We'll Always Have Paris: Stories by Ray Bradbury
Hesitant, I waited as he walked full across the street to the far curb and then turned again and looked at me.
I stepped off the curb and followed, thinking, What am I doing here? And then, again, What the hell am I doing here? A strange young man at midnight, in hot weather, in Paris, going where? To some strange gymnasium? What if I never come back? I mean, in the middle of a strange city, how come I had the nerve to follow where someone else was leading?
I followed.
In the middle of the next block I found him waiting for me.
He nodded to a nearby building and repeated the word gymnasium. I watched as he started down some steps at the side of the building, and ran to follow. Down we went to a basement door that he unlocked and nodded me into the darkness.
I saw that we were indeed in a small gym with all the equipment that such facilities have: workout machines and block horses and mats.
Most peculiar, I thought, and stepped forward as he closed the door.
From the ceiling above I heard distant music and voices speaking and the next thing I knew I felt my shirt being unbuttoned.
I stood in the dark with perspiration running down my arms and off the tip of my nose. I could hear the sounds of his taking off his clothes in the dark as we stood there at midnight in Paris, not moving, not speaking.
Again I thought, What the hell am I doing here?
He took a step forward and almost touched me when suddenly there was the sound of a door opening somewhere nearby, a burst of laughter, another door opening and shutting, and footsteps and people talking very loudly from above.
I jumped at the noise and stood there, trembling.
He must have felt my movement, for he put out his hands, placing one on my left shoulder, one on my right.
Both of us seemed not to know what to do next, but we stood there, facing each other, after midnight, in Paris, like two actors onstage who had forgotten their lines.
From above there was laughter and music and I thought I heard the popping of a cork.
In the dim light I saw a single bead of perspiration slide down and fall off the tip of his nose.
I felt the perspiration slip down my arms and drip off the ends of my fingers.
We stood there for a long time, not moving, when at last he shrugged a French shrug and I shrugged, too, and then we both laughed quietly again.
He bent forward, took my chin in one hand, and planted a quiet kiss in the middle of my brow. Then he stepped back and reached out and put my shirt around my shoulders.
‘Bonne chance,’ I thought I heard him murmur.
And then we moved quietly to the door and he put his finger to his lips and said, ‘Shhhh,’ and we both went out into the street.
We walked together back up to the narrow avenue that led in one direction to Les Deux Magots, and in the other direction to the river, the Louvre, and my hotel.
‘My God,’ I said quietly. ‘We’ve been together a half hour and we don’t even know each other’s name.’
He looked at me inquiringly and some inspiration caused me to lift my hand and jab at his chest with my finger.
‘You Jane, me Tarzan,’ I said.
This caused him to explode with laughter and repeat what I had said: ‘Me Jane, you Tarzan.’
And for the first time since we met, we both relaxed and laughed.
Again he leaned forward and planted another quiet kiss in the middle of my brow, then turned and walked away.
When he was three or four yards off, without turning he said, in halting English, ‘Sorry.’
I replied, ‘Very sorry.’
‘Next time?’ he said.
‘Next,’ I replied.
And then he was gone down the narrow street, no longer leading me.
I turned back toward the river, walked on past the Louvre, and to my hotel.
It was two o’clock in the morning, still very hot, and as I stood inside the door to the suite I heard the bedclothes rustle and my wife said, ‘I forgot to ask earlier, did you get the tickets?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘The Concorde, noon flight to New York, next Tuesday.’
I heard my wife relax and then she sighed and said, ‘My God, I love Paris. I hope we can come back next year.’
‘Next year,’ I said.
I undressed and sat on the edge of the bed. From the far side my wife said, ‘Did you remember the pizza?’
‘The pizza?’ I said.
‘How could you have forgotten the pizza?’ she said.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
I felt a peculiar quiet itch in the middle of my forehead and put my hand up to touch the place where that strange young man who had followed me by leading had kissed me good night.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘how I could have forgotten. Damned if I know.’
