Sincerely, Willis Wayde (68 page)

“I think they are all just wonderful, Mr. Wayde,” she said, “especially the one to Mrs. Ewing. That one, I think, is especially lovely.”

“Thanks, Mazie,” Willis said. “At any rate, no one can say I didn't try.” And then he changed the subject. As he had said to Bess, it was always better to be looking forward, and he had not forgotten the surprise for Sylvia.

“I wonder if you'd slip the travel folders and our itinerary for May and June into my briefcase so I can take them home with me,” Willis said. “I want to show them to Mrs. Wayde. Now that this Harcourt matter is settled, I believe we can keep the schedule. Mazie, would you see if Mrs. Wayde can be reached at home?”

By the time that Sylvia was on the telephone Willis was deep in the travel file. Though it was only November and they would not be leaving until May, he seemed already to be on the threshold of a wonderful experience.

“Sylvia,” he said half playfully, but still seriously, “how would it be if you and I took a trip to Europe? Not immediately, but next May and June.… No, I'm serious about this one, honey, just you and me, and nothing for you to worry about because I have everything arranged already. We have a suite on the veranda deck of the
Elizabeth
, and a car and chauffeur to meet us at Cherbourg, and reservations at the Ritz in Paris. I'll bring the full details back with me tonight, sweetness. It's sort of like the story of the magic carpet, isn't it? All the things we've talked about for so long being brought to pass. So beginning now, we've got to be making our plans, Mrs. Wayde.”

It was strange, he was thinking, that they had delayed that dream so long, and that they had never been to Europe, in spite of all their conversations. The war, of course, had intervened, and after the war one thing had seemed to follow another, but at last life seemed to be on an even keel. Besides, he had been invited to attend the Paris convention of International Industrial Production in June. This was really a must, and old P.L. himself had said that Willis really ought to go. Besides, he and Sylvia had always dreamed of Paris.

XXX

It was not fair to say that Stephen Decker was unfriendly to Willis Wayde, because the word “unfriendly” was too definite, and indefiniteness had come to be one of Steve's outstanding weaknesses, when he had been able to retire after his father's death. It was not fair, either, to say that Steve disliked Willis, because he was too easygoing to dislike anyone aggressively. But then, as he always said when he described the time he and his wife, May, met the Waydes at a sidewalk café on the Champs Elysées, he had never liked Willis very much.

The Deckers ran into the Waydes in Paris late one June afternoon. There was no place like Paris, Steve pointed out, to create cleavages of taste between men and women. Just when you had an opportunity to participate mildly in a Continental way of life, women became seized with a thirst for culture. That very morning May had expressed a wish to motor through the château country—a very girlish desire, and May no longer was in pigtails.

“But, Steve,” she said, “we can't ever be sure when we are going to be able to leave the children again.”

“That's exactly it,” Steve said.

“I don't see any use in coming here,” May said, “and then playing dominoes with an old man in a
brasserie
—and don't make a joke and call it a brassiere.”

There had been a time when May would have been amused by this mild humor, but now she wanted to get something out of their trip to Europe, and the days were going by with absolutely nothing worthwhile to show for them. To prove her point she went on to say that all Steve wanted to do was to look in the shop windows of the rue de Rivoli, and read off-color jokes embroidered on ladies' handkerchiefs—in English, of course, for the American trade:

Oh, please do not kiss me

Oh, please do not kiss

Oh, please do not

Oh, please do

Oh, please

Oh.

He might at least try not to be an adolescent himself. There was no reason for Steve to be so utterly American.

“We haven't even seen Sainte Chapelle,” she said, with an impeccable accent, since as a
jeune fille
she had spent a year with a French family in Paris on the rue de l'Université. He had compromised that morning by going with May to Sainte Chapelle. She, in turn, had compromised that afternoon by attending the races at Longchamp, in a car which she knew cost them twice too much, but there was not much room for argument, because he had won ten thousand francs.

