He was dressed in a blue blazer with a gold crest stitched on the handkerchief pocket. His slacks were of tight black silk, and there was a paisley foulard knotted under the rolling collar of a white shirt. It was a Riviera costume, a beach boy’s evening suit, Beecher knew, with the blazer to suggest respectability, and the tight black trousers and pointed suede shoes something else altogether; it was a something-for-everyone outfit, and it hinted broadly that sex could veer off in any or all directions, and conceivably at one and the same time. In the daytime, Beecher thought, Maurice would wear skintight briefs on the beach, with tricky sandals, and the tails of a bell-sleeved shirt knotted about his flat waist. There would be a medal hanging on a slim gold chain about his neck. He was as identifiable as a soldier in uniform and ribbons to anyone who knew Europe. The heavy platinum bracelet could be a reward for service in Nice, the gold wrist watch a tribute to sexual gallantry above and beyond the call of duty, while the cheap-looking belt buckle might stand for failure, a calculated risk perhaps, or a campaign lost through ignorance or carelessness.
These resort and beach troopers were marked by their background in the same way that Lynch, the tall Englishman, was; and in both cases the conformations inevitably became refined to the point of caricature. It happened to the beach boys when age started catching up with them; young, they were insolent and vicious; old, they were foolish and resigned to it, but at the equipoise of these states they became shrill and unpredictable, compulsively driven to demonstrate their charm and vigor, and their willingness to experiment on any and all levels. It was then they became like Maurice, messy and irresponsible and troublesome.
As Beecher had guessed, Don Willie wasn’t amused by the Frenchman. He strode onto the terrace, took Maurice by the arm, and led him firmly and forcefully away from the gypsy dancers. Don Willie was controlling his anger with an effort, Beecher saw; he was smiling apologetically at his guests, but his big beefy face was hot and flushed with irritation. He finally deposited Maurice at the edge of the terrace near Laura and Beecher. The Frenchman was very drunk, his milky white eyes rolling strangely in his narrow face, but when Don Willie left he managed a slow graceful bow to Laura.
“I am sorry, I have had much to drink,” he said, in a voice which was probably high and precise in sober moments, but now was so thickened with alcohol as to be practically unintelligible. “I regret to spoil your pleasure,” he said, recovering precariously from his bow.
“That’s all right,” Laura said smiling. “I enjoyed it. I thought you were pretty good.”
“You are Americans?” Maurice seemed to have got control of himself; there was a suggestion of mockery in the twist of his lips. “I can always tell Americans,” he said, and put a hand lightly on Beecher’s shoulder. “You are always spectators. So well-groomed and happy as you watch others make fools of themselves. Isn’t it true?”
Beecher sensed the hostility in his tone and manner. He smiled and said, “Well, that’s nice to hear. We usually get blamed for just the opposite. Being too loud and vulgar and so forth.”
“Yes, yes, you fool people. You are clever. The loudness, the vulgarity, that is there, plain to hear and see. But you are cautious really. Always letting others do the things that are dangerous.”
“You make us sound pretty scheming,” Laura said. Beecher saw that she didn’t sense the Frenchman’s hostility.
“Will you excuse us, please?” he said. “We’re going in for a drink.” He took Laura’s arm and started to turn, but the Frenchman’s fingers tightened suddenly on his shoulder.
“So, you dismiss me like a drunken boor! The show is over, so the careful Americans move on.” He stared from Beecher to Laura, his breathing harsh and rapid with excitement, his strange milky eyes alive with anger. “You watch wars from your own country. I know. You see pictures of refugees under bombs, tortured and dying. You hear the buildings crash on them, hear the children scream, but like people in a cinema, safe and comfortable in your own homes.”
Laura said, “People in Alaska didn’t get bombed, either. Do you hold that against them?”
The Frenchman sighed heavily; he seemed to have been deflected from his emotional course by Laura’s comment. “She is right, yes she is right,” he said nodding slowly. “We in France have known much suffering. In the war, after the war. I joined the Free French. I fought in Algeria, in Casablanca. I was captured by my own countrymen, the scum who supported Vichy. Do you know what the piquet is?” He had moved to another emotional level now, bland and serene, and the milky opaqueness clouding his eyes gave a dreamlike quality to his gentle smile. “The piquet, my little one, is what the Vichy pigs used on their own countrymen so that they could continue to sleep with their wives, and save their gold, and drink in the cafés with the Germans. I will tell you of the piquet and of the basement in Casablanca where they hung us up to lose our minds in the darkness.”
“No, please,” Laura said.
“It cannot hurt you, my little one,” the Frenchman said, smiling brilliantly. “The pain and screaming is all over. It is an amusing story now, safe for your little American ears.” His next words came in a furious burst. “They strung us up by one wrist, our bare feet clear of the ground. Under each foot was a wooden stake sharpened to a point. When you hang long enough that way the arm comes from the socket. With some it happened quickly; for the very strong it took all night. But no matter how strong you are, the muscle tears, the bones pull from the socket. Then you must stand on the pointed stakes with your bare feet, or the arm will be torn from the body.” Beecher started to speak, but the Frenchman raised his voice to a shout. “You must try, my pretty one, to stand on the pointed stakes in your bare feet, while your shoulder is broken, and no one can hear your screams but a God whose laughter drowns out all other sounds, or your brother Frenchmen who are too busy drinking wine with the Germans to come down and cut you loose from your agony. But this is no game for Americans. They are always fat and safe in their own country when the war strikes. Selling the things that will kill other people. Eating like pigs, laughing...”
“Take your goddamn hand off my shoulder,” Beecher said coldly.
The Frenchman was boiling with emotion. “Do not threaten me, my American friend. I am very quick and strong. At boxing, at judo, at catch. I am stronger than when I was twenty. You will not remove me. You cannot do the things I can do.”
“I don’t think I’d want to,” Beecher said. “Now take your hand off me, or I’ll dump you right on your cute fairy ass.”
The Frenchman whinnied in anger, his chest rising and falling like that of an exhausted swimmer, but he did not seem able to commit himself to action. “You must not talk to me this way,” he said. “I am not to be spoken to in this way.”
Beecher slapped his hand down. “Save your cute stories for some sentimental old man with a nice collection of whips.”
The Frenchman swung at him then, impotently and wildly. Beecher caught his wrist, twisted it sharply, and then trapped the Frenchman’s free arm with his other hand.
Their scuffle lasted only a few seconds; there was no fight in the man, no strength in his body. He sagged against Beecher, gasping for breath.
Don Willie hurried across the terrace, and helped Beecher carry him down the steps into the garden. It was all over so fast that the guests standing nearby had no notion of what happened.
The Frenchman smiled drunkenly at Don Willie. “It was a joke.” He hung his head like a child expecting punishment. “We play at judo. I have drunk too much. I am sorry.”