[fanfic] the morning after tomorrow
Title: the morning after tomorrow
Author: sonofon
Characters: England, France, Spain
Rating: pg-13
Summary: interwar years, circa 1924.
Notes: Written for the Hetalia Minibang 2010 my my my how the years have gone by.
i.
There was a certain beauty in the early morning light. He saw it and it seemed awfully bright at first, almost too bright. The brightness tore at his eyes but he could not look away from it. The intensity of it was centered and slightly hazy at the edges but he could see clearly, mostly. When he had woken up completely, he blinked and looked again at the light that was blinding. He could hear the sound of the fishermen in the wharf. There was a group of men and they were a noisy crowd, heaving and pulling and shouting encouragement to one another. One man was on the verge of making a big catch and the commotion was all very loud so he could not have slept more even if he wanted to.
He looked out the window and down below, four or five local men were situated, telling their comrade how to catch the fish. Their French was excited and rushed and anxious all at once and had attracted the attentions of the morning shoppers. He soon gathered that a woman with a particularly sharp tone of voice was the fisherman's wife and she desired the fish for dinner. He went to the washroom.
When he came back out, a man noticed him and called out: "He caught it! He caught it!" In the restaurant downstairs, he ordered a brioche and tea and sat down at his usual table, which was in the corner away from the lobby. "Will Monsieur be dining alone today?" The Madame was referring to lunch. She always prepared a simple meal for him and he, in turn, always ate heartily and complimented her and left her a nice tip. It made their relationship very easy to understand. He knew where he stood at all times. He was on solid ground.
"When have I not?"
"I have always asked Monsieur."
He asked her: "Will it be raining today? The paper says so."
"And the paper is almost always wrong. You see outside where those men are? They are celebrating the capture of a fish. A fish gives us food. It is not every day that one is caught. So they are happy because they feel they have been blessed. No, it will not rain today."
He went up to his room to change into a swimsuit and he went out to the ocean and swam towards a far off cove. He had been making further strides with each passing day and now he had finally reached it. The cove was dark and damp inside and he could feel the wet sand sink in between his toes. But aside from that there was not much else to see and he felt slightly disappointed and he swam back to the beach. The feeling of accomplishment was still there but it was not exactly the same. He took a shower and washed the sand from his hair. When he stepped out, there was a small pile of sand by the water-stopper.
"Are you leaving for Paris today, Monsieur?" the Madame asked him at lunch.
"Yes."
"It was very good to have you here."
"I hope I'll be able to come back soon."
"Yes, that'd be nice."
Later, he packed his suitcase into his old Alfa Romeo and began driving north, towards Paris. It took a total of five hours because along the way the car suffered a bust tire and he had to pull over at a stop to get it fixed. Otherwise it was a good, long drive. He arrived in front of his flat near the end of the Boulevard Saint-Michel at ten. The concierge said that his key had been taken by someone who said he knew him. That happened at eight-fifteen. "He said it was very important," said the concierge, shrugging. Surprised, and yet not completely surprised, he began the three-floor trek up to his room. The light was turned on and the door was unlocked and he went inside.
"Well, well," said Arthur Kirkland.
ii.
There was a certain kind of man Arthur Kirkland sought to avoid at all times.
This man wore striped suits with peaked lapels and fashionable shiny shoes. He drank Mumms champagne and antique brandies; he ate only sparsely and sporadically. He knew Hell's own amount of people and he was a regular in the café society in Montparnasse and elsewhere. He sponsored artists and writers, helped finance literary foundations and museum inductions. He was perfectly wealthy and content and yet he found it necessary to emphasize his once coarse roots, just to remind you how far he'd come. He liked to be complimented. He was arrogant and sophisticated beyond belief. This man was a Frenchman. Arthur called him Francis Bonnefoy.
This man was one that any kind of elitist society required. He was the one to befriend, or else he befriended you, though the latter happened very rarely. It was not uncommon for young and virtuous writers (sex was no matter of importance) to start off their introduction at a party with a casual mention of Francis Bonnefoy. Arthur Kirkland was not one of these writers; he was not even a real writer to begin with, not that that had ever discouraged Francis.
They met, as most people did, at a café. It was late and the bar was busy and Arthur Kirkland had decided that he hated the Quarter and Paris and all of bloody continental Europe; then the peculiar Francis Bonnefoy slid up next to him and bought him a drink. There was no real introduction made. In those days it didn't occur to you to start with one. It was merely calling the waiter for a whiskey and water and an unlikely friendship was born. Francis always paid without asking and Arthur was too poor to not accept it. But there was his pride to consider. He insisted and grabbed the bill the next time they went out. (It was more than his wallet could handle, by the way. Francis still laughed at him for it.)
There were more and more foreigners coming into Paris now and Francis was no longer surprised if he saw five Americans blundering about in the span of three hours. It was actually quite normal. "You're an expatriate," he told Arthur. "The worst kind. You've lost touch with everyone else. You feel as if you're completely hopeless and detached and you want to take that out on everybody else. Your primary purpose is to waste the taxpayers' money. You're consumed by alcohol and lust and you have no idea what to do with the rest of your life. You hang around in cafés. What a life that is."
"That sounds like a good life."
"Ah, but you say so because you are drunk. When you're not drunk, then what?"
"Then I'm drinking. Because I'm not drunk yet." He thought it terribly witty and he laughed.
"And at night? What do you do then?"
"I think. I think of rotten bilge and I think of everything I've ever seen. I could write it down if I wanted to. It'd be quite the novel. But I'm not going to."
"Being a writer would not be much different from everyone else," Francis smiled.
"That's why I won't."
"What do you do then?"
"I work."
"Oh? What do you do?"
"I don't know you well enough."
"That's low of you."
"I work for the Paris-based branch of an internationally renowned company."
"That's low of you."
Arthur shrugged. "Well."
"Well, what else do you do?"
"I loaf. Sometimes I even travel. Thus I am cultured and respected."
"And what does that hideous term mean, 'loaf'?"
"Strangely enough, I never found the need to find out. I learned that from an American; and they are so terribly knowledgeable about everything don't you think?"
Often, if they bid good-bye early on in the evening, there was a good chance of them meeting up again. It was not a coincidence. All the crowds ran the same approximate tour of the cafés and clubs and one was bound to meet the other somewhere along the way. Francis's crowd was always different. One crowd consisted entirely of men with plucked eyebrows and made-up faces. They laughed and giggled and made very big scenes, and in such a crowd, Francis was usually at the center. Someone was always handing him a drink and he always took one sip of it before passing it on to someone else. When Arthur saw that particular crowd, he wanted to punch someone or something until it became unrecognizable. They exhibited a certain trait that he found absolutely, entirely horrible for no good reason. (His irrational anger was one he'd come to facts with and if it was not inconvenient, then it was a nuisance. He found that drinking only brought temporary solace though that was okay. Temporary was better than nothing which was better than the permanent.)
But their acquaintance and subsequent relationship was a typical one in the post-war era. Francis pulled towards and Arthur pushed away. It was as if there was a quintessential loneliness between them and in order for this balance to be maintained, there needed to be a leverage that constantly pushed and pulled, pushed and pulled. Arthur did not call it such, though he did acknowledge it. So did Francis, to an extent.
--
Francis was waiting for him when Arthur came down the stairs. "What are you doing here?"
"Can't a man ask another for some lunch without being interrogated? I'm starving."
"Starving. Really," said Arthur, signing out at the front desk. "What do you want to get? There's this place I know that serves a good roast lamb."
"I was thinking of the Closerie. I can't stand the other places. They serve rotten brandies at the average bistro."
"Oh, that kind of hungry."
They walked outside and found a car that brought them to the café. They ordered drinks and sat outside. It was a nice day, very pleasant. The foliage was very green and it complemented the decaying buildings up along the boulevard. It added a sort of antique touch. Give it another fifty years, Arthur thought, and it probably will be.
