The foghorn blew its lonely wail as the Q.S.S. Arkadia
made its steady eighteen knots through the choppy waters
of the North Atlantic. Inside the Neptune room, a dapper
dressed man raised his glass in toast. "To my fellow
American and Italian travelers. To your health," he said.
"Thank you Kirk, health is everything. It's more
important than money," said the American.
"You are an idealist," said the German, "just like in
your movies. Your women however are realists and they
make fools out of you American men. When they are going
with you they talk only of wanting the same things you
want. But once they marry you, then as you say in your
country `The honeymoon is over'. Your women take over and
your husbands have to work yourself to death because your
wives want more and more."
"Have you ever been married Kirk? You have such a
cynical attitude I bet it was unhappy," said the Italian.
The mustachio rosy cheeked German got up. "I must go.
A friend of mine in first class invited me over for a
cognac after the movie. They are seeing `Port Afrique', a
picture with this Italian actress. The one who took what
you say in Italian her bambino to Italy because her
divorced husband wants to see the child. What's her
name?"
"Pier Angeli," said the Italian.
"Cameriere, waiter, bring this gentlemen a pernod,"
said the American. "Cognac is too expensive Kirk. You
can order that when you get to first class."
The three men sat back and relaxed on the soft
cushions in the ship's Neptune Room. A little girl
wandered in from the kiddie playland which was across the
hall. She watched the bartender mix the drinks. Kirk's
brown eyes darted to the little girl; he watched her watch
the bartender and he felt the tragedy of growing old.
He sipped at his pernod. "Okay, have it your way. I
will go to first class in time. I am in no hurry," he
said, throwing out his hands in resignation. "You see I
was married for twenty years in the old Germany. I had a
daughter. She died when zehn years. Whether this was
good or bad, I do not know. Perhaps it was for the best.
Who can tell." And again he threw our his hands in
resignation. The white flag was being hoistened. The
gesture of surrender.
He sipped the pernod and one had the feeling that the
drink made surrender seem easier. But the little girl
watching the bartender knew nothing of defeat because life
to her had only triumph and a temper tantrum now and then
certainly no tragedy.
"My wife," continued Kirk, "she was a lovely girl. I
mean beautiful not like your American or Italian women.
She had a figure she would never lose it, it was that
fine. She never worried about calories or what you say in
America Rockefeller diet? She was a woman who would
age gracefully and would not need a beauty parlor to
disguise her wrinkles and keep her young forever like the
old young women in Hollywood, how you say."
The American and the Italian gazed at each other only
for a second lowering their eyes at the same time, perhaps
feeling an affinity of guilt. To the Italian his women
were the most beautiful in the world between the ages of
eighteen to twenty five but they got married they grew out
and got big. And to the American, his women were the
tallest in the world because of the food they ate and the
climate they enjoyed. But they had a fear of growing old
and no matter how tall you are or whether you're from
Miami Beach or Los Angeles, they wanted to relive the
memories of their youth and thus failed to grow old
gracefully by living in their yesterdays instead of their
todays.
"My wife she is a wonderful girl," said Kirk. "Only
complaint I have she was too attached to her parents,
especially her father. When I got this job as a
restaurant manager in Canada, she did not want to come
with me. She cried and cried until finally I just up and
left." Kirk paused for a sip of his pernod.
"When you go back to Frankfurt, you think you will see
her there?" asked the Italian.
"I doubt it," he answered. "I haven't seen my wife
for ten eleven years. I do not want to see her. I tell
you the truth, man to man. I have a friend in Ontario.
She no want to get married. She had a sweetheart who
died. She says me and her, it would never work out. She
always has those wonderful memories of him. I always have
those memories of my wife and daughter." Kirk sipped the
last drop of the pernod. "No, my American Italian
friends, I will never get married again. When you are
single, the woman she does everything for you but once you
marry you must do everything for her."
Kirk looked at his Swiss movement wrist watch. "It is
getting late and I must go see my friend in first class.
She is very bored it is so lonely there."
He walked to the doors of the Greek ship's Neptune
Room. He hesitated and turned around like he had left
something behind. Something he had forgotten. His brown
eyes darted over to the little girl who was watching the
bartender make pernods and cognacs. Then he walked out.
"It's a pity, isn't it," said the Italian.
The American swallowed down his Danish beer. "Yes it
is. I feel sorry for him."
