Tourists - Short Story

Literary Review, Summer, 2000 by Mildred Verba Morris

Day Four. 6:05 A. M. Shivering outside Best Rest Inn, London. "Lateness, mes enfants, is a cardinal sin. Like smoking, or an encounter with The Tourist, it takes years off your life...." In the November fog, the tourists cannot see the whiff of sorrow--or is it irony?--shading their tour director's half-smile, but they know it is there, along with Nicole's high tech haircut, eyes like soot, and neon-tipped cigarette. A thousand years of Gallic civilization lies behind the way she ties her cerulean scarf....

Susan, first in line, wearing tan Land's End raincoat and shoulder bag with orange "E" for Econo Tours--meals not included-ignores the implication of Nicole's remark, and continues writing. I am not my husband's keeper, I am not my husband's keeper....

"Eh, bien, let us board the bus, and pray your Howie takes pity on us," Nicole says. Susan, feigning deafness, takes her usual window seat, uncaps her pen again, and writes, Nicole is the quintessence of Parisienne elegance.... She pauses. Quintessence. She has always wanted to use that word, then resumes; Americans file in, laughing. Good old Howie. Terminal bus lag, ha, ha! Others not amused. Classic American. Careless. Uncultured. After three days, sightseers have rediscovered patriotism, flourishing tattered national banners, asserting territorial claims as soon as they board each day; Canadians to right front, Irish to left, Australians (a rowdy bunch) to rear, Americans, the largest group, spread out in middle, and the Colombian where he can....

At last, prodded by the tour bus' impatient snort and Nicole's imperial eyes, Susan stuffs her notebook into her already overstuffed tourist bag. "OK, OK, I'll get him."

She told Howie's doctor they were taking a tour; four days in London, three in Paris. "Enjoy," he said, "and remember, it's not when they forget their keys that you should start worrying, it's when they can't remember what they're for, ha, ha." He did suggest taking notes on HoMe's behavior, inconspicuously, of course. The first day she waited until he was asleep. But it soon became apparent that, since Susan was the sort of person nobody noticed, they would continue not noticing her no matter what she did. In addition to Howie, she wrote about kings and queens (many Georges and Edwards, two Elizabeths, one Victoria), the wormy smell of old wood in ancient churches, how American tourists can be identified by their white running shoes, the way Nicole stroked the back of bus driver Pamela's neck when she thought no one was looking, how the Colombian with the oversized Hasselblad laughed uneasily when the girl from Nebraska tumbled into the seat next to him, saying "Everybody says you're carrying drugs in your camera, but you're really The Tourist, right?" how Bonita from Bogota, New Jersey, sitting in front of them, had four of the whitest front teeth she had ever seen, the way the child (?) next to her, referred to as "The Boy," had a round, beardless face, fine wrinkles, a voice like Johnny on the old Phillip Morris commercials, and spent his time reading maps and making sure that the passengers observed proper seating arrangements, how the ancient bus never started until the third try, and, as if protesting, spewed out clouds of black smoke. She listed everything in her cramped backhand, and in three days her book was half full. Susan loves collecting things; a thimblesized tea set, miniature snow domes, odd samples, and found it strangely soothing to cram the flotsam and jetsam of the travel experience into her paisley-covered notebook from Harrod's.

"Be right there," Howie says, attempting to wet comb his hair into submission. Susan, in the narrow doorway of their Econosized hotel room, wonders what makes Howie tick, or rather not tick. Studies him dispassionately as if she were a visitor from a distant planet. Writes: Howie. Late sixties? Gray, stand-up hair. Rumpled appearance. Reflecting in mirror. "Remember that hotel in Paris we were billeted in after the war. Rows of cots in the grand ballroom. Mirrored walls. Angels on the ceiling...."

"And that girl you left behind ...?" Susan cannot help adding.

"Smoky eyes. Hair like corn silk. Cute little thing...."

"Your fatal weakness. What was her name, Fifi?"

"Francoise. You remember."

"How could I? I wasn't born yet."

"I told you about her. Worked in a pastry shop near the Place de la Concorde. Last name was Reynault like the car. Have to check it out when we get to Paris...."

"Howie, everyone's waiting. Let's go." Susan wails.

Howie turns. "Why, Susan, you've dyed your hair gray. I didn't recognize you."

Susan blinks. It is hard to tell whether what he says is meant to be funny, as when he said to Pamela, their bus driver from Swansea, "What's a little girl like you doing, driving a great big bus like this?" a remark Pamela did not find funny at all. Susan takes a last look around. Scoops a small bottle of shampoo off the bathroom shelf, a ball point pen and pad off the night table. Howie's wallet, his reason for going back, is still on the dresser. She stuffs it in his tourist bag, pats down his stand-up hair, pushes him toward the door. Howie removes her hands from his shoulders, attempts to kiss them. She tears her hands away, saying Nicole is having a fit. "What has she lost?" he says, "Only time."