Francis complimented Arthur on how fit he looked. Arthur knew the correct reply and said that he was not half as fit as Francis. He asked Arthur how his work was coming along. Arthur asked him if he was even still working. Both said of the other that he hoped he would be given all the happiness that he so rightfully deserved and they drank to each other's health several times.
And Arthur became rather tired of the pointless chatter and wondered when Francis would say whatever it was that had led to his inviting of Arthur out to lunch.
It was their fifth drink. "Well, what is it?" he said.
"What do you mean? There is nothing; I desire only your quiet and calming companionship."
"Did you lot break up?"
"What are you talking about?"
"It was a joke. I was being sarcastic."
"And heavens know you should never joke, not even out of sarcasm."
"You know," continued Arthur, "you never know, I've been thinking. A lot of times, the romance that comes in the guise of sarcasm is the strongest kind of romance anyone can hope to accomplish. I thought about this yesterday, actually. You're not feeling particularly amorous today, I hope? Or maybe you've lost all hope. Next thing you'll be on a pilgrimage to Zürich so you can go meet Tzara in person or what-have-you."
"You are awful. But so delightful! No, cher, there’s no need to worry for me, they're the usual ailments. Bored and lonely are we privileged men. What a predicament. What a disease!"
"God knows you don't even lunch in the first place. Come on, out with it. What's the reason for today?"
"Why, there is nothing to say."
"About as true as the elephant who spoke to me yesterday in perfect Gaelic."
"That's not bad. That's honestly not bad. I suppose Mencken would find that witty."
"Let's not start on Mencken."
"That is perhaps the best idea you've had in a long while," Francis said. "But all right: there's someone I'd like you to meet."
"How did I know there would be something?"
"Allow me to explain."
For a moment, Arthur stared. "Francis, no. Not another one of those young debutantes that you p-"
"It's not like that. It's not like that at all."
"-and not to mention those damned Americans and their damned literary-"
"Oh, I had no idea you were so affected."
"Don't play dumb now."
"You know, I would hate to have to ask the English gentleman for some civility."
"Who is it?" he grumbled.
"He is from Spain. You don't know him. He seeks lodging: he is too poor to find a room and too prideful to accept my very willing generosity."
At this, Arthur looked away but he managed: "Well, I'm probably poorer than he is. What did he do? Is he running away from the law?"
"No. Yes. He is what you would call a revolutionary."
"Oh, God, no. Just- I'm not housing one of your leftist friends from the government. Or maybe he's an anarchist. I don't give a damn either way, but I don't want to be involved. I'm not asking to be involved. I've learned my lesson and that’s to only stick my neck for me and me only. Did you hear that? Finish your brandy and let's not talk anymore silliness. Or anything at all. I think I see Miss Clyne over there. Lovely Miss Clyne. Miss Clyne!"
"It is only for a few days. Probably even fewer than that. He would not risk staying long." He held his hand fondly to his chest, close to where his heart would be. "I swear it. I promise." He knew what that meant to Arthur, and Arthur hated it.
He frowned. "No, that wasn't her. Miss Clyne has brown hair, I'm pretty certain of it. Unless she's gone and dyed it like all the other girls these days. I ask you, Francis, what on earth possesses a girl to go and ruin her natural hair color with all those toxic chemicals? I suppose it's a phase."
"I know you are listening to me."
"Unfortunately. But that's what you always say, you know. I fondly remember that A-"
"That was a mistake, I tell you. Not that it probably makes you feel any better, since you're so swamped in self-loathing. Now, please. He arrives in a matter of hours. I'm on my way to the station soon, in fact."
"Good luck to him." He finished his drink and wanted to leave badly. He wanted to go some place where he had good credit, like Shakespeare and Company. He liked talking to the writers there and Miss Beach was always kind and pleasant.
"You really won't?"
"I'll not."
"You are one of the few people I would ask. Is that not flattering to those scruffy ears of yours?"
"Maybe. But you know where I stand."
"Yes. And despite it. Think of it as extending a hand from one human to the next."
"Maybe if it was for some benevolent cause, but I see no benevolence here." On a second thought, he rapped his empty glass on his saucer. The waiter brought him another drink.
Francis raised an eyebrow. "You drink very quickly. I noticed this only recently."
"Oh I try."
"Now, about this fine young gentleman-"
"No," insisted Arthur. "I won't."
"You'll not reconsider it either?"
"After all, what's in it for me?"
"Well, to begin with, I happen to know that you've fallen behind on your rent again. Six months is an awfully long time and I can just imagine how that will go over: 'My, how credible that English gentleman is!' 'Oh, but my dear, did you not hear? He's falling behind again.' 'No, truly? One wouldn’t think it by looking at him.'" He had said it in his exaggerated accent which he liked to use quite often. "Even in debt you still manage to convey this sense of almighty confidence. How do you do it?"
"Where on earth do you hear such rubbish?"
"Only from the best of sources. Now, with regards lodgings for this very special friend of mine."
"How do you even know this chap to begin with? "
Francis's face tensed, just for a moment. "All right. Consider the matter dropped. "
Arthur considered it. He scowled. "Will you give me your word?"
"As always. I'll have it rung over to you later. I'll even leave my name off. Your mysterious beneficiary will, for once, remain anonymous."
"You know it's not that bad. I'm doing better now and I won't need to keep-you don't need to keep, well, offering, I am perfectly capable of-"
Francis held out his hand. "Let me say this: this it all in my best interest. It brings me no inconvenience and it has nothing to do with you."
"I dislike your money. Really, I do. It literally reeks of perfume. What do you do to it: bathe it in scents? I swear to God on my mother's life-oh God bless her soul. See, two months ago, I nearly gagged in the morning because I had to wake up to that stench."
"We will be at the Select."
"God, Francis, I-"
"We will be waiting for you in the bar, although you probably already knew that." Francis smiled again.
iii.
At ten he made his way to Montparnasse. At the Select, he saw neither Francis nor any of his usual crowds. In the bar there was hardly anyone. He left and went over next door to the Dingo and went straight to the back. On the way, someone seemed to call him over, but he was not sure who it was and so he did not stop.
Aside from the usual patrons, there was a boy, a very handsome boy, who was sitting on a bar stool. He wore a white linen shirt under a coat with an emblem and tan-colored pants and boots that went up to his knees. It looked like a guerrilla's uniform, and later, Arthur Kirkland found out that it was the uniform of the unit he belonged to. On top of all of this he wore a felt hat, and it seemed very out-of-place on him. He looked to be attempting assimilation but the contrast of the uniform and the civilian hat was too much. He probably did not even realize that he stuck out. His olive-toned skin looked very nice on him in the darkness of the bar. He had a handsome face.
"You are Arthur Kirkland?" he asked very politely. When he stood up, the stool he had been sitting on made a creaking sound and he hastily looked behind as if he'd done something wrong.
"Yes, I am," said Arthur, in a pointed way. "Where's Francis at?"
"Oh, you mean Monsieur? He left just as you came, if you can believe it. He said he had a date at Montmartre. He said you would be arriving soon and indeed you have. You may call me Antonio."
Before Arthur could say anything, the boy had offered a hand. He duly shook it. "Well, so you're the Spanish kid he mentioned?"
"He said that you could find me a place to stay?"
"The very one." Arthur sighed. "Look, are you familiar around this town?" He knew of a few houses that would take in people cheaply.
"This is my first time in the country, sir. I know no one at all. Only Monsieur and now, you."
God help you, he thought. Then aloud: "There is no need to call me sir. Arthur is fine. How long will you be here?"
"Hopefully, I will only know you for a few days. I'll be traveling up north to Belgium with a friend and then-"
"I don't want to hear your future plans. They're no concern of mine. But you need a place to stay.
How do you feel about a drafty one-room apartment?"