It must have been close to six when they returned from Longchamp. The sun was low and made the Champs Elysées, in spots, a golden street.

“Let's pay off the driver,” Steve said, “and stop at the café over there and have a bottle of champagne.”

“Oh, Steve,” May said, “at least we might stop at some interesting place. There used to be a lovely little place near the Luxembourg Gardens that only the French knew about. This one will be full of Americans.”

He could see that May was right. It was exactly the sort of café that would attract American tourists. It seemed to Steve that American women in Paris, especially May, enjoyed pretending that they were Continentals.

“How would it be,” he asked, “if we pretended we were Americans for an hour?”

May was amused, in a cosmopolitan way.

“You don't have to pretend. You really don't,” May said, “and please don't try to ask for the wine card in French.”

They sat down in wicker chairs beneath the café awning, and the babble of voices around them was very cosmopolitan.

“
Gorçon,
” Steve said, “
la carte des vins, s'il vous plaît
.”

“Well,” May said, “at least the children aren't here to hear you.… I told you that this place would be full of Americans.”

May was right as usual. There were several middle-aged American groups around them, all identified beyond any chance of error. The men wore expressions of confused discomfort, and each of the women seemed to be living in her own small world of fantasy.

“I don't see why American men invariably look undistinguished,” May said.

Instinctively Steve sat up straighter.

“Maybe they're tired,” he said, “at the end of a long hard day.”

“They might try not to look tired,” May said, “and they don't all have to look as though they were doing mental arithmetic.”

“They have to,” Steve said. “They're all changing dollars into francs.”

“If we were to speak to any of them,” May said, “they would all say just the same thing.” May looked around her serenely, conscious that at least she was not an ordinary American. “They all might just as well have stayed at home. None of them is getting anything out of being here.… Steve, look directly behind you.”

“Why?” he asked.

“There's a very nice distinguished-looking couple directly behind you, and I think we've seen them somewhere.”

“How do you mean, they're distinguished?” Steve asked.

“Well, she's exquisitely dressed,” May said, “and he looks interested in everything, and he has a nice profile, and I like the way he smiles. He's in a gray flannel suit that's really well-cut, and he has grayish-blond hair, and he sits up straight.”

“Maybe he's a Britisher,” Steve said.

“No,” May said, “but I think his clothes were made in London, and he has such a nice smile. He's smiling at her now. I wish you'd turn around. They're four tables directly behind you.”

“How do you know he isn't British?” Steve asked. “Does he look cornfed?”

“No,” May said, “no. He has very heavy tortoise-shell glasses, and those aren't British. He's reading her something out of a guidebook. An Englishman wouldn't do that, at least not in that way.”

“In what way?” Steve said.

“In an intense sort of way,” May said.

“Maybe he's a Swede,” Steve said.

“No,” May said, “and I'm almost sure I've seen him before. Please turn around, but don't do it too quickly, because they're looking at us. He's taken off his glasses.”

Steve pushed his chair sideways, turning his head slowly, and there, four tables away, was Willis Wayde.

“Well, well,” Steve said.

“You know him, do you?” May asked.

He nodded and picked up his glass.

“Yes, I know him,” he said. “He's Willis Wayde.”

“Oh,” May said, “of course he is. Steve, aren't you going to speak to them? Ask them to come and join us.”

“Now, listen, May,” Steve said, “where would it get us?”

“You always have an inferiority complex about anyone interesting,” May said.

Her voice made him squirm in his wicker chair.

“Now, listen, May,” he said, “I don't like to push myself on people.”

“I wish you wouldn't be small-town,” May said. “You sound small-town.”

“All right,” Steve said, “all right, but he and I don't know each other any more.”

“Aren't you even curious?” May asked.

“No,” said Steve.

“But you always talk about the time you used to know him,” May said. “Don't you care what happened to him?”

“Everybody knows what happened to him.”

“Steve,” May said, “can't you be natural for once, in a perfectly friendly way? Can't you walk over to that table and say …”

“Say what?” Steve asked.

