Forgetfulness (7 page)

Can you believe it? Granger said. Don't you think it's droll?

The Military Cross! And I don't remember a thing. The day's a blank, except for the weather and the fish smell and the sense of inevitability. It's as if July 1 were a dream.

What do you suppose I did to deserve the MC? Or didn't do.

I suppose it's not wise to inquire too closely. But—what do you suppose happened to the medal?

He said, I imagine it's buried with Adrian. Brother Adrian was a history buff with a particular interest in the Irish question. To which, I may add, he had no answer. I fancy the Military Cross redeemed me in Adrian's eyes. Do you suppose he was just the slightest bit tempted to tell them I was alive after all and on the run in Europe and then deciding finally, no, what was the point? Raking old leaves.

Officially alone now in the world, Granger was free to chart his own course. He made his way north to San Sebastian, stayed awhile, then pressed west through the French hill towns until he found
himself in St. Michel du Valcabrère. He put up at the auberge, struck at once by the lovely valley that ran into the high Pyrenees, disappearing into the Spanish summits. There was one road into the village. The inhabitants kept to themselves and were not inquisitive. There seemed to him no good reason to move on, and so in October 1920 he bought the farmhouse and settled in for what turned out to be a very long furlough.

When Thomas came downstairs at last, most of the guests were leaving or had gone. Bernhard and Russ were cleaning up in the kitchen. He said a few words to each of the friends who remained. They were ill at ease, at a loss what to say, their expressions genuinely aggrieved. Thomas's haggard appearance was not encouraging. No one stayed more than a few minutes and finally only Ghislaine, severe in a black dress and one of Florette's cardigan sweaters, was left.

I'm so sorry, Ghislaine said.

I know, Thomas said. Me too.

Monsieur Granger and now Madame. Both in one week. It's a horror.

Yes, Thomas said. It is that.

She had so many friends. All of them came to pay respects. I will come tomorrow to clean. And each week thereafter if you would like me to.

Yes, that would be fine.

I know how Madame likes things done.

I know you do.

Madame was meticulous.

Thomas suppressed a smile because Florette hated housework and meticulous would not be the word when she got around to it. Yes, of course, Thomas said.

I will charge you the usual rate.

Fine, Thomas said.

Au revoir, Monsieur.

Tomorrow, then, Thomas said and closed the door. He stood
with his hand on the knob, realizing that he had come within a heartbeat of raising his voice, calling to Florette, Do you want Ghislaine to come and clean tomorrow, chérie? And waiting patiently for her answer, which likely would have been no. She thought Ghislaine was a snoop. Probably that would be the way of things for a while, speaking aloud to empty rooms, brewing tisane for two, buying dinner for two, buying women's shampoo in the pharmacy and
Paris-Match
at the newsstand. When he realized at last that she was no longer with him and that this was for keeps, the knowledge would come as no comfort at all. That would mean she was absent from the background as well as the foreground. Of their intimate life together Thomas refused to undress himself. Aphrodite herself could not lure him. He was, for the time being, endimanché, the lovely French word that meant buttoned up in your Sunday best.

Meanwhile, there were the elephants to consider, the family photographs, the mementos, her cosmetics in the bathroom, the six varieties of shampoo, and the soap in various pastel shades. In time he would become accustomed to living alone, buying for one, and that would hurt just as much, more really, because there would be nothing to wait for except a miracle, and miracles were not in his repertoire. The mountain would always be in his vision when he was working unless he chose to turn his easel to the wall, and still he would be unable to forget, and he was a man who forgot things all the time. He was a champion forgetter. The mountain would be a predictable presence, benign, enduring, lush in the summer and barren in the winter, impassable in all seasons. The villagers called it Big Papa, a kindly massif when treated with respect. Watch the weather forecast, never trek after dark, avoid the higher elevations, beware the sullen mountain gods. Thomas was standing with his hands pressed against the door as if the mountain somehow sought admittance. It was inside his house anyhow.

How had this come to pass?

