"Whose money is that in the bank?" I asked. "Is it her father's or is it yours?"
"It's mine!" he exclaimed. "My mother sent it to me. I don't want any of her god-damned money."
"That's swell!" I said. "Listen, suppose we hop a cab and go back there.
Draw out every cent. Then we'll go to the British Consulate and get a visa.
You're going to hop the train this afternoon for London. From London you'll take the first boat to America. I'm saying that because then you won't be worried about her trailing you. She'll never suspect that you went via London. If she goes searching for you she'll naturally go to Le Havre first, or Cherbourg....
And here's another thing--you're not going back to get your things. You're going to leave everything here. Let her keep them. With that French mind of hers she'll never dream that you scooted off without bag or baggage. It's incredible. A Frenchman would never dream of doing a thing like that ... unless he was as cracked as you are."
"You're right!" he exclaimed. "I never thought of that. Besides, you might send them to me later on--if she'll surrender them! But that doesn't matter now. Jesus, though, I haven't even got a hat!"
"What do you need a hat for? When you get to London you can buy everything you need. All you need now is to hurry. We've got to find out when the train leaves."
"Listen," he said, reaching for his wallet, "I'm going to leave everything to you. Here, take this and do whatever's necessary. I'm too weak.... I'm dizzy."
I took the wallet and emptied it of the bills he had just drawn from the bank. A cab was standing at the curb. We hopped in. There was a train leaving the Gare du Nord at four o'clock, or thereabouts. I was figuring it out--the bank, the Consulate, the American Express, the station. Fine! Just about make it.
"Now buck up!" I said, "and keep your shirt on! Shit, in a few hours you'll be crossing the channel. Tonight you'll be walking around in London and you'll get a good bellyful of English. To-morrow you'll be on the open sea--and then, by Jesus, you're a free man and you needn't give a fuck what happens. By the time you get to New York this'll be nothing more than a bad dream."
This got him so excited that his feet were moving convulsively, as if he were trying to run inside the cab. At the bank his hand was trembling so that he could hardly sign his name. That was one thing I couldn't do for him--sign his name. But I think, had it been necessary, I could have sat him on the toilet and wiped his ass. I was determined to ship him off, even if I had to fold him up and put him in a valise.
It was lunch hour when we got to the British Consulate, and the place was closed. That meant waiting until two o'clock. I couldn't think of anything better to do, by way of killing time, than to eat. Fillmore, of course, wasn't hungry. He was for eating a sandwich. "Fuck that!" I said. "You're going to blow me to a good lunch. It's the last square meal you're going to have over here-- maybe for a long while." I steered him to a cosy little restaurant and ordered a good spread. I ordered the best wine on the menu, regardless of price or taste. I had all his money in my pocket--oodles of it, it seemed to me.
Certainly never before had I had so much in my fist at one time. It was a treat to break a thousand-franc note. I held it up to the lights first to look at the beautiful watermark. Beautiful money! One of the few things the French make on a grand scale. Artistically done, too, as if they cherished a deep affection even for the symbol.
The meal over, we went to a cafe. I ordered Chartreuse with the coffee. Why not? And I broke another bill--a five-hundred-franc note this time. It was a clean, new, crisp bill. A pleasure to handle such money. The waiter handed me back a lot of dirty old bills that had been patched up with strips of gummed paper; I had a stack of five and ten-franc notes and a bagful of chicken feed. Chinese money, with holes in it. I didn't know in which pocket to stuff the money any more. My trousers were bursting with coins and bills.
It made me slightly uncomfortable also, hauling all that dough out in public. I was afraid we might be taken for a couple of crooks.
When we got to the American Express, there wasn't a devil of a lot of time left. The British, in their usual fumbling, farting way, had kept us on pins and needles. Here everybody was sliding around on castors. They were so speedy that everything had to be done twice. After all the checks were signed and clipped together in a neat little holder, it was discovered that he had signed in the wrong place. Nothing to do but start all over again. I stood over him, with one eye on the clock, and watched every stroke of the pen. It hurt to hand over the dough. Not all of it, thank God--but a good part of it. I had roughly about 2,500 francs in my pocket. Roughly, I say. I wasn't counting by francs any more. A hundred, or two hundred, more or less--it didn't mean a god-damned thing to me. As for him, he was going through the whole transaction in a daze. He didn't know how much money he had. All he knew was that he had to keep something aside for Ginette. He wasn't certain yet how much--we were going to figure that out on the way to the station.
