It was a hot afternoon in wyoming; the mountains were a long way away and you could see snow on their tops, but they made no shadow, and in the valley the grain-fields were yellow, the road was dusty with cars passing, and all the small wooden houses at the edge of town were baking in the sun. There was a tree-made shade over Fontan’s back porch and I sat there at a table and Madame Fontan brought up cold beer from the cellar. A motor-car turned off the main road and came up the side road, and stopped beside the house. Two men got out and came in through the gate. I put the bottles under the table. Madame Fontan stood up.
“Where’s Sam?” one of the men asked at the screen door.
“He ain’t here. He’s at the mines.”
“You got some beer?”
“No. Ain’t got any beer. That’s a last bottle. All gone.”
“What’s he drinking?”
“That’s a last bottle. All gone.”
“Go on, give us some beer. You know me.”
“Ain’t got any beer. That’s a last bottle. All gone.”
“Come on, let’s go some place where we can get some real beer,” one of them said, and they went out to the car. One of them walked unsteadily. The motor-car jerked in starting, whirled on the road, and went on and away.
“Put the beer on the table,” Madame Fontan said. “What’s the matter, yes, all right. What’s the matter? Don’t drink off the floor.”
“I didn’t know who they were,” I said.
“They’re drunk,” she said. “That’s what makes the trouble. Then they go somewhere else and say they got it here. Maybe they don’t even remember.” She spoke French, but it was only French occasionally, and there were many English words and some English constructions.
“Where’s Fontan?”
“Il fait de la vendange. Oh, my God, il est crazy pour le vin.”
“But you like the beer?”
“Oui, j’aim la bière, mais Fontan, il est crazy pour le vin.”
She was a plump old woman with a lovely ruddy complexion and white hair. She was very clean and the house was very clean and neat. She came from Lens.
“Where did you eat?”
“At the hotel.”
“Mangéez ici. Il ne faut pas manger à l’h?tel ou au restaurant. Mangeez ici!”
“I don’t want to make you trouble. And besides they eat all right at the hotel.”
“I never eat at the hotel. Maybe they eat all right there. Only once in my life I ate at a restaurant in America. You know what they gave me? They gave me pork that was raw!”
“Really?”
“I don’t lie to you. It was pork that wasn’t cooked! Et mon fils il est marié avec une américaine, et tout le temps il a mangéles beans en can.”
“How long has he been married?”
“Oh, my God, I don’t know. His wife weighs two hundred twenty-five pounds. She don’t work. She don’t cook. She gives him beans en can.”
“What does she do?”
“All the time she reads. Rien que des books. Tout le temps elle stay in the bed and read books. Already she can’t have another baby. She’s too fat. There ain’t any room.”
“What’s the matter with her?”
“She reads books all the time. He’s a good boy. He works hard. He worked in the mines; now he works on a ranch. He never worked on a ranch before, and the man that owns the ranch said to Fontan that he never saw anybody work better on that ranch than that boy. Then he comes home and she feeds him nothing.”
“Why doesn’t he get a divorce?”
“He ain’t got no money to get a divorce. Besides, il est crazy pour elle.”
“Is she beautiful?”
“He thinks so. When he brought her home I thought I would die. He’s such a good boy and works hard all the time and never run around or make any trouble. Then he goes away to work in the oil-fields and brings home this Indienne that weighs right then one hundred eighty-five pounds.”
“Elle est Indienne?”
“She’s Indian all right. My God, yes. All the time she says sonofabitsh goddam. She don’t work.”
“Where is she now?”
“Au show.”
“Where’s that?”
“Au show. Moving pictures. All she does is read and go to the show.”
“Have you got any more beer?”
“My God, yes. Sure. You come and eat with us Tonight.”
“All right. What should I bring?”
“Don’t bring anything. Nothing at all. Maybe Fontan will have some of the wine.”
That night I had dinner at Fontan’s. We ate in the dining room and there was a clean tablecloth. We tried the new wine. It was very light and clear and good, and still tasted of the grapes. At the table there were Fontan and Madame and the little boy, André?
“What did you do today?” Fontan asked. He was an old man with small mine-tired body, a drooping grey moustache, and bright eyes, and was from the Centre near Saint-Etienne.
“I worked on my book.”
“Were your books all right?” asked Madame.
“He means he writes a book like a writer. Un roman,” Fontan explained.
“Pa, can I go to the show?” André asked.
“Sure,” said Fontan. André turned to me.
“How old do you think I am? Do you think I look fourteen years old?” He was a thin little boy, but his face looked sixteen.