And the little girl kept watching the bartender, not
knowing he was helping only those travelers who wanted to
forget.
"You Americans are all alike," said Natalya, a young
German woman on the Greek ship "Arkadia" midway in the
North Atlantic, en route to her home in Duseldorf after a
year of work as a dressmaker in Montreal. "You think you
can win any girl with your money. All you do is show off.
You have how you say some complex. Inferiority
complex? You American men, all you do is talk and talk.
You big shots, all of you."
5000 miles away on a tennis court North of Beverly
Hills Hotel in Beverly Hills, the owner of a motion
picture studio was warming up his backhand. He swung the
racquet through the air with vigor.
"Beautiful form, chief. Beautiful," said the studio's
casting director.
"We'll Moider 'em, right?" asked the owner of the
studio.
"We will chief, we really will," answered the studio's
casting director.
The "Arkadia" slipped through the choppy waters of the
Irish sea. On the top deck standing inside the bingo
room, Bryan, an Australian returning in his native land
after a year of working for a tobacco company in Canada
said, "You know 'erb, you are an odd bloke for an
American. You're not a cannibal, after all. You're quite
a decent chap. Now nothing personal, of course. No
offense. But I heard America is the land of cannibals."
The studio's casting director walked over to the owner
of the studio. "Shall I serve first, chief? That way we
can let up a little on your serve."
The studio chief handed the balls to him. "You go
ahead and serve. My shoulder is still sore from the twist
fall last night. You shouldn't have taken me to that
party, Solly. You know Rosita always ends up drunk and
wants me to dance every dance with her."
Alice, a French Canadian and wife of a film director
in Paris, walked on the main deck of the `Arkadia'. "Am I
ever happy in bed, yes?" she laughed. "You see, I like
Jewish men. They are more open minded, they don't make a
fuss like most men. They read, they are clever, very
clever. My husband, he is clever.
"You know, I worked veree hard to make this trip. I
went to school three times a week to learn dress design.
I make very simple clothes but they are chic. I worked
during the days as a secretary and sewed at nights to save
enough monee for this trip. I haven't seen my husband for
seven months, Herbee."
"Wonderful shot, wonderful chief," cried the studio's
casting director on the tennis court North of the Beverly
Hills Hotel in Beverly Hills. "You're hitting the ball
like Pancho Gonzales. Just great, never seen anything
like it. Right, boys?"
In the shaded patio overlooking the court, two men
concentrated on a backgammon game. "Your move." One of
the men turned his head to the court. "Yeah, you're
right. Chief, you're playing terrific. You must have
been practicing at Cannes," said the man, turning back to
the backgammon game.
The owner of the studio laughed. "Come, come boys,
you know better than that. I'm just a virile buck, I
never grow old. You should of seen me in that celebrity
tournament in Palm Springs. Tell you all about it
sometime," said the owner of the studio, moving closer to
the net.
Hazel, a plumpish mother of three, was homeward bound
for Derby, England after a stay with her mother and father
who had migrated from England to Canada. "You Americans,
you spoil your children, Yank. Now I'm not saying I
wouldn't have wanted an American for a husband. That's
what we English girls always talked about when we were
single." She shrugged her shoulders. "Of course, I'm
happy. I married the bloke I did. He provides us a good
living. Our children are still children. Not like
American children who are born like most babies but right
away become adults, getting their own way. Trouble with
you Americans, Yank, is you want more and more. You're
never satisfied."
Out on a tennis court north of the Beverly Hills Hotel
in Beverly Hills, the owner of the studio wiped the sweat
from his hand off the handle of the tennis racquet with
his tee shirt. He walked to the service line, served, the
ball hit the net for a fault. The second serve was good
but shallow. The return was deep to the studio's chief's
forehand. He took a half swing, the ball dropping over
the net, inside the other side's service box. The
opposing player returned the ball short to get the studio
owner's backhand side.
"Get it. Get it." shouted the owner of the studio.
The studio's casting director ran for the ball, scooped
it up with his racquet before it made a second bounce, and
prayed that the opposing side would flub the shot. The
owner of the studio guarded his alley with his forehand.
"Beautiful run. You play another shot like that and
I'll pull you off that Mexican location. Keep you near me
in the studio," said the owner of the studio.
