The Selected Stories of Mavis Gallant Read online

  “And what made you marry your young cousin?” the old man boomed at Netta. Perhaps his background allowed him to ask impertinent questions; he must have been doing so nearly forever. He stroked his cat; he was confident. He was spokesman for a roomful of wondering people.

  “Jack was a moody child and I promised his mother I would look after him,” said Netta. In her hopelessly un-English way she believed she had said something funny.

  At eleven o’clock the hotel car expected to fetch the Rosses was nowhere. They trudged home by moonlight. For the last hour of the evening Jack had been skewered on virile conversations, first with Iris, then with Sandra, to whom Netta had already given “Chippendale” as a private name. It proved that Iris was right about concentrating on men and their ticking—Jack even thought Sandra rather pretty.

  “Prettier than me?” said Netta, without the faintest idea what she meant, but aware she had said something stupid.

  “Not so attractive,” said Jack. His slight limp returned straight out of childhood. She had caused his accident.

  “But she’s not always clear,” said Netta. “Mitten Todd, for example.”

  “Who’re you talking about?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Iris, of course.”

  As if they had suddenly quarreled they fell silent. In silence they entered their room and prepared for bed. Jack poured a whiskey, walked on the clothes he had dropped, carried his drink to the bathroom. Through the half-shut door he called suddenly, “Why did you say that asinine thing about promising to look after me?”

  “It seemed so unlikely, I thought they’d laugh.” She had a glimpse of herself in the mirrors picking up his shed clothes.

  He said, “Well, is it true?”

  She was quiet for such a long time that he came to see if she was still in the room. She said, “No, your mother never said that or anything like it.”

  “We shouldn’t have gone to Roquebrune,” said Jack. “I think those bloody people are going to be a nuisance. Iris wants her father to stay here, with the cat, while she goes to England for a month. How do we get out of that?”

  “By saying no.”

  “I’m rotten at no.”

  “I told you not to be too pally with women,” she said, as a joke again, but jokes were her way of having floods of tears.

  Before this had a chance to heal, Iris’s father moved in, bringing his cat in a basket. He looked at his room and said, “Medium large.” He looked at his bed and said, “Reasonably long.” He was, in short, daft about measurements. When he took books out of the reading room, he was apt to return them with “This volume contains about 70,000 words” written inside the back cover.

  Netta had not wanted Iris’s father, but Jack had said yes to it. She had not wanted the sick cat, but Jack had said yes to that too. The old man, who was lost without Iris, lived for his meals. He would appear at the shut doors of the dining room an hour too early, waiting for the menu to be typed and posted. In a voice that matched Iris’s for carrying power, he read aloud, alone: “Consommé. Good Lord, again? Is there a choice between the fish and the cutlet? I can’t possibly eat all of that. A bit of salad and a boiled egg. That’s all I could possibly want.” That was rubbish, because Mr. Cordier ate the menu and more, and if there were two puddings, or a pudding and ice cream, he ate both and asked for pastry, fruit, and cheese to follow. One day, after Dr. Blackley had attended him for faintness, Netta passed a message on to Iris, who had been back from England for a fortnight now but seemed in no hurry to take her father away.

  “Keith Blackley thinks your father should go on a diet.”

  “He can’t,” said Iris. “Our other doctor says dieting causes cancer.”

  “You can’t have heard that properly,” Netta said.

  “It is like those silly people who smoke to keep their figures,” said Iris. “Dieting.”

  “Blackley hasn’t said he should smoke, just that he should eat less of everything.”

  “My father has never smoked in his life,” Iris cried. “As for his diet, I weighed his food out for years. He’s not here forever. I’ll take him back as soon as he’s had enough of hotels.”

  He stayed for a long time, and the cat did too, and a nuisance they both were to the servants. When the cat was too ailing to walk, the old man carried it to a path behind the tennis courts and put it down on the gravel to die. Netta came out with the old man’s tea on a tray (not done for everyone, but having him out of the way was a relief) and she saw the cat lying on its side, eyes wide, as if profoundly thinking. She saw unlicked dirt on its coat and ants exploring its paws. The old man sat in a garden chair, wearing a panama hat, his hands clasped on a stick. He called, “Oh, Netta, take her away. I am too old to watch anything die. I know what she’ll do,” he said, indifferently, his voice falling as she came near. “Oh, I know that. Turn on her back and give a shriek. I’ve heard it often.”

