“Well, you’re looking fine, Tub.” And they patted each other’s arms, curtly.
“So are you. You look ausgezeichnet. I guess Europe agreed with you. Didn’t bring me home a little of that swell French wine, did you?”
“Sure, I’ve got a whole case of it in my collar box.”
“Well, bring it out. Let’s not put off the fatal hour.”
From behind a trunk (where, under the new American dispensation, all hotel guests hide the current bottle of whisky, to make it easier for the hotel servants to find it) Sam produced something, chuckling, “Now this may just look like plain Methodist bootlegged corn to you, Tub, but remember you ain’t traveled expensively and got educated, the way I have. Say when. … Oh, say, Tub, I got a bottle of the real thing—prewar Scotch—taken off me here at the docks.”
“Oh, my God! What a sacrilege! Well now, tell me, what kind of a time d’you really have?”
“Oh, fine, fine! Paris is a fine city. Say, how’s Matey and your kids?”
“Fine!”
“How’s Harry Hazzard?”
“He’s fine. He’s got a granddaughter. Say, they whoop it up all night long in Paris, don’t they?”
“Yeh, pretty late. Have you seen Emily lately?”
“Just the other day at the country club. Looked fine. Oh, say, Sambo, can you explain one thing to me? Is there any chance the Bolsheviks will pay the Czarist debts to France? And what kind of a buy are French municipals?”
“Well, I didn’t find out much about—Oh, I met some high-class Frogs—fellow named Andillet, stockbroker, pretty well-heeled I guess. But it isn’t like with us. Hard to get those fellows down to real serious talk, out of the office. They want to gas about the theater and dancing and horse-racing all the time. But say, I did learn one mighty interesting thing: the Citroën people in France and the Opel people in Germany are putting up low-priced cars that’ll give the Ford and the Chev a mighty hard run for their money in European territory and—Oh! Say! Tub! Can you tell me anything about the rumors that Ford is going to scrap Model T and come out with an entirely new model? My God, I’ve tried and tried and I can’t find out anything about it! I’ve asked Alec Kynance, and I’ve asked Byron Rogers of the Sherman, and I’ve asked Elon Richards, and if they know anything, they won’t let it out and—By golly, I’d like to find out something about it.”
“So would I! So would I! And I can’t find out a thing!”
They both sighed, and refilled.
“They finished the new addition to the country club?” asked Sam.
“Yes, and it’s a beauty. They play much golf in France?”
“I guess so, on the Riviera. Been by my house recently? Everything look all right?”
“You bet. I stopped and spoke to your caretaker. Seems like a good reliable fellow. Say, just what does a fellow do, evenings in Paris? What kind of hangouts do you go to? ’Bout like nightclubs here?”
“Well, a lot better wine—well no, at that, some of the places that are filled with Americans stick you and stick you good for pretty poor fizz. But on the whole—Oh, I don’t know; you get tired of racketing around. All these pretty women, talking all the time!”
“Didn’t pick up a little cutie on the side, did you?”
“Did you say ‘cutie’ or ‘cootie’?”
And they both laughed, and they both sighed, and of Sam’s nonexistent amorous affairs they said no more.
And they found that they had nothing else to say.
For years they had shared friends, games, secret business-reports. They had been able to talk actively about the man they had seen the day before, the poker they had played two days ago, the bank scandal that was going on at the moment. But in six months, most of the citizens of Zenith whose scandals and golf handicaps had been important had been dimmed for Sam; he could not visualize them, could think of nothing to ask about them. The two men fell into an uncomfortable playing at catch with questions and answers.
Sam said, mildly, “Kind of wish I’d started going abroad earlier, Tub—kind of interesting to see how differently they do things. But it’s too late now.”
He struggled to make clear what had interested him in England and France—the tiny, unchartable differences of dress, of breakfast bacon, of political parties, of vegetables in market places, of the ministers of God—but Tub was impatient. What he wanted was a gloating vicarious excursion into blazing restaurants full of seductive girls, marvelous food, wine unimaginably good at fifty cents a bottle, superb drunks without a headache, and endless dancing without short breath. Sam tried to oblige but—
“Funny!” He couldn’t somehow picture the dancing rendezvous he had seen only a fortnight ago. He could see the musty cupboard where the patient chambermaid of their hotel floor had sat waiting, apparently all day and all night, knitting, smelling of herring and poverty; but of the Jardin de Ma Soeur he could see nothing but tables, smooth floor, and the too darkly enraptured eyes of Gioserro the aviator, dancing with Fran.
Sam dropped so low conversationally that he asked about the well-being of the Rev. Dr. Willis Fortune Tate of Zenith.
Then Ross Ireland banged in.
“Off to Mexico to do a story on oil, gimme a drink,” he said, and all was liveliness again.
Sam was distressed that he should be relieved to have his confidences with his oldest friend interrupted by this half-stranger, but he was pleased when Tub Pearson took to him. Half an hour later, when Ross had told his celebrated story of Doc Pilvins the veterinarian and the plush horse, the three of them went out to dinner, had cocktails, and became lively and content.
Only once in an evening of
