The Dud Avocado (15 page)

“I thought you liked him.”

“Are you insane? It was just to get rid of Bill Blauer. Incidentally why didn’t
you
get him off me—Bill, I mean? You should have, you know. Technically I was ‘with’ you, wasn’t I?”

“I thought you liked him too.”

“Oh
please
. Cut it out.”

“Well I did. Anyway I was sort of grateful for his help. I didn’t think I could keep a girl of your sophisticated tastes amused all evening singlehanded.”

“You’re kidding me——”

“Sally Jay, if you only knew what a sheltered life I’ve led,” he said, and looked me straight in the eye.

“Haven’t we all!” I was on the point of replying with feeling, but I saw Crazy Eyes looking our way again, so I put my face very close to Jim’s and cooed huskily. “Tell me all about it.”

“Well, I spent a year and a half at Dartmouth down in the cellar of the fraternity house, painting,” said Jim, taking my proximity calmly enough. “The monotony upstairs drove me crazy. It was bridge or football or townies. Look, I’ll tell you why I asked you out if you really want to know. When I was sketching you at the hospital I suddenly saw that I could use you as my model.…”

“Aw, shucks!”

“Wait a minute—the Ancient is getting out an Art Edition of his poems and he wants me to do four engravings. Four kinds of love: you know, sacred, profane—that sort of stuff. Well, I saw when I was sketching you today that I could probably use you for all four of them. I mean I got the idea of using only one
model, and using you at the same time, see. Different aspects of you.”

“Using me,” I said incredulously. I was flattered to death.

“Oh it’s just a matter of proportions. By classic standards, you see, your body is all out of proportion, but somehow it adds up. It’s full of surprises; the line would be continually exciting.” He took out his pencil and began sketching on the paper tablecloth. “Take your shoulders, for instance; they begin by slanting down away from your neck like this, see, and then, unexpectedly, these little sharp bones on each side of the pectoral muscle send them curving up like this, see? That’s what I mean. And your arms—they kill me. Very skinny, almost toothpicks, so that when following the line down along inside here, the last thing you expect are the full breasts. Great! Your hips——”

“O.K., O.K. I believe you.”

“Will you pose for me? I mean nude, you know.”

“Oh? Yes, sure of course. Naturally. Well-um. I’ll have to think it over—I’m pretty busy now with rehearsals.” Damn this brat, for putting me in a position where it would be just too corny to refuse; where I’d be sure to lose my sophisticated standing by doing so. And damn him also for raising within me yet another moral issue that day.

Crazy Eyes was upon us now, asking me to dance. I mean he reached over for my hand and pulled me out of my chair. I said no but he didn’t seem to hear me, so I gathered that the rules were that even if you said no, if you weren’t heard, you danced. Jim was no help. He smiled at us both politely.

Crazy Eyes was in quite a different mood from his cool jiving one. He ground his chest into mine and his groin into my groin. I stiffened my spine and tried to dance disapprovingly. Try it. Also he kept whispering in my ear. His accent in French was very strong and I couldn’t understand him, so I didn’t know if I was justified in getting mad. I tried talking. I tried to explain that the reason I’d gone up to him at the Dôme in the first place was that I’d mistaken him for a friend of mine. “I am a friend of yours,” he leered, tutoying me. The music stopped. He tried to kiss me. One of the few things that had impressed me in college was a Southern girl’s account of how she avoided being kissed on
the doorstep of her house once by wearing a flower in her hair and sticking it in her mouth when she said good night. Only I had no flower. I struggled. I turned and pointed to the mono-dancer, saying coyly, “You mustn’t make your friend jealous, must you?” “It is my sister,” he replied curtly, and the struggle continued. Looking around (I was twisting my head right, left and sideways, of course), I saw that the group of Sinisters I had noticed with him at the Dôme, had mysteriously reappeared and formed, without actually seeming to, a sort of semicircle around us, separating us from the tables and my friends. That made up my mind. I screamed, really screamed, for Jim, and in the ugly scene that followed his arrival—all three of us turned out to have several grievances against the other two—we all somehow lost face.

Out in the street in front of the Etats-Unis Dave Beckenfield was bawling out his friends.

“Jesus, have you left these suitcases in the car all
evening?
You’re damn lucky they’re still here, you jackasses. Hey, don’t take that one out, it’s mine. Christ, you fools, you ought to know better than to leave our stuff in the back of an open car like this in Paris. You might have told me.”

