The Pegnitz Junction

  PRAISE FOR

  MAVIS GALLANT’S FICTION:

  “Compassionate in a tough-minded, unsentimental way, Gallant embraces humanity in all its foibles, flaws and foolishness.”

  – Kitchener-Waterloo Record

  “Gallant has chronicled displaced lives with pulse-stopping mastery and has leavened her often painful message with reminders of the strength of human resilience.… Gallant is a master storyteller.”

  – London Free Press

  “Mavis Gallant writes as the Dutch used to paint, filling each of her canvases, whether large or small, out to the edges with closely observed figures; some of them are amusing and others saddening, and all are bathed in an uncanny light that has nothing to do with the sun or moon but finds its source in an incandescent mind.… She leads us into a world where everything is ablaze and yet cool to the touch – a world of wit and pity mingled, where whatever the writer’s eye falls on is made to yield a bittersweet, nourishing fruit.”

  – Brendan Gill

  “Mavis Gallant is a master stylist with breathtaking powers of observation.… Gallant’s stories are densely coloured worlds, spare and thorough.…”

  – Montreal Gazette

  “The satisfaction that comes from reading and re-reading Gallant’s work lies in the lucid illuminations that arise from her compassionate portrayal of that inescapable junction where the political and the personal are indivisible.”

  – Canadian Forum

  BOOKS BY MAVIS GALLANT

  DRAMA

  What Is to Be Done? (1983)

  ESSAYS

  Paris Notebooks: Essays and Reviews (1986)

  FICTION

  The Other Paris (stories, 1956)

  Green Water, Green Sky (novel, 1959)

  My Heart Is Broken (stories, 1964)

  A Fairly Good Time (novel, 1970)

  The Pegnitz Junction (stories, 1973)

  The End of the World (stories, 1974)

  From the Fifteenth District (stories, 1979)

  Home Truths (stories, 1981)

  Overhead in a Balloon (stories, 1985)

  In Transit (stories, 1988)

  Across the Bridge (stories, 1993)

  The Moslem Wife (stories, 1994)

  The Selected Stories of Mavis Gallant (stories, 1996)

  Copyright © 1963, 1964, 1969, 1972, 1973 by Mavis Gallant

  First published by Random House of Canada Limited, 1973

  First Emblem Editions publication 2002

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Gallant, Mavis, 1922-

  The Pegnitz junction / Mavis Gallant.

  eISBN: 978-1-55199-633-2

  I. Title.

  PS8513.A593P4 2002 C813’.54 C2002-901239-2

  PR9199.3.G26P44 2002

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program for our publishing activities. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.

  The following stories originally appeared in The New Yorker: “The Old Friends,” “O Lasting Peace,” “An Autobiography,” “Ernst in Civilian Clothes,” and “An Alien Flower.”

  SERIES EDITOR: ELLEN SELIGMAN

  EMBLEM EDITIONS

  McClelland & Stewart Ltd.

  The Canadian Publishers

  75 Sherbourne Street

  Toronto, Ontario

  M5A 2P9

  www.mcclelland.com/emblem

  v3.1

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Pegnitz Junction

  The Old Friends

  An Autobiography

  Ernst in Civilian Clothes

  O Lasting Peace

  An Alien Flower

  About the Author

  The Pegnitz Junction

  A Novella

  She was a bony slow-moving girl from a small bombed baroque German city, where all that was worthwhile keeping had been rebuilt and which now looked as pink and golden as a pretty child and as new as morning. By the standards of a few years ago she would have been thought plain; she was so tall that she bumped her head getting in and out of airplanes, and in her childhood she had often been told that her feet were like canal boats. Her light hair would have been brown, about the colour of brown sugar, if she had not rinsed it in camomile and whenever possible dried it in sunlight; she could not use a commercial bleach because of some vague promise she had given her late grandmother when she was fourteen.

  She had a striking density of expression in photographs, though she seemed unchanging and passive in life, and had caught sight of her own face looking totally empty-minded when, in fact, her thoughts and feelings were pushing her in some wild direction. She had heard a man say of her that you could leave her in a café for two hours and come back to find she was still smoking the same cigarette. She had done some modelling, not well paid, in middling ready-to-wear centers such as Berlin and Zurich, but now she was trying to be less conscious of her body. She was at one of those turnings in a young life where no one can lead, no one can help, but where someone for the sake of love might follow.

  She lived with her family and was engaged to marry a student of theology, but the person closest to her was Herbert, who was thirty-one, divorced, and who with the help of a housekeeper was bringing up his only child. Unlike the student of theology, he had not put up barriers such as too much talk, self-analysis, or second thoughts. In fact, he tended to limit the number of subjects he would discuss. He had no hold on her mind, and no interest in gaining one. The mind that he constantly took stock of was his child’s; apparently he could not be captivated in the same way by two people at once. He often said he thought he could not live without her, but a few minutes after making such a declaration he seemed unable to remember what he had just said, or to imagine how his voice must have sounded to her.