The `Arkadia' wiggled its way through the Irish Sea,
the ship swaying from side to side. In their tourist
class cabin, a German born Canadian chemist names Hans
Kruger, turned to his wife, a commercial artist from
Montreal. "There's no sense in killing ourselves for a
bloody dollar, you know that, darling. You don't have to
keep on working anymore. I don't want you to. We're
doing well enough on my salary."
The diminutive, very pixie like brunette with the rosy
puffed rice cheeks, placed her hands around her husband's
neck. "You are very considerate, dear, but I want to
work. I love my job and we need all the money we can get.
You know how expensive living is in Paris, you can't get
an apartment. It's like the Puerto Ricans in New York,
places are so hard to find."
And as the Greek ship `Arkadia' moved closer to its
ports of embarkation, the distance between the ship and
the tennis court north of the Beverly Hills Hotel in
Beverly Hills, grew larger and larger.
The way the day starts off for most of the Americans
making this trans Atlantic crossing for the first time,
they life awake in their cabins, thinking about how
they'll plan their day.
Of course I can't speak for all the Americans except
the six at table 34. They are an ebullient lot, always
exchanging bon mots with their waiter from Bremerhaven,
Germany, Ralph.
"Well, what should we do today, Anna? You think we
should have our Italian lessons first? Or would you
rather go to French?" asked Celeste.
Anna, a handsome American woman, mother of a girl in
her junior year at the Sorbonne, and wife of a Manhattan
psychiatrist, had arrived at table 34 late for breakfast.
"Oh, you're such a darling, Celeste. Starting right out
by organizing my day, you dear. But you know this Greek
Captain the one in charge of the ship well, I can't
figure him. He's always throwing curves, you don't know
what to expect."
"You think Sal Maglie you know the guy who used to
pitch for the Dodgers and Giants you think he's a Greek.
He had a breaking curve if I ever saw one," said the
fortyish year old bachelor high school teacher from North
Hollywood, California.
"Yes, I'm sure of it," said Frieda, the wife of a
doctor who always sat at her left. "I knew it for a fact
Sal Maglie is Greek. If he ever retires from baseball, he
would make a wonderful sea captain. He's traveled around
a lot in his time; thrown a lot of curves."
"What irritates me about our Captain is he's always
interrupting my day with drills. Why yesterday Luigi's
orchestra was playing `The Star Spangled Banner' and we
were all standing up when the bells and sirens started
going off. We never did hear the end of the piece.
Everybody was stumbling out on the deck to lifeboat
stations, putting on life jackets," said Anna.
Sandy, the young American girl from Long Island,
sliced her hard boiled egg on her roll. "Don't remind me.
I like my eggs poached and on toast. It reminds me of
home. But doesn't Luigi play wonderful dreamy music.
He's the best thing on this boat. And have you heard him
play rock and roll, he's just the greatest."
That's the German beat. They play American music on a
Greek ship where only the Captain and his first mate
happen to be Greek. The rest are German.
"These Germans are so polite. So efficient like
Thomas Mann's `Felix Krull'. Did you read it, Anna?"
asked Celeste. "They make wonderful waiters."
For a rare moment no one said anything. The doctor
was scanning the `Arkadia', the ship's paper. "You know
people, I have no interest in the news. Here I am in the
middle of the Atlantic and I don't know whether Arthur
Godfrey is recovering or Jackie Gleason has gone back to
work. And you know something funny, I don't care." He
studied the paper a while. "I see Panama is stirring.
Some trouble, something about a revolution."
The boat rolled to the hot beat of Luigi's first class
orchestra, the same orchestra that played for the tourist
class under the name of just `Luigi'. He played the same
music for both classes, but he played more for the tourist
class since there were two hundred and fifty of them to
thirteen first class travelers in a ship that normally
carries a passenger list of 1300.
Table 34, the table with the grinning American gringos
had it `made in the shade' as they say in the states.
"You haven't said anything this morning, Maria. What's on
your mind?" asked the blonde haired doctor's wife and
mother of two boys at Harvard and Yale.
Maria, a Lebanese American from Massachusetts, and
mother of a twenty six year old Lieutenant Junior Grade in
the Navy, forced a smile. She popped a pill in her mouth.
"Oh, I'm seasick. Stop this crazy boat from rock and
rolling, I feel nauseous."
