“But then, as his eye passed number 14, something in his jaw throbbed faintly — his lower-right bicuspid! He bet and lost. Again the bicuspid throbbed, more insistently. He bet again and lost. And so on into the night. By closing time he was penniless and the right side of his jaw was swollen, throbbing as indiscriminately as any common-toothache.
“The next day, when the soldier tried to take his life, Baron de Mirabelle, of course, was waiting. But at the railway station the soldier grew belligerent and came at the Baron, bobbing and weaving, catching the Baron with a right cross to the eye. Finally two Travelers’ Aid people had to force the soldier onto the train. Not a moment too soon either, for at the news of his losses his regiment had mobilized and units had already reached the outskirts of San Sebastiano, thirsting for his blood. The Baron’s eye had a fine bruise for a week. He fancied himself in the eye patch and has worn it to this day.”
“Let’s get back to me,” said Brown. “What if your bullet didn’t stop me? What if I crawled to the edge and with my last breath threw myself to my death?”
“Believe me,” said the old man, “that is just not the way it is done. The suicide, above all others, wants to leave life erect, not on his hands and knees. He wants to savor that last moment. He stops to smoke a final cigarette, to gather his thoughts together into an epigram of one sort of the other, to — and this happens more frequently than you might imagine — to remove his wrist watch. Placing it where? Of course, in his pocket.
“How ‘peculiar’ we are and how lovable, eh, Mr. Brown. And here is something equally convenient for me in my work: how many turn to say, ‘Why are you following me?’? As if it should make any difference to them if I were to leap over the cliff right behind them. No, Mr. Brown, man always wants to pause a bit before spitting in life’s eye, before jumping, before becoming both the spitter and the spittle.”
Brown rested his head in his hands and without looking up, said, “I guess you win.” Then his chin began to tremble again. “I just want you to know that I can see right through you people,” he said. “You don’t give a darn if I kill myself or not as long as I don’t do it here. I can lose my aunt’s life savings in your Casino, oh, sure. But I can’t jump off your gay, carefree little cliff.” He rubbed his eyes. “Well, I say the hell with you all.”
The old man moved to put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, then thought better of it. He leaned forward. “Mr. Brown, we must all set a boundary on our compassion or we would turn our faces to the wall and not get out of bed in the morning. San Sebastiano’s humble frontiers are the limits of mine. You must forgive me if I find that quite enough. Before, when I told you something of our history, I hoped to prepare you to understand why we cannot allow you and the others to carry out your little plans. For what would be the result? A suicide rate, a per capita statistic, so misleading and grotesque that it would reflect on the whole tenor of life in light-hearted, hurdy-gurdy San Sebastiano.
“Besides, aren’t you being a bit severe. The railway ticket and the money will take you to Paris where your Embassy will arrange modest transportation home. Confess your little indiscretion. Give Aunt Bella the pleasure of forgiving her favorite nephew.”
“And what about my father,” said Brown. “Did I tell you he’s got fists like hams? Like hams!” Brown stared down at his shoes and shook his head back and forth.
After watching him for a few moments, the old man looked down at his own shoes and said in a quiet voice, “You know, Mr. Brown, soon I will be retiring and I have often thought these last few years of all the people I have taken to the train. What are they doing? How are they getting on? How many children do they have? Do they, I wonder, ever remember the day Hector Jouvet — that is to say, myself — put them on the train? I am not being sentimental. I tell you this because I want to describe for you a silly daydream of mine, solely because it might amuse you.
“In my daydream it is the day of my retirement. I enter my favorite cafe. Georges, the owner, stands behind the bar reading a newspaper. ‘Good day, Monsieur Jouvet,’ he says. ‘Would you step out back with me for a moment?’
“Puzzled, I follow him out to the back where they have the large room they rent out for banquets. Everything is dark. Suddenly the lights blaze on. I am taken aback. I am surprised. The room is filled with half-remembered faces — stockbrokers, bank tellers, church wardens, trustees of estates of widows and orphans. Across the front wall is a large banner: The Friends of Hector Jouvet. First Annual Convention.
“Amid applause and well wishes I take my place at the head table beside those special people, whoever they might be, who had gone on from their visit to San Sebastiano to positions of eminence in their own countries — a statesman, a bishop, a magnate or two, and — who knows, Mr. Brown? — perhaps even a famous dentist.
“We eat and at the end of the meal I am presented with a gold cigarette lighter. I could show you the very one in a shop window not far from where I live. It is inscribed: To our friend Hector Jouvet from The Friends of Hector Jouvet. Then in six different languages they sing For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow, and end by pounding on the tables.
“I stand up. I am deeply moved. I always feel this particular moment most vividly and how deeply I am moved. Then I speak. In my mind’s eye I see all this very clearly. But though my mouth is moving I cannot hear what I am saying. I only feel my own astonishment at the wisdom and simplicity of my words. They are saying everything I had wanted to say to each person in the room on his particular day. But I cannot hear the words. I can only see their faces smiling and nodding.”
The old man stopped abruptly and cleared his throat. “But of course all this nonsense takes place only in my imagination. The people I have taken to the train do not know each other. Oh, one or two might meet by chance. Perhaps in his cups, while talking of youthful indiscretions, one might mention Hector Jouvet. ‘What?’ the other might say, ‘you knew Jouvet, too?’ And they might talk of afternoons at the cliffside in San Sebastiano or even of forming a club. But it would come to nothing because they were only one or two.
“How regrettable, Mr. Brown, because I have all their names and they wouldn’t be so hard to locate — except, you understand, it would be out of place for me to take the initiative. As a matter of fact, I carry the list with me should the same idea occur to someone or other as I take him to the train. You might be interested in seeing the list, Mr. Brown. I think I have it here somewhere.”
As the old man fumbled through his pockets, he laughed nervously and said, “I don’t imagine, Mr. Brown, that you would care to be the first president of The Friends of Hector Jouvet?”
Brown looked up from his shoes. “Did I tell you my father was heavyweight champion of the Canadian Army? Did I tell you what they called him because of those big fists of his?” said the young man with a shudder. “They called him The Buster.”
The old man looked puzzled. “Buster Brown. Buster Brown,” he said thoughtfully. “But of course, of course, it was Buster Brown, not Breaker Baker. How stupid of me and how delightful! Buster Brown was the name of the soldier who gave the Baron his eye patch.”
“You mean the one who lost all those millions was my father? The one with the lucky lower-left bicuspid?” said Brown with an astonished and broadening grin.
The old man nodded. “How appropriate he should have turned to dentistry. Your father was the man who almost broke the bank at San Sebastiano. A popular song was written about him at the time. As we walk to the station I will teach it to you, if you like.”