The Sun Also Rises (6 page)

“Where did you get those?” I asked.

“In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old.”

“What were you doing?” asked Brett. “Were you in the army?”

“I was on a business trip, my dear.”

“I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?” Brett turned to me. “I love you, count. You're a darling.”

“You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true.”

“Don't be an ass.”

“You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“I know,” said the count. ‘That is the secret. You must get to know the values.”

“Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?” Brett asked. “No. Not anymore.”

“Never fall in love?”

“Always,” said the count. “I am always in love.” “What does that do to your values?”

“That, too, has got a place in my values.”

“You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all.”

“No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all.”

We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party.

“Where would you like to go?” asked the count after dinner.

We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home.

“We might go up on the hill,” Brett said. “Haven't we had a splendid party?”

The count was beaming. He was very happy.

“You are very nice people,” he said. He was smoking a cigar again. “Why don't you get married, you two?”

“We want to lead our own lives,” I said.

“We have our careers,” Brett said. “Come on. Let's get out of this.”

“Have another brandy,” the count said.

“Get it on the hill.”

“No. Have it here where it is quiet.”

“You and your quiet,” said Brett. “What is it men feel about quiet?”

“We like it,” said the count. “Like you like noise, my dear.”

“All right,” said Brett. “Let's have one.”

“Sommelier!” the count called.

“Yes, sir.”

“What is the oldest brandy you have?”

“Eighteen eleven, sir.”

“Bring us a bottle.”

“I say. Don't be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake.”

“Listen, my dear. I get more value for my money in old brandy than in any other antiquities.”

“Got many antiquities?”

“I got a houseful.”

Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli's it was crowded, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as you went in. Brett and I danced. It was so crowded we could barely move. The nigger drummer waved at Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing in one place in front of him.

“Hahre you?”

“Great.”

“Thaats good.”

He was all teeth and lips.

“He's a great friend of mine,” Brett said. “Damn good drummer.”

The music stopped and we started toward the table where the count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I looked at the count. He was sitting at the table smoking a cigar. The music stopped again.

“Let's go over.”

Brett started toward the table. The music started and again we danced, tight in the crowd.

“You are a rotten dancer, Jake. Michael's the best dancer I know.”

“He's splendid.”

“He's got his points.”

“I like him,” I said. “I'm damned fond of him.”

“I'm going to marry him,” Brett said. “Funny. I haven't thought about him for a week.”

“Don't you write him?”

“Not I. Never write letters.”

“I'll bet he writes to you.”

“Rather. Damned good letters, too.”

“When are you going to get married?”

“How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael's trying to get his mother to put up for it.”

“Could I help you?”

“Don't be an ass. Michael's people have loads of money.”

The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count stood up.

“Very nice,” he said. “You looked very, very nice.”

“Don't you dance, count?” I asked.

“No. I'm too old.”

“Oh, come off it,” Brett said.

“My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch you dance.”

“Splendid,” Brett said. “I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?”

“Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have him around.”

“He is rather hard.”

“You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around.”

“Jake's rather the same way.”

“He gives me the wilIys.”

“Well,” the count shrugged his shoulders. “About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father.”

“Come on. Let's dance.” Brett said.

We danced. It was crowded and close.

“Oh, darling,” Brett said, “I'm so miserable.”

I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. “You were happy a minute ago.”

The drummer shouted: “You can't two time—”

“It's all gone.”

“What's the matter'?”

“I don't know. I just feel terribly.”

“. . . . . .” the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks.

“Want to go?”

I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again.

“. . . . . .” the drummer sang softly.

“Let's go,” said Brett. “You don't mind.”

“. . . . . .” the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett.

“All right,” I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing room.

“Brett wants to go,” I said to the count. He nodded. “Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes.”

We shook hands.

“It was a wonderful time,” I said. “I wish you would let me get this.” I took a note out of my pocket.

“Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous,” the count said.

Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel.

“No, don't come up,” she said at the hotel. She had rung and the door was unlatched.

“Really?”

“No. Please.”

“Good-night, Brett,” I said. ‘‘I'm sorry you feel rotten.”

“Good-night, Jake. Good-night, darling. I won't see you again.”

We kissed standing at the door. She pushed me away. We kissed again. “Oh, don't!” Brett said.

She turned quickly and went into the hotel. The chauffeur drove me around to my flat. I gave him twenty francs and he touched his cap and said: “Good-night, sir,” and drove off. I rang the bell. The door opened and I went upstairs and went to bed.

I did not see
Brett again until she came back from San Sebastian. One card came from her from there. It had a picture of the Concha, and said: “Darling. Very quiet and healthy. Love to all the chaps. Brett.”

