Fat Man and Little Boy (11 page)

ROSIE CUMMINGS
HAS A JOB

Rosie watches someone else's cigarette butt burn out orange then gray in the ashtray on her table. She is waiting for service. She is tired.

After Fat Man and Little Boy passed out on stage, the medium had stormed off, leaving the audience to fend for themselves. The hidden pianist played a few resounding chords as if to resolve the evening. An F, a C minor, a major C, and that was that. The crowd filtered out into the night like powdered sugar through a sifter, and Rosie went with them, jostled at every interval by strange men and beautiful women, the latter wearing stylish homemade dresses. As she walked through the streets, Rosie reflected on what the medium had told her. It was possible her father had spoken through the Oriental woman—she especially believed it after the medium's climactic histrionics, and the smells that fogged the theater when the show was over. In her hotel room, after the medium, she had prayed for guidance, and apologized for idolatry, if that was what she had done. So far, God was keeping mum, but that was his way. The Lord was not a talker.

In any case, her father was wrong. Her husband is dead, she will not marry again, she will not have babies, she cannot have babies.

A waiter bustles by. She consults her dog-eared phrasebook for a firm way of saying, “No one has helped me yet.” There are no firm ways of saying anything in her phrasebook. The closest she can come is, “J'apprécie votre aide.” She looks up from her phrasebook and the waiter is gone. She lights a cigarette. The smoke tickles her throat and makes her eyes feel dry. She flips through the phrasebook, searching for things she might need to say soon. “How are you with a broom?” for instance. Can you cook? Do you keep a clean home? How is your English?

She tallies her expenses. The cigarettes come first as they are very guilty things. Then the room she has rented, which she will quit tomorrow morning. Then the meals she has eaten—which were more expensive before someone told her, with unnecessary surliness, that in France one does not usually leave a tip—and meals she will eat. The hat she bought herself, which she has since lost. The apple she snacked on, the orange, the bread she took to her room, and the soft brie. Every day she thanks the Lord she has already bought the land. A spendthrift like her would otherwise be short of money long before she arrived, she is sure. The cigarette is half-done, and so there is half of one eighth, a sixteenth, then, of the money she spent on the pack, burnt away. It's all gone so quickly, and that's just like her, to waste. She needs to keep a certain amount. She is afraid to look in her hotel safe to see if she still has that amount; she always runs through money faster than she thinks, and then she feels cold inside, and skips meals to close the gap between expectation and fact.

The waiter comes by again. She is resolved to ignore him unless their eyes meet. Of course their eyes do. She says, “J'apprécie votre aide.”

The waiter cocks his head. He asks her if she's been helped, but she doesn't understand.

She is not sure what this means. It doesn't matter. “Un sandwich au rosbif,” she says, “et un café.” This too from her phrasebook, pages 25 and 28. She mentally deducts the sum of this lunch from the diminishing heap of her savings. She thanks the waiter in English.

A boy sweeps in the corner, corralling dust and crumbs. He has the slow, steady rhythm of someone who knows he will be sweeping the same spot clean the next day and the day after that. He collects it in his dustpan, disappears, and comes back before her lunch. He lifts a chair, propping it up on its forelegs against the table, sweeps out from beneath it, and sets the chair back down.

That's him, she thinks, the boy from the night before. The one the medium called up. She hadn't realized, sitting in the audience, how thin he was. He hadn't looked so tired.

“Hello,” she says. “Come sit at my table with me.”

He startles at her flat, Midwestern English. His lips twitch.

He shrugs, saying, “No English,” affecting a mealy French accent.

She pats the seat beside her. “That's a lie. Come on.”

“I'm supposed to clean.”

“I'm a respected hotelier. No one will punish you for doing what I say.”

Little Boy does as she asks, setting his dustpan on the table, holding his broom erect in the crook of his elbow. When she asks his name he answers “Matthew,” his voice a sullen croak. She snuffs her cigarette. He watches the last wisps of smoke, and then the tray. His bulging eyes are hesitant to meet her own. His hands fiddle in his lap.

Rosie asks, “Are you wondering if I recognize you from last night?”

“I was.”

“Well,” says Rosie. Her waiter approaches with sandwich and coffee. He leaves without acknowledging the boy. “See, I told you. The customer is always right. Is Matthew really your name?”

