They also hired a car to Stratford-on-Avon, and to the Dover cliffs, to many historic spots throughout the city and around it, and yet, as they were leaving for Paris, it seemed to them both, and particularly to Mrs. Bridge, that they had hardly begun to get acquainted with England. While they were settling themselves on the train she told him she thought England was the nicest birthday present she had ever received.
71. French Restaurant
To Mr. and Mrs. Bridge it seemed that no matter where they went in Paris they ran into Americans; consequently it was no surprise when a young man named Morgan Hager, who was from Kansas City and whose father had written that the Bridges would be visiting, told them that in addition to tourists there were several thousand Americans who had taken up permanent residence in the city, mostly on the Left Bank. No, he did not know what all these expatriates did for a living; yes, he thought they were happy in France; he had no idea whether they intended to remain in a foreign country for the rest of their lives. Mrs. Bridge could not imagine anyone wanting to live outside the United States. To visit, yes. To take up residence, no.
“I should think they would get awfully lonely,” she said.
“I guess so,” said Hager. “I know I do/’
“But then why do you stay?”
“Because I’m happier here/’
This was puzzling and she wanted to understand. She observed him frankly and saw that he did not look happy; at least he seldom smiled. She did not think he was truly happy.
“If you have the time, Morgan,” said Mr. Bridge, “I’d like to see some of this Bohemian life we hear so much about.”
Hager looked at him doubtfully, for the request posed a problem. There were many things he could have shown them, but, even as certain murals in Pompeii are not open to casual tourists, so there were various Parisian experiences not listed in the guidebook.
“Well,” said Hager modestly, “I really don’t know of anything very Bohemian, but you might like to have dinner at a place on Montpamasse where a lot of art students eat. It’s sort of dirty,” he added thoughtfully.
Mrs. Bridge thought this sounded exciting. “Perhaps we should go back to the hotel and change/’ she said.
Hager did not know whether she meant to get more dressed up or less dressed up, so finally he said, “I don’t think anybody will notice you.” This had a peculiar ring, so he added, “You look all right.” Somehow this was not what he had In mind either, so he cleared his throat, scratched his nose, and said, “The place is actually a real dump.” He tried again. “I mean, you can get in with no trouble.” Having run himself into a cul-de-sac he stopped to meditate. “Oh, well,” he said at last, “let’s go. I’m hungry as a sonofabitch,”
It was the smallest restaurant Mrs. Bridge had ever seen. It was not much larger than her kitchen at home, but somehow or other there were a dozen oilcloth-covered tables jammed into it and every table was crowded. It reeked of cheese and wine and smoke and perspiration. Wedged between the door and a coatrack they stood and waited for three vacancies, and finally the waiter, who was a fat boy with crew-cut hair and a dirty apron, called through the smoke and the gabble, “Alors, vite! J’ai trois! Vite!”
“Okay, step on it,” Hager muttered. “He’s got three but they won’t last,” and he began pushing Mrs. Bridge into the confusion.
Finding no room on the table for her purse, and no other place to put it, she was obliged to hold it in her lap. The menu was scrawled on a blackboard on the wall and Hager translated and made recommendations and both Mr. and Mrs. Bridge accepted his suggestions. Seated next to her was an unusually ragged person wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a filthy blue beret,
“Bonjour, Claude,” said Morgan Hager.
“Ah, mon ami!” said the dirty one. “Comment a va?”
“Oh, <ja va,” replied Hager. “Claude, je vous presents Monsieur et Madame Bridge/*
“How do you do?” said Mrs. Bridge.
“Enchant<!” said Claude, with his mouth full of bread. He looked at her speculatively. He plucked at his shirt and said, “C’est un cadeau.”
“I gave him the shirt,” said Hager.
“Oh. How nice.”
“Oui,” said Claude, still chewing and eyeing her. He saw that her wine glass had not been filled, so he reached across the table for the community bottle and filled the glass for her, saying, “C’est bon> alors.”
“Thank you/’ said Mrs. Bridge. The wine was bright red and had a few specks floating on the surface.
“It tastes like vinegar/’ said Hager as he saw her looking at it doubtfully. “We can get some better stuff. Claude’s dead broke, that’s why he drinks it. I mean, it’s only about one cent a glass/’
“Oh, I’m sure it’s quite good/’ she replied, though she was sure it wasn’t. She tasted it and smiled because Claude was watching.
“C’est bon, n’est-ce pas?’ he demanded.
“Oh, yes, it’s really awfully good/’ she replied, and took another sip to prove she meant it. Claude nodded approvingly. He was eating salad now. He paused, leaned forward, and pulled a limp, black, stringy object out of the bowl. Mrs. Bridge saw it was a spider. Evidently it had climbed into the salad, or had fallen in, and drowned. Claude indifferently dropped it into a shell half filled with ashes and cigarette stubs and continued eating. In a little while the spider recovered and crawled unsteadily out of the ash tray, across the table, and disappeared on the other side.
Presently the waiter arrived with the first course and stood around for a few moments to see if they would enjoy it. The spider had taken the edge from Mrs. Bridge’s appetite, and as for salad, though she tried valiantly she could eat nothing more than a bit of tomato.
Back at the hotel that night Mr. Bridge observed that he had always heard so much about Franch cooking but if that was a fair sample he would rather eat in Kansas City.
“I thought it was very good,” she said loyally.
“You didn’t eat much/’ he said.
“Well, good heavens,” she replied, “we didn’t go there for the food/’
72. Winged Victory
To the Louvre they went as soon as they got down from the Eiffel Tower. The Louvre was a symbol to Mrs. Bridge. As Texas meant size, as Timbuktu meant the ends of the earth, so did the Louvre have meaning. To be sure, there were nice galleries in the United States; in Kansas City, for example, there was the William Rockhill Nelson gallery and although she had not been in it more than four or five times in the last twenty years she was very proud that it was in Kansas City. It had a national reputation, she knew, and once in a while she thought of visiting it, for she remembered that on the few occasions she had been there she had enjoyed herself. Once inside it was very nice and of course remarkably interesting; it was just that getting there was so difficult, not that it was out of the way, it was not far from the Plaza, and there was plenty of parking space, but somehow she could not bring herself to go there. Each time the idea came to her she began to feel uncomfortably cool and depressed, and would hear once again her footsteps echoing from the marble. The few visitors she had encountered had ignored her, or at best seemed distantly courteous, It was all so impersonal, a trifle ghostly. Now if there were music and if the windows were open yes, that was the trouble. And if it could be nicely carpeted! instead of spending all that money on marble pillars. And if there were a nice tea shop and a gift shop perhaps Bancroft’s could show the gallery directors how to make things more attractive….