The bachelor high school teacher from North Hollywood
looked at his sunset colored cheese omelette. He had paid
off Ralph, table 34's waiter, with a two dollar tip, so he
could have an omelette and toast waiting for him when he
woke up. "You're a cool cat, Maria. You get seasick like
this every day and you'll have a wonderful voyage. You'll
play your days by ear, no organizing, no worrying about
time. If you wanna go swimming, you'll swim. If you
wanna eat and sleep, you'll do that. If you wanna Cha
Cha, mambo, waltz, polka, folk dance, stand on your head,
you'll do that. Horse racing every day at five, bingo
every night at eight. Four bars, always open for drinks,
two dance floors. Why you got a ball, Maria. A real
wonderful ball."
The attractive dark haired mother stuffed another pill
in her mouth. "Dramamine, I'm too weak to do anything
else. Wait till my Italian family sees me next week. You
think Sandy, I'll get my color back in my cheeks by then?"
"Don't worry, don't worry," said Sandy, sipping her
black coffee. "A Friday and Saturday night in Paris will
put color in your cheeks if anything will."
And so the Americans finished breakfast and walked
away from table 34. Their step showed determination of
purpose. They knew their destiny; whether it was a Greek
ship or a German crew it made little difference in the
long run. They started planning their day while still in
bed.
No one the North Atlantic, the Greek Captain,
seasickness would make them change their day. They knew
their destiny, they knew where they were going.
The two men an American high school teacher and the
other an Italian professor knew each other well enough
that it made no difference neither knew the other's
language. They spoke one with his blue eyes, the other
with his brown eyes as they moved their chessmen into
play.
This then was their esperanzo. The way they touched
each other's lives with meaning and purpose. The European
man older and graying had the continental wisdom and
savoir faire which comes from knowing oneself and thereby
knowing others. He spoke softly in a somewhat
enigrammatic manner, but he made himself clear whenever he
moved forward in his chair saying, in German,
"Schachmatt". (checkmate)
On the other hand the American high school teacher
displayed a tension, an aggressiveness forcing him to push
his pieces out for a quick offensive. But this drive for
making the "deal" placed him right into the professor's
trap. "Oh estupido. Muy stinko," cried the American, his
outgoing and buoyant American way demonstrating
unconsciously his own feeling of inadequacy. "Professore,
molto bene. Tres bien. Mucho stronger hombre. Un
champion," he shouted, his mind groping for the sureness
of the European mentality and the European languages.
Luigi's first class orchestra struck of a medley of
tunes from Johann Straus's `Tales from the Vienna Woods'.
"Ah ha, Straus's `Waltzes'," exclaimed the professor, his
brown pupils dilating as he inhaled a filter tipped
`Matinee' cigarette.
An American woman traveling in the schoolteacher's
party approached the two men. By discerning their faces
and how they wore triumph or tragedy, she knew the
outcome. It might be that humiliation is not sometimes as
discerning as defeat or the other way around, but the
American schoolteacher wore his heart on a very sensitive
sleeve. And that heart was crying from a fourth defeat in
a row. Better though to cry on such an occasion;
notwithstanding the fact he was chronologically too old to
cry, yet not so young that he didn't know sadness.
The American woman had been to Europe before. She
knew the trying patience of the European's mentality.
That each day although appearing like the others is
somewhat different in its subtleties and nuances. And
perhaps this is reason enough to want to live and survive,
fulfilling the promising dawns of each day with the awe
and wonder the human adventure demands. Thus the life
instinct in a way prevails at all times, the death
instinct only functioning at the curtain call.
We Americans are too petty thought the American
teacher as he watched the American woman and the professor
talk in French. Our ego involvement prevents us from
letting our minds float on the thoughts of our future.
"Be inspired by the belief that life is a great and noble
calling; not a mean and groveling thing to shuffling
through as we may please but a lofty and elevating
destiny."
The American schoolteacher could only talk for
himself, for sure. However, he knew six other Americans
at table 34 were plagued by resentment if one of them was
fortunate enough to get an outside cabin with a porthole
opening on the North Atlantic; the less fortunate not
being satisfied with an inside cabin.
The spoke very highly about the Democratic principle,
yet in practice they seemed to disregard it. "Do as I
say, don't do as I do." Therefore when one of the
Americans tipped the waiter an extra two dollars for a
cheese omelette every morning, another member of the party
spoke up. "Now look here, if Harry has a cheese omelette
for breakfast, I see no reason why I can't have one also.
