Across the Bridge - Mavis Gallant [65]
“I am insured.”
“I know. This is for the bank.” She turned the questionnaire around so that he could read a boxed query: “Do you take medication on a daily basis?”
“Everyone my age takes something.”
“Excuse me. I have to ask. Are you seriously ill?”
“A chronic complaint. Nothing dangerous.” He put his hand over his heart.
She picked up the questionnaire, excused herself once more, and left him. On the screen he read the numbers of his three accounts, and the date when each had been opened. He remembered Hector, stood up, but before he could get to the window Mme. Fournier was back.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I am sorry it is taking so long. Please sit down. I have to ask you another thing.”
“I was trying to see my dog.”
“About your chronic illness. Could you die suddenly?”
“I hope not.”
“I’ve spoken to M. Giroud. You will need to have a medical examination. No, not by your own doctor,” forestalling him. “A doctor from the insurance firm. It isn’t for the bank. It is for them – the insurance.” She was older than he had guessed. Embarrassment and its disguises tightened her face, put her at about thirty-five. The youthful signature was a decoy. “M. Wroblewski,” she said, making a good stab at the consonants, “is it worth all this, for fifteen thousand francs? We would authorize an overdraft, if you needed one. But, of course, there would be interest to pay.”
“I wanted the fund for the very reason you have just mentioned – in case I die suddenly. When I die, my accounts will be frozen, won’t they? I’d like some cash for my wife. I thought I could make my doctor responsible. He could sign – anything. My wife is too ill to handle funeral arrangements, or to pay the people looking after her. It will take time before the will is settled.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m truly sorry. It is not an account. It is a cash reserve. If you die, it ceases to exist.”
“A reserve of cash, in my name, held by a bank, is an account,” he said. “I would never use or touch it in my lifetime.”
“It isn’t your money,” she said. “Not in the way you think. I’m sorry. Excuse me. The letter should never have been sent to you.”
“The bank knows my age. It is there, on the screen.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t send these things out.”
“But you sign them?”
“I don’t send them out.”
They shook hands. He adjusted his hat at a jaunty angle. Everything he had on that day looked new, even the silk ascot, gray with a small pattern of yellow, bought by Magda at Arnys, on the Rue de Sèvres – oh, fifteen years before. Nothing was frayed or faded. He never seemed to wear anything out. His nails were clipped, his hands unstained. He still smoked three Craven A a day, but had refrained in the presence of Mme. Fournier, having seen no ashtray on her desk. There had been nothing on it, actually, except the questionnaire. He ought to have brought her some chocolates; it troubled him to have overlooked a civility. He held nothing against her. She seemed competent, considerate in her conduct.
“Your accounts are in fine shape,” she said. “That must be something off your mind. We could allow … At any rate, come back and see me if you have a problem.”
“My problem is my own death,” he said, smiling.
“You mustn’t think such things.” She touched her talisman, Gemini, as if it really could allow her a double life: one with vexations and one without. “Please excuse us. M. Giroud is sorry. So am I.”
After the business about the letter and the Prussia question this morning, Magda was quiet. He let her finish her tea (she forgets she is holding a cup) and tried to draw her into conversation about the view from the window.
She said, “The neighbor is still playing Schubert all night. It keeps me awake. It is sad when he stops.”
Their neighbors are a couple who go out to work. They turn off the television at ten and there is no further sound until half past six in the morning, when they listen to the news. At a quarter to eight they