The Hesitant Hero (7 page)

“Come let me know when you have something for me to look at.”

Somewhat intimidated by Genis, Tyler began work at once. He decided that painting a still life might be the safest thing to do, so he gathered a few props that were sitting on the counter. He arranged a teapot, teacup, and saucer on a white tablecloth that he folded in waves. A number of other students were coming in, but no one stopped to talk with him.

He worked as quickly as he could, but it took him two days before he finally got the effect he wanted. He was nervous,
but he went to Genis and said, “Monsieur Genis, would you look at my work?”

The man grunted and walked over to the easel without speaking. He examined the still life but still did not speak, which made Tyler’s nervousness increase.

Finally the instructor said loudly, “If this is the best you can do, you need to go someplace else. This school is for those who have achieved a certain level, which you have not.”

Genis’s voice was loud enough so that everyone in the large room heard it. There were at least ten other artists at work, and Tyler felt that every one of them was looking at him, hiding smiles. He stood there as Genis pointed out the flaws of his painting, and finally the man said, “I will have Monsieur Dever refund your tuition.”

“You won’t let me try?”

“You are not ready to try here. Go learn some fundamentals. Come back in a year and we’ll see.” He lowered his voice then and stepped closer. In a hoarse whisper he said, “You would be wasting your time if you stayed here, Winslow. There are numerous other schools that will teach you the basics. Monsieur Dever can give you the addresses of some of these.”

“Thank you,” Tyler said quietly. He waited until Genis left to begin putting his supplies away. He knew his face was flushed, and when he left the room, every student was taking pains not to look at him. In humiliation, he stopped by Monsieur Dever’s office to collect his refund, but he was too discouraged to ask the man for the names of other art schools he might recommend.

****

The shame of being dismissed from the art institute ate at Tyler, and after depositing his still-wet painting in his room, he went out and walked the streets. He did not feel the cold air; all he could feel was the deep embarrassment of being rejected. It had never occurred to him that he would be turned away like this, and after a time he stopped at a bar.
Several women approached him while he drank, but he gave them no encouragement. Finally he went back to his room, undressed, and got under the covers. Even in his numbed state, he couldn’t forget that he had failed in France just as certainly as he had failed in New York. Finally he fell into a restless sleep, but he woke up several times during the night hearing the voice of Genis, saying,
“Go learn some fundamentals. Come back in a year and we’ll see.”

He rose early and spent another day roaming the city. This time he went to art shops and studied the paintings that were for sale. There seemed to be hundreds of small shops selling art of all kinds. He recognized that most of the paintings were far better than anything he had ever done. Totally depressed, he did not eat again until late that night, and again he drank more than he should.

“I’ve got to do something,” he muttered, “but what?”

****

On Thursday morning Tyler got up, his head throbbing, and when he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw a bum. He had not shaved for three days, his hair sprang in every direction, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“I’ve got to do something,” he told himself loudly for the umpteenth time that week. He knew he should enroll at one of the schools whose standards were not as high as the one that had refused him, but somehow he could not force himself to do it.

“Clean yourself up and do something—anything,” he told himself sternly. “You cannot continue to wander the streets of Paris without a plan.” He wet his hair down and combed it into place and then got out his razor. As he pulled the blade across his chin, he thought of Jolie Vernay. She had no idea that he was in France, for he had not written to her for several months. Why not go visit her now?
I’ll go there and get a place, and I’ll learn to paint better. Then I’ll come back and enroll in a different school here.

It might not have made complete sense, but at least it was a plan, and he threw himself into it. He spent the morning buying art supplies, for he wasn’t sure if he would be able to find any in Ambert, the village where Jolie lived, and then bought a train ticket.

He found one of the last vacant seats in the car and settled in. He said not a word to anyone but was occupied with his own doubts. It began snowing shortly after the train left, and he sat there looking out at the signs beside the small villages. The names of the towns meant nothing to him, but once when the train stopped for some time at a small village called Moulins, it required all of his strength not to get off the train.
What am I going to see Jolie for? What can she do?
The question penetrated his dark thoughts, and he almost got off and headed back to Le Havre and a ship to take him back to America.

