Second Generation (25 page)

Sarah and May Ling prepared food, and May Ling explained to Sarah, "You see, she never learned English. She speaks a dialect called Shanghainese. So who will talk to her? That's the most terrible part of it."

Joe had returned to school. Dan sat in the living room with Sam Goldberg, who was recalling the day they bought the
Oregon Queen,
that first almost mythical, iron ship on which the empire of Levy and Lavette was built. Feng Wo had brought his abacus with him then, and when Swenson, the owner of the
Oregon Queen,
proposed that they buy his two garbage scows along with the iron lumber freighter, the abacus became as active as a modern computer. Goldberg remembered how the kids had gathered around to watch with awe as Feng Wo added, subtracted, and multiplied on what Dan had called his "Chinee harp."

"They were all there, weren't they," Goldberg said, "Steve Cassala and his kid sister—what was her name?"

"Rosa."

"Right, and Clair Harvey and Jake Levy and Martha Levy, all the kids."

"I remember," Dan said.

"Well, it's gone. God Almighty, the world changes. Only thirty-two years since the big earthquake, and the whole world's different. Do you think we'll have a war, Danny?"

"I've thought of it. You know, it was the last war that made us millionaires. Christ, when I think of it, it sours my gut. Still and all, that Nazi bastard won't be satisfied. Sooner or later, he'll want the whole hog."

"You don't want any part of it, do you, Danny?"

"None."

"Still, if we couldn't stay out of it, where would they find the ships?"

"That's not my worry."

"What do you hear from Barbara?"

"We got a long letter. Jake and Clair were over there, and that let the cat out of the bag." He smiled ruefully. "She's in love, or so she writes, with a French journalist. She says she intends to marry him."

"And live in France?"

"God knows. I hope not. I miss her. On a day like this— Christ, it eats my heart out the way I miss her."

May Ling came into the room, leaned over Dan, and kissed him gently. "I've been meaning to say this since papa died. I'm in your debt for a great deal, my husband."

"For what, May Ling? For all the years of grief?"

"For all the years of love. But something else—for what you gave papa. You gave him his manhood. Without that, life is wasted, the way thousands of Chinese here live wasted lives. His life wasn't wasted. And I thank you for that."

She went back into the kitchen. Dan said slowly, "You know, Sam, she's Chinese. She's the second generation in this country, and she's still Chinese."

"She's also a very remarkable woman."

"She is. She certainly is."

The earliest train to Toulouse was a sleeper, which arrived there the following morning. Barbara was thankful to have had the compartment to herself,' with no one to intrude on her thoughts except a solicitous wagon-lits conductor, a London cockney who assumed that every American or British girl traveling alone on the Continent was in constant and mortal danger. She read Marcel's letter again and again. The end of it troubled her. An ambulance had picked him up, and then he was in the hospital in Toulouse. Even with a bullet wound in the leg, he should have been able to limp—unless it struck the bone. She had read somewhere that a bullet striking the bone in the leg makes the most devastating type of wound. What had happened at the end of the letter? Was he simply tired of reliving the experience?

She compared his letter with the story in
Le Monde.
The headline read:
LE MONDE CORRESPONDENT WITNESSES THE

GALLANT FORAY OF AN AMERICAN BATTALION
The Story

was longer than the letter and it went into more detail, and
Le Monde
provided background material on both Doran and Merryman. The facts of the battle with the German detachment were more explicit, as was the story of their progress through the Italian division. And there it ended. She read and reread both pieces until she could repeat most of it by heart. She had telephoned the hospital last night, but only a night nurse was on duty, and she could give out no sensible information. Now she regretted that she hadn't called again before she rushed off to catch the train. The train was impossible, slow, tortuous, stopping again and again. How much of her life had been spent on trains! They were lonely places that trapped her and forced her to examine the innermost recesses of her being. And she had brought nothing to read, nothing but the letter and the copy of
Le Monde.
Anyway, she did not want to read or divert herself. She wanted to be with the man she loved, and she wanted to recreate him lovingly in her mind, each part of him—the way he thought, the way he smiled, the way he touched her, the thin wrinkles that curled around either side of his mouth, the way he spoke English, mangling words and sentences, the time he bought a straw boater to do an imitation of Maurice Chevalier, their endless walks through the streets of Paris, the time they charmed a barge captain on the St.-Martin Canal and then drifted through an afternoon on that incredible, dreamily improbable waterway—all the days and weeks that they had been with each other, examining each other, finding each other. They were both so far from home, so free, so uninhibited in their giving.

She fell asleep. The wagon-lits man awakened her to make up her bed. Didn't she care for dinner? The thought of food was impossible. "I am certainly the most over-emotional, neurotic woman in the world," she told herself. Then she forced herself to go into the dining car and order dinner. A diaper salesman sat opposite her, a fat, jolly man as pink as a baby himself. What an extraordinary way to earn a living, she thought, listening to him pour out the tales of his trade. He chattered through the whole meal, and she was relieved to have something to divert her thoughts.

She slept poorly that night, awakening each time the train stopped, and then lying awake, listening to the sound of the wheels. She was up and dressed with the first light of dawn, waiting eagerly with her single small suitcase as the train pulled into Toulouse. A taxi took her to the Hospital of the Sacred Heart, a cream-colored stucco building on the edge of the city, and, still carrying her suitcase, she told the nurse at the admissions desk that she wished to see Marcel Duboise. The woman regarded Barbara dubiously and then stared at the suitcase.

