We’ll Always Have Paris

‘Not quite,’ said the old man. ‘But perhaps someday you will.’

‘Someday?’ said the young man. ‘If I don’t fit now, why not?’

The old man kept walking, looking ahead, but not over at the younger man.

‘You’re much too young,’ he said. ‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty,’ said the young man.

‘That’s young. Wait until you’re fifty or sixty. Then maybe you’ll be ready to play the Twilight Greens.’

‘Is that what you call it, the Twilight Greens?’

‘Yes,’ said the old man. ‘Sometimes fellows like us go out and play really late, don’t come in till seven or eight o’clock; we have that need to just hit the ball and walk and hit again, then head in when we’re really tired.’

‘How do you know,’ said the young man, ‘when you’re ready to play the Twilight Greens?’

‘Well,’ said the old man, walking quietly, ‘we’re widowers. Not the usual kind. Everyone has heard of golf widows, women who are left at home when their husbands play golf all day Sunday, sometimes on Saturday, sometimes during the week; they get so caught up in it that they can’t quit. They become golfing machines and the wives wonder where in hell their husbands went. Well, in this case, we call ourselves the widowers; the wives are still at home, but the homes are cold, nobody lights a fire, meals are cooked, though not very often, and the beds are half empty. The widowers.’

The young man said, ‘Widowers? I still don’t quite understand. Nobody’s dead, are they?’

‘No,’ the old man said. ‘When you say “golf widows,” it means women left at home when men go out to play golf. In this case, “widowers” means men who have in fact widowed themselves from their homes.’

The young man mused for a moment and then said, ‘But there are people at home? There is a woman in each house, yes?’

‘Oh yes,’ said the old man. ‘They are there. They are there. But …’

‘But what?’ said the young man.

‘Well, look at it this way,’ said the old man, still walking quietly and looking off into the Twilight Greens. ‘For whatever reason, we come here at twilight, onto the fairway. Maybe because at home there is too little talk, or too much. Too much pillow talk, or too little. Too many children, or not enough children, or no children at all. All sorts of excuses. Too much money, not enough. Whatever the reason, all of a sudden these loners here have discovered that a good place to be as the sun goes down is out on the fairway, playing alone, hitting the ball, and following it into the fading light.’

‘I see,’ said the young man.

‘I’m not quite sure that you do.’

‘No,’ said the young man, ‘I do indeed, I do indeed. But I don’t think I’ll ever come back here again at twilight.’

The old man looked at him and nodded.

‘No, I don’t think you will. Not for a while, anyway. Maybe in twenty or thirty years. You’ve got too good a suntan and you walk too quickly and you look like you’re all revved up. From now on you should arrive here at noon and play with a real foursome. You shouldn’t be out here, walking on the Twilight Greens.’

‘I’ll never come back at night,’ said the young man. ‘It will never happen to me.’

‘I hope not,’ said the old man.

‘I’ll make sure of it,’ said the young man. ‘I think I’ve walked as far as I need to walk. I think that last hit put my ball too far out in the dark; I don’t think I want to find it.’

‘Well said,’ said the old man.

And they walked back and the night was really gathering now and they couldn’t hear their footsteps in the grass.

Behind them the lone strollers still moved, some in, some out, along the far greens.

When they reached the clubhouse, the young man looked at the old, who seemed very old indeed, and the old man looked at the young, who looked very young indeed.

‘If you do come back,’ said the old man, ‘at twilight, that is, if you ever feel the need to play a round starting out with three others and winding up alone, there’s one thing I’ve got to warn you about.’

‘What’s that?’ said the young man.

‘There is one word you must never use when you converse with all those people who wander out along the evening grass prairie.’

‘And the word is?’ said the young man.

‘Marriage,’ whispered the old man.

He shook the young man’s hand, took his bag of clubs, and walked away.

Far out, on the Twilight Greens, it now was true dark, and you could not see the men who still played there.

The young man with his suntanned face and clear, bright eyes turned, walked to his car, and drove away.

The Murder (#u8b75a0e4-bd55-5bf0-9db8-9723f7709824)

‘There are some people who would never commit a murder,’ said Mr Bentley.

‘Who, for instance?’ said Mr Hill.

‘Me, for instance, and lots more like me,’ said Mr Bentley.

‘Poppycock!’ said Mr Hill.

‘Poppycock?’

‘You heard what I said. Everybody’s capable of murder. Even you.’

‘I haven’t a motive in the world, I’m content with things, my wife is a good woman, I’ve got enough money, a good job, why should I commit murder?’ said Mr Bentley.

‘I could make you commit murder,’ said Mr Hill.

‘You could not.’

‘I could.’ Mr Hill looked out over the small green summer town, meditatively.

‘You can’t make a murderer out of a nonmurderer.’

‘Yes, I could.’

‘No, you couldn’t!’