But there was nothing to go back to, so he remained in his seat. Finally he put his head back and dozed off and then later, when he woke up, he saw that they were pulling into a small village. When he saw that the sign said Ambert, he got up at once and grabbed his luggage.

He was the only person who had disembarked there. He went over to an elderly man who was sitting on a bench. “Can you tell me, sir, where a family named Vernay lives?
Mademoiselle
Jolie Vernay?”

“But of course, the doctor. You take this road until you come to a big white house with turrets. Turn left and go until you see a small house set off to the right. It is green. That is where Mademoiselle Vernay lives with her mother. You are English?”

“No. American.”

“You come to France at a bad time.” He shrugged before continuing. “Madame Vernay, the doctor’s mother, works at a watchmaker’s shop. It is right down that street, you see. She might still be there if you care to see her before going to the
house, although it may be a little late,” he said as he looked at his pocket watch. “You have business with the Vernays?”

“Yes.” Tyler did not feel like divulging his business with this man or with anyone else, so he picked up his luggage and trudged away. He felt the man’s eyes on him as he left, and with great misgiving started down the street, wishing desperately he had never come to France in the first place.

CHAPTER FIVE

A Birthday Party

The shrill wind howled as Jolie Vernay made her way toward the green house set back off the road. She had to lean against the strong wind while sleet bit at her cheeks. It was about a kilometer from the orphanage to the house, and she normally enjoyed the walk, but today her feet and cheeks, and even her hands, despite the wool gloves, were growing numb.

The sleet swept over the street, and as Jolie turned off the main road and walked quickly toward the house, she looked forward to the evening ahead—good food, warmth, and rest. She had returned from the United States too late to start an internship immediately, but she would begin the following fall at the hospital in Clermont-Ferrand, a city not far from the village where she had lived most of her life.

In the meantime, she had accepted a post as a half-time staff physician and half-time secretary at the large orphanage in town. She found the work very satisfying as well as a welcome relief from the stress of working in the emergency room in New York. She still carried some of that stress with her.

Opening the door, she stepped inside, took off her boots, and slipped her feet into warm house slippers. She took off her hat and coat, wet and heavy with sleet, hung them on the coat-tree, and took a deep breath.
Good to be home.
She went down the hall and into the kitchen. The good smell of food cooking was in the air, and her mother was standing by the stove.

“Hello,
Maman.
”

“Ah, you are back. Go stand in front of the fire and thaw yourself out. It’s cold enough to freeze an Eskimo.”

“Yes, it is very cold.”

Marvel Vernay did not look her forty-six years. Her hair was the same brown as that of her daughter, and her eyes were the same blue. She was small, but her posture was so erect she appeared taller. Her cheeks were flushed by the heat of the stove, and as she smiled at Jolie, she exposed perfect white teeth. “Did you have a good day?”

“Very good. We’ve got the chicken pox epidemic brought to a standstill, I think.”

“Chicken pox is difficult, but it’s not as bad as some other things that children can get.”

“You’re right. Thank God.”

As the two women shared the details of their days, and as Jolie thawed out, she began to set the table with the fine china. “We never use plain dishes,” she commented, “always this expensive china even for just the two of us. Why is that, Maman?”

Marvel smiled. “There are so many things in this world that we can’t have, so the things we can have, I intend to use. They are only dishes. If we break one, it doesn’t matter. Now, you make the tea while I take the roast out of the oven.” A knock at the door interrupted her words.

“Are you expecting someone, Maman?”

“No. Not that I know of. It’s probably
Madame
Dalon from next door. She probably needs to borrow something for supper.”

Walking to the door with quick steps, Madame Vernay opened it, but instead of finding her neighbor, she saw a tall man holding a large suitcase.