“Just say, ‘You're Willis Wayde, aren't you? I'm Steve Decker. We used to know each other back in Clyde.'”

Steve sighed.

“And then I'd say, ‘I remember your wife too. Don't you remember me, Sylvia? I used to know you in Cambridge, Massachusetts.'”

“You never told me you knew her,” May said.

“You never asked me,” Steve answered. “She was Sylvia Hodges. It doesn't matter, May.”

“You've never told me anything about her,” May said.

“There isn't anything to tell,” Steve answered. “They were a family that lived off Brattle Street. Bill Harcourt brought Willis around, and Willis finally married Sylvia.”

“Bill Harcourt?” May repeated.

“Yes,” Steve said, “Bill Harcourt.”

The names had a strange sound in the café.

“Steve, I'm tired of seeing you acting scared,” May said.

“Who?” Steve asked. “Me? Of the Waydes?”

“Then go ahead and speak to them,” May said.

“All right,” Steve said, “all right.”

He wished that he could make it clear to May that he did not have an inferiority complex. The physical problem of threading his way past a few tables to reach the spot directly behind him was not only a problem of time and space but one of human relationship, which involved a strain on memory. It was a little like trying to get a home motion picture into focus and on the center of the screen.

Steve had only seen Sylvia once since she had married, and Sylvia was no longer dressed in a tweedy shirtwaist way. Once she had told him she did not like jewelry, but now she wore a diamond-and-sapphire clip that looked inconspicuous but expensive against the scarf around her throat. Steve had never thought of her as being particularly pretty, except occasionally when they had been arguing about something, but now her features looked more distinguished.

He would have known Sylvia anywhere and also he would have known Willis, but Willis, too, looked more distinguished. It was hard to remember that he had ever been awkward and that his hair had been frequently overlong. He still looked young but no longer naïve or hesitant or impelled to make nervous efforts to be agreeable. Everything about him was under control, and after all, why not? The Waydes were becoming clearer and at the same time less approachable. Steve Decker was living in his past as he walked toward them.

“Hello,” he said.

The Waydes both gazed up at him. Willis looked up without a trace of blankness. A light of welcome shone from his eyes, registering pleasure and perfect recall.

“Why, hello,” Willis said. There was the faintest beat of hesitation, but everything was streamlined. “Why, hello, Bill. Sylvia, I don't believe you have ever met my old friend, Bill Jerrod. How's everything in Akron, Bill?”

Steve Decker was maliciously amused, but at the same time he had an embarrassed wish that he might have been Bill Jerrod from Akron. Willis Wayde was half out of his chair, half holding out his hand, when his gaze faltered, and then before he could speak Sylvia interrupted.

“Willis,” she said, “don't you remember Steve Decker?”

Willis knew when the joke was at his expense, and he gave way to disarming mirth.

“Why, of course, it's Steve,” Willis said. “Fancy meeting you in Paris.” But obviously Willis was still trying to place him. Given a second Willis might very well have come up with the right answer, but instead Sylvia spoke again.

“Steve Decker, Willis,” she said again.

But Willis was on the beam at last, and there was no annoyance, or grinding of the gears.

“Steve,” he said, “forgive me, will you? Faces out of the past get blurred occasionally. Sweetness, it's all straight now. Say, Steve, it's wonderful to see you. It's like being back in high school, isn't it?”

“Well, not exactly,” Steve said.

“Miss Wilson's room,” Willis said, “and Cambridge. Sunday evenings at the Hodgeses'. Say, Steve, you were there the first night I came to the Hodgeses'. Bill Harcourt brought me. Remember?”

“That's right,” Steve said. “Bill Harcourt.”

“How is old Bill?” Willis asked, and he spoke more quickly. “It's just wonderful to see someone from the old town. You can't ever forget any place where you lived as a kid, can you? Let's see, you were at Harcourt for a summer, weren't you? That was a fine old manufacturing establishment, an ideal old plant.”