  After they had known each other about seven months, they came to Paris for a holiday, all three of them – she, Herbert, and the child, who was called little Bert. Christine had just turned twenty-one and considered this voyage a major part of her emancipation. It was during the peak of a heat wave – the warmest July on record since 1873. They remained for a week, in an old hotel that had not been repainted for years because it was marked for demolition. They had two dusty, velvety rooms with a bathroom between. The bathroom was as large as the bedrooms together and had three doors, one of which gave on the passage. Leaving the passage door unlocked soon turned out to be a trick of little Bert’s – an innocent trick; the locks were unlike those he was used to at home and he could not stop fiddling with them. The view from every window was of a church covered with scaffolding from top to bottom, the statue of a cardinal lying on its side, and a chestnut tree sawed in pieces. During the week of their stay nothing moved or was changed until a sign went up saying that a new car park was to be built under the church and that after its completion the chestnut tree would be replaced by something more suited to the gassy air of cities. The heat at night made sheets, blankets, curtains, blinds, or nightclothes unthinkable: she would lie awake for a long time, with a lock of her hair across her eyes to screen out the glare of a street lamp. Sometimes
she woke up to find herself being inspected from head to foot by little Bert, who had crept to their room in search of his father. It was his habit to waken at two, and on finding the bed next to his empty, to come padding along in bare feet by way of the bathroom. Through her hair she would watch him taking a long look at her before he moved round the bed and began whimpering to Herbert that he was all alone and afraid of the dark.

  Herbert would turn at once to little Bert. His deepest feelings were linked to the child. He sometimes could reveal anguish, of which only the child was the source. His first move was always to draw the sheet over Christine, to protect little Bert from the shock of female nakedness. Without a breath of reproach he would collect his dressing gown, glasses, watch, cigarettes, and lighter and take little Bert by the hand.

  “I’m sorry,” quavered the child.

  “It’s all right.”

  Then she would hear the two of them in the bathroom, where little Bert made the longest possible incident out of drinking a glass of water. The next day Herbert could not always recall how he had got from one bed to the other, and once, during the water-drinking rite, he had sleepily stuck a toothbrush in his mouth and tried to light it.

  On their last night in Paris (which little Bert was to interrupt, as he had all the others) Herbert said he would never forget the view from the window or the shabby splendour of the room. “Both rooms,” he corrected; he would not leave out little Bert. That day the Paris airports had gone on strike, which meant they had to leave by train quite early in the morning. Christine woke up alone at five. The others were awake too – she could hear little Bert’s high-pitched chattering – but the bathroom was still empty. She waited a polite minute or so and then began to run her bath. Presently, above the sound of rushing water, she became aware that someone was pounding on the passage door and shouting. She called out, “What?” but before she could make a move, or even think of one, the night porter of the hotel had burst in. He was an old man without a tooth in his head, habitually dressed in trousers too large for him and a pajama top. He opened his mouth and screamed, “Stop the noise! Take all your belongings out of here! I am locking the bathroom – every door!”

  At first, of course, she thought that the man was drunk; then the knowledge came to her – she did not know how, but never questioned it either – that he suffered from a form of epilepsy.

  “It is too late,” he kept repeating. “Too late for noise. Take everything that belongs to you and clear out.”

  He meant too early – Herbert, drawn by the banging and shouting, kept telling him so. Five o’clock was too early to be drawing a bath. The hotel was old and creaky anyway, and when you turned the taps it sounded as though fifty plumbers were pounding on the pipes. That was all Herbert had to say. He really seemed extraordinarily calm, picking up toothbrushes and jars and tubes without standing his ground for a second. It was as if he were under arrest, or as though the porter’s old pajama top masked his badge of office, his secret credentials. The look on Herbert’s face was abstract and soft, as if he had already lived this, or always had thought that he might.

  The scented tub no one would ever use steamed gently; the porter pulled the stopper, finally, to make sure. She said, “You are going to be in trouble over this.”

  “Never mind,” said Herbert. He did not want any unpleasantness in France.

  She held her white towelling robe closed at the throat and with the other hand swept back her long hair. Without asking her opinion, Herbert put everything back in her dressing case and snapped it shut. She said to the porter in a low voice, “You filthy little swine of a dog of a bully.”

  Herbert’s child looked up at their dazed, wild faces. It was happening in French; he would never know what had been said that morning. He hugged a large bath sponge to his chest.

  “The sponge isn’t ours,” said Herbert, as though it mattered.

  “Yes. It’s mine.”

  “I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Its name is Bruno,” said little Bert.

  Unshaven, wearing a rather short dressing gown and glasses that sat crookedly, Herbert seemed unprepared to deal with sponges. He had let all three of them be pushed along to Christine’s room and suffered the door to be padlocked behind him. “We shall never come to this hotel again,” he remarked. Was that all? No, more: “And I intend to write to the Guide Michelin and the Tourist Office.”

  But the porter had left them. His answer came back from the passage: “Dirty Boches, you spoiled my holiday in Bulgaria. Everywhere I looked I saw Germans. The year before in Majorca. The same thing. Germans, Germans.”