Ma Perkins Comes to Stay
Joe Tiller entered the apartment and was removing his hat when he saw the middle-aged, plump woman facing him, shelling peas.
‘Come in,’ she said to his startled face. ‘Annie’s out fetchin’ supper. Set down.’
‘But who—’ He looked at her.
‘I’m Ma Perkins.’ She laughed, rocking. It was not a rocking chair, but somehow she imparted the sense of rocking to it. Tiller felt giddy. ‘Just call me Ma,’ she said airily.
‘The name is familiar, but—’
‘Never you mind, son. You’ll get to know me. I’m staying on a year or so, just visitin’. And here she laughed comfortably and shelled a green pea.
Tiller rushed out to the kitchen and confronted his wife.
‘Who in the hell is she, that nasty nice old woman?!’ he cried.
‘On the radio.’ His wife smiled. ‘You know. Ma Perkins.’
‘Well, what’s she doing here?’ he shouted.
‘Shh. She’s come to help.’
‘Help what?’ He glared toward the other room.
‘Things,’ said his wife indefinitely.
‘Where’ll we put her, damn it? She has to sleep, doesn’t she?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Anna, his wife, sweetly. ‘But the radio’s right there. At night she just sort of–well–“goes back.”’
‘Why did she come? Did you write to her? You never told me you knew her,’ exclaimed the husband wildly.
‘Oh, I’ve listened to her for years,’ said Anna.
‘That’s different.’
‘No. I’ve always felt I knew Ma better almost than I know–you,’ said his wife.
He stood confounded. Ten years, he thought. Ten years alone in this chintz cell with her warm radio humming, the pink silver tubes burning, voices murmuring. Ten secret years of monastic conspiracy, radio and women, while he was holding his exploding business together. He decided to be very jovial and reasonable.
‘What I want to know is’–he took her hand–‘did you write “Ma” or call her up? How did she get here?’
‘She’s been here ten years.’
‘Like hell she has!’
‘Well today is special,’ admitted his wife. ‘Today’s the first time she’s ever “stayed.”’
He took his wife to the parlor to confront the old woman. ‘Get out,’ he said.
Ma looked up from dicing some pink carrots and showed her teeth. ‘Land, I can’t. It’s up to Annie, there. You’ll have to ask her.’
He whirled. ‘Well?’ he said to his wife.
His wife’s face was cold and remote. ‘Let’s all sit down to supper.’ She turned and left the room.
Joe stood defeated.
Ma said, ‘Now there’s a girl with spunk.’
He arose at midnight and searched the parlor.
The room was empty.
The radio was still on, warm. Faintly, inside it, like a tiny mosquito’s voice, he heard someone, far away saying, ‘Land sakes, land sakes, land sakes, land o’ Goshen!’
The room was cold. He shivered. The radio was warm with his ear against it.
‘Land sakes, land o??
He cut it off.
His wife heard him sink into bed.
‘She’s gone,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Until tomorrow at ten.’
He did not question this.
‘Good night, baby,’ he said.
The living room was filled only with sunlight at breakfast. He laughed out loud to see the emptiness. He felt relief, like a good drink of wine, in himself. He whistled on his way to the office.
Ten o’clock was coffee time. Marching along the avenue, humming, he heard the radio playing in front of the electrical parts store.
‘Shuffle,’ said a voice. ‘Lands, I wish you wouldn’t track the house with your muddy shoes.’
He stopped. He pivoted like a wax figure, turning on its slow, cold axis, in the street.
He heard the voice.
‘Ma Perkins’s voice,’ he whispered.
He listened.
‘It’s her voice,’ he said. ‘The woman who was at our house last night. I’m positive.’
And yet, late last night, the empty parlor?
But what about the radio, humming, warm, all alone in the room, and the faint faraway voice repeating and repeating, ‘Land sakes, land sakes, land sakes…’?
He ran into a drugstore and dropped a nickel into the pay telephone slot.
Three buzzes. A short wait.
Click.
‘Hello, Annie?’ he said gaily.
‘No, this is Ma,’ said a voice.
