“Well, now,” the woman said, turning toward her, smiling a little. “Welcome to Paris.”
It was hard to tell whether the words and the smile that went with them were derisive or not, and Lucy stood there, waiting, cautious, uncomfortable, on foreign and uncertain ground.
“First,” the woman said, staring directly at Lucy, “I suppose I ought to introduce myself. Or do you know my name?”
“No,” said Lucy, “I’m afraid I …”
“Dora,” the woman said. “And I know yours. Won’t you sit down? And can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Well,” Lucy said, “if Tony’s not here … I wouldn’t like to interfere with your morning.”
“I have nothing to do with my morning,” the girl said, “I’ll go get another cup.”
She left, walking lightly, the pink wrapper floating through the beams of sunlight that came in through the open windows. Lucy sat down on a straight chair, looking around her at the room. It was a room that had seen better days. The paint was old and soiled, the rugs threadbare. It gave an impression of rented furniture, things slightly out of repair, a provisional and careless existence. Only two large, brilliant paintings on the wall, abstract and nervous, gave the feeling of personal choice, ownership.
They must be poor, Lucy thought, or nearly poor. Where did all the money go?
Dora came back, carrying a cup and saucer. While she was pouring the coffee, Lucy examined her obliquely. She was very young, with deep black eyes, and a heavy mass of dark hair pulled back from her forehead with attractive austerity. She had a pointed small face and a wide, full mouth, whose sensuality was accentuated and made somehow disturbing by the paleness of her skin. With a cigarette hanging from her lips, squinting a little, bent over the low table as she poured the coffee, Dora’s face seemed marked by resignation and a permanent dissatisfaction.
Maybe it’s the style for the young married set this year, Lucy thought, accepting the cup and saucer. Maybe this year they have decided to look dissatisfied.
“Well, now, at last,” Dora said, seating herself directly across from Lucy in a low, rumpled easy chair. “I’m sorry Tony isn’t here to do the honors.”
“Has he gone out already?” Lucy asked.
“No,” Dora said, without expression. “He hasn’t come in yet.”
“Does he work at night?” Lucy asked, confused.
“No,” said Dora.
“I mean … I saw him at two o’clock, in a bar …” Lucy stopped, embarrassed.
“Did you?” Dora said, without interest. “How was the reunion?”
“I didn’t speak to him. When he left, I got the address from the manager.”
“Was he alone?” Dora tilted her head back, finishing her coffee.
“Yes.”
“Fancy that.” The tone of the girl’s voice was still flat, automatic.
“I’m sorry,” said Lucy. “I don’t want to meddle … Perhaps I’d better go. If you want, when he gets back, you can tell him I’m in Paris and I’ll leave the telephone number of my hotel and if he …”
“Don’t go, don’t go,” the girl said. “You’re not meddling. And he’s liable to come in any minute. Or any week.” She laughed drily. “Oh, it’s not as bad as you think,” she said. “Or anyway, I like to tell myself it’s not as bad as people think. He has a studio near here and sometimes when he’s working hard or when he can’t stand domesticity any more, he stays there. If you saw him at a bar at two o’clock, I guess he wasn’t working very hard last night, though.”
“A studio?” Lucy asked. “What does he do in a studio?”
“Don’t you know?” Dora asked, sounding surprised.
“No. The last time I heard from him was during the war, when he got the news that his father had been killed,” said Lucy. “He wired me that he didn’t intend to come to the funeral services.”
“That sounds like him.” The girl looked amused. “He can’t stand ceremonies. If our own wedding had lasted another five minutes, he’d have run like a deer.” She paused, grimacing a little, lighting another cigarette, looking up at the ceiling over Lucy’s head, as though remembering the wedding. “I don’t suppose you knew he was married, either, did you?”
“No.”
“Well, he is,” the girl said. “For his sins. For the moment, he’s married. No guarantees go along with this purchase.” She chuckled briefly.
She’s not as hard as she wants me to think she is, Lucy thought, studying the pale, youthful, bitter face. Perhaps that’s the style, too. Or she has learned to put it on to live with her husband.
“You wanted to know what he does in a studio,” Dora said. “He’s a cartoonist. He draws funny pictures for the magazines. Didn’t you know that, either?”
“No,” said Lucy. It seemed like an improbable profession for a son of hers to be following. Naïvely, the word cartoonist made her think of clowns, comedians with funny hats, simple and light-hearted young men. The glimpse she had had of Tony the night before had suggested none of these things. And certainly, when he was a boy he had been serious enough. “It’s true, he used to cover all his school books with little drawings. They weren’t terribly good, though.”
“I imagine he’s improved a bit,” the girl said. “In that direction, anyway.”
“But I’ve never seen his name …”
“He doesn’t draw under his own name. I think he’s ashamed of it. If he could do anything else, he’d quit.”
“What does he want to do?”
The girl shrugged. “Nothing. Or at least nothing that he’s ever told me.”
“Does he do well?” Lucy asked.
“Well enough,” she said. “We eat. If we went back to America, he probably could make a lot of money. He’s not very interested. His tastes’re simple. Awful but simple.” She smiled bleakly. “And he never showed any desire to shower his wife with mink.”
“Why doesn’t he want to go back to America?” Lucy asked, hoping for an answer that would not damage her.
Dora looked at her coldly. “He says he got used to living in exile when he was young, and he’d feel uncomfortable changing the pattern. And he says he likes living in France best of all, because the French are in despair and he admires that.”
What conversations must have gone on in this shabby room, Lucy thought, what hurtful, desolate interchanges!
“Why does he talk like that?” she asked.
The girl looked at her levelly. “You tell me,” she said.
Lucy hesitated. “Some other time,” she said. “He sounds like a terribly difficult man.”
Dora laughed. It sounded as though it had been choked out of her. “Lady,” she said, “what a gift for description you have.”
She is not my friend, Lucy thought. Whatever else she may turn out to be, she is not my friend.
“Ah, I shouldn’t talk like that,” Dora said. “I make him sound like a monster. And he’s not a monster. We’ve been married five years and he’s given me some rough times, and there’s always the chance he’ll come home one day and tell me we’re finished—in fact, I’m sure it’s going to happen eventually—and yet, I wouldn’t change it, I wouldn’t change any of it. It’s been worth it,” she said harshly, as though challenging Lucy to deny it. “No matter how it ends, it’s been worth it.” Then, with an obvious effort, she checked herself. “Oh, you’ll see for yourself,” she said lightly, “when you talk to him. Inside of twenty minutes, he’ll probably charm you into feeling that he’s the most devoted and loving son who ever lived. If he wants, he’ll convince you that he really has been trying to reach you on the telephone for twenty years, only you just happened to be out the times he called …”