“Where else do you suggest we put the luggage in a Stutz Bearcat? Is there a trunk compartment under the wheels?” asked one of the boys, fed up at last.

“Aw, quit picking on it, will you? Let it be,” said Dave, flying as usual to the defense of his beloved. “Hey, I said
leave that suitcase alone
, it’s mine. Yeh, leave it. Just leave it.” He hopped huffily into his car. “I’m off to the Rotonde. Anyone coming?”

We went along with him, Zop-zop, Jim and I. I don’t know why. It was four o’clock in the morning and the night had fallen to pieces around us. I looked in a mirror and rubbed some of the lipstick off my mouth into my cheeks. The effect was still terrible. We sat down at a table at the Rotonde, too tired even to talk. Suddenly Jim galvanized us by leaping to his feet and racing outside. I went over to the window and looked out, expecting to see—I don’t know what; a train pulling out or pulling in, at least. I remember feeling very angry at the idea of being subjected to guessing games at this late hour, but mercifully, the tableau that
followed was immediately explicit. Crazy Eyes, Jim, and Dave Beckenfield’s valise all arrived together, or rather separately, each on the arm of a flic. Crazy Eyes was snarling ferociously and at the same time rubbing his jaw, Jim was grinning an elfin little smile, and the suitcase just looked heavy. This group was closely followed by the Sinisters, who automatically fell into their favorite semicircular formation.

“Hey, what are you doing with that?” Dave Beckenfield demanded of the police, pointing to his case.

“It is yours?”

“You’re goddam right it is. What’s up, Jim?”

“I could see from the window this creep”—he pointed to Crazy Eyes—“trying to steal Beckenfield’s suitcase. He pulled a knife on me and I hit him, and then his friends tried to jump me.” The Sinisters closed in, trying to understand what Jim was saying to us so they could object, and in no time at all the air was thick with accusations. The flics finally took over. They wanted to know if Dave was going to charge Crazy Eyes with attempted theft.

“Of course,” he said without a moment’s hesitation.

So at five o’clock in the morning, dawn lighting our path, we were all carted off to the prefecture in the Paddy Wagon, or whatever it’s called in French; the Corsicans (as they turned out to be) keeping up their spirits by heaping hot coals of curses upon us by the headful. The big surprise when we got there and told our story to the Chief was that he didn’t particularly believe us. And when Crazy Eyes advanced his fairy-tale version of what had happened—how he’d simply stumbled across a suitcase lying right in the middle of the sidewalk, only to be assaulted by this American ruffian who had earlier and without any provocation tried to pick a fight with him at the Etats-Unis, it was unfortunate that the Sinisters who backed him up could technically be described as witnesses. As for the knife that Jim referred to —naturally, it couldn’t be found.

We were told that the magistrate would arrive in the morning. Everyone was to come back at nine. Everyone except Jim and Crazy Eyes. They were being detained. This was a shock to all of us, and for a moment no one spoke.

Finally Dave stepped forward and said in a surprisingly quiet and reasonable voice, “Will you be needing me as well, officer?”

“It is your suitcase is it not? Are you not accusing this man?”

“There may have been some misunderstanding officer,” said Dave thoughtfully. “Maybe the suitcase
ivas
left out on the sidewalk—some of my friends took theirs.…”

“But that was in front of the Etats-Unis, not the Rotonde, don’t you remember?” I corrected him quickly.

“Well, how do I know what happened? I didn’t see anything, did I?”

I always expect people to behave much better than I do. When they actually behave worse, I am frankly incredulous.

“But of course it was outside the Etats-Unis,” I explained to him patiently. “I remember it distinctly. I remember because we’d just finished tangling with——” I went up to the desk of the Head Flic. “This is ridiculous!” I exploded. “Of course that man was trying to steal the bag. I saw the whole thing from the café window. It should be apparent to a moron that he’s a congenital liar”—“un menteur sérieux,” I said—“and if anyone here can accuse anyone else of assault it’s
me
, because he tried to assault me——”

“Very well, mademoiselle. You may tell the magistrate all this in the morning when you appear.”

“Don’t be crazy, Gorce,” said Dave, dragging me away by the arm. “Don’t get mixed up in this. Play it cool. Please forgive her, officer, she’s just a little overexcited.”

“Do you wish to drop the charge?”