  Netta disburdened her tray onto a garden table and pulled the tray cloth under the cat. She was angered at the haste and indecency of the ants. “It would be polite to leave her,” she said. “She doesn’t want to be watched.”

  “I always sit here,” said the old man.

  Jack, making for the courts with Chippendale, looked as if the sight of the two conversing amused him. Then he understood and scooped up the cat and tray cloth and went away with the cat over his shoulder. He laid it in the shade of a Judas tree, and within an hour it was dead. Iris’s father said, “I’ve got no one to talk to here. That’s my trouble. That shroud was too small for my poor Polly. Ask my daughter to fetch me.”

  Jack’s mother said that night, “I’m sure you wish that I had a devoted daughter to take me away too.” Because of the attention given the cat she seemed to feel she had not been nuisance enough. She had taken to saying, “My leg is dying before I am,” and imploring Jack to preserve her leg, should it be amputated, and make certain it was buried with her. She wanted Jack to be close by at nearly any hour now, so that she could lean on him. After sitting for hours at bridge she had trouble climbing two flights of stairs; nothing would induce her to use the lift.

  “Nothing ever came of your music,” she would say, leaning on him. “Of course, you have a wife to distract you now. I needed a daughter. Every woman does.” Netta managed to trap her alone, and forced her to sit while she stood over her. Netta said, “Look, Aunt Vera, I forbid you, I absolutely forbid you, do you hear, to make a nurse of Jack, and I shall strangle you with my own hands if you go on saying nothing came of his music. You are not to say it in my hearing or out of it. Is that plain?”

  Jack’s mother got up to her room without assistance. About an hour later the gardener found her on a soft bed of wallflowers. “An inch to the left and she’d have landed on a rake,” he said to Netta. She was still alive when Netta knelt down. In her fall she had crushed the plants, the yellow minted giroflées de Nice. Netta thought that she was now, at last, for the first time, inhaling one of the smells of death. Her aunt’s arms and legs were turned and twisted; her skirt was pulled so that her swollen leg showed. It seemed that she had jumped carrying her walking stick—it lay across the path. She often slept in an armchair, afternoons, with one eye slightly open. She opened that eye now and, seeing she had Netta, said, “My son.” Netta was thinking, I have never known her. And if I knew her, then it was Jack or myself I could not understand. Netta was afraid of giving orders, and of telling people not to touch her aunt before Dr. Blackley could be summoned, because she knew that she had always been mistaken. Now Jack was there, propping his mother up, brushing leaves and earth out of her hair. Her head dropped on his shoulder. Netta thought from the sudden heaviness that her aunt had died, but she sighed and opened that one eye again, saying this time, “Doctor?” Netta left everyone doing the wrong things to her dying—no, her murdered—aunt. She said quite calmly into a telephone, “I am afraid that my aunt must have jumped or fallen from the second floor.”

  Jack found a letter
on his mother’s night table that began, “Why blame Netta? I forgive.” At dawn he and Netta sat at a card table with yesterday’s cigarettes still not cleaned out of the ashtray, and he did not ask what Netta had said or done that called for forgiveness. They kept pushing the letter back and forth. He would read it and then Netta would. It seemed natural for them to be silent. Jack had sat beside his mother for much of the night. Each of them then went to sleep for an hour, apart, in one of the empty rooms, just as they had done in the old days when their parents were juggling beds and guests and double and single quarters. By the time the doctor returned for his second visit Jack was neatly dressed and seemed wide awake. He sat in the bar drinking black coffee and reading a travel book of Evelyn Waugh’s called Labels. Netta, who looked far more untidy and underslept, wondered if Jack wished he might leave now, and sail from Monte Carlo on the Stella Polaris.

