Across the Bridge - Mavis Gallant [26]
Pascal’s mother believed Dédé needed a woman friend, even though he was not ready to get married. Pascal heard her say, “Art and science, architecture, culture.” These were the factors that could change Dédé’s life, and to which he would find access through the right kind of woman. Mme. Brouet had someone in mind – Mlle. Turbin, who held a position of some responsibility in a travel agency. She was often sent abroad to rescue visitors or check their complaints. Today’s lunch had been planned around her, but at the last minute she had been called to Greece, where a tourist, bitten by a dog, had received an emergency specific for rabies, and believed the Greeks were trying to kill him.
Her parents had come, nevertheless. It was a privilege to meet the magistrate and to visit a rare old house, one of the last of its kind still in private hands. Before lunch Mme. Turbin had asked to be shown around. Mme. Brouet conducted a tour for the women, taking care not to open the door to Dédé’s room: there had been a fire in a wastepaper basket only a few hours before, and everything in there was charred or singed or soaked.
At lunch, breaking out of politics, M. Turbin described the treatment the tourist in Salonika had most probably received: it was the same the world over, and incurred the use of a long needle. He held out his knife, to show the approximate length.
“Stop!” cried Mme. Chevallier-Crochet. She put her napkin over her nose and mouth; all they could see was her wild eyes. Everyone stopped eating, forks suspended – all but the magistrate, who was pushing aside shreds of cabbage to get at the last of the partridge.
M. Chevallier-Crochet explained that his wife was afraid of needles. He could not account for it; he had not known her as a child. It seemed to be a singular fear, one that set her apart. Meantime, his wife closed her eyes; opened them, though not as wide as before; placed her napkin neatly across her lap; and swallowed a piece of bread.
M. Turbin said he was sorry. He had taken it for granted that any compatriot of the great Louis Pasteur must have seen a needle or two. Needles were only a means to an end.
Mme. Brouet glanced at her husband, pleading for help, but he had just put a bite of food into his mouth. He was always last to be served when there were guests, and everything got to him cold. That was probably why he ate in such a hurry. He shrugged, meaning, Change the subject.
“Pascal,” she said, turning to him. At last, she thought of something to say: “Do you remember Mlle. Turbin? Charlotte Turbin?”
“Brigitte?” said Pascal.
“I’m sure you remember,” she said, not listening at all. “In the travel agency, on Rue Caumartin?”
“She gave me the corrida poster,” said Pascal, wondering how this had slipped her mind.
“We went to see her, you and I, the time we wanted to go to Egypt? Now do you remember?”
“We never went to Egypt.”
“No. Papa couldn’t get away just then, so we finally went back to Deauville, where Papa has so many cousins. So you do remember Mlle. Turbin, with the pretty auburn hair?”
“Chestnut,” said the two Turbins, together.
“My sister,” said Dédé, all of a sudden, indicating her with his left hand, the right clutching a wineglass. “Before she got married, my mother told me …” The story, whatever it was, engulfed him in laughter. “A dog tried to bite her,” he managed to say.
“You can tell us about it another time,” said his sister.
He continued to laugh, softly, just to himself, while Abelarda changed the plates again.
The magistrate examined his clean new plate. No immediate surprises: salad, another plate,