The Summer of Katya

said, “You know, I have been thinking about your having to change your coat to protect your health, Dr…. ah… Doctor.”

“Have you really?” Paul said. “How fascinating.”

“Yes. Man is so fragile! It’s almost frightening to contemplate. We live in a universe in which the constant temperature is nearly absolute zero. No life could survive in the millions of miles that separate the specks of light we call stars. And that space makes up the overwhelming majority of the universe. Nor could any life as we know it exist in the thousands of degrees of heat on the stars. Life—all of life—is restricted to the insignificant little particles of dust revolving about the stars… these planets. And most of them are either too hot or too cold for the survival of man. In the thousands of degrees that separate the cauldrons of the stars and the lifeless cold of space, Man can survive in only the narrowest conceivable band of temperature—only a few degrees. Indeed, without shelter and heat, we can survive in only a few places on our own miniature planet. Men die of heat prostration at thirty-five degrees, and of exposure at minus twenty-five. And even within those strict limits, we can catch cold and perish of pneumonia by getting a little damp, even during the finest summer in memory. It’s both frightening and wonderful to consider how precarious our existence is and how the slightest change in our lives can snuff us out.”

“The trick then,” Paul said, “is not to permit change to enter our lives.”

I glanced at him and found his level gaze upon me, his eyes creased with an arctic smile. Then he took a quick breath and said, “You’re a remarkable conversationalist, Father. As children we were trained that in polite conversation we should avoid religion, politics, and, above all, functional matters. We were told that the only totally safe subject is the weather. And here you have proven that even the weather can be dangerous. What do you think, Montjean? Do you view Mankind as teetering in precarious balance between sunburn and the sniffles?”

“I am more moved by the wonder of our existence than by the danger of it. That we exist at all is, as Monsieur Treville has pointed out, amazing. But the real marvel is that we know we exist and we ponder the amazement of it.”

Paul frowned. “Did I forget to list metaphysics along with religion, politics, and biological functions as maladroit subjects for polite conversation?”

“Oh, the metaphysical can be a fine exercise for the mind,” Katya said. “But the physical world has its delights as well. Consider how thoughtful Nature has been all this summer. She brings rain only at night. We have the refreshment of it, and the earth has the nourishment of it, but not a single day is spoiled. It’s a wonder She didn’t think of so admirable a system earlier.”

Monsieur Treville leaned towards his daughter and patted her hand. “I notice you speak of Nature as being feminine, darling.”

“Yes, of course. Fertility and all that. And the concept of ‘Father Nature’ is patently silly.” She rose. “Which of course leads us to the question of taking our coffee in the salon.”

As I followed Katya across the hall to the salon, my attention was so totally absorbed by the beauty of the nape of her neck, revealed by her high-piled coiffure, that I was startled when the trailing edge of the storm passed over, delivering a final barrage of thunder.

“Good Lord, Montjean,” Paul laughed. “You jumped as though you’d seen a ghost. You must have been miles away.”

I smiled. “Not miles away, but perhaps months away.” This meant nothing to anyone but me, but it gave me pleasure to say it aloud nonetheless.

“What’s all this about ghosts?” Monsieur Treville asked.

“Nothing important, Father,” Paul said, as he knelt to stir the fire.

“No, tell me. I want to know.”

Paul sighed. “Very well. Montjean is lost in reverie… thunder cracks… Montjean jumps and gasps… son offers inane comment about ghosts… Montjean parries with incomprehensible prattle about miles and months… and there you have it. The entire gripping episode.”

“I don’t understand,” Monsieur Treville confessed.

To divert us from this silly tangle, I joked, “You should be used to ghosts, harboring as you do your share of them.”

Paul’s shoulders stiffened, the piece of firewood poised in his hand. “What do you mean by that?” he asked without turning to me.

I shrugged. “Nothing really. I was merely referring to the ghost in your garden.”

“Oh, I see,” Monsieur Treville said, sitting in his favorite chair before the fire. Then he blinked and frowned. “Which ghost is that?”

“Local tradition has it that your garden is haunted by a…” I glanced at Katya with a smile to which she did not respond. “…by a charming young spirit who resents being called a ghost.”

Paul’s voice was flat. He spoke staring into the hearth, his back to the room. “Have you seen this spirit yourself, Montjean?”

“No, not actually. But I have testimony of its existence from a perfectly impeccable source.” I could not comprehend Katya’s frown and slight shake of her head.

Paul set the stick of wood down deliberately and rose to face me. “You don’t mind if we don’t take coffee this evening, do you, Doctor? My poor battered shoulder is giving me pain, so I think I’ll make an early night of it.”

“Nonsense,” Katya said. “Of course we shall take coffee. You, however, may go to your room if you must.”

“No, no, no,” Paul said. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving and running the risk of missing Father’s insights into the climactic frailty of Man or Dr. Montjean’s invaluable metaphysical footnotes. I have the rounding out of my education to consider. By the way, ‘invaluable’ is the opposite of ‘valuable,’ isn’t it?”

“Someone mentioned ghosts and spirits just now,” Monsieur Treville said, accepting his coffee and brandy from Katya with a negligent smile of thanks. “I’ve always been fascinated by the role played by the supernatural in the life of medieval man. Of course, Doctor, you are familiar with Louis Duvivier’s work on the subject, in which he presents the attractive, if rather weakly substantiated, contention that Christianity maintained its sway over the half-barbaric minds of the….”

….Half an hour later, Katya interrupted her father’s involute monologue by kissing him on the forehead and saying that she should be off to bed. I rose and took her offered hand.

“Will we see you tomorrow for tea, Jean-Marc?”

“Yes, of course. Good-night, Katya.”

“Good-night. Are you coming up, Paul?”

“As soon as I’ve seen our guest off.” Paul’s speech was slightly slurred in result of his excessive recourse to the brandy.

As Katya left the salon, Monsieur Treville pulled out his watch and said, “My goodness! How the evening has slipped by! And I have work I promised myself to finish before tomorrow. Still, it was an intriguing conversation. I must confess that I am addicted to the give and take of intelligent conversation. It’s fast becoming a lost art. Well, then! If you will excuse me?” And he left.

I remained standing, prepared to be on my way, but Paul didn’t rise from his chair. Instead, he hooked his leg over the arm and waved towards the brandy bottle. “Will you have another glass before you go?”

“I think not, thank you. Why do you laugh?”

“It’s just that you look so damned silly in my smoking jacket. I suppose I would look ridiculous if I were dressed up as a Basque shepherd. It’s a matter of what one is born to, I shouldn’t wonder.”

I had quite forgotten that I was wearing his jacket, and I took it off to exchange it for my own, which was hanging near the fire to dry out.

“You are Basque, aren’t you?” Paul pursued.

“Yes, I am. My natal village isn’t far from here up in the mountains. Why do you ask?”

“Just idle curiosity. Montjean isn’t a Basque name, after all. One expects names like Utuburu, or Zabola, or Elizondo… something darkly passionate like that.”

Actually, my name is Basque… a Frenchification of the stems mendi and jaun, meaning ‘mountain man.’ But I cannot bring myself to believe that you’re really interested in the sources of my name.”

“Fascinated beyond description, old fellow,” he said in his laziest drawl. “But there is something I would