Son of Holmes

From outside came the sound of a carriage drawing up, and laughter, and in a moment Marcel entered with Paul and Tania.

“Don’t bother getting up,” said Paul. “Just bring a beer for the hero. Fritz!” he yelled. “Fritz!”

Tania crossed over to me and kissed me after she’d sat down. “He really was terrific! The horse bolted and was starting to run as we met Paul down the road, and he jumped on its back like a red Indian and calmed it.”

“It was nothing-really, I assure you-that any American couldn’t do. Riding on the plains for days at a time with only stale bread and…”

Marcel was laughing. “Sure, Paul, sure. Fritz, bring him his beer before he tells us about fighting the Indians.”

The beer arrived and the newcomers drank.

Paul Anser stood gri

“What a night,” he said, “and hello everyone. Your beer is getting no worse, Jules. Are we late? Is there time to catch up with Henri?”

Henri smiled. “Only my second,” he lied.

“Ah. Fritz-how are you, Fritz?-two more beers, please. Mustn’t let Henri get the jump on me.”

Marcel took Paul’s jacket, and they both sat-Marcel on the divan with Tania and me, and Paul next to the entrance to the kitchen.

“There must be something in the air,” I said. “Henri just said it was a fine night to get drunk.”

“Well, by God, let’s get to it.” Paul poured his second beer.

“Hear, hear,” said Tania, surprisingly, “and then Paul can read for us.”

“Alcohol can’t hurt my accent. When I slur I sound more French.”

“Hardly more French,” said Georges, “possibly less American.” And we all laughed.

I leaned back with my arm around Tania and listened to the banter, trying to find a good moment to tell them we would have a new guest. We were so relaxed now together that I almost regretted having invited Lupa, but I’d had the same doubts about Georges, and they’d proven groundless. I was finding it difficult to divorce business from my day-today life when living at home. The people I met socially had always been friends, and though I liked Lupa, my motive for inviting him was certainly not friendship.

Tania sat easily next to me, sipping her beer and joining in with the others. Twenty-one years ago she’d married Jean Chessal, one of my neighbors, and over the years had borne him four children, all boys. Jean had been in the service his entire life, and it was natural for the boys to follow him, especially with the war looming. Her husband had been killed in the first weeks of the war, and now the boys were at the front, all miraculously unhurt-so far. She was brave, cheerful without any visible effort, witty, and very beautiful. We had been lovers, now, for six years.

She was not a native of Valence, or even of this region, and even after so many years, her accent betrayed a certain foreig

The others had gone on for a time with Paul and finally persuaded him to begin reading a new poem. He wanted more beer, but I’d given Fritz a sign to hold off until everyone had arrived.

After token comments relating to the paucity of his host’s refreshments, Paul went to the center of the room and began. He read in English, which only two or three of us understood, and it was quite modern, but he read well-the cadences were rhythmic and pleasing. This was, after all, his only live audience of any size.

When he’d finished, I told him I found the thing incomprehensible, but he didn’t seem to mind. He just shrugged and gri

“I must, must, simply must have more beer!”

Henri, who had sat looking utterly perplexed while Paul read, concurred with a shy belch.

Georges stood and raised his empty glass. “I’d propose a toast to the poet if there were something to drink.”

Tania turned to me. “Why are you holding the beer, Jules? Is there some surprise for us?”

The damned woman knew me too well.

“What makes you think I’m holding back the beer?” I asked.

Paul spoke. “You’ll never understand women, Jules. Our most secret thoughts are the common currency of their lives. Maybe they don’t read the thought but they sense the secret; and although maybe they know less, they understand more.”

“Bah!” Georges interjected. “I may be only a simple observer, but I know when a gaffe has been committed. For a man to pretend to understand women is bad ma

“And for him to really understand them is bad morals,” Tania added.

“All right. Assez, assez. I’ve been holding back the beer. I admit it. I’m guilty, but there’s a reason.”

“One would hope so,” said Tania.

“Such a serious matter,” added Georges.

“It’s not such a great matter,” I said, smiling. “We’re going to have another guest.” I looked around for reactions, but there was nothing special. Henri looked a bit put out for a moment, but I had expected that. As one who cherished his nonintellectuality and tried as much as possible to keep the conversation off-color, he was not disposed to welcome a new guest who might tip the balance of the evening away from purely sensual enjoyment.

“Who is this person, Jules?” Georges asked. “We know almost everyone in Valence. Is he a neighbor?”

“Jules hasn’t said our guest is a he, Georges. Perhaps he has invited another woman.” Marcel looked at Tania and winked.

“Enough.” It was time to end the mystery. “Our guest is Auguste Lupa. I met him quite casually the other day at La Couro

Fritz brought Lupa into the room and a

The big man stood for a moment framed in the doorway, looking at the assemblage. There was a moment of silence, and then I jumped up and performed the introductions. Only Henri seemed ill at ease, while the others nodded cautiously and Fritz went to get another round of beers. Lupa sat by the door and, after another moment, spoke.

“Please disregard my attendance here for a time. Since you are obviously all attuned to one another, you’ll want to continue as before. Don’t make allowances for me. After a time the novelty will be gone, and I’ll join in as one of you, but for now, let me drink quietly and not disturb you.”

It was a strange prologue and served more to reinforce the silence than to dispel it.

“Nonsense,” said I. “Why don’t you tell the group about yourself? It isn’t every day we welcome a new member.”

“Member?”

“Well, not really a member of anything. Sometimes we do refer to ourselves as a group of sorts, but nothing so rigid as to demand membership.”

“Do tell us about yourself,” said Tania.

I saw Marcel smile at me. I didn’t expect Lupa to drop any information, but having him talk for a while wouldn’t hurt.

“Yeah, like where are you from?” That was Paul.

Lupa looked at him. “You’re American,” he said, then continued almost as though talking to himself. “Northwest, I should say. No, not so far west, perhaps Wyoming or Montana.”

“You got it, mister. Missoula, Montana, U. S. of A. How ’bout you?”

“Born.”

“Pardon?”

“Born in America, not bred. My mother traveled quite a lot with her career and fortuitously timed my birth so that I became an American citizen at the time of my first breath.”