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The beloved actor and screenwriter Gene Wilder's first novel, My French Whore, set during World War I, delicately and elegantly explores a most unusual romance. It's almost the end of the war and Paul Peachy, a young railway employee and amateur actor in Milwaukee, realizes his marriage is one-sided. He enlists, and ships off to France. Peachy instantly realizes how out of his depth he is—and never more so than when he is captured. Risking everything, Peachy—who as a child of immigrants speaks German—makes the reckless decision to impersonate one of the enemy's most famous spies.
As the urbane and accomplished spy Harry Stroller, Peachy has access to a world he could never have known existed—a world of sumptuous living, world-weary men, and available women. But when one of those women—Annie, a young, beautiful and wary courtesan—turns out to be more than she seems, Peachy's life is transformed forever.
| ISBN-13: | 9781429917100 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 03/06/2007 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 192 |
| Sales rank: | 132,864 |
| File size: | 186 KB |
MARCH, 1918
I USED TO BE A CONDUCTOR ON THE TRAIN THAT ran back and forth from Milwaukee to Chicago. Two or three times a year I acted in our local community theater, playing small roles mostly, but occasionally I was given a featured role. When the Milwaukee Players were putting on a play called A Brave Coward, by Winslow Clarke, I was given the part of a cowardly soldier during the Civil War who chooses, for the first time, to do something heroic. This was the biggest role our director had ever given me.
Our community theater gave only three performances for each of our plays, and on the last night of A Brave Coward I was in the men's dressing room applying some Skolgie's theatrical glue onto a mustache I'd made out of crepe hair, pressing it hard above my upper lip, when our director walked in. His name was John Freidel, but all the actors called him "sir" because we were a little afraid of him.
He walked past the other men, who were getting into costumes and going over their lines, and came up to my chair. "You're late, Peachy," he said.
"Sorry, sir, I came right from work. The train was late."
"Sir" could be very sarcastic when he was giving notes, but I hadn't heard him yell at anyone yet. He was a tall man and I thought his knee would hurt when he kneeled down next to me on the hard wooden floor, but I certainly wasn't going to interrupt him. He spoke confidentially, but he was very intense.
"You've been way too soft these last few nights, Paul. Terribly gentle and polite. A coward isn't a coward all the goddamn time, you know? You're starting to act like you're scared to death. Will you loosen up for me tonight?"
"I'll try, sir," I said.
"When the curtain goes up, forget the goddamn audience! Pretend it's just a rehearsal. Will you do that for me, Paul?"
"I'll try."
Twenty minutes later my heart was in my throat. I heard the stage manager whisper "Go!" and the curtain went up. There was silence for a moment as the audience waited, and then the first line was spoken.
Thank goodness the play went well, and I know the audience liked me because they clapped especially loud when I took my bow during the curtain calls. I looked out into the audience while I was bowing and saw our director sitting in the front row. He gave me a smile and a little nod of approval.
When the play was over I kept my mustache on, which I had purposely made the color of my wife's auburn hair. I kept trying to picture Elsie when she saw it. Elsie and I had only been married for four and a half years, but the romantic part of our relationship seemed to have faded away, like the yellow roses in our backyard at the end of summer. I lived with Elsie and her mother in three rooms on the second floor of a small but clean house in the German-Polish section of Milwaukee.
On the bus ride home a pretty girl and a soldier were sitting across the aisle from me, holding hands. The girl smiled at me. Without thinking, I touched my mustache and smiled back at her. Her boyfriend turned and gave me a hard stare. I dropped my head, pretending to be reading my theater program.
When I got home I raced up the stairs and unlocked the kitchen door. There was a soft light coming from the half-open door of our bedroom. I stuck my head into the doorway.
"Look who's here!" I said, as rakishly as I could. Elsie was asleep, propped up against two big pillows, her long auburn hair spread out around her. A gas lamp was burning on the nightstand. The sound of my voice woke her.
"Oh, Paul," she said, still half asleep.
"I'm sorry, honey — I didn't know you were sleeping. How do you feel?"