He's no privileged character. In fact, I'm his leader,
I'm supposed to chaperone him in Rome. Make sure he acts
like any American should when they live with an Italian
family. I demand equal food, equal rights, equal time. I
want a cheese omelette, also."
However, is there not a fundamental principle in the
law of contractual rights and obligations which recognizes
the dual characteristic of all benefits. That they come
with comcomtant burdens. If the American doctor from
Great Neck, Long Island, wants the benefit of a cheese
omelette, he must pay the burden. Is this too much to
ask? How can an impoverished spirit afford to eat for
less than two bucks? The American schoolteacher wanted to
rub out of his mind such pettiness along with words like
"agreement" or "disagreement". "I disagree with you" only
indicates again the two buck poverty of cheap thinking.
Why couldn't the Americans learn the expansiveness of
the European mind? Could not the American schoolteacher
learn from the Italian professor? Defeats in chess are
only the feeble origins, the beginnings of our
development. And, therefore, victory is meaningless if we
are not modest enough to take off our masks as we grope
for our identities.
The American schoolteacher got up out of his chair.
He heard the American woman ask the professor, "J'ai
entendre dire que vous etes un champion de chess. Avez
vous gagne tous le jours?"
He answered, "Je ne joue pas trop mal."
Out on the deck, the American schoolteacher looked out
on the ocean of humanity. The Greek ship "Q.S.S. Arkadia"
was cruising along the calm waters at 18.56 knots on her
way to her first European port, Cobn in Ireland. He heard
the soft violins playing in the first class quarters. It
was `Violoncello' from Madame Butterfly.
Somehow he felt Puccini must have known about the
struggle and survival of the human lot. He walked toward
the sound of the violins.
The passengers on the Greek line's to steamer "Q.S.S.
Arkadia" seemed dull and languid as the Montreal Lehavre
voyage went into its eighth and last day. The four liquor
bars had closed down early two nights before. Apparently
the Canadians, British, Germans, French and Americans
refused to budge from their cabins, better to get some
sleep and save some money. They were all pooped out from
too much partying over too little time.
Herbert Longway, the Air Force Reserve lawyer on his
way to Russia from California, with stopovers in France,
Italy, Israel, Cypress and Germany paced the upper deck of
the ship.
He knew the voyage was closing another chapter in his
life. He had left the states for this trip taking him
halfway around the world really to get away from Lynn
rather than just have an experience. It was funny how he
met her in the first place.... He was stationed at an Air
Force base out on the desert of California, about 87 miles
from Los Angeles. Having no time to wine and dine women
at the leisurely dining spots in Los Angeles, Beverly
Hills, or the San Fernando Valley, his work in the legal
office spending all his energy, he placed an ad in the
personals of the L.A. Daily Mirror.
"Ambitious Air Force lawyer seeks wife, mother,
confessor, cook and girl friend. State qualifications."
Herbert Longway, the Air Force Reserve lawyer walked
fore to the sun deck. He ignored the sign `First class
passenger only' and sat down on a bench. From the pocket
of his trench coat, he took out Lynn's letter the first
one she had written him, answering his ad.
"Dear Ambitious Air Force Lawyers, I liked your ad.
Ever since I arrived in Los Angeles, I've been buying all
the papers in pursuit of a job. The Mirror isn't much use
as far as secretarial jobs go, but I keep buying it
because the "Strictly Personal" ads makes me chuckle.
I've been feeling very superior and wondering what type of
person must place those ads, and what type must answer
them. All of a sudden, I stopped feeling superior and
thought maybe its someone as lonely as I who has a
little more courage than I, and is doing something about
it......"
Herbert Longway, Air Force Reserve lawyer, leaned his
head back against the sun deck's bench. The sun felt
wonderfully warm against his bearded cheeks. He unscrewed
the cap off the copa tint sun tan lotion he had bought at
the Beverly Wilshire drugstore on Wilshire Boulevard in
Los Angeles. He smeared some of it on his hands and
rubbed in into his beard. And continued reading....
"Your ad appealed to me you don't describe yourself
as far as your physical appearance age etc, and I like
that. I've never considered material things to be of too
much importance and I hope you don't either. Maybe I'm
wrong though, so I'll tell you a little bit about myself.