"It sounds very comfortable," smiled Antonio. He had a very beautiful smile. "Where I've been, it's-"
"We'll leave now then."
"All right."
They walked out and it was dark except for the few lights on the sidewalks. But aside from that, there was the moon and there was Arthur and Antonio. They walked almost side-by-side in complete silence, Arthur because he had no idea what to say and Antonio because he mistook Arthur's silence for quiet contemplation. Arthur was wondering why he had offered his apartment. Twice they passed other possible accommodations and twice Arthur said nothing. He would have been willing to pay.
"Well, here's the place."
The concierge handed him his key. They took to the stairs because the elevator was still out-of-service despite the tenants' complaints, no less than five of which had come from Arthur Kirkland. The velvet carpet felt very plush under his feet and there was a tiredness on his shoulders that he felt but could not place. Antonio scurried behind him and was careful to not make noise.
When they reached his room, Arthur said. "Make yourself at home. There's an armchair over there."
The boy took off his coat. In the light of the apartment, his linen shirt suddenly seemed very dirty, almost musky. He probably had not changed for days. Maybe he was used to living like that. Possibly he was better off than most other people. The boy sat on the ground to untie the laces of his boots and he was about to undo the belt of his pants. "Is it okay?" he said.
Arthur was in the washroom, shaving. "Do whatever you please."
The first night passed slowly. He kept thinking that someone was going to smash through the doorway and arrest them both and it reminded him of being trapped in the trenches. Ever since then he had disliked the feeling of being stuck. It had been a long time since anyone stayed over and he had forgotten what sleep sounded like. The boy did not move once in the armchair. He used his coat as a makeshift blanket; Arthur could barely hear him breathe. They were just a few meters away from each other. There was a very human smell about the boy, of earth and country and a world he had not encountered since the end of the war. It did not matter to him what war this boy would be initiating or defending. As long it wasn't his war. He turned over; it felt like the creak of his hospital bed in Milan. He had to stay in the hospital for six months and when he came out, he was awarded a medal that had a lot of fancy script on it but really only said that he'd been awarded because he had been injured and because he was English. "We salute you, Tenente," the head doctor had told him, and patted him heartily on the back. (It was what the doctor did when he could not help his patients in the very worst situations.) "We cannot thank you enough for supporting our cause, signore." The Cause, they'd called it. There was always a cause. Well, you couldn't do anything any other way. The hospital was new and they were using the machines. Arthur remembered the loud whirlwind sounds the machines made and now it reminded him of human breathing. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, it was all very standard. It could be counted on unlike everything else. He hated that uncertainty; it was unattractive, sagging and repulsive at its very core. He tried to close his eyes and sleep but it was not coming. There was a flask in his coat pocket but he did not want to have to walk over to get it. Besides, it might wake the boy who was sleeping. He sounded as if he were sleeping very soundly, because he was safe in a stranger's apartment in a country he did not know. He sighed. Sometimes, he wished the war was still going on though these thoughts thankfully did not come often.
iv.
"Thank you," said the boy.
"For what?"
"For letting me stay here." The boy looked confused.
"Oh, that. It's nothing."
"I was very happy when Monsieur said that you would be able to help. And on such short notice. You must be very good friends for him to be able to depend on you so intimately."
Arthur was unable to squelch his grimace. "I wouldn't put it like that. Here, have some coffee."
Antonio drank from the mug. He drank with large gulps like a person who has not tasted water in days. He was famished and therefore appreciative.
"Sugar or milk?"
"Oh, no, it's perfectly fine."
"So, what'll you be doing?" Arthur asked despite himself.
"I have some business to be attending to, but that should not take very long."
"Good. I'll take you to lunch afterward."
"Oh, no, it's not necessary. I couldn't possibly impose any more than I have."
"How does one o' clock sound? The town's a lot nicer when there's light."
"What do you mean? Of course Paris is the same no matter what."
"I don't think so. It's different. You see things differently when there's no light."
"But the places are the same."
"But you see differently."
"Of course, the beauty and culture can be appreciated no matter what."
"Yes," said Arthur, "so everything sounds good?"
When Antonio smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkled and brightened up. "That sounds good."
--
"I heard from Monsieur that you fought in the war," said Antonio after they had ordered their food.
"Yes." He was thinking: why is the damn frog telling him such things?
"I was thirteen when the surrender came through. I remember hearing it from my neighbors, who owned a radio. They were the only ones in the town who owned one. They were shouting and it spread to everyone else like a sickness and there was yelling and crying and prayers. You had to be deaf to not hear the noise. Then, just as quickly, everything stopped. Our village came to still, and it was then I realized there is nothing louder than the sound of silence."
"Oh," said Arthur, and he said the only thing he was able to say, which was: "oh. You're very young then."
"Does that surprise you?"
"You look very mature."
"Thank you."
"If you don't mind my saying so," said Antonio, "I think it was a dirty war. I am glad my country remained neutral."
"It was a dirty war. There's no such thing as a clean war. I was at the Italian front."
"Unhurt, I hope?"
"If I had been I wouldn't have gotten out of the war early."
"Sorry." The boy blushed.
"I don't mind. It's not very helpful, you know, to get upset anymore. In fact, it's sort of funny. It's really better to think of it that way. Just laugh it off. If you laugh then you're not really miserable."
"Funny?"
"It helps you forget. We were all such fools then. We still are. We just laughed. Some chaps never know any better, do they?"
Arthur thought he could see through Antonio's eyes. Before they were bright. Now they were dulled over.
"I am sorry to have brought it up." He looked upset. Arthur thought it funny.
"Oh, no. It's nothing, nothing at all, you're just awfully modest, that's all."
The sommelier came with their wine and the food arrived shortly thereafter and they ate their meal to the sound of clinking silverware and the tourists just a table over.
They were walking up the avenue and the day had turned grey. There was a girl some ways behind them. They could hear her shouting: "New York Herald Tribune!" She was speaking in English. This would not have happened twenty years ago.
A strange unspoken bond had formed between them. They did not speak much, but Antonio, without knowing it, lent a quiet strength that Arthur had been missing and unconsciously looking for. He was so young and the earnest look in his eyes bespoke of hope . . . Arthur had not seen that for a long time. He felt touched. Then he felt sickened of the feeling that was rising up from his stomach to his heart. It was a disgusting feeling. Hope was disgusting. It went down smoothly and then gave you stomachaches and diarrhea (thus reminding him of his own experiences with bad pernod). That Antonio seemed to sense this and was thus respectful made it all the more unbearable and he did not know why. Of course, he knew why. He was jealous, wholly and undeniably jealous of the youth and energy that Antonio naturally possessed and which had been wrenched away Arthur from under his nose. That was a bad feeling. Here they were, two worlds apart and forced together.
When they passed an intersection, Arthur watched an electric cart drive by. It seemed to be flying, with the wheels off the ground and the tired, underpaid driver a fantastic conductor at the helm of a train, heading off to nowhere and everywhere. Alger probably wrote something like this before.
"Do you support the youth, Monsieur?" This was addressed to Arthur. A teen-aged boy had crept up behind them. In his hands were fliers but Arthur could not read what was on it. The words seemed awfully jumbled. There was English and French and maybe a little German. Antonio looked at him for an answer. He and the boy looked to be pressing.
"Oh, yes I did," Arthur said, not really looking at the boy. Then, in an unprecedented action, he smiled at Antonio. "Let's go."
Francis was waiting for them at the Quarter. "You," he said to Arthur extravagantly, "are a lifesaver."
"Well you know the deal," Arthur grumbled and he and Antonio headed into the nearest bar, which turned out to be part of a dancing club. The music was loud and everyone was dancing closely. The place was packed with human bodies and at the front there was a band and an African drummer who, when he smiled, showed no front teeth. His beat kept a steady rhythm, his hands slapping at the right intervals.