"I was waiting up, and then I just dozed off," she said.
I made a tiny leap, trying to feature my mustache. "Look who's here!" I said.
"What time is it?" Elsie asked, trying to see the little table clock on my side of the bed.
"It must be a little past ten," I said. "How do you feel, Elsie?"
"Is my mother's light out?" she asked.
There wasn't any light coming from the adjoining bedroom.
"Yes, it's out," I said.
Still trying to get Elsie to notice my mustache, I made another little John Barrymore leap in the air and said,
"Look who's here, Elsie."
"Paul, if you're going to eat something, please hurry."
"I'm not hungry, Elsie."
"You must be starving," she said.
"No, I had something on the train. Honestly, I'm not hungry. How do you feel?"
"If you cared how I felt, would you have left me tonight?"
"Well ... I did care, even though I left, so the answer must be 'Yes.' You look so pretty with your hair that way."
"I don't feel pretty."
"Isn't life funny, because you do look so pretty?" "Thank you."
I walked up and sat beside her on the bed. "I brought you something, sweetheart."
"You didn't bring me another pastry?" she asked. "Oh, Paul, why do you do that?"
"It must be love," I said, taking her hand.
"You've still got makeup all over your face. Did you know that?"
"I must have forgotten — I was so excited after the play, and I wanted to get home before you went to sleep."
I leaned down and kissed her, then took off my trousers and underwear and socks, leaving on my shirt. I turned down the lamp and got into bed.
"Don't touch me like that, Paul."
"Why?"
"I don't feel like it," she said. "Why?"
Elsie turned away. I lay next to her for a while, until I finally fell asleep.
The next morning I was punching tickets on the ride back to Milwaukee. The car was stuffed with soldiers and their girlfriends or wives. Mostly girlfriends, I think. Standing or seated, all the couples seemed to be kissing. A few of the older men and women were trying not to look. As I walked down the aisle my attention was caught by a passenger's newspaper.
SIX THOUSAND GERMAN GUNS OPEN FIRE AT 4:50 A.M. 2,500 BRITISH GUNS REPLY.
FRANCE WAITS FOR YANKS
After repeating "Tickets please" three times to one passionately kissing couple, I lost heart for punching tickets. When we reached the Third Street station in Milwaukee, I hopped off the passenger steps onto the station platform and helped some of the older people get off the train. Then I made my way through the crowd. Most everyone was hugging and kissing their loved ones good-bye. A little girl was clutching her mother's leg while the mother was squeezing her husband's waist as she kissed him. I stood and watched the three of them for a moment. That afternoon I wrote a letter to my wife.
Dear Elsie:
I've joined the army. I don't think you'll ever be happy with me, and I know that I'm terribly unhappy. I've left you all of the money we have in our savings account, and I've paid the next three months of rent.
Mr. Kazinsky says that you and your mother can have your old jobs back at the bakery, if you wish.
Good-bye,
Paul
CHAPTER 2I WAS SENT TO CAMP PIKE, NEAR LITTLE ROCK, Arkansas. On our third day of basic training, I was assigned to Company B. I can't say that I loved basic training, but I did find two good friends during those six weeks: Wally and Murdock.
Wally came from a Greek family and his last name was Tsartsarlapidith, but our sergeant couldn't pronounce it during our first roll call. He said, "Wally, somebody — what the hell's your last name?"
"I forget, sir," Wally said.
Sergeant Krodecker was a tough professional soldier. He hollered, "DON'T CALL ME 'SIR' — I'M NOT A FUCKING OFFICER. All right, smart-ass, from now on your name is just WALLY."
Murdock was always just "Murdock"; I don't know why. He never used his first name. Not in front of us, anyway.
One day we were going through what they called the "Simulated Battlefield." We had to crawl under barbed wire, holding our rifles out in front of us, until we reached a grassy clearing. Murdock got through without trouble, and I followed him; but Wally, who was quite chubby, had a terrible time. Sergeant Krodecker hollered out, "WALLY, YOU'RE SLOWER THAN SHIT GOING THROUGH A TRUMPET!" I didn't like what he said, but I couldn't help laughing with all the others.