He nods.

“I shouldn't ask you what the medium was on about,” says Rosie. “You're too young to be guilty of anything, aren't you?”

“I guess.”

“What are you afraid of? Are you hungry?”

“Yes.” He glances up.

She cuts her sandwich in imperfect halves and gives him the smaller portion. He keeps his broom upright as he takes his share.

“Do you drink coffee?”

“No.”

“I think what she did to you was awful. Very rude. You paid for a ticket the same as anyone else.”

“Yes ma'am.”

“Is your brother here?”

“I misspoke, ma'am. John is my uncle.”

“Of course. Is your uncle here? You are both American?”

“Yes. He washes dishes in the kitchen.”

“That's perfect. But he speaks French?”

“Some.” He finishes the roast beef, licks his finger, collects breadcrumbs from the table.

Rosie asks if she can speak to Matthew's uncle John. Matthew says no, John is washing dishes in the kitchen and he has to get back to sweeping. She asks him what about the sandwich half she gave him. He takes his dustpan from the table.

“I liked the half sandwich.”

She asks him if he goes to school.

“It's mandatory.”

She sighs. “Can I speak to your uncle?”

“He's doing dishes in the kitchen.”

“My husband died freeing this country,” says Rosie. “He was hanging by his parachute in a tree and they shot him full of holes. I came here to start an international hotel and learn four languages. If there were more international hotels and everyone knew four foreign languages my husband would still be alive today.”

“I'm sorry,” says Matthew.

Rosie is not convinced. The little boy goes back to his sweeping. She considers another cigarette but at that rate it would be four a day—two at lunch, one at six, one before bed—and though this inevitably will happen, and worse, she can't afford that kind of habit now. She would have to go without breakfast.

“Well I can go to the kitchen,” she says.

Here is the fat man John at the sink. He attacks the dishes as if he means to grind them down to dust. He's humming unfamiliar tunes in his deep rumble as he struggles not to bite his cigarette in half.

Rosie offers her hand. “Rosie Cummings. Hotelier.”

John's eyes are darkly, deeply ringed, one side of his face marbled with bruises from his fall. “Good to meet you, Rosie. As you can see I'm occupied.”

She insists on her hand. He holds up his and says, “I'm filthy.”

“My husband was killed by Nazis freeing this country,” says Rosie. “He was hanging by his parachute in a tree and they shot him full of holes. I have come here to start an international hotel and learn four languages. If there were more international hotels and everyone knew four foreign languages my husband would still be alive today.” She pauses. “John, please shake my hand.”

He wipes a mitt on his apron, front and back, and again, and again. It's the wrong hand—she changes hers to accommodate him, and they shake. His grasp is as loose and soft and warm as half-baked dough. His eyes are deep set, dark and sweet like raisins.

“My name is Rosie Cummings. Please listen to me.”

“Were you at last night's séance spectacular?”

“I was. I told your nephew Matthew how I thought the medium was very rude to you.”

John shows her his hands again. This time she notes their blackness—apparently not a layer of grime, as she had assumed. “Well she accused that other woman of infanticide,” he says. “I guess it's that kind of show.”

“To say nothing of what she said to me. Of course, as she conceded, sometimes the dead are wrong. In my case they would have to be, so I'm sure they're wrong about you as well. You don't look like a guilty man.”

He goes back to his dishes, scraping with his cloth and nails, turning up the water until steam rises in thick plumes. He takes the unlit cigarette into his mouth and pushes it back out, and chews. “Do you find yourself a good judge of character in general?” he says.

“You never know,” says Rosie. She fingers the zipper on her purse.

“Then I won't take your word on it.” He turns down his eyes. The conversation is over.

“There's a place called Gurs,” says Rosie. “You need to see it with your own eyes. I think you're going to love it.”

“Gurs,” says John.

“It was a prison. But not the way you think of them—not like back home. More a lot of little huts, and this tiny fence you could jump if you wanted. You know, with razor wire and all that, not electrified, but I'm going to take that out. I'm going to make it a hotel.”

“A hotel.”

“Yes, my first international hotel in what will one day be a chain. If everyone learned four foreign languages, then my husband would still be alive. I want to make the prison into a hotel so people will be able to move past all the unpleasantness.” She whispers, now. “That's where Vichy kept the Jews before they were shipped out.”

