Across the Bridge - Mavis Gallant [66]
He picked up the tray. When he reached the doorway she said in a friendly, even voice, “The piano kept me awake.”
“I know,” he said. “The man playing Schubert.”
“What man? Men can’t play anything.”
“A woman? Someone you know?”
He stood still, waiting. He said to his friend, If I get an answer, it means she is cured. But she will burrow under the blankets and pillows until Marie-Louise arrives. Once Marie-Louise is here, I will go out and meet you, or the thought of you, which never quits me now. I will read the news and you can tell me what it means. We will look at those mirrored walls across the boulevard and judge the day by colors: pale gold, gray, white-and-blue. A sheet of black glass means nothing: it is not a cloud or the sky. Let me explain. Give me time. From that distance, the dark has no power. It has no life of its own. It is a reflection.
Today I shall bring a pad of writing paper and a stamped, addressed envelope. You can think of me, at a table behind the window. (It is getting a bit cold for the street.) I have a young dog. As you can see, I am still boringly optimistic. Magda is well. This morning we talked about Schubert. I regret that your health is bad and you are unable to travel. Otherwise you could come here and we would rent a car and drive somewhere – you, Magda, the dog, and I. I am sorry about the radio talk and its effect on some low people. There are distorted minds here, too – you would not believe what goes on. Someone said, “Hitler lives!” at a meeting – so I am told. I suppose the police can’t be everywhere. Please take good care of yourself. Your letters are precious to me. We have so many memories. Do you remember The Leper, and the scene where she dies at her own wedding? She was much more beautiful than Garbo or Dietrich – don’t you think? I wish I had more to tell you, but my life is like the purring of a cat. If I were to describe it, it would put you to sleep. I may have more to tell you tomorrow. In the meantime, I send you God’s favor.
Mlle. Dias de Corta
YOU MOVED INTO my apartment during the summer of the year before abortion became legal in France; that should fix it in past time for you, dear Mlle. Dias de Corta. You had just arrived in Paris from your native city, which you kept insisting was Marseilles, and were looking for work. You said you had studied television-performance techniques at some provincial school (we had never heard of the school, even though my son had one or two actor friends) and received a diploma with “special mention” for vocal expression. The diploma was not among the things we found in your suitcase, after you disappeared, but my son recalled that you carried it in your handbag, in case you had the good luck to sit next to a casting director on a bus.
The next morning we had our first cordial conversation. I described my husband’s recent death and repeated his last words, which had to do with my financial future and were not overly optimistic. I felt his presence and still heard his voice in my mind. He seemed to be in the kitchen, wondering what you were doing there, summing you up: a thin, dark-eyed, noncommittal young woman, standing at the counter, bolting her breakfast. A bit sullen, perhaps; you refused the chair I had dragged in from the dining room. Careless, too. There were crumbs everywhere. You had spilled milk on the floor.
“Don’t bother about the mess,” I said. “I’m used to cleaning up after young people. I wait on my son, Robert, hand and foot.” Actually, you had not made a move. I fetched the sponge mop from the broom closet, but when I asked you to step aside you started to choke on a crust. I waited quietly, then said, “My husband’s illness was the result of eating too fast and never chewing his food.” His silent voice told me I was wasting my time. True, but if I hadn’t warned you I would have been guilty of withholding assistance from someone in danger. In our country, a refusal to help can be