  Through tears she did not wish the child to observe, Christine stared at larches pressing against the frame of the window. They had the look they often have, of seeming to be wringing wet. She noticed every detail of their bedraggled branches and red cones. The sky behind them was too bright for comfort. She took a step nearer and the larches were not there. They belonged to her schooldays and to mountain holidays with a score of little girls – a long time ago now.

  Herbert did not enlarge on the incident, perhaps for the sake of little Bert. He said only that the porter had behaved strangely and that he really would write to the Guide Michelin. Sometimes Herbert meant more than he said; if so, the porter might have something to fear. She began to pack, rolling her things up with none of the meticulous folding and pleating of a week ago, when she had been preparing to come here with her lover. She buckled the lightest of sandals on her feet and tied her hair low on her neck, using a scarf for a ribbon. She had already shed her robe and pulled on a sleeveless dress. Herbert kept little Bert’s head turned the other way, though the child had certainly seen all he wanted to night after night.

  Little Bert would have breakfast on the French train, said Herbert, to distract him. He had never done that before.

  “I have never been on a train,” was the reply.

  “It will be an exciting experience,” said Herbert; like most parents, he was firm about pleasure. He promised to show little Bert a two-star restaurant at the Gare de l’Est. That would be fun. The entire journey, counting a stopover in Strasbourg and a change of trains, would take no more than twelve hours or so; this was fast, as trains go, but it might seem like a long day to a child. He was counting on little Bert’s cooperation, Herbert concluded sombrely.

  After a pause, during which little Bert began to fidget and talk to his bath sponge, Herbert came back to the subject of food. At Strasbourg they would have time for a quick lunch, and little Bert had better eat his …

  “Plum tart,” said little Bert. He was a child who had to be coaxed to eat at every meal, yet who always managed to smell of food, most often of bread and butter.

  … because the German train would not have a restaurant car, Herbert went on calmly. His actual words were, “Because there will be no facilities for eating on the second transport.”

  Christine thought that Herbert’s information left out a great deal. Little Bert did not know what a two-star restaurant was, and would certainly have refused every dish set before him had he been taken to one. Also, the appalling schedule Herbert had just described meant that the boy would have nothing to eat or drink from about eleven in the morning until past his bedtime. She suggested they buy a picnic lunch and a bottle of mineral water before leaving. Her impression of the week just past was that little Bert had to be fed water all day and part of night. But Herbert said no, that the smell of food on trains made him – Herbert – feel sick. It was the thing he hated most in the world, next to singing. The train would be staffed with vendors of sandwiches and milk and whatever little Bert wanted. Herbert did not foresee any food or drink problem across the Rhine.

  Well, that was settled, though leaving early had destroyed Herbert’s plans for exposing the Louvre to little Bert and finding out what he had to say about the Postal Museum. “Too bad,” said Herbert.

  “Yes, too bad.” She knew now that there had been only one purpose to this hol
iday: to see how she got along with little Bert.

  Herbert let the child carry the sponge to the station, hoping he would forget it on the way. But he continued to address it as “Bruno” and held it up to their taxi window to see Paris going by.

  “The porter seemed drugged,” said Herbert. “There was something hysterical, irrational. What did he mean by ‘too late’? He meant ‘too early’!”

  “He was playing,” said little Bert, who had the high, impudent voice of the spoiled favourite. “He wanted you to play too.”

  Herbert smiled. “Grown people don’t play that way,” he said. “They mean what they say.” His scruples made him add, “Sometimes.” Then, so that little Bert would not be confused, he said, “I mean what I say.” To prove it he began looking for the two-star restaurant as soon as they had reached the station. He looked right and left and up at a bronze plaque on the wall. The plaque commemorated a time of ancient misery, so ancient that two of the three travellers had not been born then, and Herbert, the eldest, had been about the age of little Bert. An instinct made him turn little Bert’s head the other way, though the child could barely read in German, let alone French.

  “I can’t protect him forever,” he said to Christine. “Think of what the porter said.”

  It was a sad, gnawing moment, but once they were aboard the express to Strasbourg they forgot about it. They had a first-class compartment to themselves. Herbert opened one smooth morning paper after the other. He offered them to Christine but she shook her head. She carried a paperback volume of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s essays tucked in behind her handbag. For some reason she thought that Herbert might tease her. They moved on to breakfast in the dining car, where Herbert insisted on speaking French. Little Bert was truly cooperative this time and did not interrupt or keep whimpering, “What are you saying?” He propped the object Herbert had begun to refer to as “that damned sponge” behind the menu card, asked for a drop of coffee to colour his milk, and ate toasted brioche without being coaxed. When the conductor came by to check their tickets little Bert suddenly repeated a French phrase of Herbert’s, which was, “Oh, en quel honneur?” Everyone who heard it smiled, except Christine; she knew he had not meant to be funny, though Herbert believed the child had a precocious sense of humour. He did not go so far as to write down little Bert’s remarks, but made a point of remembering them, though they were nothing but accidents.