  Dr. Blackley said, “Well, you are a dim pair. She is not in pu-hain, you know.” Netta supposed this was the roundabout way doctors have of announcing death, very like “Her sufferings have ended.” But Jack, looking hard at the doctor, had heard another meaning. “Jumped or fell,” said Dr. Blackley. “She neither fell nor jumped. She is up there enjoying a damned good thu-hing.”

  Netta went out and through the lounge and up the marble steps. She sat down in the shaded room on the chair where Jack had spent most of the night. Her aunt did not look like anyone Netta knew, not even like Jack. She stared at the alien face and said, “Aunt Vera, Keith Blackley says there is nothing really the matter. You must have made a mistake. Perhaps you fainted on the path, overcome by the scent of wallflowers. What would you like me to tell Jack?”

  Jack’s mother turned on her side and slowly, tenderly, raised herself on an elbow. “Well, Netta,” she said, “I daresay the fool is right. But as I’ve been given quite a lot of sleeping stuff, I’d as soon stay here for now.”

  Netta said, “Are you hungry?”

  “I should very much like a ham sandwich on English bread, and about that much gin with a lump of ice.”

  She began coming down for meals a few days later. They knew she had crept down the stairs and flung her walking stick over the path and let herself fall hard on a bed of wallflowers—had even plucked her skirt up for a bit of accuracy; but she was also someone returned from beyond the limits, from the other side of the wall. Once she said, “It was like diving and suddenly realizing there was no water in the sea.” Again, “It is not true that your life rushes before your eyes. You can see the flowers floating up to you. Even a short fall takes a long time.”

  Everyone was deeply changed by this incident. The effect on the victim herself was that she got religion hard.

  “We are all hopeless nonbelievers!” shouted Iris, drinking in the bar one afternoon. “At least, I hope we are. But when I see you, Vera, I feel there might be something in religion. You look positively temperate.”

  “I am allowed to love God, I hope,” said Jack’s mother.

  Jack never saw or heard his mother anymore. He leaned against the bar, reading. It was his favorite place. Even on the sunniest of afternoons he read by the red-shaded light. Netta was present only because she had supplies to check. Knowing she ought to keep out of this, she still said, “Religion is more than love. It is supposed to tell you why you exist and what you are expected to do about it.”

  “You have no religious feelings at all?” This was the only serious and almost the only friendly question Iris was ever to ask Netta.

  “None,” said Netta. “I’m running a business.”

  “I love God as Jack used to love music,” said his mother. “At least he said he did when we were paying for lessons.”

  “Adam and Eve had God,” said Netta. “They had nobody but God. A fat lot of good that did them.” This was as far as their dialectic went. Jack had not moved once except to turn pages. He read steadily but cautiously now, as if every author had a design on him. That was one effect of his mother’s incident. The other was that he gave up bridge and went back to playing the clarinet. Iris hammered out an accompaniment on the upright piano in the old music room, mostly used for listening to radio broadcasts. She was the only person Netta had ever heard who could make Mozart sound like an Irish jig. Presently Iris began to say that it was time Jack gave a concert. Before this could turn into a crisis Iris changed her mind and said what he wanted was a holiday. Netta thought he needed something: He seemed to be exhausted by love, friendship, by being a husband, someone’s son, by trying to make a world out of reading and sense out of life. A visit to England to meet some stimulating people, said Iris. To help Iris with her tiresome father during the journey. To visit art galleries and bookshops and go to concerts. To meet people. To talk.

  This was a hot, troubled season, and many persons were planning journeys—not to meet other people but for fear of a war. The hotel had emptied out by the end of March. Netta, whose father had known there would never be another catastrophe, had her workmen come in, as usual. She could hear the radiators being drained and got ready for painting as she packed Jack’s clothes. They had never been separated before. They kept telling each other that it was only for a short holiday—for three or four weeks. She was surprised at how neat marriage was, at how many years and feelings could be folded and put under a lid. Once, she went to the window so that he would not see her tears and think she was trying to blackmail him. Looking out, she noticed the American, Chippendale’s lover, idly knocking a tennis ball against the garage, as Jack had done in the early summers of their life; he had come round to the hotel looking for a partner, but that season there were none. She suddenly knew to a certainty that if Jack were to die she would search the crowd of mourners for a man she could live with. She would not return from the funeral alone.