“Jews?”

“Before they shipped them out to Germany.”

“What happened to them? Were they hurt?”

“Well, they didn't come back.”

Rosie explains that she has been eating at every reasonable restaurant and staying at every decent hotel she can find on her way south, where she is going to convert the prison into the first of many international hotels. She says there will be language classes, and everyone who stays there will learn four foreign languages, and then people won't lose their husbands with such awful regularity. She explains she has been eating and staying at so many places because she needs to find staff for her first hotel, good staff with a command of several languages. At least two. Maybe he would like to work for her, she says.

“Which languages?”

“Four foreign languages should be enough, in the long term, to prevent the most bloodshed.”

“Which four?”

“For instance, we would need to learn Japanese, German, French, and Spanish.”

“Not Italian?”

“I don't think we'll have to worry about them getting into any more trouble. But there is always Mexico to consider.”

“Yes,” says John, puzzled. “Always Mexico.”

“So would you like to come work for me?” says Rosie. “I'm sure I can pay a little more than this café, and you would be able to do many interesting tasks, and not only wash dishes.”

John says that he can't leave, that he has only just settled down, that he only knows one foreign language, not four. Rosie asks him is he sure he can't be persuaded. She says he can do the dishes at Hotel Gurs if he likes it so much.

“No, no,” he says. “No, I'm sorry.”

She turns to leave. He grabs her shoulder with his muck hand. His raisin eyes shine brightly. “Wait. Is it true you're barren?”

THE ROAD TO GURS

Fat Man tells Francine the news over breakfast. “We'll leave tonight,” he says. “This is an excellent opportunity, I'm sure you'll agree.”

“Of course,” says Francine. She bites through her buttered toast. Her hand reaches across the table and rests on his. Warmth passes between them. She touches her tummy and circles the swell. Fat Man can feel her pulse in the tips of her fingers. “If you need anything, you can send me a letter.”

“And you can do the same.”

Francine smiles and nods as if there is the slightest chance that she would want to see him again, that she would need his help, that he could ever do anything for her. He wants to tell her how beautiful she is. He wants to ask her to leave her husband, who is not in any case the father of her babies. He wants to grasp her by the shoulders and shout, “Those are my children inside you!” His, and his brother's.

Instead he asks her, “Should I say goodbye to your husband?”

She forces a smile, shakes her head no. She has been gentle since the medium had him up on the stage. “Albert is very busy looking for money,” she says, “under every rock, behind every door, in every seat cushion. Or so he tells me. Now that he's going to be a father he says it's time he really
provides
.”

“A father?” says Fat Man, with all the cultivated mincing friendliness he despises in his fellow fat men. “Congratulations, Francine! May I?” He indicates her ballooning tummy. She agrees. As he lowers his head, he recognizes his mistake. As he presses his ear to the swell, regret bubbles inside. At first he hears nothing. Then the thrashing begins. Francine moans, pained.

“They like you,” she says. “They like you a lot, I guess.”

It sounds as if they will tear their way out if he stays. Fat Man reminds himself why he is leaving with barren Rosie Cummings. “Would you like some water?” he says. Francine raises two curled fingers and shakes them no while she swallows back some burning thing, covering her mouth with her other hand. He goes to the sink. “Twins,” he says. “I hope they get along.”

“Mmm,” agrees Francine, nodding.

“A brother you can be really close with,” says Fat Man. “That's special. That'll save your life.” He fills his glass. The water smells a little strange out here, he's noticed. Water's different everywhere and no one ever wants to talk about it.

“Do you have any brothers?” says Francine.

“I guess I've got one.” He says this in a way that means he'd rather not discuss it.

Little Boy comes down from the bathroom. He walks into the room slowly, hands tucked into his pockets like secrets.

“I think Matthew has something he'd like to say to you,” says Fat Man. Little Boy nods.

“Well go on, Matthew,” says Francine, “I'm listening.” She rests her hands on her babies. Rubs them in slow, small soothing circles.

He removes folded paper from his right pocket, unfolds it, and grips it with both hands to pull the creases smooth. “Mademoiselle Francine. Merci d'avoir pris, soins de nous.” He refolds the note and pushes it into her hand so she can think of them fondly later.

“How darling,” says Francine. “Thank you for letting me hear your first words.”