“Yeh, yeh. There’s been some misunderstanding. We’re sorry about the whole thing. Come on, lads.”

“I’m afraid,” said the flic-in-charge, “that your friend will have to stay anyway, to answer the countercharge of assault. Leave the suitcase. It is evidence. You may go.”

Dave turned to us and shrugged helplessly, as though he’d done his best to save us, and I looked over at Jim dumbfounded. I could have wept at what I saw—the poor sap—from hero to patsy in just one hour had left him looking dogged and manly, but not a little dazed.

I swung on Dave. “Why you stinker. What made you chicken out?”

“Look, give me credit for knowing a little more about these things than you do. Can’t you see these guys are all prejudiced? Haven’t you ever heard of anti-Americanism? Go Home Yankee? Just wise up and don’t stick your neck out. If you’re smart,” he said, turning to Jim, “you’ll take my advice. Apologize all round, say it was a big mistake, offer to pay some compensation and get out. But quick, understand?
Get away from here and stay away
”

“But we’re in the
right
” said Jim mildly.

“I hope they steal the car next time,” I said to Dave. “The whole silly old pile of affected junk.”

Dave turned to Zop-zop. “You see my point, don’t you? These kids. Maybe
they
can afford to get their names all over the papers, I can’t. I’m a Fulbright.”

Zop-zop chewed his cud for a while and then made one of his few utterances. “Shame to lose that suitcase,” he drawled, “but I guess you’ll have to if you’re going to take your own advice about getting away from here and staying away. Can’t very well ask Jim to bring it back with him afterwards——” his voice trailed away.

We all three of us looked at Dave and then at one another, awaiting the decision. Dave looked at the suitcase and then at the keys to his car that he was jiggling in his hand. He didn’t disappoint us. “It’s not important, anyway. Just some old clothes,” he grumbled finally, and shuffled off.

“I’ll take you home,” said Zop-zop to me. “Where do you live?”

“It’s not worth it for a couple of hours,” I said, making up my mind about something. “I’ll stay on with Jim. You can start sketching me,” I added over his objections.

“Well—take it easy,” said Zop-zop. “See you in the morning. Oh here——” and he left us a pack of cards.

I laid out the cards and began playing solitaire. Jim sketched. I thought of Uncle Roger, who was footing the bill: what had I said to him that day eight years ago, when he promised to give me my freedom and asked me what I was going to do with it? I’d said I wanted to stay out late and eat whatever I liked any
time I wanted to. And I wanted to meet people I hadn’t been introduced to. And I wanted to guess right.…

I looked around the prefecture in the morning light. It was cold; I shivered. The paraffin stove that was supposed to heat the room had gone out and smelled awful. Everyone concerned was asleep; Jim, the Corsicans, even the guard was dozing. Was I fulfilling my childhood dreams? Well, I’d certainly stayed out late and eaten what I liked. And I was meeting people I hadn’t been introduced to. That was for sure. In at least two cases—Jim and Crazy Eyes—I had guessed right.

I was now more or less in jail.

Uncle Roger, I thought, you can’t say I’m not trying.

I
N THE END
it took us all morning and Larry—and mostly Larry—to get us sprung from here. We were heading straight for Contempt of Court charges, Jim and I, when he finally arrived, and if he hadn’t by some magic fluke already known Crazy Eyes and managed to exert his strange power over him, got me to shut up (I was being the most contemptuous), found out that Jim was an artist and made him show the magistrate his sketches of me, explaining at the same time that I was a Very Important Actress in his company and that rehearsals were being held up on my account (the magistrate, like most Frenchmen, could apparently do without Americans but not without Art)— if he hadn’t done all this, I’d probably still be there yelling my head off.

All of a sudden, in the taxi on the way to the theater, I collapsed.
I put my head on Larry’s shoulder and almost before I knew what was happening I had fallen fast asleep.

“Hey, zombie, wake up,” I heard him saying softly into my ear when we arrived. I stretched and stared and shook myself. I looked up and saw him smiling down at me.

“Oh Larry!” I moaned. “I know you think I was just being one of your typical tourists but it was all your fault, really.”

“My fault?”

In my drowsy-cat stage I knew it was going to be too complicated to explain, but anyway I tried. “You know—that horrible dinner party yesterday—no Saturday, when you just let yourself get dragged off by that—oh, Larry, how
could
you?”