  Grief and memory, yes, she said to herself, but what about three o’clock in the morning?

  By June nearly everyone Netta knew had vanished, or, like the Blackleys, had started to pack. Netta had new tablecloths made, and ordered new white awnings, and two dozen rosebushes from the nursery at Cap Ferrat. The American came over every day and followed her from room to room, talking. He had nothing better to do. The Swiss twins were in England. His father, who had been backing his writing career until now, had suddenly changed his mind about it—now, when he needed money to get out of Europe. He had projects for living on his own, but they required a dose of funds. He wanted to open a restaurant on the Riviera where nothing but chicken pie would be served. Or else a vast and expensive café where people would pay to make their own sandwiches. He said that he was seeing the food of the future, but all that Netta could see was customers asking for their money back. He trapped her behind the bar and said he loved her; Netta made other women look like stuffed dolls. He could still remember the shock of meeting her, the attraction, the brilliant answer she had made to Iris about attachments to the past.

  Netta let him rave until he asked for a loan. She laughed and wondered if it was for the chicken-pie restaurant. No—he wanted to get on a boat sailing from Cannes. She said, quite cheerfully, “I can’t be Venus and Barclays Bank. You have to choose.”

  He said, “Can’t Venus ever turn up with a letter of credit?”

  She shook her head. “Not a hope.”

  But when it was July and Jack hadn’t come back, he cornered her again. Money wasn’t in it now: His father had not only relented but had virtually ordered him home. He was about twenty-two, she guessed. He could still plead successfully for parental help and for indulgence from women. She said, no more than affectionately, “I’m going to show you a very pretty room.”

  A few days later Dr. Blackley came alone to say good-bye.

  “Are you really staying?” he asked.

  “I am responsible for the last eighty-one years of this lease,” said Netta. “I’m going to be thirty. It’s a long tenure. Besides, I’ve got Jack’s mother and she won’t leave. Jack has a chance now to visit America. It doesn’t sound sensible to me, but
she writes encouraging him. She imagines him suddenly very rich and sending for her. I’ve discovered the limit of what you can feel about people. I’ve discovered something else,” she said abruptly. “It is that sex and love have nothing in common. Only a coincidence, sometimes. You think the coincidence will go on and so you get married. I suppose that is what men are born knowing and women learn by accident.”

  “I’m su-horry.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t be. It’s a relief.”

  She had no feeling of guilt, only of amazement. Jack, as a memory, was in a restricted area—the tennis courts, the cardroom, the bar. She saw him at bridge with Mrs. Blackley and pouring drinks for temporary friends. He crossed the lounge jauntily with a cluster of little dark-haired girls wearing blue. In the mirrored bedroom there was only Netta. Her dreams were cleansed of him. The looking glasses still held their blue-and-silver-water shadows, but they lost the habit of giving back the moods and gestures of a Moslem wife.

  About five years after this, Netta wrote to Jack. The war had caught him in America, during the voyage his mother had so wanted him to have. His limp had kept him out of the Army. As his mother (now dead) might have put it, all that reading had finally got him somewhere: He had spent the last years putting out a two-pager on aspects of European culture—part of a scrupulous effort Britain was making for the West. That was nearly all Netta knew. A Belgian Red Cross official had arrived, apparently in Jack’s name, to see if she was still alive. She sat in her father’s business room, wearing a coat and a shawl because there was no way of heating any part of the hotel now, and she tried to get on with the letter she had been writing in her head, on and off, for many years.

  “In June, 1940, we were evacuated,” she started, for the tenth or eleventh time. “I was back by October. Italians had taken over the hotel. They used the mirror behind the bar for target practice. Oddly enough it was not smashed. It is covered with spiderwebs, and the bullet hole is the spider. I had great trouble over Aunt Vera, who disappeared and was found finally in one of the attic rooms.