CHAPTER II!

"Has M. Vigot been to see you?" Phuong asked. "Yes. He left a quarter of an hour ago. Was the film

good?" She had already laid out the tray in the bedroom and

now she was lighting the lamp. "It was very sad," she said, "but the colours were lovely. What did M. Vigot want ?" "He wanted to ask me some questions." "What about?"

"This and that. I don't think he will bother me again." "I like films with happy endings best," Phuong said.

"Are you ready to smoke?"

"Yes." I lay down on the bed and Phuongset to work with her needle. She said, "They cut off the girl's head." "What a strange thing to do." "It was in the French Revolution." "Oh. Historical. I see." "It was very sad all the same." "I can't worry much about people in history." "And her lover-he went back to his garret-and he was miserable and he wrote a song-you see, he was a poet, and soon all people who had cut off the head of his girl were singing his song. It was the Marseillaise." "It doesn't sound very historical," I said. "He stood there at the edge of the crowd while they were singing, and he looked very bitter and when he smiled you knew he was even more bitter and that he was thinking of her. I cried a lot and so did my sister." "Your sister? I can't believe it."

"She is very sensitive. That horrid man Granger was there. He was drunk and he kept on laughing. But it was not funny at all. It was sad."

"I don't blame him," I sai.d. "He has something to celebrate. His son's out of danger. I heard today at the Continental. I like happy endings too." , After I had,smoked two pipes I lay back with my neck on the leather pillow and rested my handinPbuong's lap. "Are you happy?"

"O'f course," she said carelessly. I hadn't deserved a more considerate answer. "li's like it used to be," I lied, "a year ago." "Yes"

"You haven't bought a scarf for a long time. Why don't you go shopping tomorrow?" "It isa'feast day." "0hyes,ofcourse,lforgot."

"You haven't opened your telegram," Phuong said. "No, I'd forgotten that too. I don't want to think about v^ork tonight. And it's too late to file anything now. Tel] me more about the film."

"Well, her lover tried to rescue her from prison. He smuggled in boy's clothes and a man's caplike the one the goaler wore, but just as she was passing the gate all her hair fell down and they called out 'Une aristocrate,* une aristocrate.' I think that was a mistake in the story. They ought to have let her escape. Then they would both have made a lot of money with his song and they would have gone abroad to America-or England," she added with what she thought was cunning.

"I'd better read the telegram," I said. "I hope to God:l don't have to go north tomorrow. I want to be quiet with you."

She loosed the envelope from among the pots of cream and gave it to me. I opened it and read: "Have thought over your letter again stop am acting irrationally as you hoped stop have told my lawyer start divorce proceedings grounds desertion stop God bless you affectionately Helen." "Doyouhavetogo?"

"No," I said, "I don't have to go. I'll read it to you. Here's your happy ending." She jumped from the bed. "But it is wonderful. I must go and tell my sister. She'll be so pleased. I will say to her, 'Do you know who I am? I am the second Mrs. Fowlaire.' " Opposite me in the bookcase The Role of the West stood out like a cabinet portrait-of a young man with a crew-cut and a black dog at his heels. He could harm no one any more. I said to Phuong, "Do you miss him much?" "Who?"

"Pyle." Strange how even now, even to her, it was impossible to use his first name. ,

,

"Can I go, please? My sister will be so excited." "You spoke his name once in your sleep." "I never remember my dreams."

"There was so much you could have done together. He was young." "You are not old."

"The skyscrapers. The Empire State Building."* She said with a small hesitation, "I want to see the Cheddar Gorge."*

"It isn't the Grand Canyon."* I pulled her down on to the bed. "I'm sorry, Phuong."

"What are you sorry for? It is a wonderful telegram. My sister. -."

"Yes, go and tell your sister. Kiss me first." Her excited mouth skated over my face, and she was gone.

I thought of the first day and Pyle sitting beside me at the Continental, with his eye on the soda-fountain across the way. Everything had gone right with me since he had died, but how I wished there existed someone to whom I could say that I was sorry. March 1952-Jane 1955,


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