"I've just come from the Paris train. I didn't want to stop at a hotel. Can I put this somewhere?" "It will be safe enough right here. Are you Monsieur Duboise's wife?"

"T will be—when we marry."

Again the Woman stared at her. In sympathy or annoyance? "What is your name?" she asked.

"Barbara Lavette."

"Mademoiselle Lavette, the visits are restricted to members of Monsieur Duboise's family. He's a very sick man. Those are the doctor's orders."

"I am as close as any member of his family," Barbara said, her voice hardening. "I want to see him now."

The woman regarded her thoughtfully, then nodded. "Very well. Try not to tire him. The sister will take you there." She motioned to another nurse who stood nearby. "Take her to Monsieur Duboise."

Barbara followed the nurse down a corridor, up a staircase, and along another corridor. She had never been in a French hospital before. This place was cloisterlike in its stark white severity.

'His father and mother are here," the sister told Barbara.

"Oh? Where are they? With him?"

"There is a sitting room at the end of this corridor. I saw them there before. Shall I tell them you're here?"

"I suppose so."

"What is your name, Mademoiselle?"

"Barbara Lavette."

"Here." She opened the door for her.

Barbara went into the room, white, white counterpane on the bed, an arched window with sunlight trickling through the slats of the blind, making a pattern on the bed; and Marcel lying there, very still, his eyes closed, his face drawn, his skin white.

She walked softly to the bed. Could such a change take place in a matter of weeks? His hands lay on the counterpane, thin, fleshless.

Then he opened his eyes and saw her, closed his eyes again, opened them, and whispered, "I have been feverish. This is a hallucination?"

"No, my dear darling." She bent and kissed his lips.

"Barbara?"

"Yes, Barbara."

He reached up to touch her face. "You're real. I am not delirious."

"Very real, my darling."

"You never were before."

"Always. Always real."

"Thank God. Everything is proper now."

"Everything."

"You won't go away?"

"From you? Never." She laid her hand on his cheek. It was hot to her touch.

"When did you get here?"

"This morning, on the train from Paris."

"We'll go to Hermes and I'll pick out a purse for you. You never let me buy you things."

"Yes."

"After lunch. First, lunch. Then we take the afternoon off and cheat the monsters of
Le Monde.
That's good, isn't it? The monsters of the world."

"Marcel," she whispered, "Marcel."

"We'll find a new place and charge the paper. I'll review them. The souffle is noble but the traffic, the traffic—" He closed his eyes, and his voice dropped to a mumble of meaningless sound. The door opened. A small, bald man with a pince-nez entered the room, tapped Barbara on the shoulder, and nodded toward the door. She followed him out into the corridor, her heart sinking.

"I am Dr. Lazaire," he said to her. "And you are Barbara Lavette."

"Yes."

"I hope you are not a hysterical young woman."

"Not when it matters."

"This matters. I know all about you. He has told me, and his mother and father have told me. Now listen to what I have to say. Your young man had the bone in his leg, the femur, splintered by a bullet. A very serious wound, and not properly attended to before he arrived here. He is suffering from what we call 'spreading gangrene.' Under the best conditions, such a wound is very serious, but in that ghastly situation in Spain, their medical services are primitive. Now, understand me. His leg must be amputated. It should have been done five days ago, immediately when he came here, but he refused permission. Now you must understand clearly. This is not an amputation at the knee but at the thigh. It may already be too late. I am not the surgeon but the Duboise family doctor. I brought this young man into the world, so it means something to me. If another night passes without the operation, he will almost certainly die, and even if we operate immediately, I can guarantee nothing. He is very weak, and he may not survive the amputation. He says he will not live in that condition, and we cannot amputate without his consent. His mother and father have pleaded with him, but to no avail. Now you are his beloved and pledged to him. I must ask you this. If the amputation takes place, will you still marry him?"

Moments went by before Barbara could reply. She felt a hollow sickness, a hopelessness such as she had never known before. Curiously, she did not weep. She tried to make an image in her mind of the man without the leg.

"That's not the question," she blurted out. "The operation must take place. You must not let him die."

"That is the question. You must know the answer and he must know it."

"I love him. The answer is yes. Yes!"

"Good. Now go back into the room. Don't be tender with him. Part of the delirium is a matter of will. He can slide into it as a retreat from reality. I want you to shock him. Don't be afraid to shout, to become angry, to make him angry. You will be fighting for his life. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"Go ahead then. His mother and father want to meet you, but that can wait. This is more important."

Barbara went back into the room. Marcel lay there with his eyes closed. "Marcel!" she said. He opened his eyes and stared at her. "Marcel, we must talk."

He shook his head and closed his eyes.

"Marcel!" She sat on the edge of the bed and laid her hand on his hot cheek. "Marcel, listen to me! When I say I love you, I am repeating an old cliche. But those are the only words I have. You are my flesh and my blood. You are the first man I ever loved, the only man. We know each other. You knew me before you ever spoke to me. Now if you die, a part of me dies. I don't give a damn about your leg. I don't love your leg. I love you."

"Who told you?"

"Well, who do you think told me? Dr. Lazaire told me. And I want you to do it, now!"

"No."

"Don't say no to me. What gives you the right to say no?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head tiredly.

"No! Don't go away from me! Damnit, we are going to talk about this. You've wasted enough time dreaming."