Hobohemians

163Argentinian said, “Hush,” breaking the neck of a bottle. “He’s not an Englishman. You’re not an Englishman. Is he?”—Czech, his forehead beating the carpet, was clear: “He can’t be English. Englishmen wouldn’t dance. Where’s his passport?”—Flattered Willy fished out his papers, proving English nationality not antithetic to joy of dance with Latin and other nations. They drank to him, stunned into static astonishment at frenzied Willy’s dance. Tired, they swept up some eggshells, hid the gramophone in the bed, tiptoed out with two unbroken and one broken bottle. Drunkenly gracious, ambulated out of the hotel. The wineshop woman refused the one broken bottle. They left it in a laurel tub.

164Back in the café, Argentinian imploringly wanted cigarettes. “I have only a twenty franc note,” said Willy as three coffees came. “I will change it,” said the Czech. Went. Argentinian missed his pal. “Just a moment.”

165Willy drank the three coffees, waited, told the waiter: “If gentleman in black returns, give him his pipe. He left it behind.”

* * *

166Ludmila lived with her father in two rooms in rue Monsieur le Prince. Having got there Willy sat on a stair tread to recover his breath and his depression.

167Ludmila opened the door, dragged him in. “My father went to your lodgings. Where have you been? He has gone to your horrible café. Now you shall stay.” “Ludmila”—desperately heavy the name resounded—“I want my revolver. I paid ten francs for it. It is mine. I want it.”

168Ludmila counted out ten francs. “There you are, now I’ve bought it.”

169“But I want it. I have never had a revolver. Every man should have one.” Nobly lying to the woman who had ruined his life: “I can tell you I have no idea. . . . I wish to give it to a friend.”

170“It is locked in the cupboard.” Willy pulled, hammered on the wood. In delicious, so earnest fright Ludmila swore she had already given it away. Willy tried, succeeded in believing it. Still more hopeless he moved away so reluctantly from the compromising cupboard. “Oh, well, it is not necessary,” he allowed, with undercurrents of meaning.

171Ludmila’s father returned. Intently with sympathy he regarded the young English lover of his daughter. He would not be allowed to depart. Willy remained to tea, every so often picking up his hat, retreating to the doorway, succumbing with evident reluctance to insistent determination he should not be let loose. After supper he broke out: “I must go for a walk, a walk.”

172“I have a headache, I must rest,” said Ludmila. “I will come with you,” rose the father, “we will sit in a café.” Out of the way Willy moved to let daughter whisper to father. He looked dolefully out of the window, trying to catch eagerly the whispers. Here was a jailor shutting him in with Ludmila lest boyish momentary despair. . . . They were good friends.