‘Oh,’ he said.
He dropped the phone back onto its hook.
* * *
He didn’t let himself think of it that afternoon. It was an impossible thing, a thing of some subtle and inferior horror. On his way home he purchased a bundle of fresh moist pink rosebuds for Anna. He had them in his right hand when he opened the door of his apartment. He had almost forgotten about Ma by then.
He dropped the rosebuds on the floor and did not stoop to retrieve them. He only stared and continued to stare at Ma, who was seated in that chair that did not rock, rocking.
Her sweet voice called cheerily. ‘Evenin’, Joe boy! Ain’t you thoughtful, fetchin’ home roses!’
Without a word he dialed a phone number.
‘Hello, Ed? Say, Ed, you doing anything this evening?’
The answer was negative.
‘Well, how about dropping up, then, I need your help, Ed.’
The answer was positive.
At eight o’clock they were finishing supper and Ma was clearing away the dishes. ‘Now for dessert tomorrow,’ she was saying, ‘we’ll have crisscross squash pie—’
The doorbell rang, and, answering, Joe Tiller almost hauled Ed Leiber out of his shoes. ‘Take it easy, Joe,’ said Ed, rubbing his hand.
‘Ed,’ said Joe, seating him with a small glass of sherry. ‘You know my wife, and this is Ma Perkins.’
Ed laughed. ‘How are you? Heard you on the radio for years!’
‘It’s no laughing matter, Ed,’ said Joe. ‘Cut it.’
‘I didn’t mean to be facetious, Mrs Perkins,’ said Ed. ‘It’s just that your name is so similar to that fictional character—’
‘Ed,’ said Joe. ‘This is Ma Perkins.’
‘That’s right,’ said Ma charmingly, shelling some peas.
‘You’re all kidding me,’ said Ed, looking around.
‘No,’ said Ma.
‘She’s come to stay and I can’t get her out, Ed. Ed, you’re a psychologist, what do I do? I want you to talk to Annie, here. It’s all in her mind.’
Ed cleared his throat. ‘This has gone far enough.’ He walked over to touch Ma’s hand. ‘She’s real, not a hallucination.’ He touched Annie. ‘Annie’s real.’ He touched Joe. ‘You’re real. We’re all real. How are things at work, Joe?’
‘Don’t change the subject, I’m serious. She’s moved in and I want her moved out—’
‘Well, that’s for the OPA to decide, I guess, or the sheriff’s office, not a psychologist—’
‘Ed, listen to me, listen, Ed, I know it sounds crazy, but she really is the original Ma Perkins.’
‘Let me smell your breath, Joe.’
‘And I want her to stay on here with me,’ said Annie. ‘I get lonely days. I stay home and do the housework and I need company. I won’t have her moved out. She’s mine!’
Ed slapped his knee and exhaled. ‘There you are, Joe. Looks like you want a divorce lawyer instead of a psychologist.’
Joe swore. ‘I can’t go off and leave her here in this old witch’s clutches, don’t you understand? I love her too much. There’s no telling what may happen to her if I leave her alone here for the next year without communicating with the outer world!’
‘Keep your voice down, Joe, you’re screaming. Now, now.’ The psychologist turned his attention to the old woman. ‘What do you say? Are you Ma Perkins?’
‘I am. From the radio.’
The psychologist wilted. There was something in the direct, honest way she said it. He began to look for the door, his hands twitching on his knees.
‘And I came here because Annie needs me,’ said Ma. ‘Why I know this child better and she knows me better than her own husband.’
The psychologist said, ‘Aha. Just a minute. Come along, Joe.’ They stepped out into the hall and whispered. ‘Joe, I hate to tell you this, but they’re both–not well. Who is she? Your mother-in-law?’
‘I told you, she’s Ma—’
‘God damn it, cut it out, I’m your friend, Joe. We’re not in the room with them. We humor them, yes, but not me.’ He was irritable.
Joe exhaled. ‘Okay, have it your way. But you do believe I’m in a mess, don’t you?’