He and Bernhard and Russ hadn't seen one another for nearly a year. They were telling stories, laughing so hard they didn't hear
Florette when she called to tell them she was going for a walk. He knew she'd called. She always had before. She would never leave the house without telling him where she was going and when she would return but Russ was in the middle of one of his Washington stories, a respected senator fallen on hard times, the usual mischief and bad timing; so they had not heard Florette. I'm going for a walk, back in an hour. Stupid of him, unimaginably careless. But when Russ finished his senator story, Bernhard had one about an ambassador and an astrologer, the ambassador grown slack and torpid in the heat of Southwest Asia, losing his bearings, searching for consolation in the astrological houses, his cables to the State Department ever more obtuse and bad-tempered, and then he disappeared into the northern mountains, apparently kidnapped, held for ransom. Special Operations wanted to dispatch a team but the secretary of state counseled caution, thinking something along the lines of "The Ransom of Red Chief." Soon enough the ambassador would wear them out and the kidnappers would capitulate—

When Thomas wandered into the kitchen to look for Florette he surmised she had gone for a walk and would return soon, for the sun was low in the sky and the air smelled of snow. She had stacked the dishes and pulled another bottle of Corbières from the cave. He stepped into the yard to wait for her, noting at once the evening chill. When the sun disappeared, all warmth disappeared with it and he stood worrying in the cold with his empty wineglass, staring hard at the road and the path that led away from it, knowing—not all at once but gradually as the light failed—that something was wrong because she was not in sight. He scanned Big Papa from base to summit, left and right, looking for any movement or flash of color, but the distance was great and the mountain vast. She could be anywhere. Even so, the massif looked as empty and useless as the glass in his hand. He shivered in the cold and took a step forward, calling her name. The sound of his voice echoed in the valley, rising and repeating, expiring at last as darkness continued to gather. Then he had the idea she had gone into the village on an errand but when he looked into the garage their car was still there, so he called again and
again with no result. He was furious with her, behaving so recklessly. She thought of the mountain as her private reserve, having lived in its shadow since she was a child. Then he remembered her telling him about malevolent mountain gods punishing trespassers, superstitious nonsense. He remembered looking up and seeing headlights on the road but the headlights disappeared. Night fell like a curtain and he realized he was sweating.

When Thomas turned from the door, pushing off from it, he found Bernhard Sindelar and Russ Conlon emerging from the guest room with their suitcases, Russ leading the way—Bernhard, half a head taller, much wider in the shoulders, filling the doorway behind him.

Russ smiled. You look like you just saw a ghost.

Thomas poured them each a glass of wine and said, I was thinking about Granger.

Funny, Bernhard said. From the look on your face I would have sworn it was Florette. Bet money on it.

It was Granger, Thomas said.

He was a good scout, Russ said.

He lived too long, Bernhard said.

Why do you think he lived too long?

He was worn out, Thomas.

No, he wasn't. He went to bed and didn't wake up.

Same thing, Bernhard said.

I think he was a hundred and six, Thomas said.

Yes, you told us.

Thomas poured wine for himself and they clicked glasses, saying what they always said on such occasions.

LaBarre.

LaBarre.

LaBarre, Thomas said. Granger, too.

He watched Bernhard check the time and glance out the window. Their taxi was due to arrive any time. Bernhard and Russ were eager to be on their way and Thomas was no less eager to have them gone, to reclaim his house once again, listen to the clock tick if it
came to that. He wanted to get back to work and just then remembered a remark of de Kooning's, who loved his brushes and canvases so much he could sit and watch paint dry. A sudden chill came on the room, the fireplace gone cold, the long sofa and the chairs surrounding it unoccupied, the coffee table heavy-laden with empty wineglasses and the ceramic ashtrays Florette favored. The remains of a cheese board and heels of bread littered the dining room table. He loved the spaciousness of the room, its high ceiling and whitewashed walls, wide windows looking up the valley. An oversized poster of Piaf in full throat hung on the wall near the dining room table, his portrait of Florette over the fireplace. The two stared at each other from opposite ends of the room. Quite suddenly Thomas had a tremendous desire to hear cabaret music, Piaf, Mabel Mercer, Billie Holiday. He wanted the room filled with music, music turned low, city music, barroom music that conjured dimly lit memories. Then he could sit like de Kooning and watch paint dry. But first he had to get his friends out of the house. Thomas said, I want to thank you both for staying on. Changing your plans. Helping out. It means a lot to me.