Nor did I see Robert Cohn again. I heard Frances had left for England and I had a note from Cohn saying he was going out in the country for a couple of weeks, he did not know where, but that he wanted to hold me to the fishing trip in Spain we had talked about last winter. I could reach him always, he wrote, through his bankers.

Brett was gone, I was not bothered by Cohn's troubles, I rather enjoyed not having to play tennis, there was plenty of work to do, I went often to the races, dined with friends, and put in some extra time at the office getting things ahead so I could leave it in charge of my secretary when Bill Gorton and I should shove off to Spain the end of June. Bill Gorton arrived, put up a couple of days at the flat and went off to Vienna. He was very cheerful and said the States were wonderful. New York was wonderful. There had been a grand theatrical season and a whole crop of great young light heavyweights. Anyone of them was a good prospect to grow up, put on weight and trim Dempsey. Bill was very happy. He had made a lot of money on his last book, and was going to make a lot more. We had a good time while he was in Paris, and then he went off to Vienna. He was coming back in three weeks and we would leave for Spain to get in some fishing and go to the fiesta at Pamplona. He wrote that Vienna was wonderful. Then a card from Budapest: “Jake, Budapest is wonderful.” Then I got a wire: “Back on Monday.”

Monday evening he turned up at the flat. I heard his taxi stop and went to the window and called to him; he waved and started upstairs carrying his bags. I met him on the stairs, and took one of the bags.

“Well,” I said, “I hear you had a wonderful trip.”

“Wonderful,” he said. “Budapest is absolutely wonderful.”

“How about Vienna?”

“Not so good, Jake. Not so good. It seemed better than it was.”

“How do you mean?” I was getting glasses and a siphon.

“Tight, Jake. I was tight.”

“That's strange. Better have a drink.”

Bill rubbed his forehead. “Remarkable thing,” he said. “Don't know how it happened. Suddenly it happened.”

“Last long?”

“Four days, Jake. Lasted just four days.”

“Where did you go?”

“Don't remember. Wrote you a postcard. Remember that perfectly.”

“Do anything else?”

“Not so sure. Possible.”

“Go on. Tell me about it.”

“Can't remember. Tell you anything I could remember.”

“Go on. Take that drink and remember.”

“Might remember a little,” Bill said. “Remember something about a prize fight. Enormous Vienna prize fight. Had a nigger in it. Remember the nigger perfectly.”

“Go on.”

“Wonderful nigger. Looked like Tiger Flowers, only four times as big. All of a sudden everybody started to throw things. Not me. Nigger'd just knocked local boy down. Nigger put up his glove. Wanted to make a speech. Awful noble-looking nigger. Started to make a speech. Then local white boy hit him. Then he knocked white boy cold. Then everybody commenced to throw chairs. Nigger went home with us in our car. Couldn't get his clothes. Wore my coat. Remember the whole thing now. Big sporting evening.”

“What happened?”

“Loaned the nigger some clothes and went around with him to try and get his money. Claimed nigger owed them money on account of wrecking hall. Wonder who translated? Was it me?”

“Probably it wasn't you.”

“You're right. Wasn't me at all. Was another fellow. Think we called him the local Harvard man. Remember him now. Studying music.”

“How'd you come out?”

“Not so good, Jake. Injustice everywhere. Promoter claimed nigger promised let local boy stay. Claimed nigger violated contract. Can't knock out Vienna boy in Vienna. ‘My God, Mister Gorton,' said nigger, ‘I didn't do nothing in there for forty minutes but try and let him stay. That white boy musta ruptured himself swinging at me. I never did hit him.'''

“Did you get any money?”

“No money, Jake. All we could get was nigger's clothes. Somebody took his watch, too. Splendid nigger. Big mistake to have come to Vienna. Not so good, Jake. Not so good.”

“What became of the nigger?”

“Went back to Cologne. Lives there. Married. Got a Family. Going to write me a letter and send me the money I loaned him. Wonderful nigger. Hope I gave him the right address.”

“You probably did.”

“Well, anyway, let's eat,” said Bill. “Unless you want me to tell you some more travel stories.”

“Go on.”

“Let's eat.”

We went downstairs and out onto the Boulevard St. Michel in the warm June evening.

“Where will we go?”

“Want to eat on the island?”

“Sure.”

We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes.

“I know who they are.” Bill eyed the monument. “Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris.”

We went on.

“Here's a taxidermist's,” Bill said. “Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?”

“Come on,” I said. “You're pie-eyed.”

“Pretty nice stuffed dogs,” Bill said. “Certainly brighten up your flat.”

“Come on.”

“Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog.”

“Come on.”

“Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog.”

“We'll get one on the way back.”

“All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault.”

We went on.

“How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?”

“Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals.”

We stopped and had a drink.

“Certainly like to drink,” Bill said. “You ought to try it some Jake.”

“You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me.”

“Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public.”

“Where were you drinking?”

“Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted.”

“You'll be daunted after about three more pernods.”

“Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way.”

“When did you see Harvey Stone?”

“At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat anymore. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad.”

“He's all right.”

“Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous.”

“What'll we do tonight?”

“Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat.”

“Nix,” I said. “We're going to have a regular meal.”

“Just a suggestion,” said Bill. “Want to start now?”

“Come on.”

We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse cab passed us. Bill looked at it.

“See that horse cab? Going to have that horse cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer.”

A taxi passed, someone in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett.

“Beautiful lady,” said Bill. “Going to kidnap us.”

“Hullo!” Brett said. “Hullo!”

“This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley.”

Brett smiled at Bill. “I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in tonight.”

“Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him.”

“Must clean myself.”

“Oh, rot! Come on.”

“Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine.”

“Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe.” “Might do that. Now you're not talking rot.”

We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. “Stop at the nearest bistro,” I said.

“We might as well go to the Closerie,” Brett said. “I can't drink these rotten brandies.”

“Closerie des Lilas.' Brett turned to Bill.

“Have you been in this pestilential city long?”

“Just got in today from Budapest.”

“How was Budapest?”

“Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful.”

“Ask him about Vienna.”

“Vienna,” said Bill, “is a strange city.”

“Very much like Paris,” Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes.

“Exactly,” Bill said. “Very much like Paris at this moment.”

“You
have
a good start.”

Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod.

“How are you, Jake?”

“Great,” I said. “I've had a good time.”

Brett looked at me. “I was a fool to go away,” she said. “One's an ass to leave Paris.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing.”

“See anybody?”

“No, hardly anybody. I never went out.”

“Didn't you swim?”

“No. Didn't do a thing.”

“Sounds like Vienna,” Bill said.

Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. “So that's the way it was in Vienna.”

“It was like everything in Vienna.”

Brett smiled at him again.

“You've a nice friend, Jake.”

“He's all right,” I said. “He's a taxidermist.”

“That was in another country,” Bill said. “And besides all the animals were dead.”

“One more,” Brett said, “and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi.”

“There's a line of them. Right out in front.”

“Good.”

We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi.

“Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there.”

“We'll be there,” Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved.

“Quite a girl,” Bill said. “She's damned nice. Who's Michael?”

“The man she's going to marry.”

“Well, well,” Bill said. “That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race horses?”

“We better eat.”

“Is she really Lady something or other?” Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the lIe Saint Louis.

“Oh, yes. In the studbook and everything.”

“Well, well.”

We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far side of the island. It was crowded with Americans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Someone had put it in the American Women's Club list as a quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet untouched by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made a great fuss over seeing him.

“Doesn't get us a table, though,” Bill said. “Grand woman, though.”

We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple pie and cheese.

“You've got the world here all right,” Bill said to Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand. “Oh, my God!”

“You'll be rich.”

“I hope so.”

After the coffee and a
fine
we got the bill, chalked up the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of the “quaint” features, paid it, shook hands, and went out.

“You never come here anymore, Monsieur Barnes,” Madame Lecomte said.

“Too many compatriots.”

“Come at lunchtime. It's not crowded then.”

“Good. I'll be down soon.”

We walked along under the trees that grew out over the river on the Quai d'Orleans side of the island. Across the river were the broken walls of old houses that were being torn down.

“They're going to cut a street through.”

“They would,” Bill said.

We walked on and circled the island. The river was dark and a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, going fast and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. Down the river was Notre Dame squatting against the night sky. We crossed to the left bank of the Seine by the wooden footbridge from the Quai de Bethune, and stopped on the bridge and looked down the river at Notre Dame. Standing on the bridge the island looked dark, the houses were high against the sky, and the trees were shadows.

“It's pretty grand,” Bill said. “God, I love to get back.”

We leaned on the wooden rail of the bridge and looked up the river to the lights of the big bridges. Below the water was smooth and black. It made no sound against the piles of the bridge. A man and a girl passed us. They were walking with their arms around each other.

We crossed the bridge and walked up the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It was steep walking, and we went all the way up to the Place Contrescarpe. The arc light shone through the leaves of the trees in the square, and underneath the trees was an S bus ready to start. Music came out of the door of the Negre Joyeux. Through the window of the Café Aux Amateurs I saw the long zinc bar. Outside on the terrace working people were drinking. In the open kitchen of the Amateurs a girl was cooking potato- chips in oil. There was an iron pot of stew. The girl ladled some onto a plate for an old man who stood holding a bottle of red wine in one hand.