I'm thirty, but I look younger and I am pretty in a nice,
refined way. I hope that doesn't sound conceited but
being pretty has never seemed to be much of an asset to
me. People never bother to look for what's underneath
when you're pretty, and after a while you wonder if its
worth the effort to try to be sincere and honest. Oh well
anyway, I have blonde hair and blue eyes and I'm very
tall, 5'9" and weigh 135. I'm of English Irish German
descent and although I have no formal church affiliation,
I was raised as an Episcopalian.
I was born and raised in New York, and my family are
back East. I came here all alone because I wanted to end
a dead end romance with a married man. I've been here
less than a week, and I don't know a soul. The loneliness
is very depressing, and you might say its desperation that
drives me to write to you. I'd like to make a friend
here. If he turned out to be a husband protector, father
confessor and boyfriend, all the better. I do long for a
nice, decent life with all the trimmings and maybe there's
a chance yet....."
Herbert Longway, Air Force Reserve lawyer, closed his
eyes and leaned his head against the sun deck's railing.
He saw a plane pass high overhead, the grayish blue sky a
background in counterpoint as the `Q.S.S. Arkadia' moved
along the grayish blue North Atlantic. Then he looked
back at the letter in his hand....
"I have a meager education. I finished high school in
three years at the head of my class and was so bored with
education that I turned down a scholarship for a job as a
clerk. I have a very high I.Q. something like 150, and
I know a little about most things. I'm an introvert, I
guess. I like to read, and I like music and the theatre.
I'm a poor dancer, and I have an offbeat sense of humor,
but I think I'm pretty honest as women go. I don't
really now how to answer these ads, because I never did
this before. Oh well if you don't like the way I sound,
forget about it. Maybe it's a silly idea to begin
with......"
Herbert Longway, Air Force Reserve lawyer, put the
letter aside. His eyes scanned the seas until they came
to rest on a fishing trawler about five kilometers to the
starboard side. Then he looked back at the letter in his
hand.....
"I can't give you a phone number or an address. You
see, I expect to decide on a job Monday. I'm living at a
hotel now, and as soon as my week's rent is up, I'm going
to find an apartment near whichever job I take. I'll be
moving Tuesday, and you probably won't receive this letter
before then. Anyway I'm a little afraid to give you my
phone number, or even my name. Try and understand why I'm
so cautious this is all so new to me. If you'd like to
meet me and spend a few hours in conversation, will you be
at the Owl drug store on 6th and Spring on Friday at 8
p.m.? I'll be having a cup of coffee and I'll wear a
black dress and a beige coat if it's cool. I'll sit as
close to the hotel entrance as I can. I hope I'll have
one pal in Los Angeles for my troubles
Lynn..................
Herbert Longway, Air Force Reserve lawyer on his way
to Russia from California folded the letter slowly and
placed it back in his trench coat pocket. An English
fighter bomber circled the ship, dived low, and pulled up
a few feet from the steamer's smoke stack. A seagull
hovered above the `scume', the foam, the `Q.S.S. Arkadia'
left behind in its wake as it cruised along at 19 knots,
destination Le Havre, France.
Third day in Rome the city of the Romans
Anna, the wife of a Manhattan psychiatrist, boarded
the boat train at LeHavre, France. In a few hours she
would be seeing her daughter Jan, for the first time in a
year. What changes could a mother expect to find in her
18 year old daughter, living all alone in Paris?
Anna had mixed feelings about seeing Jan. The last
time they had met in New York, they were both repressed
and their parting was businesslike and unemotional. To
Anna, mothers must always love their daughters with the
same intensity that daughters love their mothers. Yet if
one obeyed such a principle, wasn't it in a way an
admission of never growing old. Realistically, the
intensity cannot be the same.
Jan was a student of the Political Science college of
the Sorbonne, a New York girl seeking the same class
Parisian women are noted for having all over the world.
She kept herself aloof from her fellow Americans. "I am
exclusive," she said. "I only date Africans, Algerians,
Indians and Negroes. I hate Frenchmen, they're so sure of
themselves. I wouldn't have an affair with one if you
paid me.
Anna hated the though of growing old in America. It
was not the best country in the world for the old to die.
It was a land of yearning youth; yearning; always yearning
for something beyond their reach. Old people yearn only
for peace, contentment, friends.
