ONE READER WRITES
She sat at the table in her bedroom with a newspaper folded open before her and only stopping to look out of the window at the snow which was falling and melting on the roof as it fell. She wrote this letter, writing it steadily with no necessity to cross out or rewrite anything.
Roanoke, Virginia
February 6, 1933
Dear Doctor—
May I write you for some very important advice—I have a decision to make and don’t know just whom to trust most I dare not ask my parents—and so I come to you—and only because I need not see you, can I confide in you even. Now here is the situation—I married a man in U. S. service in 1929 and that same year he was sent to China, Shanghai—he staid three years—and came home—he was discharged from the service some few months ago—and went to his mother’s home in Helena, Arkansas. He wrote for me to come home—I went, and found he is taking a course of injections and I naturally ask, and found he is being treated for I don’t know how to spell the word but it sound like this “sifilus”—Do you know what I mean—now tell me will it ever be safe for me to live with him again—I did not come in close contact with him at any time since his return from China. He assures me he will be O K after this doctor finishes with him—Do you think it right—I often heard my Father say one could well wish themselves dead if once they become a victim of that malady—I believe my Father but want to believe my Husband most—Please, please tell me what to do—I have a daughter born while her Father was in China—
Thanking you and trusting wholly in your advice I am and signed her name.
Maybe he can tell me what’s right to do, she said to herself. Maybe he can tell me. In the picture in the paper he looks like he’d know. He looks smart, all right. Every day he tells somebody what to do. He ought to know. I want to do whatever is right. It’s such a long time though. It’s a long time. And it’s been a long time. My Christ, it’s been a long time. He had to go wherever they sent him, I know, but I don’t know what he had to get it for. Oh, I wish to Christ he wouldn’t have got it. I don’t care what he did to get it. But I wish to Christ he hadn’t ever got it. It does seem like he didn’t have to have got it. I don’t know what to do. I wish to Christ he hadn’t got any kind of malady. I don’t know why he had to get a malady.
HOMAGE TO SWITZERLAND
Part I
PORTRAIT OF MR. WHEELER IN MONTREUX
Inside the station café it was warm and light. The wood of the tables shone from wiping and there were baskets of pretzels in glazed paper sacks. The chairs were carved, but the seats were worn and comfortable. There was a carved wooden clock on the wall and a bar at the far end of the room. Outside the window it was snowing.
Two of the station porters sat drinking new wine at the table under the clock. Another porter came in and said the Simplon-Orient Express was an hour late at Saint Maurice. He went out. The waitress came over to Mr. Wheeler’s table.
“The Express is an hour late, sir,” she said. “Can I bring you some coffee?”
“If you think it won’t keep me awake.”
“Please?” asked the waitress.
“Bring me some,” said Mr. Wheeler.
“Thank you.”
She brought the coffee from the kitchen and Mr. Wheeler looked out the window at the snow falling in the light from the station platform.
“Do you speak other languages besides English?” he asked the waitress.
“Oh, yes, sir. I speak German and French and the dialects.”
“Would you like a drink of something?”
“Oh, no, sir. It is not permitted to drink in the café with the clients.”
“You won’t take a cigar?”
“Oh, no, sir. I don’t smoke, sir.”
“That is all right,” said Mr. Wheeler. He looked out of the window again, drank the coffee, and lit a cigarette.
“Fräulein,” he called. The waitress came over.
“What would you like, sir?”
“You,” he said.
“You must not joke me like that.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Then you must not say it.”
“I haven’t time to argue,” Mr. Wheeler said. “The train comes in forty minutes. If you’ll go upstairs with me I’ll give you a hundred francs.”
“You should not say such things, sir. I will ask the porter to speak with you.”
“I don’t want a porter,” Mr. Wheeler said. “Nor a policeman nor one of those boys that sell cigarettes. I want you.”
“If you talk like that you must go out. You cannot stay here and talk like that.”
“Why don’t you go away, then? If you go away I can’t talk to you.”
