two more.” He turned back to Casson. “They’ll pay,” he said. “Believe me they will.”
Casson wasn’t sure what he meant. Expensive Cognac? Expensive film? Both, very likely, he thought.
This one cried. Nothing dramatic, shining eyes and “Perhaps you have a handkerchief.” He got her one, she leaned on an elbow and dabbed at her face. “Bon Dieu,” she said, more or less to herself.
He reached down and pulled the sheet and blanket up over them, it was cold in November with no heat. “You’re all right?”
“Oh yes.”
He rolled a cigarette from a tin where he kept loose tobacco and burnt shreds. They shared it, the red tip glowing in the darkness.
“Why did you cry?”
“I don’t know. Stupid things. For a moment it was a long time ago, then it wasn’t.”
“Not a girl anymore?”
She laughed. “And worse.”
“You are lovely, of course.”
“La-la-la.”
“It’s true.”
“It was. Maybe ten years ago. Now, well, the old saying goes ‘nothing’s where it used to be.’ ”
From Casson, a certain kind of laugh.
After a moment, she joined in. “Well, not that. ”
“You’re married?”
“Oh yes.”
“In love?”
“Now and then.”
“Two kids?”
“Three.”
They were quiet for a moment, a siren went by somewhere in the neighborhood. They waited to make sure it kept going.
“In the café,” she said, “what did you see?”
“In you?”
“Yes.”
“Truth?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. I was, attracted.”
“To what?”
“To what. Something, maybe it doesn’t have a name. You know what goes on with you—deep eyes, and the nice legs. Right? Try to say more than that and you’re chasing desire, and you won’t catch it. ‘Oh, for me it’s a big this and a little that, this high and that low, firm, soft, hello, good-bye.’ All true, only next week you see somebody you have to have and none of it is.”
“That’s what attracted you?”
Casson laughed, his face warm. “You came in to buy cigarettes, you glanced at me. Then you decided to have a coffee. You crossed your legs a certain way. I thought, I’ll ask her to have a coffee with me.”
She didn’t answer. Put the bottom of her foot on top of his.
“You like this, don’t you?” he said softly.
“Yes,” she sighed, bittersweet, “I do like it. I like it more than anything else in the world—I think about it all day long.”
That fall the city seemed to right itself. Casson could feel it in the air, as though they had all looked in the mirror and told themselves: you have to go on with your life now. The song on the radio was from Johnny Hess. “Ça revient,” he sang—it’s all coming back. “La vie recommence, et l’espoir commence à renaître.” Life starts again, and hope begins to be reborn.
Well, maybe that was true. Maybe that had better be true. Casson went to lunch with an editor from Gallimard, they had a big list that fall, people couldn’t get enough to read. One way to escape, though not the only one. There were long lines at the theatres—for We Are Not Married at the Ambassadeurs, or the Grand Revue at the Folies-Bergère. The Comédie-Française was full every night, there was racing at Auteuil, gambling at the Casino de Paris, Mozart at Concert Mayol. The Damnation of Faust at the Opéra, Carmen at the Opéra-Comique.
“What are you looking for?” the Gallimard editor asked. “Anything in particular?”
Casson talked about Night Run and No Way Out. What the rules were when the hero was a gangster. The editor nodded and said “Mm,” around the stem of his pipe. Then his eyes lit up and he said, “Isn’t it you who made Last Train to Athens ?”
That he loved. Well, Casson thought, at least something. “Come to think of it,” the editor said, polishing his glasses with the Deux Magots’ linen napkin, “we may have just the right thing for you. Publication not scheduled until winter ’42, but you certainly understand that that isn’t far
Casson wasn’t sure what he meant. Expensive Cognac? Expensive film? Both, very likely, he thought.
This one cried. Nothing dramatic, shining eyes and “Perhaps you have a handkerchief.” He got her one, she leaned on an elbow and dabbed at her face. “Bon Dieu,” she said, more or less to herself.
He reached down and pulled the sheet and blanket up over them, it was cold in November with no heat. “You’re all right?”
“Oh yes.”
He rolled a cigarette from a tin where he kept loose tobacco and burnt shreds. They shared it, the red tip glowing in the darkness.
“Why did you cry?”
“I don’t know. Stupid things. For a moment it was a long time ago, then it wasn’t.”
“Not a girl anymore?”
She laughed. “And worse.”
“You are lovely, of course.”
“La-la-la.”
“It’s true.”
“It was. Maybe ten years ago. Now, well, the old saying goes ‘nothing’s where it used to be.’ ”
From Casson, a certain kind of laugh.
After a moment, she joined in. “Well, not that. ”
“You’re married?”
“Oh yes.”
“In love?”
“Now and then.”
“Two kids?”
“Three.”
They were quiet for a moment, a siren went by somewhere in the neighborhood. They waited to make sure it kept going.
“In the café,” she said, “what did you see?”
“In you?”
“Yes.”
“Truth?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. I was, attracted.”
“To what?”
“To what. Something, maybe it doesn’t have a name. You know what goes on with you—deep eyes, and the nice legs. Right? Try to say more than that and you’re chasing desire, and you won’t catch it. ‘Oh, for me it’s a big this and a little that, this high and that low, firm, soft, hello, good-bye.’ All true, only next week you see somebody you have to have and none of it is.”
“That’s what attracted you?”
Casson laughed, his face warm. “You came in to buy cigarettes, you glanced at me. Then you decided to have a coffee. You crossed your legs a certain way. I thought, I’ll ask her to have a coffee with me.”
She didn’t answer. Put the bottom of her foot on top of his.
“You like this, don’t you?” he said softly.
“Yes,” she sighed, bittersweet, “I do like it. I like it more than anything else in the world—I think about it all day long.”
That fall the city seemed to right itself. Casson could feel it in the air, as though they had all looked in the mirror and told themselves: you have to go on with your life now. The song on the radio was from Johnny Hess. “Ça revient,” he sang—it’s all coming back. “La vie recommence, et l’espoir commence à renaître.” Life starts again, and hope begins to be reborn.
Well, maybe that was true. Maybe that had better be true. Casson went to lunch with an editor from Gallimard, they had a big list that fall, people couldn’t get enough to read. One way to escape, though not the only one. There were long lines at the theatres—for We Are Not Married at the Ambassadeurs, or the Grand Revue at the Folies-Bergère. The Comédie-Française was full every night, there was racing at Auteuil, gambling at the Casino de Paris, Mozart at Concert Mayol. The Damnation of Faust at the Opéra, Carmen at the Opéra-Comique.
“What are you looking for?” the Gallimard editor asked. “Anything in particular?”
Casson talked about Night Run and No Way Out. What the rules were when the hero was a gangster. The editor nodded and said “Mm,” around the stem of his pipe. Then his eyes lit up and he said, “Isn’t it you who made Last Train to Athens ?”
That he loved. Well, Casson thought, at least something. “Come to think of it,” the editor said, polishing his glasses with the Deux Magots’ linen napkin, “we may have just the right thing for you. Publication not scheduled until winter ’42, but you certainly understand that that isn’t far
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