The next day I was on the firing range, which I was looking forward to. After I fired one shot with my rifle, it gave me a splitting headache and I thought I was going deaf. I also missed the target. I heard a voice behind me say, "What's your name, son:
I turned and tried to see who was talking, but I had to look directly into the sun, and the man was just a silhouette. I couldn't really see his face except for a black, curly hair that looked like it was sticking out of his nose. I assumed he was an officer, so I said, "Pvt. Paul Peachy, sir."
"I'm Captain Harrington," the voice answered, "your company commander."
I started getting up as fast as I could, but he stopped me. "You don't have to get up," he said. "I just want you to try something for me. Before you fire your next round, take aim, take a small breath, hold it for a second ... then squeeze the trigger, don't jerk it. Let me see you do that."
I did exactly what he said, and it worked. No bull's-eye, of course, but I hit the target. I was excited and I turned to him, but Captain Harrington was gone.
That night several of the boys in B Company began making up a song about Captain Harrington. They kept repeating it while they tried to find the harmony.
"Captain Harrington, as every soldier knows,
has a curly black hair
inside a wart upon his nose.
"But 'Hair Nose Harrington' is really quite a sport.
He never screams or yells,
unless you stare right at his wart."
Poor Captain Harrington. I hope he never hears it.
I'd never been on anything bigger than a rowboat before, but at 6:30 A.M. on May 7th, 1918, the Ninth Regiment sailed to France to fight the Huns.
Wally, Murdock, and I leaned over the ship's rail, watching New York disappear as the wind blew through our thoughts. I was wondering how Elsie reacted to my letter. Not that I regretted writing it — I just wondered if she was sad or relieved now that I was gone. I also wondered if I was going to die in France. I suppose all the fellows were thinking about that. I think that's why they told so many dumb jokes and made up stupid songs. We were all scared and didn't want to show it. I'm lucky I found Wally and Murdock. I would be so lonely without them.
CHAPTER 3WE LANDED AT SAINT-NAZAIRE, FRANCE, ON JUNE 1st, 1918. It rained almost every day that first week, except for one break in the weather that only lasted for an hour; and we had to walk halfway to our destination when the trucks couldn't get through the mud. I don't know what I expected — a train ride I suppose.
We all wondered which little town we were being sent to. I had a birthday coming up in a few days, and we wondered if the French food would be as good as rumors said it was. When we arrived at our destination, our little French town turned out to be miles and zigzag miles of muddy trenches, all lined with what they called "duckboards," which were wooden slats on the floor of the trenches. They were higher than the ground level so that soldiers could walk on the duckboards, over the water and mud.
Every soldier in the regiment was given three pairs of socks, to keep our feet dry, and we were told to change socks at least twice a day in order to prevent trench foot. We also had to rub our feet with whale-oil grease to stop water from getting to them. To top it off, the food wasn't any consolation.
On my thirtieth birthday, while we drank warm French beer and ate some soggy brioche, Wally and Murdock started singing "Happy Birthday" to me; but before they finished the song, Sergeant Krodecker ran in quickly, interrupting the last line.
"You speak German, Peachy?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Captain Harrington wants to see you. Now!" I grabbed my rifle and started running.
"AND DON'T LOOK AT HIS NOSE!" he hollered.
When I arrived in front of Captain Harrington, I saluted and then stayed at attention, stiff as a board. I tried to avoid staring at the black hair that curled out of the wart on his nose.
"Peachy, we're not formal in the rain and the mud — stand at ease!" he said. After I relaxed a little, he said, "Is it true you speak German?"
"Yes sir."
"Fluently?"
"Yes sir."
I think he began to notice that I never looked directly at him when I answered a question.
"You haven't done anything wrong, Peachy. Just relax. By the way, is 'Peachy' your real name or is that just a nickname?"
"Yes sir, it's my real name, but not my father's."
"What does that mean?"