The waitress went away. Mr. Wheeler watched to see if she spoke to the porters. She did not.
“Mademoiselle!” he called. The waitress came over. “Bring me a bottle of Sion, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Wheeler watched her go out, then come in with the wine and bring it to his table. He looked toward the clock.
“I’ll give you two hundred francs,” he said.
“Please do not say such things.”
“Two hundred francs is a great deal of money.”
“You will not say such things!” the waitress said. She was losing her English. Mr. Wheeler looked at her interestedly.
“Two hundred francs.”
“You are hateful.”
“Why don’t you go away, then? I can’t talk to you if you’re not here.”
The waitress left the table and went over to the bar. Mr. Wheeler drank the wine and smiled to himself for some time.
“Mademoiselle,” he called. The waitress pretended not to hear him. “Mademoiselle,” he called again. The waitress came over.
“You wish something?”
“Very much. I’ll give you three hundred francs.”
“You are hateful.”
“Three hundred francs Swiss.”
She went away and Mr. Wheeler looked after her. A porter opened the door. He was the one who had Mr. Wheeler’s bags in his charge.
“The train is coming, sir,” he said in French. Mr. Wheeler stood up.
“Mademoiselle,” he called. The waitress came toward the table. “How much is the wine?”
“Seven francs.”
Mr. Wheeler counted out eight francs and left them on the table. He put on his coat and followed the porter onto the platform where the snow was falling.
“Au revoir, mademoiselle,” he said. The waitress watched him go. He’s ugly, she thought, ugly and hateful. Three hundred francs for a thing that is nothing to do. How many times have I done that for nothing. And no place to go here. If he had sense he would know there was no place. No time and no place to go. Three hundred francs to do that. What people those Americans.
Standing on the cement platform beside his bags, looking down the rails toward the headlight of the train coming through the snow, Mr. Wheeler was thinking that it was very inexpensive sport. He had only spent, actually, aside from the dinner, seven francs for a bottle of wine and a franc for the tip. Seventy-five centimes would have been better. He would have felt better now if the tip had been seventy-five centimes. One franc Swiss is five francs French. Mr. Wheeler was headed for Paris. He was very careful about money and did not care for women. He had been in that station before and he knew there was no upstairs to go to. Mr. Wheeler never took chances.
Part II
MR. JOHNSON TALKS ABOUT IT AT VEVEY
Inside the station café it was warm and light; the tables were shiny from wiping and on some there were red and white striped table cloths; and there were blue and white striped table cloths on the others and on all of them baskets with pretzels in glazed paper sacks. The chairs were carved but the wood seats were worn and comfortable. There was a clock on the wall, a zinc bar at the far end of the room, and outside the window it was snowing. Two of the station porters sat drinking new wine at the table under the clock.
Another porter came in and said the Simplon-Orient Express was an hour late at Saint Maurice. The waitress came over to Mr. Johnson’s table.
“The Express is an hour late, sir,” she said. “Can I bring you some coffee?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Please?” asked the waitress.
“I’ll take some.”
“Thank you.”
She brought the coffee from the kitchen and Mr. Johnson looked out the window at the snow falling in the light from the station platform.
“Do you speak other languages besides English?” he asked the waitress.
“Oh, yes, I speak German and French and the dialects.”
“Would you like a drink of something?”
“Oh, no, sir, it is not permitted to drink in the café with the clients.”
“Have a cigar?”
“Oh, no, sir,” she laughed. “I don’t smoke, sir.”
“Neither do I,” said Johnson. “It’s a dirty habit.”
The waitress went away and Johnson lit a cigarette and drank the coffee. The clock on the wall marked a quarter to ten. His watch was a little fast. The train was due at ten-thirty—an hour late meant eleven-thirty. Johnson called to the waitress.
“Signorina!”
“What would you like, sir?”
“You wouldn’t like to play with me?” Johnson asked. The waitress blushed.
“No, sir.”
“I don’t