“Madame Vernay?”

“
Oui,
I am Madame Vernay.”

“My name is Tyler Winslow.” He spoke French with a heavy accent and seemed to be searching for the words he
needed. “I am a friend of your daughter. We met in New York. I wonder if she’s at home.”

“Why, yes, indeed. Come in, Monsieur Winslow. Bring your things with you. They’ll freeze solid out here.” Marvel stepped back as the man entered. “I remember my daughter wrote me about you,” she said with a smile. “But she didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“I didn’t really know myself, Madame Vernay.”

“Well, put your things down, take off your coat, and we’ll surprise her.” Marvel waited until he had hung up his coat and stomped his feet on the mat before leading him down the hall. Turning into the kitchen, she said, “Jolie, a surprise for you. A visitor.”

Jolie turned, and Marvel saw her eyes open wide and her lips part with astonishment. “Why—it’s you!”

“It’s me,” Tyler said with a broad smile. He was shocked at how glad he was to see her again. “I have bad manners like all Americans. Just come rushing in without an invitation.”

“Not at all.” Jolie came close to him and put her hand on his arm. “It’s good to see you, Tyler, but it is a surprise.”

“I came to Paris to study painting. I didn’t expect I would get to see you, but things happened and here I am.”

“Well, you came at an opportune moment,” Marvel said quickly, seeing that her daughter was apparently at a loss for words. “It’s very fortunate that I cooked enough for three. By all means you must have dinner with us.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t—”

“I insist. Come. I will show you where you can wash up and refresh yourself.”

Marvel led the way out of the room and showed the American to the guest room. “I will bring you some hot water.”

“Oh, please, Madame Vernay, don’t bother.”

“It is no bother. I’m glad to have company, especially from America. And you even speak French.”

“Not very well, but I’m learning.”

“Wait here and I will get the water.”

Marvel went back to the kitchen and took the kettle off the stove. “You did not expect him?” she asked her daughter.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I remember what you said about him. But let me take the water.” She left the room while Jolie continued setting the table.

When her mother returned, Jolie said, “I can’t imagine why he’s here.”

“He said he came to study painting. You told me he was an artist.”

“He didn’t mention a thing about coming to France when I knew him.”

Marvel studied her daughter’s face. “You’re upset by his arrival?”

“No, not exactly. I’m just shocked.”

Marvel said no more, but she knew her daughter well enough to know that she was perturbed. After a moment Tyler appeared at the door, and she said, “Come and sit down. It’s all ready.”

“I feel terrible barging in like this. I should have written.”

“It’s no bother,” Marvel said. “I’ll ask the blessing.” She bowed her head and immediately Tyler glanced at Jolie and bowed his own.

“Lord, we thank you for this food and for this visitor. We ask you to help us love you more. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

The meal consisted of beef roast flavored with Burgundy, new potatoes in a white cream sauce, tiny peas with pearl onions, and chunks of thick, hard bread slathered with sweet-tasting butter.

“This is very good indeed, Madame Vernay,” Tyler said. “I’ve always heard about delicious French cooking, and if this is a sample, then what I’ve heard is correct.”

After Jolie had told her mother about how the two of them had met, she started to question Tyler about why he had come to France and what his plans were.

“I came into enough money to come to France and study painting,” Tyler told them, toying with his fragile teacup. It looked very small in his hands as he turned it around and around. “I might as well have stayed in America.”

“Why do you say that, monsieur?” Marvel asked. She was interested in the young American and saw that he was embarrassed by her question. “But I do not mean to pry.”

“I might as well tell you. My professor at the art school in Paris said that I don’t have any talent.”

“And what do
you
think?” Marvel asked.

The question seemed to trouble Tyler. “Well,” he said, “he’s the expert. He should know.”

“The experts do not know everything, and they are often wrong. Isn’t that true, Jolie?”

“I think Maman is right. You should not let someone else’s opinion decide your future.”