"My father didn't speak English when he and my mother arrived from Germany. When Immigration asked for his name he kept repeating, 'Paquet,' but it sounded like 'Pachay' to them, so they wrote Peachy. Doesn't make sense, I know, sir, but that's what they did. His real name is Emil Paquet."
"Were you born in Germany?"
"No sir, Milwaukee, Wisconsin."
He let out half a laugh. "Where the beer comes from."
"Yes sir," I answered. I can't tell you how many times I've heard that joke.
"Well, I'm from Rhinelander, Wisconsin," he said. "Do you know it?"
"Oh sure, I mean, yes sir, I've heard of it. I always wanted to go fishing there someday."
"I hope you will — when this stinking war is over."
"I hope so, sir."
"The reason I sent for you is because a small reconnaissance just captured a German soldier who was wandering around in the woods about a quarter of a mile from here. I don't think he realized how close he was to his own side ... or else he's lost his marbles. He won't speak to any of us — just keeps repeating, 'keine English, keine English.' He was wearing a muddy corporal's uniform, but I believe he's an officer. I don't know hat he's an officer — I just think he is. But keep my hunch in mind."
"Yes, sir."
"He's using the latrine now. I asked the two guards who captured him to take him to a dugout that has a few chairs and a cot. He looks starved, so bring him some coffee and a few sandwiches. We also have some cognac and some beer if he wants it." He smiled at me. "Not as good as Milwaukee beer, of course."
I faked another laugh.
"How much education have you had?"
"Through high school, sir, but I went to night school after that. For two years."
"Studying what?"
"English and German literature, sir."
"Good for you. You have an honest face, Peachy, and the prisoner is exhausted — maybe he'll let his guard down if he talks German with someone. Any information you can get might be useful: Where did he come from? ... Division? ... Battalion? ... Officers? ... To what rank? ... Tanks? ... How many? Artillery support, cavalry ... you understand what I mean?"
"Yes sir."
"They have at least one battalion two hundred yards straight in front of us, so how the hell did he get lost? Mostly we need to know what to expect if we attack. Clear?"
"Yes sir."
"I'm making you an acting corporal, Peachy. If you have any kind of trouble with him — get the hell out! I'll have someone stationed nearby. Clear?"
"Yes sir."
I saluted and sloshed my way back over the duckboards.
CHAPTER 4WHEN I WALKED INTO THE DUGOUT AND SAW the prisoner, two things struck me: that he had taken off his muddy corporal's uniform and was sitting on a chair in his underwear with his legs crossed — it was that his legs were crossed that struck me as odd. I wasn't sure why. The other thing was how calm he seemed, given the circumstances. The two guards who had captured him were standing nearby.
I placed the carton of food I had brought for the prisoner onto the table next to him, and then I dismissed the two guards. One of the guards, named Tom, called out to me before he left. "I'll be right outside. Just holler."
The prisoner was bigger than I expected — I mean taller, because he was very thin, with straight, golden blond hair. I would guess he was a little older than I was.
"Wie geht es Ihnen?" I asked. ("How are you?") But he didn't even look at me, as if I should know it was a dumb question. When I asked if he would like some sandwiches, he exhaled a short, "Ja," still without looking at me.
I sat down opposite him and watched as he ate two baloney and cheese sandwiches and drank a bottle of French beer.
While he ate I talked with him, in German, for almost half an hour. I tried sneaking in a trick question by saying that our cannons were so loud, they always gave me a terrible headache and did he have that problem? But no matter what I asked, he only gave me "Ja's" and "Nein's." I was feeling more and more foolish, when Tom, the guard, brought me my own supper. He set the tray down in front of me.
"Here ya go, pal," he said. "You ordered the coq au vin, didn't you?"
"That's right," I said.
Excerpted from My French Whore by Gene Wilder. Copyright © 2007 Gene Wilder. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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With the passing of Gene Wilder yesterday, at the age of 83, we’ve lost one of our culture’s constants, one of those beloved presences we never considered losing. Wilder was such a part of our collective consciousness it was a shock to hear he’d passed. For many of us, Wilder will always be just as he was in the […]