In the excitement we had forgotten to change all the money. We were already in the cab, however, and there wasn't any time to be lost. The thing was to find out how we stood. We emptied our pockets quickly and began to whack it up. Some of it was lying on the floor, some of it was on the seat. It was bewildering. There was French, American and English money. And all that chicken feed besides. I felt like picking up the coins and chucking them out of the window--just to simplify matters. Finally we sifted it all out; he held on to the English and American money, and I held on to the French money.
We had to decide quickly now what to do about Ginette--how much to give her, what to tell her, etc. He was trying to fix up a yam for me to hand her--didn't want her to break her heart and so forth. I had to cut him short.
"Never mind what to tell her," I said. "Leave that to me. How much are you going to give her, that's the thing? Why give her anything?"
That was like setting a bomb under his ass. He burst into tears. Such tears!
It was worse than before. I thought he was going to collapse on my hands.
Without stopping to think, I said: "All right, let's give her all this French money. That ought to last her for a while." "How much is it?" he asked feebly. "I don't know--about 2,000 francs or so. More than she deserves anyway."
"Christ! Don't say that!" he begged. "After all, it's a rotten break I'm giving her. Her folks'll never take her back now. No, give it to her. Give her the whole damned business.... I don't care what it is."
He pulled a handkerchief out to wipe the tears away. "I can't help it," he said. "It's too much for me." I said nothing. Suddenly he sprawled himself out full length--I thought he was taking a fit or something--and he said:
"Jesus, I think I ought to go back. I ought to go back and face the music.
If anything should happen to her I'd never forgive myself." That was a rude jolt for me. "Christ!" I shouted, "you can't do that! Not now. It's too late. You're going to take the train and I'm going to tend to her myself. I'll go see her just as soon as I leave you. Why, you poor boob, if she ever thought you had tried to run away from her she'd murder you, don't you realize that? You can't go back any more.
It's settled."
Anyway, what could go wrong? I asked myself. Kill herself? Tant mieux.
When we rolled up to the station we had still about twelve minutes to kill.
I didn't dare to say good-bye to him yet. At the last minute, raided as he was, I could see him jumping off the train and scooting back to her.
Anything might swerve him. A straw. So I dragged him across the street to a bar and I said: "Now you're going to have a Pernod--your last Pernod and I'm going to pay for it ... with your dough."
Something about this remark made him look at me uneasily. He took a big gulp of the Pernod and then, turning to me like an injured dog, he said: "I know I oughtn't to trust you with all that money, but... but.... Oh, well, do what you think best. I don't want her to kill herself, that's all."
"Kill herself?" I said. "Not her! You must think a hell of a lot of yourself if you can believe a thing like that. As for the money, though I hate to give it to her, I promise you I'll go straight to the post office and telegraph it to her. I wouldn't trust myself with it a minute longer than is necessary." As I said this I spied a bunch of post cards in a revolving rack. I grabbed one off--a picture of the Eiffel Tower it was--and made him write a few words. "Tell her you're sailing now. Tell her you love her and that you'll send for her as soon as you arrive.... I'll send it by pneumatique when I go to the post office. And tonight I'll see her.
Everything'll be Jake, you'll see."
With that we walked across the street to the station. Only two minutes to go. I felt it was safe now. At the gate I gave him a slap on the back and pointed to the train. I didn't shake hands with him--he would have slobbered all over me. I just said: "Hurry! She's going in a minute." And with that I turned on my heel and marched off. I didn't even look round to see if he was boarding the train. I was afraid to.
* * *
I hadn't really thought, all the while I was bundling him off, what I'd do once I was free of him. I had promised a lot of things--but that was only to keep him quiet. As for facing Ginette, I had about as little courage for it as he had. I was getting panicky myself. Everything had happened so quickly that it was impossible to grasp the nature of the situation in full.
