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 foreignness which I found becoming. When Chessal had returned to Valence with his new bride, there had been rumors of royal ancestry, of some distinctly romantic past. I had no trouble accepting her with this touch of mystery. When we first met, I had been fascinated, but now her antecedents meant no more to me than her accent.
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 grinned and said something about comic relief, though while he was reading, he did not seem to take it lightly. Suddenly, he turned and cried out:
“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.”
