poor little major can’t get off for even one day to fly to Nice to see his wife once in three months. I have a very good idea of what kind of war my major is preparing in Paris. You heard me on the telephone …?”
“Yes,” Rudolph said. “I couldn’t hear what you were saying.… You sounded angry.”
“It wasn’t a friendly conversation,” Jeanne said. “No, not friendly at all. So now you are beginning to have some idea of why I was sitting at a café table, not wearing a wedding ring?”
“More or less,” Rudolph said.
“I was on the point of quitting and going home when you came into the café and sat down,” she said quietly. “Two men had approached me before. Posing, stuffy men, experts, connoisseurs of—what’s the American phrase—one-night …?”
“One-night stands,” Rudolph said.
“That’s it.”
“At least they didn’t think you were a whore,” he said ruefully. “Forgive me.”
She patted his hand. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said. “It added just the right note of comedy to the evening. When you came in and sat down, with your decent, bony, respectable American face, I decided not to go home.” She smiled. “Not just then. It turns out I didn’t make a mistake. You must never be modest again.” Another sisterly pat of the hand. “Now, it’s late. You said you had to go.… Do you want my telephone number? Can I see you again?”
“I suppose I ought to tell you a little about myself, too,” Rudolph said. “First of all, my name isn’t Jimmy. I don’t know why I …” He shrugged. “I guess I was ashamed of what I was doing.” He smiled. “What I thought I was doing. Maybe I half believed if it wasn’t my own name it wasn’t me who was really doing it. More likely, if we ever met and I was with somebody else and you said hello, Jimmy, I could say, I’m sorry, madam, you must be thinking of somebody else.”
“I wish I could dare keep a diary,” Jeanne said. “I would write down all that happened tonight in detail. In great detail. It would give my children something to laugh at when they discovered it after my death. What do you know, dear, old, sensible Maman?”
“My name is Rudolph,” he said. “I was never fond of the name. When I was a boy I thought it sounded un-American, though it’s hard to tell what sounds American anymore and what doesn’t. And why anybody should care. But when you’re a boy in his teens, your head full of books, with heroes with names like Huckleberry Finn, Daniel Boone, Studs Lonigan … Well, it seemed to me that Rudolph sounded like … like heavy German cooking. Especially during the war.” He had never told anyone how he felt about his Christian name, had never formulated it clearly for himself even, and now found that it was with a sense of relief, mixed with wry amusement, that he could speak about it openly to this handsome stranger, or almost stranger. Also, sitting in the muted lamplight on the bed which had been the furniture of exquisite pleasure, he wanted to make a further offering of himself to the woman, find reasons for delaying leave-taking, join her in the pretense that the dawn was not near, departure inevitable.
“Rudolph,” Jeanne said. “Neither good nor bad. Think of it as Rodolfo. That has a better sound, doesn’t it?”
“Much better.”
“Good,” she said teasingly. “From now on I will call you Rodolfo.”
“Rodolfo Jordache,” he said. It gave him a new, more dashing view of himself. “Jordache. That’s my family name. I’m at the Hôtel du Cap.” All defenses down now. Names and addresses. Each at the other’s mercy. “One more thing. I’m married.”
“I expected as much,” Jeanne said. “Your affair. Just as my marriage is my affair.”
“My wife is with me in Antibes.” He didn’t feel he had to tell her that they were not on the best of terms, either. “Give me your telephone number.”
She got up and went over to a little desk where there was
“Yes,” Rudolph said. “I couldn’t hear what you were saying.… You sounded angry.”
“It wasn’t a friendly conversation,” Jeanne said. “No, not friendly at all. So now you are beginning to have some idea of why I was sitting at a café table, not wearing a wedding ring?”
“More or less,” Rudolph said.
“I was on the point of quitting and going home when you came into the café and sat down,” she said quietly. “Two men had approached me before. Posing, stuffy men, experts, connoisseurs of—what’s the American phrase—one-night …?”
“One-night stands,” Rudolph said.
“That’s it.”
“At least they didn’t think you were a whore,” he said ruefully. “Forgive me.”
She patted his hand. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said. “It added just the right note of comedy to the evening. When you came in and sat down, with your decent, bony, respectable American face, I decided not to go home.” She smiled. “Not just then. It turns out I didn’t make a mistake. You must never be modest again.” Another sisterly pat of the hand. “Now, it’s late. You said you had to go.… Do you want my telephone number? Can I see you again?”
“I suppose I ought to tell you a little about myself, too,” Rudolph said. “First of all, my name isn’t Jimmy. I don’t know why I …” He shrugged. “I guess I was ashamed of what I was doing.” He smiled. “What I thought I was doing. Maybe I half believed if it wasn’t my own name it wasn’t me who was really doing it. More likely, if we ever met and I was with somebody else and you said hello, Jimmy, I could say, I’m sorry, madam, you must be thinking of somebody else.”
“I wish I could dare keep a diary,” Jeanne said. “I would write down all that happened tonight in detail. In great detail. It would give my children something to laugh at when they discovered it after my death. What do you know, dear, old, sensible Maman?”
“My name is Rudolph,” he said. “I was never fond of the name. When I was a boy I thought it sounded un-American, though it’s hard to tell what sounds American anymore and what doesn’t. And why anybody should care. But when you’re a boy in his teens, your head full of books, with heroes with names like Huckleberry Finn, Daniel Boone, Studs Lonigan … Well, it seemed to me that Rudolph sounded like … like heavy German cooking. Especially during the war.” He had never told anyone how he felt about his Christian name, had never formulated it clearly for himself even, and now found that it was with a sense of relief, mixed with wry amusement, that he could speak about it openly to this handsome stranger, or almost stranger. Also, sitting in the muted lamplight on the bed which had been the furniture of exquisite pleasure, he wanted to make a further offering of himself to the woman, find reasons for delaying leave-taking, join her in the pretense that the dawn was not near, departure inevitable.
“Rudolph,” Jeanne said. “Neither good nor bad. Think of it as Rodolfo. That has a better sound, doesn’t it?”
“Much better.”
“Good,” she said teasingly. “From now on I will call you Rodolfo.”
“Rodolfo Jordache,” he said. It gave him a new, more dashing view of himself. “Jordache. That’s my family name. I’m at the Hôtel du Cap.” All defenses down now. Names and addresses. Each at the other’s mercy. “One more thing. I’m married.”
“I expected as much,” Jeanne said. “Your affair. Just as my marriage is my affair.”
“My wife is with me in Antibes.” He didn’t feel he had to tell her that they were not on the best of terms, either. “Give me your telephone number.”
She got up and went over to a little desk where there was
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