was a good enough bout of its kind. Vigorous. Reasonably inventive. I don’t expect these affairs to refresh me, exactly. More of an emotional purgative. An assurance that, in missing everything the romantic poets coo over, I have missed nothing of value. So! You’re going to join the Trevilles in a little djeuner sur l’herbe, eh? Then off to participate in the revels of a rural fte. Do you think that is wise?”

“Wise?” I laughed. “That’s a strange thing to say. What’s troubling you?”

He scrubbed his meaty face with his palm and sighed deeply. “Sit down and let me play the avuncular sage for a few minutes.”

“Sir, if you intend to say anything that—”

“Sit down.” There was a firmness in his voice that impelled me to obey. As he fumbled about in his desk drawer for one of the black Russian cigarettes he occasionally smoked, I had the feeling he was playing for time to consider how to present something awkward to me. “Ah, here we are. Oh, my, these cigarettes are as dried out as an old nun’s hym—heart.” He tossed the box back into the drawer. “All right, let me say this as simply as possible, because I cannot think of a delicate way to approach the matter. Yesterday evening I attended a little party with my companion—very gay affair, very hollow, much laughter but little mirth—and in the course of trivial chat with a man vacationing from Paris I mentioned that my practice was in Salies. The fellow’s face lit up with that special ecstasy of the gossip with a choice morsel to share, and he asked if Salies were not the village the Trevilles had moved to—’fled to’ was his actual expression. I had no interest in his scandalmongering, but it occurred to me that, in my role as your mentor and colleague—don’t bother to give voice to the sarcasm in your face. At all events, I heard him out. Ugly little affair. To say it bluntly out, it appears that your young lady’s father shot and killed a young man in Paris—a promising lad of excellent family who—”