understood that gesture, though no one else would have. Philippe did not love Devereaux because Devereaux did not expect love, not even from Rita Macklin. It was enough to love her.
Rita was now in the Philippines. There was an electionto cover, a riot and an assassination. It was an old story but Rita told him that all the stories were old ones. “Everything has been written before,” she said.
“Shakespeare’s advantage,” Devereaux had replied.
“Yes. Something like that. A cliché is only something well said in the first place.”
He had been alone for three weeks; she would leave the Philippines for America then, to see her mother in the city of Eau Claire, in Wisconsin; and then to Washington, to see Mac, her old editor at the newsmagazine; and then back to Paris. They would meet again in Paris in four weeks’ time.
He sat in the bar of the Continental Hotel and drank Kronenbourg poured into a cold glass and tried to understand the world according to
Le Monde
. It seemed that France was at the center of this world, just as it seemed the United States was at the center of the world portrayed in the
Herald-Tribune
.
Devereaux said once to Rita Macklin that Switzerland was never at the center of the world. It was a good place to be.
He spent his days like this: Walking, reading, seeing as much as he could, playing chess with the old man in Ouchy who came down to the chess pavilion on good days. They moved the large pieces around and walked on the board and considered all the moves and problems from the perspective of almost being participants. The old man said that he and Devereaux were the two best in the world because they had so much time to practice.
Devereaux wondered if he could do this for the rest of his life. He had buried himself by making someone else assume his identity. He was safe, detached fromR Section. He read and read and read, absorbing the worlds of Montaigne and Kierkegaard and Hegel. He read Dickens all the time because it represented a world more real to him than the one he was in.
On Sundays, he would drive down to the school near Lugano and take Philippe out for the day. They might go to Italy and they might, in good weather, rent a sailboat on Lac Leman and sail down to Vevey and to the castle at Chillon. The man and the boy did not speak much to each other. It was all right; they both understood the value of silence.
Besides, they both felt the absence of Rita on those Sundays when she was away. She warmed them both, a cold black child who had seen murder and war and a cold white man who had made murder and war. They felt damned unless she was with them.
“Encore, s’il vous plaît,”
Devereaux said to the woman behind the bar. It was just noon on the fifth of March.
She was a pleasant-faced Swiss with small eyes and an intent expression. She thought she had a nose that was too large but she was wrong. She thought that Monsieur Devereaux, who came to the little café nearly every day, might be a professor at the university. He was always reading.
She opened a bottle of Kronenbourg and poured it into the new cold glass. He liked chilled glasses and cold things. He had requested the chilled glass and she had been pleased to refrigerate his glasses for him.
Devereaux sighed, put down the very funny column by William Safire in the
Herald-Tribune
, and tasted the new beer. It was sweet and bitter at the same time, the way beer can be when it is very cold and very welcome.
He saw his face in the mirror behind the bar. He had been lost in newspaper words and had tried to forget about Hanley. Something had jarred him to think of Hanley again. So he had called Hanley yesterday and Hanley was gone. Gone.
He called Hanley at home. He had never been to Hanley’s home but he knew all the numbers he needed to know. He had called and the telephone rang briefly and then an operator interrupted to explain, with a recorded voice, that the telephone number had been disconnected.
Rita was now in the Philippines. There was an electionto cover, a riot and an assassination. It was an old story but Rita told him that all the stories were old ones. “Everything has been written before,” she said.
“Shakespeare’s advantage,” Devereaux had replied.
“Yes. Something like that. A cliché is only something well said in the first place.”
He had been alone for three weeks; she would leave the Philippines for America then, to see her mother in the city of Eau Claire, in Wisconsin; and then to Washington, to see Mac, her old editor at the newsmagazine; and then back to Paris. They would meet again in Paris in four weeks’ time.
He sat in the bar of the Continental Hotel and drank Kronenbourg poured into a cold glass and tried to understand the world according to
Le Monde
. It seemed that France was at the center of this world, just as it seemed the United States was at the center of the world portrayed in the
Herald-Tribune
.
Devereaux said once to Rita Macklin that Switzerland was never at the center of the world. It was a good place to be.
He spent his days like this: Walking, reading, seeing as much as he could, playing chess with the old man in Ouchy who came down to the chess pavilion on good days. They moved the large pieces around and walked on the board and considered all the moves and problems from the perspective of almost being participants. The old man said that he and Devereaux were the two best in the world because they had so much time to practice.
Devereaux wondered if he could do this for the rest of his life. He had buried himself by making someone else assume his identity. He was safe, detached fromR Section. He read and read and read, absorbing the worlds of Montaigne and Kierkegaard and Hegel. He read Dickens all the time because it represented a world more real to him than the one he was in.
On Sundays, he would drive down to the school near Lugano and take Philippe out for the day. They might go to Italy and they might, in good weather, rent a sailboat on Lac Leman and sail down to Vevey and to the castle at Chillon. The man and the boy did not speak much to each other. It was all right; they both understood the value of silence.
Besides, they both felt the absence of Rita on those Sundays when she was away. She warmed them both, a cold black child who had seen murder and war and a cold white man who had made murder and war. They felt damned unless she was with them.
“Encore, s’il vous plaît,”
Devereaux said to the woman behind the bar. It was just noon on the fifth of March.
She was a pleasant-faced Swiss with small eyes and an intent expression. She thought she had a nose that was too large but she was wrong. She thought that Monsieur Devereaux, who came to the little café nearly every day, might be a professor at the university. He was always reading.
She opened a bottle of Kronenbourg and poured it into the new cold glass. He liked chilled glasses and cold things. He had requested the chilled glass and she had been pleased to refrigerate his glasses for him.
Devereaux sighed, put down the very funny column by William Safire in the
Herald-Tribune
, and tasted the new beer. It was sweet and bitter at the same time, the way beer can be when it is very cold and very welcome.
He saw his face in the mirror behind the bar. He had been lost in newspaper words and had tried to forget about Hanley. Something had jarred him to think of Hanley again. So he had called Hanley yesterday and Hanley was gone. Gone.
He called Hanley at home. He had never been to Hanley’s home but he knew all the numbers he needed to know. He had called and the telephone rang briefly and then an operator interrupted to explain, with a recorded voice, that the telephone number had been disconnected.
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