"You aren't really that old, are you?" Antonio asked. The music behind them was loud and he almost had to shout to make himself heard. The room was smoky and hazy and there was a poorly placed mirror behind Antonio's head. The result was a halo effect, a bright halo reflected off his tousled hair.
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, from earlier," shrugged the boy.
"I'm very old. Maybe you can't tell but I was old before you born, when you were born, and, uh, even more so now. I've seen a lot."
"Oh, but he has," Francis said, cutting in.
Arthur bristled: "I meant the war, frog."
"It's what they all say," this for Antonio's benefit.
"I'm sure Mr. Arthur has seen a lot," Antonio hurriedly said.
"Of that I have no doubt," a small dimple appeared on both of Francis's cheeks.
"It's true," said Arthur and tried to take out the metallic taste in his mouth with a swig of water. But it did nothing. The taste lingered. It seemed to become even stronger.
"In comparison, I have seen very little," said the boy. He straightened the bow of his uniform. "I feel very inadequate in such company."
"You're not missing out on anything," Arthur snorted.
"What's it like?"
"A lot of bed bugs and bad food."
"He says it very lightly now that his pride is at stake," Francis prodded. "Tell him the truth. You don't want to mislead the poor boy. He's trying to do some change. He's trying to make the world a better place. Don't mislead him now just because you were."
"Why don't you go-"
"Oh, but he doesn't have to if he does not want to," the boy was very considerate of Arthur.
"You go in wanting only the best for everyone and you come out wanting a break from it all. But you won't. You can't ever. You can't just walk away. You don't get presented with a bill. And you can't pay it off either. It'd be easy if it were like that. You run away and you only find yourself already there, waiting for you.
"The bill gets longer but you can never pay them off. You accumulate a lot of creditors. I have a lot of creditors. Who doesn't? You're never sure of them but they'll be there. And they'll be waiting. It gets worse. No, running away never works. That stuff doesn't work." He had been going on splendidly but now he abruptly stopped.
"Oh, do keep going," said Francis.
"Hell if I will."
"I have a cause that I believe in. Does that matter any?"
"No. But yes. At first. You've got your damn ideas and values. They're quite useful and necessary, those values. But they also get squashed. Crushed. Until they're all mangled and you can't recognize them anymore. They used to wear Oxford suits. Afternoon tea at Mayfair. Very Ritz. Now they're all bloodied up."
"We must never forget our values," Francis proclaimed.
"Values, bloody hell. You can't forget your damn values."
"And what about love?" asked the boy.
"Oh, what bilge. Love is. Bad romance and politics, they're all the same."
"You are always in love with someone, something," insisted Francis. "Or maybe you're in love with love."
"Love, what rot."
"You need a drink."
"Now you're not talking rot."
"He's drunk," Francis said apologetically to Antonio. "Perhaps I'll have to excuse us both so that I may escort him home."
"I will help you then."
"The night is still very young."
"I'd rather not," said Antonio.
v.
They carried him, one on each side. The concierge let them know what she thought of it all through her very purposeful sighs: Francis knew something of them. They went up the stairs, heading up the spiral case slowly. "Finally," said Francis and they heaved him through the door.
Arthur mumbled something.
"What was that?"
"Oh, it is nothing."
They set him down on the bed and then watched over him with a sense of accomplishment. "I believe this is the time I help myself to some of his brandy," said Francis. "Do you know? He has a bottle from 1811. Passed down the family. Nobody dared to drink it before him. Must relieve him of that burden. Terribly good idea. Do you want some?"
"How did you meet him?" Antonio asked him. Francis was sitting on the armchair with a glass in hand and Antonio was sitting cross-legged on the ground, with Francis’s tunic draped over his shoulders.
"Here, there, everywhere."
"Was he always like this?"
"Trust me when I say he is getting better."
"I honestly don't believe he's really like this. No one can be. Not forever."
"Have you ever seen a man die?" Francis looked into Antonio's eyes.
"I once saw a man get gored by a bull. I was six."
"But you've never seen a man murdered. That's the word: murdered."
"Not when you put it that way." Then a moment later: "Oh."
"'Oh.' That's a nice way of putting it."
"I cannot imagine."
"This poor fellow has seen a lot, so he says, and it's true. He's seen so much he's always wishing to be someplace else. Well, I suppose you only want what you can't have. He used to go on and on about South America. He would rag on all about it to me. 'Why me?' I asked. 'Because you can talk Spanish and it's less lonely when you're with someone.' That was because he was very bad. The next morning, he forgot all about it. He went back to work like a good, contributing citizen. Then there was the time he showed me a postcard of a park with autumn leaves and tall trees. I believe the photo was taken in the States, in America. 'I'd like to go there one day, ' he told me. He was not tight then, but later he was. So he never got around to it. The poor bastard," Francis meant it endearingly.
"Has he ever been in love?"
"I think he was," Francis said. He pondered this. He touched his finger to his lips. "Once. But she's dead now."
"The war?"
"That very war."
"Did you know her?"
"I introduced them."
"Oh," said Antonio. He went very quiet. "Oh."
"That was a very long time ago. Or else it feels like it. Arthur is no longer young. He's thirty-three."
"That is not so old."
"You're quite kind, aren't you? Let's put it this way. When you were born, he was already in school in England."
"We're not all too different. We are still fighting. It has nothing to do with age."
"It has, in fact, everything to do with age."
"Really?"
"We're two generations, completely lost and separated. We lost our way in the woods a while ago and we're still trying to find our way out. That is what I think," said Francis. "It is difficult to say. But the age you belong to is different from mine and Arthur's."
For the longest time, Antonio did not say anything. He seemed to be thinking. He was looking at something behind Francis's left shoulder. Outside, there was music streaming from the bistros. It wasn't so late. The night felt warm and humid and human. Finally he said: "I think I'll be leaving tomorrow morning. I do not wish to stay for so long."
"You're certain the police did not follow you here?"
"I'm certain. I would never want for you or Monsieur to be implicated. It is my duty, my cause. La causa, we call it."
"Do you believe very much in it?"
"I would offer my life."
"You're very noble. Sacrifices, nowadays, have gone out of style. A true pity."
Suddenly, Antonio's eyes lit up. "Would Arthur perhaps like to come with me up north? It might do him some good. And we could never have enough-"
"Oh, no. Never. His life, or what's left of it, is here in Paris." He set the glass on the table. It made a clunk sound.
"But he speaks of wanting to leave. One would gain the impression that he hates Paris or else finds it dirty."
"Paris is a very clean city. No, it would do him no good. It'd only make him worse. He could not take it. In a few days, I will be sending him to the Riviera. It will probably do him no good either, but, ah, one can hope. But going north? He would not take it well. He'd take it badly, even. It would be disastrous. For you and for him."
"Monsieur, I hate to say it, but you have very little belief in someone you love."
"On the contrary. He has very belief in himself."
"The war?"
"Yes."
"The war," started Antonio. "It was awful, wasn't it?"
"He got injured."
"You told me."
"That wasn't all; there are some ailments one gets that are even worse than death without it being death at all. How does one live like that? How does one face himself in the mirror in the morning?"
Antonio blinked.
"It was really a very bad war."
"Oh."
"That's the best way to put it, I dare say," Francis said. Everything was just so ironic.
vi.
In the morning, Arthur woke up. He felt the usual throbbing pain in his head but he staggered out of bed just the same. He went to the washroom and saw that his sink had been cleaned. Then he went to the kitchen and saw a basket of food waiting for him. It was from the boy. But paid for by Francis. The boy's clothes were gone, his hat was gone, and it was like he had never been here. He had never been here. Arthur sighed and washed his face. He splashed the cold water on his cheeks and looked at himself in the mirror. What a face, he thought to himself, and reached for a towel. After eating breakfast, he went in to the office and worked very hard so that he could get most of the work done before he shoved off for the Riviera in two days' time. It had been a long time since he had a vacation.