“He used to talk all the time,” says Fat Man. “These days it's a battle.”

Little Boy looks up at them and smiles vacantly as if he is forgetting all his English.

Rosie Cummings has bought them bicycles to match her own. They are solid brown metal like grasshoppers on wheels. They have bells with clear, sharp sounds and wide wheels with white sides. Their seats are long and wide in the back. Fat Man thanks Rosie. Little Boy forgets until his brother cuffs his ear.

They'll ride south. Rosie says there are men at work on her hotel, and it's okay if it takes them a little time to arrive—the men will still be working when they get there, tearing down fences and rebuilding the huts-cum-rooms. If they come to a large hill, they will walk their bikes to the summit and picnic when they get there, or they will ride around it in a slow circle. When they find a paved road kind to bicycles, they will ride on it even if it takes them out of their way.

Fat Man tells Little Boy how lucky they are to be on this trip, to see such a beautiful country, to spend time in the company of such a generous and charming widow. “Woman,” he corrects himself. “Woman.” Little Boy crosses his arms, bites his lip, and climbs atop his bicycle. It immediately falls over, in spite of the kickstand. He lands on the street, elbows scraped, eyes welling. Fat Man waits for Rosie to kneel and comfort the boy the way women do—to dry his tears with her blouse tails, to bandage him with things she's stowed in her purse. She looks at the child, watches him begin to cry. Fat Man sees that she will go on watching. He kneels over Little Boy. He smoothes his brother's hair and puts his hat back on. “You'll be okay,” he says. “Come on. Dust yourself off.”

Little Boy gets up on his feet and brushes grit and gravel from his elbows. He bitterly regards his new conveyance.

“He's never ridden on a bicycle before,” says Fat Man.

“Never?”

Fat Man almost admits he's never ridden one either before realizing how strange that would sound.

“His parents were very poor, the same as me,” he explains. “Here, Matthew. Try again.” He props up the bike, holds it by the handlebar and the back end of the seat.

Little Boy hoists himself up cautiously.

“That's the way,” says Rosie. “You look smart perched up there, Matthew.”

Fat Man lets the other two get out ahead before he mounts his own bike, carefully observing Rosie's example—even Little Boy's—for clues. As they pedal out of town he sees two police walking the far side of the street. These are not their police: not Mr. Bruce, not Rousseau. So his escape is clean. He needn't shiver as they pass.

They ride like this: Little Boy goes first to set the pace because he is the slowest, then Rosie. Fat Man guards their rear. Here he is well-positioned to watch her pedal. The steady rise and fall of her ankles, the same of her hindquarters as wide and flat as the disc of the moon, the flag-like flicker of the loose ends of her copper hair drawn back and tied up tight.

When they come to a hotel the widow lets the staff think them a family so they can share a room. She sleeps on the bed. Little Boy sleeps on the floor until one night Fat Man suggests it might not be indecent for widow and child to share, and she agrees on the condition they lie in opposite directions. Fat Man therefore has the floor to himself, which makes him remember Japan. He swaddles himself in what sheets the bed can spare and rests his head on woolen towels. One night he comes back from using the bathroom, padding softly, and finds himself looking down on them in their bed like a rejected father. There is a little color on her wide, full lips. A little red. A little pink beneath her eyes, perhaps natural, perhaps applied and dithered by hand. Unfurled on her pillow, her hair is limp and slightly curled. There is a calm in her body. Fat Man contrasts his beating heart, his heaving acid tummy. Yet again, he is seized by the urge to thrash himself until his ribs break and his contents spill out on the floor.

He goes to his swaddling, his towel-pillow, and covers up as best he can.

Everywhere they are haunted by the marshal,
Pétain, his bust, his white head—his smooth, featureless eyes. One farm has mounted his head on a pike, hanging red rags from his interrupted neck to suggest the severance to come. In a restaurant, a row of Pétains holds hats for customers.

They ride through a small town with a chocolate factory that makes everything smell wonderful when it rains. Fat Man wants to eat the town, the people, their things.

They see Camp Gurs far away, far across a rat-gray field of mud. Dozens of triangular huts, yards and yards of barbed wire fence—some stripped, most still threaded. There are signs of trucks and men at work. Tracks in the mud. No fires though, and no movement among the ramshackle.