Read Online A Young Man's Heart by Cornell Woolrich - Free Book Online
Authors: Cornell Woolrich
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“sailed alone from a French port last year. They ‘got’ the ship, and she was in an open boat in the Bay of Biscay for twenty-four hours. Five days later she sailed a second time, with everything gone but the clothes she wore on her back, and got through the barred zone, by Jove, and landed here with a smile on her face.”
Blair felt like saying, “Who paid her passage?”
“Pluck, wasn’t it? And you —” Giraldy favored him with a grimace of bitter disgust, to take the place of the unspoken thought.
“And you,” thought Blair in his turn. A man to whom the height of youthful endeavor had been firing at yellow and brown peasants. A man who had no doubt overlooked all the beauty of a strange world, the temples and the sunsets and the moonlit waters, in his haste to be at some ill-famed house in the back alleys of Tientsin or Manila. A man who would send his son halfway around the world, to live among strangers in a land of rumbling terrors, to make room for a soiled mannequin. (Blair knew by now; the motive had slowly dawned on him.)
Giraldy stood up, flung his crumpled napkin down, and turning as he was about to leave the room, said: “Well, you’re going, like it or not.”
Blair sat there, expressionless, until, hearing the patio gate click to musically, and alone with his inner wounds, he flung his arms across the table and buried his face in them. To go away from here was like dying a little death before the time for death had really come.
That night he dreamed he was adrift in a boat on the bosom of the Bay of Biscay. Great boiling maddened waves reared themselves on all sides, as though to look at him before they devoured him. The sea went up, up, flattening itself against the sky, and then down, down, as though there were no bottom to the world. Then close beside him, so near that he could touch it, insinuatingly almost, rose the polished gun-metal turret of one of the terrifying U-boats. When it had quite emerged, then suddenly a door opened where there had been no door before, and a woman stepped out. Her lips were rouged and parted in a sarcastic smile, and she seemed to bear the likeness of Mlle. Reynaud. He heard himself pleading that she spare him, trying to mollify her by reminding her that she too had once been adrift in a boat on the broad Bay of Biscay. And while she stood unrelenting, her aigrets ruffling in the breeze, his father joined her. Giraldy stared hard at him, as though measuring the distance between them, and slowly raised a rifle to his shoulder.
“Father!” he called, clasping his hands in supplication, “I am not Chinese! I am not Chinese!” It was as though he were bound by a spell. The rifle must surely go off unless he could utter the other word in time, the name of the race his father hated equally with the Chinese. And he could not remember it. Chokingly, shudderingly, he failed to remember it. And chokingly, shudderingly, he awoke. And the word came to him almost at once. Philippines. Presently he could afford a sad little smile. He had remembered it too late to be of any use in the dream.
He slept again, and when he awoke the broad green leaves outside his room in the patio were spotted with sunlight. He could see them through the open doors beyond the foot of his bed. By that he knew it must be late. It was not until nine or after that the sun attained sufficient elevation in the sky to shine down into the patio well from above. He dressed, and dressing, remembered the time that Mariquita had crept to the door when his back was turned and stood there unnoticed, mimicking all his motions while he adjusted a tie about his neck. The fact that he was going away and there would be no more Mariquita for him may have had something to do with his recalling this incident. The morning after it he had not remembered it, nor on any of the many other mornings until now. It was like a little nugget of recollection, buried one day, to be dug up again a year later and never
Blair felt like saying, “Who paid her passage?”
“Pluck, wasn’t it? And you —” Giraldy favored him with a grimace of bitter disgust, to take the place of the unspoken thought.
“And you,” thought Blair in his turn. A man to whom the height of youthful endeavor had been firing at yellow and brown peasants. A man who had no doubt overlooked all the beauty of a strange world, the temples and the sunsets and the moonlit waters, in his haste to be at some ill-famed house in the back alleys of Tientsin or Manila. A man who would send his son halfway around the world, to live among strangers in a land of rumbling terrors, to make room for a soiled mannequin. (Blair knew by now; the motive had slowly dawned on him.)
Giraldy stood up, flung his crumpled napkin down, and turning as he was about to leave the room, said: “Well, you’re going, like it or not.”
Blair sat there, expressionless, until, hearing the patio gate click to musically, and alone with his inner wounds, he flung his arms across the table and buried his face in them. To go away from here was like dying a little death before the time for death had really come.
That night he dreamed he was adrift in a boat on the bosom of the Bay of Biscay. Great boiling maddened waves reared themselves on all sides, as though to look at him before they devoured him. The sea went up, up, flattening itself against the sky, and then down, down, as though there were no bottom to the world. Then close beside him, so near that he could touch it, insinuatingly almost, rose the polished gun-metal turret of one of the terrifying U-boats. When it had quite emerged, then suddenly a door opened where there had been no door before, and a woman stepped out. Her lips were rouged and parted in a sarcastic smile, and she seemed to bear the likeness of Mlle. Reynaud. He heard himself pleading that she spare him, trying to mollify her by reminding her that she too had once been adrift in a boat on the broad Bay of Biscay. And while she stood unrelenting, her aigrets ruffling in the breeze, his father joined her. Giraldy stared hard at him, as though measuring the distance between them, and slowly raised a rifle to his shoulder.
“Father!” he called, clasping his hands in supplication, “I am not Chinese! I am not Chinese!” It was as though he were bound by a spell. The rifle must surely go off unless he could utter the other word in time, the name of the race his father hated equally with the Chinese. And he could not remember it. Chokingly, shudderingly, he failed to remember it. And chokingly, shudderingly, he awoke. And the word came to him almost at once. Philippines. Presently he could afford a sad little smile. He had remembered it too late to be of any use in the dream.
He slept again, and when he awoke the broad green leaves outside his room in the patio were spotted with sunlight. He could see them through the open doors beyond the foot of his bed. By that he knew it must be late. It was not until nine or after that the sun attained sufficient elevation in the sky to shine down into the patio well from above. He dressed, and dressing, remembered the time that Mariquita had crept to the door when his back was turned and stood there unnoticed, mimicking all his motions while he adjusted a tie about his neck. The fact that he was going away and there would be no more Mariquita for him may have had something to do with his recalling this incident. The morning after it he had not remembered it, nor on any of the many other mornings until now. It was like a little nugget of recollection, buried one day, to be dug up again a year later and never
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