Author: sonofon
Characters: England, France, Spain
Rating: pg-13
Summary: interwar years, circa 1924.
Notes: Written for the Hetalia Minibang 2010 my my my how the years have gone by.
i.
There was a certain beauty in the early morning light. He saw it and it seemed awfully bright at first, almost too bright. The brightness tore at his eyes but he could not look away from it. The intensity of it was centered and slightly hazy at the edges but he could see clearly, mostly. When he had woken up completely, he blinked and looked again at the light that was blinding. He could hear the sound of the fishermen in the wharf. There was a group of men and they were a noisy crowd, heaving and pulling and shouting encouragement to one another. One man was on the verge of making a big catch and the commotion was all very loud so he could not have slept more even if he wanted to.
He looked out the window and down below, four or five local men were situated, telling their comrade how to catch the fish. Their French was excited and rushed and anxious all at once and had attracted the attentions of the morning shoppers. He soon gathered that a woman with a particularly sharp tone of voice was the fisherman's wife and she desired the fish for dinner. He went to the washroom.
When he came back out, a man noticed him and called out: "He caught it! He caught it!" In the restaurant downstairs, he ordered a brioche and tea and sat down at his usual table, which was in the corner away from the lobby. "Will Monsieur be dining alone today?" The Madame was referring to lunch. She always prepared a simple meal for him and he, in turn, always ate heartily and complimented her and left her a nice tip. It made their relationship very easy to understand. He knew where he stood at all times. He was on solid ground.
"When have I not?"
"I have always asked Monsieur."
He asked her: "Will it be raining today? The paper says so."
"And the paper is almost always wrong. You see outside where those men are? They are celebrating the capture of a fish. A fish gives us food. It is not every day that one is caught. So they are happy because they feel they have been blessed. No, it will not rain today."
He went up to his room to change into a swimsuit and he went out to the ocean and swam towards a far off cove. He had been making further strides with each passing day and now he had finally reached it. The cove was dark and damp inside and he could feel the wet sand sink in between his toes. But aside from that there was not much else to see and he felt slightly disappointed and he swam back to the beach. The feeling of accomplishment was still there but it was not exactly the same. He took a shower and washed the sand from his hair. When he stepped out, there was a small pile of sand by the water-stopper.
"Are you leaving for Paris today, Monsieur?" the Madame asked him at lunch.
"Yes."
"It was very good to have you here."
"I hope I'll be able to come back soon."
"Yes, that'd be nice."
Later, he packed his suitcase into his old Alfa Romeo and began driving north, towards Paris. It took a total of five hours because along the way the car suffered a bust tire and he had to pull over at a stop to get it fixed. Otherwise it was a good, long drive. He arrived in front of his flat near the end of the Boulevard Saint-Michel at ten. The concierge said that his key had been taken by someone who said he knew him. That happened at eight-fifteen. "He said it was very important," said the concierge, shrugging. Surprised, and yet not completely surprised, he began the three-floor trek up to his room. The light was turned on and the door was unlocked and he went inside.
"Well, well," said Arthur Kirkland.
ii.
There was a certain kind of man Arthur Kirkland sought to avoid at all times.
This man wore striped suits with peaked lapels and fashionable shiny shoes. He drank Mumms champagne and antique brandies; he ate only sparsely and sporadically. He knew Hell's own amount of people and he was a regular in the café society in Montparnasse and elsewhere. He sponsored artists and writers, helped finance literary foundations and museum inductions. He was perfectly wealthy and content and yet he found it necessary to emphasize his once coarse roots, just to remind you how far he'd come. He liked to be complimented. He was arrogant and sophisticated beyond belief. This man was a Frenchman. Arthur called him Francis Bonnefoy.
This man was one that any kind of elitist society required. He was the one to befriend, or else he befriended you, though the latter happened very rarely. It was not uncommon for young and virtuous writers (sex was no matter of importance) to start off their introduction at a party with a casual mention of Francis Bonnefoy. Arthur Kirkland was not one of these writers; he was not even a real writer to begin with, not that that had ever discouraged Francis.
They met, as most people did, at a café. It was late and the bar was busy and Arthur Kirkland had decided that he hated the Quarter and Paris and all of bloody continental Europe; then the peculiar Francis Bonnefoy slid up next to him and bought him a drink. There was no real introduction made. In those days it didn't occur to you to start with one. It was merely calling the waiter for a whiskey and water and an unlikely friendship was born. Francis always paid without asking and Arthur was too poor to not accept it. But there was his pride to consider. He insisted and grabbed the bill the next time they went out. (It was more than his wallet could handle, by the way. Francis still laughed at him for it.)
There were more and more foreigners coming into Paris now and Francis was no longer surprised if he saw five Americans blundering about in the span of three hours. It was actually quite normal. "You're an expatriate," he told Arthur. "The worst kind. You've lost touch with everyone else. You feel as if you're completely hopeless and detached and you want to take that out on everybody else. Your primary purpose is to waste the taxpayers' money. You're consumed by alcohol and lust and you have no idea what to do with the rest of your life. You hang around in cafés. What a life that is."
"That sounds like a good life."
"Ah, but you say so because you are drunk. When you're not drunk, then what?"
"Then I'm drinking. Because I'm not drunk yet." He thought it terribly witty and he laughed.
"And at night? What do you do then?"
"I think. I think of rotten bilge and I think of everything I've ever seen. I could write it down if I wanted to. It'd be quite the novel. But I'm not going to."
"Being a writer would not be much different from everyone else," Francis smiled.
"That's why I won't."
"What do you do then?"
"I work."
"Oh? What do you do?"
"I don't know you well enough."
"That's low of you."
"I work for the Paris-based branch of an internationally renowned company."
"That's low of you."
Arthur shrugged. "Well."
"Well, what else do you do?"
"I loaf. Sometimes I even travel. Thus I am cultured and respected."
"And what does that hideous term mean, 'loaf'?"
"Strangely enough, I never found the need to find out. I learned that from an American; and they are so terribly knowledgeable about everything don't you think?"
Often, if they bid good-bye early on in the evening, there was a good chance of them meeting up again. It was not a coincidence. All the crowds ran the same approximate tour of the cafés and clubs and one was bound to meet the other somewhere along the way. Francis's crowd was always different. One crowd consisted entirely of men with plucked eyebrows and made-up faces. They laughed and giggled and made very big scenes, and in such a crowd, Francis was usually at the center. Someone was always handing him a drink and he always took one sip of it before passing it on to someone else. When Arthur saw that particular crowd, he wanted to punch someone or something until it became unrecognizable. They exhibited a certain trait that he found absolutely, entirely horrible for no good reason. (His irrational anger was one he'd come to facts with and if it was not inconvenient, then it was a nuisance. He found that drinking only brought temporary solace though that was okay. Temporary was better than nothing which was better than the permanent.)
But their acquaintance and subsequent relationship was a typical one in the post-war era. Francis pulled towards and Arthur pushed away. It was as if there was a quintessential loneliness between them and in order for this balance to be maintained, there needed to be a leverage that constantly pushed and pulled, pushed and pulled. Arthur did not call it such, though he did acknowledge it. So did Francis, to an extent.
--
Francis was waiting for him when Arthur came down the stairs. "What are you doing here?"
"Can't a man ask another for some lunch without being interrogated? I'm starving."
"Starving. Really," said Arthur, signing out at the front desk. "What do you want to get? There's this place I know that serves a good roast lamb."
"I was thinking of the Closerie. I can't stand the other places. They serve rotten brandies at the average bistro."
"Oh, that kind of hungry."
They walked outside and found a car that brought them to the café. They ordered drinks and sat outside. It was a nice day, very pleasant. The foliage was very green and it complemented the decaying buildings up along the boulevard. It added a sort of antique touch. Give it another fifty years, Arthur thought, and it probably will be.
