The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway - Ernest Hemingway [174]
“Where’s Fontan?”
“Il fait de la vendange. Oh, my God, il est crazy pour le vin.”
“But you like the beer?”
“Oui, j’aime la bière, mais Fontan, il est crazy pour le vin.”
She was a plump old woman with a lovely ruddy complexion and white hair. She was very clean and the house was very clean and neat. She came from Lens.
“Where did you eat?”
“At the hotel.”
“Mangez ici. Il ne faut pas manger à l’hôtel ou au restaurant. Mangez ici!”
“I don’t want to make you trouble. And besides they eat all right at the hotel.”
“I never eat at the hotel. Maybe they eat all right there. Only once in my life I ate at a restaurant in America. You know what they gave me? They gave me pork that was raw!”
“Really?”
“I don’t lie to you. It was pork that wasn’t cooked! Et mon fils il est marié avec une américaine, et tout le temps il a mangé les beans en can.”
“How long has he been married?”
“Oh, my God, I don’t know. His wife weighs two hundred twenty-five pounds. She don’t work. She don’t cook. She gives him beans en can.”
“What does she do?”
“All the time she reads. Rien que des books. Tout le temps elle stay in the bed and read books. Already she can’t have another baby. She’s too fat. There ain’t any room.”
“What’s the matter with her?”
“She reads books all the time. He’s a good boy. He works hard. He worked in the mines; now he works on a ranch. He never worked on a ranch before, and the man that owns the ranch said to Fontan that he never saw anybody work better on that ranch than that boy. Then he comes home and she feeds him nothing.”
“Why doesn’t he get a divorce?”
“He ain’t got no money to get a divorce. Besides, il est crazy pour elle.”
“Is she beautiful?”
“He thinks so. When he brought her home I thought I would die. He’s such a good boy and works hard all the time and never run around or make any trouble. Then he goes away to work in the oil-fields and brings home this Indienne that weighs right then one hundred eighty-five pounds.”
“Elle est Indienne?”
“She’s Indian all right. My God, yes. All the time she says sonofabitsh goddam. She don’t work.”
“Where is she now?”
“Au show.”
“Where’s that?”
“Au show. Moving pictures. All she does is read and go to the show.”
“Have you got any more beer?”
“My God, yes. Sure. You come and eat with us tonight.”
“All right. What should I bring?”
“Don’t bring anything. Nothing at all. Maybe Fontan will have some of the wine.”
That night I had dinner at Fontan’s. We ate in the dining-room and there was a clean tablecloth. We tried the new wine. It was very light and clear and good, and still tasted of the grapes. At the table there were Fontan and Madame and the little boy, André.
“What did you do today?” Fontan asked. He was an old man with small mine-tired body, a drooping gray mustache, and bright eyes, and was from the Centre near Saint-Etienne.
“I worked on my book.”
“Were your books all right?” asked Madame.
“He means he writes a book like a writer. Un roman,” Fontan explained.
“Pa, can I go to the show?” André asked.
“Sure,” said Fontan. André turned to me.
“How old do you think I am? Do you think I look fourteen years old?” He was a thin little boy, but his face looked sixteen.
“Yes. You look fourteen.”
“When I go to the show I crouch down like this and try to look small.” His voice was very high and breaking. “If I give them a quarter they keep it all but if I give them only fifteen cents they let me in all right.”
“I only give you fifteen cents, then,” said Fontan.
“No. Give me the whole quarter. I’ll get it changed on the way.”
“Il faut revenir tout de suite après le show,” Madame Fontan said.
“I come right back.” André went out the door. The night was cooling outside. He left the door open and a cool breeze came in.
“Mangez!” said Madame Fontan. “You haven’t eaten anything.” I had eaten two helpings of chicken and French fried potatoes, three