Then he thought of his table in his room in Paris, with its piled sheets of ruled paper, and he felt he wanted nothing in the world except to work. It would not matter what happened to him if he could only have time to weave into designs the tangled skein of music that seethed through him as the blood seethed through his veins.
There he stood, leaning against the long tiller, watching the blue-green poplars glide by, here and there reflected in the etched silver mirror of the river, feeling the moist river wind flutter his ragged shirt, thinking of nothing.
After a while the old man came up out of the cabin, his face purplish, puffing clouds of smoke out of his pipe.
“All right, young fellow, go down and eat,” he said.
Andrews lay flat on his belly on the deck, with his chin resting on the back of his two hands. The barge was tied up along the river bank among many other barges. Beside him, a small fuzzy dog barked furiously at a yellow mongrel on the shore. It was nearly dark, and through the pearly mist of the river came red oblongs of light from the taverns along the bank. A slip of a new moon, shrouded in haze, was setting behind the poplar trees. Amid the round of despairing thoughts, the memory of the Kid intruded itself. He had sold a Ford for five hundred francs, and gone on a party with a man who’d stolen an ammunition train, and he wanted to write for the Italian movies. No war could down people like that. Andrews smiled, looking into the black water. Funny, the Kid was dead, probably, and he, John Andrews, was alive and free. And he lay there moping, still whimpering over old wrongs. “For God’s sake be a man!” he said to himself. He got to his feet.
At the cabin door, Rosaline was playing with the parrot.
“Give me a kiss, Coco,” she was saying in a drowsy voice, “just a little kiss. Just a little kiss for Rosaline, poor little Rosaline.”
The parrot, which Andrews could hardly see in the dusk, leaned towards her, fluttering his feathers, making little clucking noises.
Rosaline caught sight of Andrews.
“Oh, I thought you’d gone to have a drink with the old man,” she cried.
“No. I stayed here.”
“D’you like it, this life?”
Rosaline put the parrot back on his perch, where he swayed from side to side, squawking in protest: “Les bourgeois à la lanterne, nom de dieu!”
They both laughed.
“Oh, it must be a wonderful life. This barge seems like heaven after the army.”
“But they pay you well, you Americans.”
“Seven francs a day.”
“That’s luxury, that.”
“And be ordered around all day long!”
“But you have no expenses… It’s clear gain… You men are funny. The old man’s like that too It’s nice here all by ourselves, isn’t it, Jean?” Andrews did not answer. He was wondering what Geneviève Rod would say when she found out he was a deserter.
“I hate it… It’s dirty and cold and miserable in winter,” went on Rosaline. “I’d like to see them at the bottom of the river, all these barges… And Paris women, did you have a good time with them?”
“I only knew one. I go very little with women.”
“All the same, love’s nice, isn’t it?”
They were sitting on the rail at the bow of the barge. Rosaline had sidled up so that her leg touched Andrews’s leg along its whole length.
The memory of Geneviève Rod became more and more vivid in his mind. He kept thinking of things she had said, of the intonations of her voice, of the blundering way she poured tea, and of her pale-brown eyes wide open on the world, like the eyes of a woman in an encaustic painting from a tomb in the Fayoum.
“Mother’s talking to the old woman at the Creamery. They’re great friends. She won’t be home for two hours yet,” said Rosaline.
“She’s bringing my clothes, isn’t she?”
“But you’re all right as you are.”
“But they’re your father’s.”
“What does that matter?”
“I must go back to Paris soon. There is somebody I must see in Paris.”
“A woman?”
Andrews nodded.
“But it’s not so bad, this life on the barge. I’m just lonesome and sick of the old people. That’s why I talk nastily about it… We could have good times together if you stayed with us a little.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder and put a hand awkwardly on his bare forearm.
“How cold these Americans are!” she muttered, giggling drowsily.
Andrews felt her hair tickle his cheek.
“No, it’s not a bad life on the barge, honestly. The only thing is, there’s nothing but old people on the river. It isn’t life to be always with old people… I want to have a good time.” She pressed her cheek against his. He could feel her breath heavy in his face.
“After all, it’s lovely in summer to drowse on the deck that’s all warm with the sun, and see the trees and the fields and the little houses slipping by on either side… If there weren’t so many old people… All the boys go away to the cities… I hate old people; they’re so dirty and slow. We mustn’t waste our youth, must we?”
Andrews got to his feet.
“What’s the matter?” she cried sharply.
“Rosaline,” Andrews said in a low, soft voice, “I can only think of going to Paris.”
“Oh, the Paris woman,” said Rosaline scornfully. “But what does that matter? She isn’t here now.”
“I don’t know… Perhaps I shall never see her again anyway,” said Andrews.
“You’re a fool. You must amuse yourself when you can in this life. And you a deserter… Why, they may catch you and shoot you any time.”
“Oh, I know, you’re right. You’re right. But I’m not made like that, that’s all.”
“She must be very good to you, your little Paris girl.”
“I’ve never touched her.”
Rosaline threw her head back and laughed raspingly.
“But you aren’t sick, are you?” she cried.
“Probably I remember too vividly, that’s all… Anyway, I’m a fool, Rosaline, because you’re a nice girl.”
There were steps on the plank that led to the shore. A shawl over her head and a big bundle under her arm, the old woman came up to them, panting wheezily. She looked from one to the other, trying to make out their faces in the dark.
“It’s a danger… like that… youth,” she muttered between hard short breaths.
“Did you find the clothes?” asked Andrews in a casual voice.
“Yes. That leaves you forty-five francs out of your money, when I’ve taken out for your food and all that. Does that suit you?”
“Thank you very much for your trouble.”
“You paid for it. Don’t worry about that,” said the old woman. She gave him the bundle. “Here are your clothes and the forty-five francs. If you want, I’ll tell you exactly what each thing cost.”
“I’ll put them on first,” he said, with a laugh.
He climbed down the ladder into the cabin.
Putting on new, unfamiliar-shaped clothes made him suddenly feel strong and joyous. The old woman had bought him corduroy trousers, cheap cloth shoes, a blue cotton shirt, woollen socks, and a second-hand black serge jacket. When he came on deck she held up a lantern to look at him.