Francis complimented Arthur on how fit he looked. Arthur knew the correct reply and said that he was not half as fit as Francis. He asked Arthur how his work was coming along. Arthur asked him if he was even still working. Both said of the other that he hoped he would be given all the happiness that he so rightfully deserved and they drank to each other's health several times.
And Arthur became rather tired of the pointless chatter and wondered when Francis would say whatever it was that had led to his inviting of Arthur out to lunch.
It was their fifth drink. "Well, what is it?" he said.
"What do you mean? There is nothing; I desire only your quiet and calming companionship."
"Did you lot break up?"
"What are you talking about?"
"It was a joke. I was being sarcastic."
"And heavens know you should never joke, not even out of sarcasm."
"You know," continued Arthur, "you never know, I've been thinking. A lot of times, the romance that comes in the guise of sarcasm is the strongest kind of romance anyone can hope to accomplish. I thought about this yesterday, actually. You're not feeling particularly amorous today, I hope? Or maybe you've lost all hope. Next thing you'll be on a pilgrimage to Zürich so you can go meet Tzara in person or what-have-you."
"You are awful. But so delightful! No, cher, there’s no need to worry for me, they're the usual ailments. Bored and lonely are we privileged men. What a predicament. What a disease!"
"God knows you don't even lunch in the first place. Come on, out with it. What's the reason for today?"
"Why, there is nothing to say."
"About as true as the elephant who spoke to me yesterday in perfect Gaelic."
"That's not bad. That's honestly not bad. I suppose Mencken would find that witty."
"Let's not start on Mencken."
"That is perhaps the best idea you've had in a long while," Francis said. "But all right: there's someone I'd like you to meet."
"How did I know there would be something?"
"Allow me to explain."
For a moment, Arthur stared. "Francis, no. Not another one of those young debutantes that you p-"
"It's not like that. It's not like that at all."
"-and not to mention those damned Americans and their damned literary-"
"Oh, I had no idea you were so affected."
"Don't play dumb now."
"You know, I would hate to have to ask the English gentleman for some civility."
"Who is it?" he grumbled.
"He is from Spain. You don't know him. He seeks lodging: he is too poor to find a room and too prideful to accept my very willing generosity."
At this, Arthur looked away but he managed: "Well, I'm probably poorer than he is. What did he do? Is he running away from the law?"
"No. Yes. He is what you would call a revolutionary."
"Oh, God, no. Just- I'm not housing one of your leftist friends from the government. Or maybe he's an anarchist. I don't give a damn either way, but I don't want to be involved. I'm not asking to be involved. I've learned my lesson and that’s to only stick my neck for me and me only. Did you hear that? Finish your brandy and let's not talk anymore silliness. Or anything at all. I think I see Miss Clyne over there. Lovely Miss Clyne. Miss Clyne!"
"It is only for a few days. Probably even fewer than that. He would not risk staying long." He held his hand fondly to his chest, close to where his heart would be. "I swear it. I promise." He knew what that meant to Arthur, and Arthur hated it.
He frowned. "No, that wasn't her. Miss Clyne has brown hair, I'm pretty certain of it. Unless she's gone and dyed it like all the other girls these days. I ask you, Francis, what on earth possesses a girl to go and ruin her natural hair color with all those toxic chemicals? I suppose it's a phase."
"I know you are listening to me."
"Unfortunately. But that's what you always say, you know. I fondly remember that A-"
"That was a mistake, I tell you. Not that it probably makes you feel any better, since you're so swamped in self-loathing. Now, please. He arrives in a matter of hours. I'm on my way to the station soon, in fact."
"Good luck to him." He finished his drink and wanted to leave badly. He wanted to go some place where he had good credit, like Shakespeare and Company. He liked talking to the writers there and Miss Beach was always kind and pleasant.
"You really won't?"
"I'll not."
"You are one of the few people I would ask. Is that not flattering to those scruffy ears of yours?"
"Maybe. But you know where I stand."
"Yes. And despite it. Think of it as extending a hand from one human to the next."
"Maybe if it was for some benevolent cause, but I see no benevolence here." On a second thought, he rapped his empty glass on his saucer. The waiter brought him another drink.
Francis raised an eyebrow. "You drink very quickly. I noticed this only recently."
"Oh I try."
"Now, about this fine young gentleman-"
"No," insisted Arthur. "I won't."
"You'll not reconsider it either?"
"After all, what's in it for me?"
"Well, to begin with, I happen to know that you've fallen behind on your rent again. Six months is an awfully long time and I can just imagine how that will go over: 'My, how credible that English gentleman is!' 'Oh, but my dear, did you not hear? He's falling behind again.' 'No, truly? One wouldn’t think it by looking at him.'" He had said it in his exaggerated accent which he liked to use quite often. "Even in debt you still manage to convey this sense of almighty confidence. How do you do it?"
"Where on earth do you hear such rubbish?"
"Only from the best of sources. Now, with regards lodgings for this very special friend of mine."
"How do you even know this chap to begin with? "
Francis's face tensed, just for a moment. "All right. Consider the matter dropped. "
Arthur considered it. He scowled. "Will you give me your word?"
"As always. I'll have it rung over to you later. I'll even leave my name off. Your mysterious beneficiary will, for once, remain anonymous."
"You know it's not that bad. I'm doing better now and I won't need to keep-you don't need to keep, well, offering, I am perfectly capable of-"
Francis held out his hand. "Let me say this: this it all in my best interest. It brings me no inconvenience and it has nothing to do with you."
"I dislike your money. Really, I do. It literally reeks of perfume. What do you do to it: bathe it in scents? I swear to God on my mother's life-oh God bless her soul. See, two months ago, I nearly gagged in the morning because I had to wake up to that stench."
"We will be at the Select."
"God, Francis, I-"
"We will be waiting for you in the bar, although you probably already knew that." Francis smiled again.
iii.
At ten he made his way to Montparnasse. At the Select, he saw neither Francis nor any of his usual crowds. In the bar there was hardly anyone. He left and went over next door to the Dingo and went straight to the back. On the way, someone seemed to call him over, but he was not sure who it was and so he did not stop.
Aside from the usual patrons, there was a boy, a very handsome boy, who was sitting on a bar stool. He wore a white linen shirt under a coat with an emblem and tan-colored pants and boots that went up to his knees. It looked like a guerrilla's uniform, and later, Arthur Kirkland found out that it was the uniform of the unit he belonged to. On top of all of this he wore a felt hat, and it seemed very out-of-place on him. He looked to be attempting assimilation but the contrast of the uniform and the civilian hat was too much. He probably did not even realize that he stuck out. His olive-toned skin looked very nice on him in the darkness of the bar. He had a handsome face.
"You are Arthur Kirkland?" he asked very politely. When he stood up, the stool he had been sitting on made a creaking sound and he hastily looked behind as if he'd done something wrong.
"Yes, I am," said Arthur, in a pointed way. "Where's Francis at?"
"Oh, you mean Monsieur? He left just as you came, if you can believe it. He said he had a date at Montmartre. He said you would be arriving soon and indeed you have. You may call me Antonio."
Before Arthur could say anything, the boy had offered a hand. He duly shook it. "Well, so you're the Spanish kid he mentioned?"
"He said that you could find me a place to stay?"
"The very one." Arthur sighed. "Look, are you familiar around this town?" He knew of a few houses that would take in people cheaply.
"This is my first time in the country, sir. I know no one at all. Only Monsieur and now, you."
God help you, he thought. Then aloud: "There is no need to call me sir. Arthur is fine. How long will you be here?"
"Hopefully, I will only know you for a few days. I'll be traveling up north to Belgium with a friend and then-"
"I don't want to hear your future plans. They're no concern of mine. But you need a place to stay.
How do you feel about a drafty one-room apartment?"
