“Well, it’s not exactly making me rich.”
“He made me promise not to give you any money, no matter what. He was sure you were going to ask me for some.”
“He acts like I’m your no-good husband.”
“No. He worries about you.”
“His methods are curious,” Dean says. “Besides, I hate lessons about the value of money. What’s the point? Everybody knows it’s valuable. I don’t want any lessons imposed on me. I don’t like people that give lessons. We’re all free. We were meant to love and help each other, not to give lessons.”
“No,” she says, “I think he just wants you to…”
“What?”
“Have a more regular life,” she decides.
Dean smiles.
“Come on,” he says. “Are you ready?”
They go down one floor in the elevator and walk along the corridor.
“Money,” Dean says. “I’ll tell you it’s very hard to think clearly when you don’t have any. That’s one of my discoveries. Of course, it’s hard when you have too much.”
“It certainly is.”
“One has to be very careful,” Dean says wryly.
His sister knocks on a door.
“Donna? Can we come in?”
“Sure.”
It’s her roommate at college. Dean finds her very good-looking. A thrilling, wide mouth, grey eyes. A slim girl, like a runner. She’s interested in him. She knows he went to Yale. Did he know Larry Troy, she asks? Questions like that. He responds with soft, almost uncertain no’s.
“What class were you?” she says.
“Several.”
When he tells her he never finished, she emits a small: oh. But it takes courage to do that, she adds, to set out on your own. Only a real individual … Dean nods. He’s heard all this before.
They walk down the street together. The sidewalk is very wide. The
“What’s that?” his sister asks.
He shrugs.
“Is it for parking?” she says. “You don’t have to pay it. You’re only visiting.”
“Say, what kind of great car is this?” Donna says.
“Do you like it?”
“I love it,” she says. “It’s very you.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely,” she says.
The glittering night of Paris receives them. Darkness has restored the old car’s elegance, and down the boulevards they float to a restaurant near the Invalides. The dinner costs eighty-five francs. Dean’s last money. He nevertheless leaves a large tip. He does it mechanically, without caring, pure as a gambler who has lost. They walk along the Champs, have a coffee, and end the night above the city at Sacre-Coeur. At her floor, Donna says,
“It was such a great evening. It’s the best evening we’ve had on the whole tour.”
“I wish I could have shown you more of Paris.”
“Oh,” she says, “I do, too.”
“Next time.”
“I just wish we were staying,” she says.
She walks slowly down the hallway, the key dangling like an ornament from her hand.
In the morning everything seems different. His confidence has gone cold. They are talking, over breakfast, of how they will spend the day. Everybody’s going to Versailles, but if they decide to go, too, she’d rather drive out in his car. Or perhaps they should just go off by themselves, the two of them. And take Donna, if he likes. Dean wants to ask for money, now—he can’t go through the day otherwise—but the beginning of her reply terrifies him. He can hear her saying: you know how much I love you … I’d do anything…
“Amy,” he says, “all kidding aside…”
“What?”
“I
She looks at him, a little uncertain.
“I need money,” he says.
“Oh.”
“I sold my ticket.”
“You really did?”
“I had to.”
“Daddy will give it back to you,” she says.
“I don’t want him to find out. I need three hundred and fifty dollars.”
She seems embarrassed by her reply.
“I don’t have it,” she says.
“How much do you have?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
“Listen, forget that. I’m serious. I mean it, Amy, my need is…I need the money. I need it to get home.”
“How much do you really need?”
“Three hundred and fifty dollars,” he says.
“I only have a hundred. I only have traveler’s checks.”
“I have to have more than that, baby.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Can you borrow it?” he says.
“Be honest. Are you in trouble?”
“No, no.” He sighs. He looks at her and then at the table. “Do you think you can borrow it? How about Donna?”
“Are you ever going to pay it back?”
“Certainly.”
“I just can’t ask her for two hundred and fifty dollars, just like that.”
“She may have part of it,” Dean says.
“You’re not in any trouble?”
“No, I deeply, sincerely need some money, but I’m not in any trouble. I’ll be in trouble if I don’t get it.”
“Then it’s true?”
“No, I’m only kidding. Listen, how about asking Donna? She’ll lend you money, won’t she?”
“I suppose so,” she says.
“You’ve got to do it for me,” Dean tells her.
In the dusk at Orly they part. From the upper platform, Dean watches her mount the steps. She pauses at the top. A final wave. This long, polished tube with its comfortable seats is the jet to America. He feels a moment of great loneliness. He would like to be on board, sitting down beside them. He hates the thought of walking out to the car by himself. Life seems to be fleeing from him.
The door closes, is sealed. A period of deathlike silence, and the engines start. Inside they are unfolding newspapers. It begins to move. He tries to identify her at one of the windows. He’s too far off. The faces are indistinct. He watches as the plane follows a long, ceremonial path to the runway. It turns. It begins to flow. Once in the air it moves serenely, almost ominously, heeling over without warning, coming level again, following invisible courses into the sky.
He counts the money. Three hundred and fifteen dollars, almost none of it in francs. He folds it carefully and