‘I do. What’s the deal, have they both been sitting at home listening to the radio too much? That explains them both having the same idea at the same time.’
Joe was going to try to explain the whole thing, but gave up. Ed might think he was crazy, too. ‘Will you help me? What can we do?’
‘Leave that to me. I’ll give them a little logic. Come on.’
They reentered, and refilled their glasses with sherry. Once comfortable again, Ed looked at the two ladies and said, ‘Annie, this lady isn’t Ma Perkins.’
‘Oh, yes, she is,’ said Annie angrily.
‘No, because if she was I wouldn’t be able to see her, only you could see her, do you understand?’
‘No.’
‘If she was Ma Perkins, I could make her disappear just by convincing you how illogical it is to think of her as real. I’d tell you she’s nothing but a radio character made up by someone—’
‘Young man,’ said Ma. ‘Life is life. One form’s as good as another. I was born, maybe just in someone’s head, but I’m born and kicking and getting more real every year that I live. You and you and you, every time you hear me, make me more real. Why, if I died tomorrow, everybody all over the country would cry, wouldn’t they?’
‘Well—’
‘Wouldn’t they?’ she snapped.
‘Yes, but only over an idea, not a real thing.’
‘Over a thing they think is real. And thinkin’ is bein’, you young fool,’ said Ma.
‘It’s no use,’ said Ed. He turned once more to the wife. ‘Look, Annie, this is your mother-in-law, her name really isn’t Ma Perkins at all. It’s your mother-in-law.’ He pronounced each word clearly and heavily.
‘That’d be nice,’ agreed Annie. ‘I like that.’
‘I wouldn’t object,’ said Ma. ‘Worse things have happened in my life.’
‘Are we all agreed now?’ said Ed, surprised at his sudden success. ‘She’s your mother-in-law, Annie?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re not Ma Perkins at all, right, ma’am?’
‘Is it a plot, a game, a secret?’ said Annie, looking at Ma.
Ma smiled.
‘If you want to put it that way, yes.’
‘But look here,’ objected Joe.
‘Ma Tiller,’ said the two women.
‘I want to see you outside,’ said Joe, and lurched Ed out of the room. He held him against the wall and threatened him with a fist. ‘You fool! I don’t want her to stay on, I want to get rid of her. Now you’ve helped make Annie worse, made her believe in that old witch!’
‘Worse, you nut, I’ve cured her, both of them. Fine appreciation!’ And Ed struggled to get free. ‘I’ll send a bill over in the morning!’ He stalked down the hall.
Joe hesitated a moment before entering the room again. Oh God, he thought. God help me.
‘Hello,’ said Ma, looking up, preparing a home-packed bottle of cucumber pickles.
At midnight and breakfast again, the living room was empty. Joe got a crafty glint in his eyes. He looked at the radio and stroked the top of it with his trembling hand.
‘Stay away from there!’ cried his wife.
‘Oho,’ he said. ‘Is this where she hides at night, in here, eh? In here! This is her coffin, eh, this is where the damn old vampire sleeps until tomorrow when her sponsor lets her out!’
‘Keep your hands off,’ she said hysterically.
‘Well, that settles her hash.’ He picked the radio up in his hands. ‘How do you kill her sort of witch? With a silver bullet through the heart? With a crucifix? With wolfsbane? Or do you make the sign of a cross on a soapbox top? Eh, is that it?’
‘Give me that!’ His wife rushed over to grapple with him. Between them, they swayed back and forth in a titanic battle for the electric coffin between them.
‘There!’ he shouted.
He flung the radio to the floor. He tromped and stomped on it. He kicked it into bits. He ravened at it. He held the tubes in his hands and smashed them into silver flinders. Then he stuffed the shattered entrails into the wastebasket, all the time his wife danced frantically about, sobbing and screaming.
‘She’s dead,’ he said. ‘Dead, God damn it! I’ve fixed her good.’
His wife cried herself to sleep. He tried to calm her, but she was so deep in her hysteria he could not touch her. Death was a terrible incident in her life.