"It sounds very comfortable," smiled Antonio. He had a very beautiful smile. "Where I've been, it's-"
"We'll leave now then."
"All right."
They walked out and it was dark except for the few lights on the sidewalks. But aside from that, there was the moon and there was Arthur and Antonio. They walked almost side-by-side in complete silence, Arthur because he had no idea what to say and Antonio because he mistook Arthur's silence for quiet contemplation. Arthur was wondering why he had offered his apartment. Twice they passed other possible accommodations and twice Arthur said nothing. He would have been willing to pay.
"Well, here's the place."
The concierge handed him his key. They took to the stairs because the elevator was still out-of-service despite the tenants' complaints, no less than five of which had come from Arthur Kirkland. The velvet carpet felt very plush under his feet and there was a tiredness on his shoulders that he felt but could not place. Antonio scurried behind him and was careful to not make noise.
When they reached his room, Arthur said. "Make yourself at home. There's an armchair over there."
The boy took off his coat. In the light of the apartment, his linen shirt suddenly seemed very dirty, almost musky. He probably had not changed for days. Maybe he was used to living like that. Possibly he was better off than most other people. The boy sat on the ground to untie the laces of his boots and he was about to undo the belt of his pants. "Is it okay?" he said.
Arthur was in the washroom, shaving. "Do whatever you please."
The first night passed slowly. He kept thinking that someone was going to smash through the doorway and arrest them both and it reminded him of being trapped in the trenches. Ever since then he had disliked the feeling of being stuck. It had been a long time since anyone stayed over and he had forgotten what sleep sounded like. The boy did not move once in the armchair. He used his coat as a makeshift blanket; Arthur could barely hear him breathe. They were just a few meters away from each other. There was a very human smell about the boy, of earth and country and a world he had not encountered since the end of the war. It did not matter to him what war this boy would be initiating or defending. As long it wasn't his war. He turned over; it felt like the creak of his hospital bed in Milan. He had to stay in the hospital for six months and when he came out, he was awarded a medal that had a lot of fancy script on it but really only said that he'd been awarded because he had been injured and because he was English. "We salute you, Tenente," the head doctor had told him, and patted him heartily on the back. (It was what the doctor did when he could not help his patients in the very worst situations.) "We cannot thank you enough for supporting our cause, signore." The Cause, they'd called it. There was always a cause. Well, you couldn't do anything any other way. The hospital was new and they were using the machines. Arthur remembered the loud whirlwind sounds the machines made and now it reminded him of human breathing. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, it was all very standard. It could be counted on unlike everything else. He hated that uncertainty; it was unattractive, sagging and repulsive at its very core. He tried to close his eyes and sleep but it was not coming. There was a flask in his coat pocket but he did not want to have to walk over to get it. Besides, it might wake the boy who was sleeping. He sounded as if he were sleeping very soundly, because he was safe in a stranger's apartment in a country he did not know. He sighed. Sometimes, he wished the war was still going on though these thoughts thankfully did not come often.
iv.
"Thank you," said the boy.
"For what?"
"For letting me stay here." The boy looked confused.
"Oh, that. It's nothing."
"I was very happy when Monsieur said that you would be able to help. And on such short notice. You must be very good friends for him to be able to depend on you so intimately."
Arthur was unable to squelch his grimace. "I wouldn't put it like that. Here, have some coffee."
Antonio drank from the mug. He drank with large gulps like a person who has not tasted water in days. He was famished and therefore appreciative.
"Sugar or milk?"
"Oh, no, it's perfectly fine."
"So, what'll you be doing?" Arthur asked despite himself.
"I have some business to be attending to, but that should not take very long."
"Good. I'll take you to lunch afterward."
"Oh, no, it's not necessary. I couldn't possibly impose any more than I have."
"How does one o' clock sound? The town's a lot nicer when there's light."
"What do you mean? Of course Paris is the same no matter what."
"I don't think so. It's different. You see things differently when there's no light."
"But the places are the same."
"But you see differently."
"Of course, the beauty and culture can be appreciated no matter what."
"Yes," said Arthur, "so everything sounds good?"
When Antonio smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkled and brightened up. "That sounds good."
--
"I heard from Monsieur that you fought in the war," said Antonio after they had ordered their food.
"Yes." He was thinking: why is the damn frog telling him such things?
"I was thirteen when the surrender came through. I remember hearing it from my neighbors, who owned a radio. They were the only ones in the town who owned one. They were shouting and it spread to everyone else like a sickness and there was yelling and crying and prayers. You had to be deaf to not hear the noise. Then, just as quickly, everything stopped. Our village came to still, and it was then I realized there is nothing louder than the sound of silence."
"Oh," said Arthur, and he said the only thing he was able to say, which was: "oh. You're very young then."
"Does that surprise you?"
"You look very mature."
"Thank you."
"If you don't mind my saying so," said Antonio, "I think it was a dirty war. I am glad my country remained neutral."
"It was a dirty war. There's no such thing as a clean war. I was at the Italian front."
"Unhurt, I hope?"
"If I had been I wouldn't have gotten out of the war early."
"Sorry." The boy blushed.
"I don't mind. It's not very helpful, you know, to get upset anymore. In fact, it's sort of funny. It's really better to think of it that way. Just laugh it off. If you laugh then you're not really miserable."
"Funny?"
"It helps you forget. We were all such fools then. We still are. We just laughed. Some chaps never know any better, do they?"
Arthur thought he could see through Antonio's eyes. Before they were bright. Now they were dulled over.
"I am sorry to have brought it up." He looked upset. Arthur thought it funny.
"Oh, no. It's nothing, nothing at all, you're just awfully modest, that's all."
The sommelier came with their wine and the food arrived shortly thereafter and they ate their meal to the sound of clinking silverware and the tourists just a table over.
They were walking up the avenue and the day had turned grey. There was a girl some ways behind them. They could hear her shouting: "New York Herald Tribune!" She was speaking in English. This would not have happened twenty years ago.
A strange unspoken bond had formed between them. They did not speak much, but Antonio, without knowing it, lent a quiet strength that Arthur had been missing and unconsciously looking for. He was so young and the earnest look in his eyes bespoke of hope . . . Arthur had not seen that for a long time. He felt touched. Then he felt sickened of the feeling that was rising up from his stomach to his heart. It was a disgusting feeling. Hope was disgusting. It went down smoothly and then gave you stomachaches and diarrhea (thus reminding him of his own experiences with bad pernod). That Antonio seemed to sense this and was thus respectful made it all the more unbearable and he did not know why. Of course, he knew why. He was jealous, wholly and undeniably jealous of the youth and energy that Antonio naturally possessed and which had been wrenched away Arthur from under his nose. That was a bad feeling. Here they were, two worlds apart and forced together.
When they passed an intersection, Arthur watched an electric cart drive by. It seemed to be flying, with the wheels off the ground and the tired, underpaid driver a fantastic conductor at the helm of a train, heading off to nowhere and everywhere. Alger probably wrote something like this before.
"Do you support the youth, Monsieur?" This was addressed to Arthur. A teen-aged boy had crept up behind them. In his hands were fliers but Arthur could not read what was on it. The words seemed awfully jumbled. There was English and French and maybe a little German. Antonio looked at him for an answer. He and the boy looked to be pressing.
"Oh, yes I did," Arthur said, not really looking at the boy. Then, in an unprecedented action, he smiled at Antonio. "Let's go."
Francis was waiting for them at the Quarter. "You," he said to Arthur extravagantly, "are a lifesaver."
"Well you know the deal," Arthur grumbled and he and Antonio headed into the nearest bar, which turned out to be part of a dancing club. The music was loud and everyone was dancing closely. The place was packed with human bodies and at the front there was a band and an African drummer who, when he smiled, showed no front teeth. His beat kept a steady rhythm, his hands slapping at the right intervals.