If she had her way, France would be the place for one
to die. The older you get the more you are respected,
honored for your gray hairs, each hair a degree of wisdom.
And your ideas are sought because your mind is a fertile
battleground of life's struggles. You have fought and you
have won.
But Anna's husband was practicing in New York. It was
impossible for him to earn enough dollars, even francs, to
keep his wife in France, his daughter in school and
maintain an apartment on Madison Avenue and 57th. He
didn't have the money nor the energy not even the
contacts to make the money for such an international
undertaking.
Meanwhile the daughter left her room on the Rue de
Vaugirard, prepared to meet her mother at the depot. The
night before, while sitting at a sidewalk cafe, sipping a
glass of acqua de minerale, she had been tempted to accept
any one of three passes thrown her way. She refused, not
wanting her mother to think her baby girl, Jan, had grown
up, bags under bloodshot eyes, ready to accept just any
offer.
If Jan's mother had been less Puritan minded than most
American mothers, she would share a few intimate
confidences, holding back only those which were of
scandal shocking proportions in America. Jan had learned
about biology in France; she knew how to take care of
herself. Every girl learns it "when they're knee high to
a grasshopper". Only in America do unwed mothers face
social ostracism on account of ignorance, and the bad
manners of their peers and parents. As for American men,
they are children de piccolo till they are 30, and then
they pass right into old age. By that time, their libido
is in a state of limbo and it's too late to save them.
That night in Paris their first night out together
in over a year mother and daughter realized the French
people were little concerned with they style of American
masks they each wore. In the Pigalle, Anna chain smoked
her cigarettes, swung her pocketbook and felt young and
foolish again. In Montparnasse and the Latin Quarter, Jan
knew how it felt to be a woman.
That night mother and daughter grew up together. One,
young; the other, old. They knew then what it was for a
mother and her daughter to find each other. They had come
4000 miles to find each other and they had found
themselves.
5th day among the Romans
The American tourist, a schoolteacher named Harry
Longway, never let his eyes wander from the back of Jean
Jacques Tavignot, his guide and French friend in Paris.
Com'on, Harry, we don't have much time to get to the
Trocodero. Are all you Americans that slow?"
Harry Longway looked around the Metro. "Vavin station
to Montponasse. Change." "Loterie Nationale" "Crio c'est
la vente Linge plus beaux mains."
Sitting in the second class section of the Paris
subway, not too far away from the first class car, Harry
Longway's American blue eyes caught the French blue eyes
of a redhead; very reserved, very classy, and very French.
"Can we pick up girls in the Metro, Jean? Is it anything
like the subways in New York?"
Jean's French eyes fell on the fille in first class.
"Oui, she is nice. See her smile, she knows we are
talking about her. When we get off at Trocodero, Harry
got up to her. Ask her in the only French you know,
parlez vouz Francais?"
To Harry he felt at home. It could have been Times
Square during rush hour instead of Paris at noon. As he
moved toward the first class exit, there was not urgente,
no anxiety about him. He could have been taken for a
Frenchman or a Roman he was so at ease, his presence of
mind somewhat like that of a headwaiter at Longchamps.
The train stopped, people shoved. Harry got a glimpse
of the girl. He followed quickly now. Jean gripped his
hand. "No, Madamoiselle is taking local. We're on
Express."
For all the American knew, he was taking the same
train as the French woman. In his mind BMT, IRT,
Express, Local, it was all the same.
"No, no Monsieur Harry," cried Jean, tugging at the
American's sleeve. "She's going to Avenue H, we're at
Newkirk. This is where we get off.
In Trocodero Park, the French sparrows not unlike
those in Flatbush or North Hollywood, squirmed in the
dirt, wiggling for the glory of liberation. An Irish
setter snapped at Jean's heels, perhaps proving the adage
that dogs are dogs whether they be Irish, French, or what
have you. They bark in the same language, no matter how
long they've lived say in Russia, America, Israel or the
Vatican City.
A photographer snapped their picture as they crossed
the bridge toward the Eiffel Tower. "Picture, American?"
he asked. "500 francs."
Harry hesitated. A dollar in American money he
thought. But what if there were no film in the camera?
Or even if there were film, what guarantees could the
Frenchmen give about mailing the shot to California? The
Parisian knew Harry Longway would not take a plane to
Paris in order to press charges over one buck.
