We looked up together at the varnished woodwork of the Drome, the sunlight gleaming on its smooth brown flanks, he reached out his hand and touched one of the heavy wire stays—yes, it was true, it did remind one of a yacht—or even, yes, of a fiddle.
“Nash has taken some very good photos of it,” I said.
“Has he?”
“Of you and your wife, too.”
“Oh? I’d like to see them—I’d like to see them. He’s quite an artist, isn’t he?”
“Very fine. One of the best.”
We smoked in silence for a minute, and then, to my great surprise, he said—
“And what do you think of my wife?”
“Your wife—? How do you mean?”
“I mean, in the show.”
“Well, of course—I think she’s wonderful.”
“You do, eh?”
He was frowning at me, a little anxious, a little puzzled. I was uncertain where his questions were leading, so I merely repeated—
“Oh yes, we all do. And of course she’s remarkably beautiful—”
“Yes—she is.… I say, would you mind if I cadged another fag—?”
I handed him the cigarettes, he lit one from the stub, and then, frowning again, he went on—
“You see, it’s a problem.”
“A problem?”
“Yes. This show business isn’t so simple. Of course, she’s good, I know that—”
“Oh, she is!”
“She’s good, but there’s more to it than that. You’ve got to think of the effect. On the people.”
“How do you mean, exactly?”
He looked at me searchingly for a second, as if somehow weighing me personally in the light of what he was going to say next—a troubled look, too, and somehow a little pathetic.
“Well”—he said—“take yourself. Or Mr. Nash.”
“Yes?”
“You come to our show, and, as you say, of course, you like my wife, and that’s all right. But then, you see, there is this ‘star’ business. You see what I mean? There’s always got to be a star. One of the performers has got to be outstanding—otherwise, you’ve got no climax.”
“I see. Yes.”
“You see?” He was visibly relieved at my agreement—he smiled, and went on a shade more confidently. “You’ve got to have that climax. People want a show to be built up to something. And that’s what the kid won’t see.”
“No?”
“No. And that’s what the trouble is. We can’t both of us do the fancy stuff, can we? And what I say is, the audience wants to see the man do that, not the woman. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, I think perhaps you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right! But she won’t see it—no, she won’t see it.”
He shook his head, gazing perplexedly down at his swinging feet, and the grass, where the stub of a cigarette was smoking, and repeated once more—
“She just won’t see it. Mind you, I know she could do some of the things, some of them—she’s got all the nerve in the world, anybody can see that—but that isn’t the point. And then, besides, there’s the risk. No woman is quite as good as a man—she’s more liable to nerves, more liable to make a slip—and in this business there can’t be any slips. Well, I tell her that, but it doesn’t do any good. She’s after me from morning to night, wanting this or that, just to try it once, or try it twice—you know how a woman is, and if you give in you’re gone.…”
He looked at me quickly, and away—and I felt sorry for him.
“Well”—I said a little lamely—“I think you’re perfectly right. The show, as it is, is as good as it could possibly be. Your wife, with her beauty, just adds the right touch—but if I were you I certainly wouldn’t let her do anything else! Not me.”
“You think that?”
“I do indeed.”
“Well, I wish someone could persuade her—but when she gets an idea—!”
He laughed, frankly, boyishly, and affectionately too, as if he were thinking very precisely of his wife’s beautiful stubbornness, and then he swung himself down to the ground, and I saw that his assistant, the mechanic, was approaching.
“Well,” I said, “I expect you’ll see us again later!”
“Right-o. And I say, will you tell Mr. Nash I’d like to see some of those photographs?”
“Yes—of course.”
He was off then, with a quick nervous wave of the hand, and I had already turned away toward the cliff steps that led to the town when I heard him add—
“And please excuse me, will you? Got a little tuning to do!”—
I waved—he waved in answer—it was the last time we were to exchange greetings, though not by any means, the last time I was to see him.… That was to be a year later.
III.
A year later—yes. And almost to the day.
By that time, we had all but forgotten him, hadn’t we—? and the beautiful girl who had been killed at Folkstone, while riding blindfold in a “novelty show”—so the newspaper phrased it—called the Drome of Death. We had read about it, only a few days after they had left us; and we had been inexpressibly shocked and saddened; and then the boy had written to Paul, and asked if he could have some of the photographs; and Paul had sent them.…
But a year later the same little fair came back, and with it again—much to our surprise—the Drome of Death. At first we thought it must be another—for it didn’t look quite right, somehow, and it was certainly a great deal shabbier, as if it weren’t properly kept up. Our doubts were resolved when we drew a little nearer.
There, on the faded plush dais, stood the boy—but himself too somehow faded and cheapened, and looking almost haggard—the beauty had gone out of him. Beside him was a girl, a little dark creature, dull-faced, dull-eyed. The same blue riding suits—but now, no silver wings. The boy was smoking a cigarette, and for a moment, when he saw us, he looked guilty. The recognition wavered, as it were, between us—and then he lifted his chin, proudly, turned his head, turned his eyes, and coldly, fiercely, dismissed us.…
And, with a pang, I knew that he was right.
HEY, TAXI!
The illuminated clock on the pavement before the brightly lighted lunchroom said five minutes to twelve. It was beginning to rain harder, a cold February rain, which threatened to turn to snow. Mixed with the black rain fell a few sodden snowflakes. The lunchroom was nearly empty. The after-theater crowd had come and gone, leaving behind it, on the wide arms of the armchairs, stained plates, empty bowls and cups with spoons in them, crumpled napkins flung on the floor, wet newspapers. Even in disorder it was colorful and picturesque; and it was warm. The bowls of fruit on marble counters, the salads and pies arrayed richly in glass cases gave an almost tropic air of luxury. O’Brien, a taxi-driver, who was finishing his bowl of cornflakes and cream and a cup of coffee, looked sleepily about him. He liked it—the warmth and color almost put him to sleep. He was so tired that he could hardly eat. A hard day; but profitable; he would be glad to get to bed. A steady succession of short runs from noon to six o’clock; and then, one of those freak fares, a man at the Touraine who wanted to go to Plymouth and back in the six hours before midnight. Judas! what a night. It had been an exhausting drive, pitch black, everything drowned in rain. The windshield wiper worked frantically, worked overtime. All that the headlights showed was a ghost-dance of rain, swirling, mixed with snow, and an unending inferno of puddles, rivers, and mud. His eyes ached. He wished to God he didn’t have the drive to the garage ahead of him—a mile and a half.… However, after that it would take him less than fifteen minutes to hit the hay.… He shoved his ticket and the change over the cashier counter, turned up his collar, and went out. Twelve o’clock.