"You aren't really that old, are you?" Antonio asked. The music behind them was loud and he almost had to shout to make himself heard. The room was smoky and hazy and there was a poorly placed mirror behind Antonio's head. The result was a halo effect, a bright halo reflected off his tousled hair.
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, from earlier," shrugged the boy.
"I'm very old. Maybe you can't tell but I was old before you born, when you were born, and, uh, even more so now. I've seen a lot."
"Oh, but he has," Francis said, cutting in.
Arthur bristled: "I meant the war, frog."
"It's what they all say," this for Antonio's benefit.
"I'm sure Mr. Arthur has seen a lot," Antonio hurriedly said.
"Of that I have no doubt," a small dimple appeared on both of Francis's cheeks.
"It's true," said Arthur and tried to take out the metallic taste in his mouth with a swig of water. But it did nothing. The taste lingered. It seemed to become even stronger.
"In comparison, I have seen very little," said the boy. He straightened the bow of his uniform. "I feel very inadequate in such company."
"You're not missing out on anything," Arthur snorted.
"What's it like?"
"A lot of bed bugs and bad food."
"He says it very lightly now that his pride is at stake," Francis prodded. "Tell him the truth. You don't want to mislead the poor boy. He's trying to do some change. He's trying to make the world a better place. Don't mislead him now just because you were."
"Why don't you go-"
"Oh, but he doesn't have to if he does not want to," the boy was very considerate of Arthur.
"You go in wanting only the best for everyone and you come out wanting a break from it all. But you won't. You can't ever. You can't just walk away. You don't get presented with a bill. And you can't pay it off either. It'd be easy if it were like that. You run away and you only find yourself already there, waiting for you.
"The bill gets longer but you can never pay them off. You accumulate a lot of creditors. I have a lot of creditors. Who doesn't? You're never sure of them but they'll be there. And they'll be waiting. It gets worse. No, running away never works. That stuff doesn't work." He had been going on splendidly but now he abruptly stopped.
"Oh, do keep going," said Francis.
"Hell if I will."
"I have a cause that I believe in. Does that matter any?"
"No. But yes. At first. You've got your damn ideas and values. They're quite useful and necessary, those values. But they also get squashed. Crushed. Until they're all mangled and you can't recognize them anymore. They used to wear Oxford suits. Afternoon tea at Mayfair. Very Ritz. Now they're all bloodied up."
"We must never forget our values," Francis proclaimed.
"Values, bloody hell. You can't forget your damn values."
"And what about love?" asked the boy.
"Oh, what bilge. Love is. Bad romance and politics, they're all the same."
"You are always in love with someone, something," insisted Francis. "Or maybe you're in love with love."
"Love, what rot."
"You need a drink."
"Now you're not talking rot."
"He's drunk," Francis said apologetically to Antonio. "Perhaps I'll have to excuse us both so that I may escort him home."
"I will help you then."
"The night is still very young."
"I'd rather not," said Antonio.
v.
They carried him, one on each side. The concierge let them know what she thought of it all through her very purposeful sighs: Francis knew something of them. They went up the stairs, heading up the spiral case slowly. "Finally," said Francis and they heaved him through the door.
Arthur mumbled something.
"What was that?"
"Oh, it is nothing."
They set him down on the bed and then watched over him with a sense of accomplishment. "I believe this is the time I help myself to some of his brandy," said Francis. "Do you know? He has a bottle from 1811. Passed down the family. Nobody dared to drink it before him. Must relieve him of that burden. Terribly good idea. Do you want some?"
"How did you meet him?" Antonio asked him. Francis was sitting on the armchair with a glass in hand and Antonio was sitting cross-legged on the ground, with Francis’s tunic draped over his shoulders.
"Here, there, everywhere."
"Was he always like this?"
"Trust me when I say he is getting better."
"I honestly don't believe he's really like this. No one can be. Not forever."
"Have you ever seen a man die?" Francis looked into Antonio's eyes.
"I once saw a man get gored by a bull. I was six."
"But you've never seen a man murdered. That's the word: murdered."
"Not when you put it that way." Then a moment later: "Oh."
"'Oh.' That's a nice way of putting it."
"I cannot imagine."
"This poor fellow has seen a lot, so he says, and it's true. He's seen so much he's always wishing to be someplace else. Well, I suppose you only want what you can't have. He used to go on and on about South America. He would rag on all about it to me. 'Why me?' I asked. 'Because you can talk Spanish and it's less lonely when you're with someone.' That was because he was very bad. The next morning, he forgot all about it. He went back to work like a good, contributing citizen. Then there was the time he showed me a postcard of a park with autumn leaves and tall trees. I believe the photo was taken in the States, in America. 'I'd like to go there one day, ' he told me. He was not tight then, but later he was. So he never got around to it. The poor bastard," Francis meant it endearingly.
"Has he ever been in love?"
"I think he was," Francis said. He pondered this. He touched his finger to his lips. "Once. But she's dead now."
"The war?"
"That very war."
"Did you know her?"
"I introduced them."
"Oh," said Antonio. He went very quiet. "Oh."
"That was a very long time ago. Or else it feels like it. Arthur is no longer young. He's thirty-three."
"That is not so old."
"You're quite kind, aren't you? Let's put it this way. When you were born, he was already in school in England."
"We're not all too different. We are still fighting. It has nothing to do with age."
"It has, in fact, everything to do with age."
"Really?"
"We're two generations, completely lost and separated. We lost our way in the woods a while ago and we're still trying to find our way out. That is what I think," said Francis. "It is difficult to say. But the age you belong to is different from mine and Arthur's."
For the longest time, Antonio did not say anything. He seemed to be thinking. He was looking at something behind Francis's left shoulder. Outside, there was music streaming from the bistros. It wasn't so late. The night felt warm and humid and human. Finally he said: "I think I'll be leaving tomorrow morning. I do not wish to stay for so long."
"You're certain the police did not follow you here?"
"I'm certain. I would never want for you or Monsieur to be implicated. It is my duty, my cause. La causa, we call it."
"Do you believe very much in it?"
"I would offer my life."
"You're very noble. Sacrifices, nowadays, have gone out of style. A true pity."
Suddenly, Antonio's eyes lit up. "Would Arthur perhaps like to come with me up north? It might do him some good. And we could never have enough-"
"Oh, no. Never. His life, or what's left of it, is here in Paris." He set the glass on the table. It made a clunk sound.
"But he speaks of wanting to leave. One would gain the impression that he hates Paris or else finds it dirty."
"Paris is a very clean city. No, it would do him no good. It'd only make him worse. He could not take it. In a few days, I will be sending him to the Riviera. It will probably do him no good either, but, ah, one can hope. But going north? He would not take it well. He'd take it badly, even. It would be disastrous. For you and for him."
"Monsieur, I hate to say it, but you have very little belief in someone you love."
"On the contrary. He has very belief in himself."
"The war?"
"Yes."
"The war," started Antonio. "It was awful, wasn't it?"
"He got injured."
"You told me."
"That wasn't all; there are some ailments one gets that are even worse than death without it being death at all. How does one live like that? How does one face himself in the mirror in the morning?"
Antonio blinked.
"It was really a very bad war."
"Oh."
"That's the best way to put it, I dare say," Francis said. Everything was just so ironic.
vi.
In the morning, Arthur woke up. He felt the usual throbbing pain in his head but he staggered out of bed just the same. He went to the washroom and saw that his sink had been cleaned. Then he went to the kitchen and saw a basket of food waiting for him. It was from the boy. But paid for by Francis. The boy's clothes were gone, his hat was gone, and it was like he had never been here. He had never been here. Arthur sighed and washed his face. He splashed the cold water on his cheeks and looked at himself in the mirror. What a face, he thought to himself, and reached for a towel. After eating breakfast, he went in to the office and worked very hard so that he could get most of the work done before he shoved off for the Riviera in two days' time. It had been a long time since he had a vacation.