I walked away from the station in a kind of delicious stupor--with the post card in my hand. I stood against a lamp-post and read it over. It sounded preposterous. I read it again, to make sure that I wasn't dreaming, and then I tore it up and threw it in the gutter.
I looked around uneasily, half expecting to see Ginette coming after me with a tomahawk. Nobody was following me. I started walking leisurely towards the Place Lafayette. It was a beautiful day, as I had observed earlier.
Light, puffy clouds above, sailing with the wind. The awnings flapping.
Paris had never looked so good to me; I almost felt sorry that I had shipped the poor bugger off. At the Place Lafayette I sat down facing the church and stared at the clock tower; it's not such a wonderful piece of architecture, but that blue in the dial face always fascinated me. It was bluer than ever to-day. I couldn't take my eyes off it.
Unless he were crazy enough to write her a letter, explaining everything, Ginette need never know what had happened. And even if she did learn that he had left her 2,500 francs or so she couldn't prove it. I could always say that he imagined it. A guy who was crazy enough to walk off without even a hat was crazy enough to invent the 2,500 francs, or whatever it was. How much was it, anyhow, I wondered. My pockets were sagging with the weight of it. I hauled it all out and counted it carefully. There was exactly 2,875 francs and 35 centimes. More than I had thought. The 75 francs and 35 centimes had to be gotten rid of. I wanted an even sum--a clean 2,800 francs. Just then I saw a cab pulling up to the curb. A woman stepped out with a white poodle dog in her hands; the dog was peeing over her silk dress. The idea of taking a dog for a ride got me sore. I'm as good as her dog, I said to myself, and with that I gave the driver a sign and told him to drive me through the Bois. He wanted to know where exactly.
"Anywhere," I said. "Go through the Bois, go all around it--and take your time, I'm in no hurry." I sank back and let the houses whizz by, the jagged roofs, the chimney pots, the colored walls, the urinals, the dizzy carrefours. Passing the Rond-Point I thought I'd go downstairs and take a leak. No telling what might happen down there. I told the driver to wait. It was the first time in my life I had let a cab wait while I took a leak. How much can you waste that way? Not very much. With what I had in my pocket I could afford to have two taxis waiting for me.
I took a good look around but I didn't see anything worth while. What I wanted was something fresh and unused--something from Alaska or the Virgin Islands. A clean fresh pelt with a natural fragrance to it. Needless to say, there wasn't anything like that walking about. I wasn't terribly disappointed. I didn't give a fuck whether I found anything or not. The thing is, never to be too anxious. Everything comes in due time.
We drove on past the Arc de Triomphe. A few sightseers were loitering around the remains of the Unknown Soldier. Going through the Bois I looked at all the rich cunts promenading in their limousines. They were whizzing by as if they had some destination. Do that, no doubt, to look important--to show the world how smooth run their Rolls Royces and their Hispano Suizas.
Inside me things were running smoother than any Rolls Royce ever ran. It was just like velvet inside. Velvet cortex and velvet vertebrae. And velvet axle grease, what! It's a wonderful thing, for half an hour, to have money in your pocket and piss it away like a drunken sailor. You feel as though the world is yours. And the best part of it is, you don't know what to do with it. You can sit back and let the meter run wild, you can let the wind blow through your hair, you can stop and have a drink, you can give a big tip, and you can swagger off as though it were an everyday occurrence. But you can't create a revolution. You can't wash all the dirt out of your belly.
When we got to the Porte d'Auteuil I made him head for the Seine. At the Pont de Sevres I got out and started walking along the river, toward the Auteuil Viaduct. It's about the size of a creek along here and the trees come right down to the river's bank. The water was green and glassy, especially near the other side. Now and then a scow chugged by. Bathers in tights were standing in the grass sunning themselves. Everything was close and palpitant, and vibrant with the strong light.
Passing a beer garden I saw a group of cyclists sitting at a table. I took a seat nearby and ordered a demi. Hearing them jabber away I thought for a moment of Ginette. I saw her stamping up and down the room, tearing her hair, and sobbing and bleating, in that beast-like way of hers. I saw his hat on the rack. I wondered if his clothes would fit me. He had a raglan that I particularly liked. Well, by now he was on his way. In a little while the boat would be rocking under him. English! He wanted to hear English spoken. What an idea!