Bernhard drew back. You know how much we cared for Florette.

I couldn't have managed without you two.

We don't like leaving now, Russ said.

I'll be all right. I'll call in a few days.

Stay in touch, Russ said.

I will. Count on it.

Bernhard cleared his throat and said, You're going to be lonely here. Florette, of course. Florette most of all and indispensably. But Granger, too. Your dinners together, billiards, conversation with someone who'd led the sort of life you understand. Where you don't have to explain the references—

Granger didn't talk much, Thomas said.

—and winter's coming on.

But we were good friends, Thomas said.

Hard to make friends at our age, Russ said.

Impossible, Bernhard said. You can't get through the preliminaries, too much has already gone by. Where you come from. Who you know, who you don't. What you do for a living and how long you've done it.

LaBarre, Russ said, raising his glass.

Our case, Bernhard said, the government.

Yes, Russ said. That, too.

So you invent stories, Bernhard said with a smile.

Granger never did, Thomas said. Someone asked him where he came from, he said he couldn't remember. Someone asked him what he did, he said a little of this and a little of that, and if they pressed him, he said he managed his investments. And then he changed the subject.

So, Russ said after a moment. I suppose you'll go back to work.

Right away, Thomas said.

You'll need more than work, Bernhard said.

No, Thomas said.
You
need more than work. I'm content.

I don't think content is the word you mean, Thomas.

I'll think of a better one when I get around to it.

We're wondering how you'll get on day to day, Bernhard said. This place is pretty remote. You're way off the beaten track. Are you sure you belong here? Is this really your place, without Florette and without Granger? Only your work to keep you company? Sounds lonely to me.

Oh, it's my place all right.

You know you're welcome at my flat in London. Come when you want, stay as long as you like.

Thomas nodded but did not reply.

Bernhard peeked out the window. Where's the damn cab?

Russ said, Do you think we should call?

He'll be here, Thomas said.

Anyway, will you think about it?

I will, Thomas said. I surely will.

Bernhard's flat was in South Kensington, around the corner from Harrods, four small, ill-lit, badly heated rooms so situated that sunlight never touched the interior. The neighborhood was crowded
with shoppers. Four young Englishmen involved in the Portuguese wine trade lived raucously in the flat above and when the noise became insupportable Bernhard went up and joined them, usually returning with one of the young women who were always about. Bernhard kept his fridge well stocked with champagne and Iranian caviar, or it had been the last time Thomas visited. The telephone rang day and night, friends, or friends of friends, or someone from he government asking for a favor. When he wasn't on the telephone, Bernhard was hunched over his computer, reading his e-mail and hacking into various private accounts, "keeping abreast of things." Bernhard's apartment was always busy with ringing telephones and messengers arriving with mysterious packages. The atmosphere combined the towel-slap of the locker room with the feral anticipation of the casino.

I've gotten used to the country, Thomas said after a moment. I like the hours, the weather, the pace of things, the silence. Florette—but he could not remember what it was he wanted to say about Florette. It was something she had said about the pleasures of living in a valley surrounded on all sides. He went on, I came for a summer, just fetched up the way Granger had in 1920. I was dead tired and depressed, too. God, it had been an awful year. The year of the Spaniard, as you'll recall—

Bernhard shuffled his feet and said, No need to mention that.

Thomas said, Why not?

It's private, Bernhard said.

You know the rules, Russ said.

Too bad the Spaniard didn't.

Really, Thomas, Bernhard said. Basta.

Think about Bernhard's offer, Russ said.

The apartment's there any time you want it, Bernhard said. I fixed the heat, by the way.