The Berlin situation may have had its difficulties,
but it was made all the harder in this day of the hydrogen
knockout drop, because no one knew who was buying, who was
selling, who was bluffing, and who would press charges.
Here on this bridge facing the Eiffel Tower, Harry Longway
could walk away. Herter and Gromokyo in Geneva could walk
away also, but they might have to face the consequences of
the charges.
The American teacher and the French student stood
under the Eiffel Tower. "No, go up," said the student
teaching the teacher a lesson in economy. "500 francs,
only for suckers."
They walked away again but were buttonholed by a
swarthy youth. "American want pictures? Very cheap."
Harry Longway, American schoolteacher, forgot he was
an American schoolteacher. There was no dog to put on, no
masquerade costume, he was a man. He felt in his pockets
for the monopoly money. He would pay any price to prove
his masculinity back in the states.
"No no, Harry," said Jean, sensing what was in the
American's mind, yet not realizing the psychic attraction
of the erotic magnetism. "In the trade, it cost him a
hundred francs. He's asking two thousand. He's Algerian,
he's dishonest. Come, we must go." He took Harry by the
arm. "Never stop to talk to peddlers. Him, Algerian. He
get mad, he stick knife in you. No talk. Algerian
hungry, very hungry."
They hurried past Napoleon's palace. Then a building
where the Deputies met and argued through the nights.
Through the Luxenbourg Gardens, beyond the Comedie de
Francaise. Jaywalked across Rue after Rue. Ran.........
That night Harry Longway had his first dream in
binationalistic tones. Paris New York. The Seine the
Hudson. Eiffel Tower Empire State. Arch de Triumph
Statue of Liberty.
A World Government in a hundred years? Capitol in
Paris? New York? Eliminate war? Poverty? Disease?
Harry Longway woke up, the Algerian peddler's knife
was going too deep.
When auto bus 62 destined Tel Aviv stopped at Allenby
and Ben Yehudah Street, a flashy Israeli born Sabra leaped
off and ran into the arms of a tall American man.
They walked arm in arm toward the Mediterranean, their
thoughts narrowly centered on the universe of their
passion, not knowing the Furies were angry with them for
allowing their happiness to soar into the Heavens without
having any concern for the realities of the Earth they
left behind.
"Now look, Mirala, ya just gotta get fired from your
job. Ya just gotta," said the American. He felt like he
wanted to drop his hand from hers but the habits of all
his yesterdays of courting in America deterred him. The
woman rolled her brown eyes at the American. "Herbert,
you don't know your own mind. This is your third trip to
Israel. You've flown around the world to marry me. Why
make a short romance out of a thousand pounds?"
She held his hand tightly. He could feel the heat
from her fingers. "Because ya gotta try and beat the
system. That's the American way. Ya gotta find an
angle," he said.
"I know no...how you say?"
"Angle."
"I know no angle."
"Didja try comin' late to work?"
"Ken."
"How about callin' your friends up on the office phone
and talkin' to 'em about the life?"
"Ken."
"Didja try ignorin' the people when they come in the
office to argue about their income tax?"
"Ken."
"How about goin' home early?"
"No."
"Why not!" he cried.
Her brown eyes sizzled. She was back in Sinai and
this American was an Arab soldier. "Oh, you terrible.
Money, money. That's all you think of. I think you learn
that in Brooklyn and Beverly Hills."
"How about Israel? Is it any different over here?
the government won't kiss you off cause it cost them a
thousand pounds. They won't fire you even if you burnt
the joint down. They're that tight..."
"We a poor country. American rich. And the
Histradrut protects employees from getting fired. They
say if government dismisses you, you get severance pay.
Only ten.
"You cheap. You come this far. A thousand pounds is
stopping you."
She tore her fingers loose from the American's hand.
"We finish. A short romance. All because you think money
is everything. You foolish boy. You make big mistake.
You see, I am lucky girl."
She ran back to Allenby and Ben Yehudah. Autobus 62
destined "Kiriat Shalom" wheeled around the corner and
stopped.
The American watched the autobus move on until it was
eaten up by the Tel Aviv traffic. He turned his eyes
toward the Mediterranean. A chill came off the water. He
pulled up his coat collar and walked back to his hotel
shivering.
He entered the lobby, blowing on his hands.
a
