The Paris Wife

he’d been able to take a memory from his childhood, like watching his father deliver an Indian woman’s baby, and stitch it to another thing he’d seen, the refugee couple on the Karagatch Road, and make a single powerful story.

“Joyce knows this trick,” he said to me late one afternoon after returning from work on the issue. “He made Bloom up, and Bloom’s the best there is. You have to digest life. You have to chew it up and love it all through. You have to live it with your eyes, really.”

“You talk about it so well.”

“Yes, but you can talk and talk and not get it right. You have to do it.”

The April issue also contained the first important reviews of his Three Stories and Ten Poems, which were generally rapturous about Ernest’s talent and style. He was inventing something new, they said, and was a writer to watch. I was so happy to see his reputation growing finally. Everywhere we went it seemed people wanted to be near him. Walking the boulevard with him at night, past the thrum of talk and tinny music, we would hear someone call out his name and we’d have to stop and have a friendly drink before moving on to another cafe where the same thing would happen. Everyone had a joke for him or some bit of news, and our circle of acquaintances was increasing day by day.

John Dos Passos, whom Ernest had met just after he began working for the Red Cross in Italy, was back in Paris, riding the wave of his literary success and always ready for a good time. Donald Stewart showed up around this time, too. He was a humorist who would one day go on to be famous for screenplays like The Philadelphia Story, but for the time being, he was just a funny guy standing near the bar in a very smart cream-colored suit. Ernest was proud of his slovenly writer’s uniform, but I could occasionally be caught admiring crisply pressed trousers. Don’s were perfect. He was also nice looking in a boyish, clean-shaven way, with clear blue eyes that became very animated when he laughed.

When Ernest introduced us, Don was wonderfully familiar with me right away. “You have beautiful hair,” he said. “What an unusual color.”

“Thank you. You have beautiful clothes.”

“My mother liked clothes. And etiquette.”

“And ironing boards?”

“I have a mean way with an iron, I must admit.”

We talked a bit more, and I was having such a pleasant time, it took me a good half an hour to realize that Ernest had settled himself at a table nearby. I didn’t recognize anyone he was with, including the beautiful woman sitting by his side. She was slender and lovely, with very close-cropped dark-blond hair. Her body seemed slim and boyish under a long sweater, but somehow her hair passed her beyond boyishness, making her all the more feminine. The instant I saw her, I felt a sharp chill run through me-even before Ernest leaned over and whispered something to her. She laughed throatily, arching her long pale neck.

“Are you quite all right?” Don said. “You’ve gone white.”

“Oh. Quite fine, thanks.”

He’d followed my eyes to Ernest and the woman. I’m sure everything was quite plain to him, but he smoothly deflected the moment. “That’s Duff Twysden,” he said. “Lady Twysden, actually. They say she married some British count. Count or viscount or lord twice removed. I can’t keep royalty straight.”

“Yes, well. Who can?”

I looked over at Ernest just as his eyes came up. The briefest crackling of suspicion passed between us, and then he got up and came over.

“ ’Scuse me, Don. I see you’ve met my wife.”

“Charmed,” Don said, before Ernest took my elbow and led me to the table where Duff sat expectantly.

“Lady Twysden,” he said, making the introductions. “Or do you prefer Smurthwaite these days?”

“Doesn’t matter as long as it’s Duff.” She half stood, extending a hand. “How d’you do?”

I was just collecting myself to say something pleasant when Kitty appeared out of the crowd. “God, I’m glad to see you,” she said. “Come let’s get a drink.”

Harold was just behind her and looking not at all well. He was pale and his upper lip was damp.

“Has something happened?” I asked, when we were nearer the bar.

“Harold’s leaving me.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I were.” She lit a cigarette and stared at the tip for a moment before inhaling in short stabs of breath. “Some restlessness has come in and taken him over. We always said we’d give each other every freedom. Funny, though, when it comes you don’t want it.”

“Is it someone else?”

“Isn’t it always?” She sighed. “It’s probably the new book, too. He wants to reinvent everything. I’m going to London soon. I wanted you to know.”

“Oh, Kitty, really? Is it as bad as all that?”

“Looks like it,” she said. “I have some things for you I can’t bear to pack. I’ll come over to the house.”

“I don’t care about the dresses. I don’t need them.”

“Nonsense.”

“You know what Ernest will say.”

She huffed, blowing out smoke. “Yes, but he hasn’t a clue how hard it is to be a woman.” She tossed her head in Duff’s direction. “It’s brutal out here, isn’t it? The competition isn’t just younger. They care more. They throw everything they’ve got into it.”

I didn’t quite know what to say. Kitty was one of the most poised and self-confident women I’d ever known, and here she was knocked off her feet and set spinning. It made me want to break Harold’s neck.

“Do you want to go home?” I asked.

“I can’t wither like a schoolgirl and have everyone feeling sorry for me. I’d die first. Let’s have champagne,” she said, putting on her bravest face. “Lots and lots of champagne.”

I stayed by Kitty’s side for the rest of the evening, but kept one eye on Ernest, too. This Duff character was just too lovely and too familiar. She and Ernest talked so freely you’d think they’d known each other for years, and I felt newly vulnerable after hearing Kitty’s news. The worst events always have the thrust of accidents, as if they come out of nowhere. But that’s just lack of perspective. Kitty was blindsided, but Harold had likely been plotting his escape for months. I couldn’t help but wonder if this could happen to me, too. Just how long had Duff been in the picture, anyway?

Sometime after midnight, when I just couldn’t stay awake another moment, I excused myself from Kitty and got Ernest’s attention. “It’s time to get your poor wife to bed,” I said. “I’m nearly falling over.”

“Poor Cat,” he said. “Go on home, then. Do you want me to find someone to walk with you?”

“You want to stay?” I asked sharply. Duff turned politely away.

“Of course. What’s the matter? I’m not the one who’s beat, right?”

My voice left me altogether, then, but Kitty appeared to save me. “I’ll mind your wife, Hem. You stay and have a good time.” She challenged him with a steely look, but he didn’t bite.

“That’s a good chap, Kitty. Thanks.” He stood and squeezed my arm in a brotherly way. “Get some rest.”

I nodded in a kind of trance while Kitty grabbed me firmly by the arm and led me away. When we were outside, I started to cry quietly. “I’m so embarrassed,” I said.

Kitty gave me a firm, buck-up sort of embrace. “He’s the one who should be embarrassed, darling. Her, too. They say she has to keep scores of men around because she can’t pay her own bills.”

“Duff,” I said. “Who calls themselves such a thing?”

“Exactly. I’d bet good money that even someone with as little sense as Hem wouldn’t leave a woman like you for that number. C’mon. Chin up.”

“You’ve been so good to me, Kitty. I can’t tell you how much I’ll miss you.”

“I know. I’m going to miss you, too, but what choice do I have? All I can do is run off to London and hope Harold chases me.”

“Will he?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

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