Irwin Shaw - Nightwork

“As have I,” Lily said.

“I forgive everybody,” I said. “Don’t you think we ought to have another bottle of wine?” My nerves needed some soothing, and, if I was going to ski after lunch, a good dose of alcohol might prevent me from breaking something. Also, sitting at the table with Fabian and Lily, calmly and composedly working at their food, I felt myself on the verge of aunching into a bitter harangue against them both, blurting out the confession of the meeting in Florence, the details of what Eunice had told me in her cold room the night before. The temptation to tell Fabian that I was through with him once and for all was strong and would have given me immense immediate satisfaction, but our affairs were so hopelessly intertwined that to disentangle them would probably take years, if it ever possibly could be done. The gesture would only make it more difficult. So I concentrated on my food and on the new bottle of wine when it came and hardly listened as Fabian and Lily chatted away.

“Mr Fabian, Mr Fabian…” It was a young ski instructor hurrying into the restaurant, his voice strained and high. Ordinarily the ski instructors did not eat in the same room with the guests, and the people at the other tables looked up in non-democratic disapproval from their meals as the ski instructor ran down the aisle.

“Yes?” Fabian motioned for the boy to keep his voice down. “What is it?”

“Your friend,” the instructor said. “Mr. Sloane. You’d better come. He was just bending down to put on his skis…”

“Not so loud, please, Hans,” Fabian said. He knew everybody’s name. It was one of the things about him that made him so popular with waiters and concierges. “What is it?”

“He just went poomp,” the instructor said. “He dropped like a log. I think he’s dead.”

Fabian looked across at me, a peculiar expression in his eyes. I could have sworn it was amusement.

“Nonsense, Hans,” he said sharply. “I believe I’d better take a look. Lily, I think perhaps you should stay here. Douglas, may I ask you to come along with me?” He got up and walked swiftly, his face grave, with all eyes upon him, toward the door. I followed. Our ski boots sounded like a company of infantry crossing a bridge. A drum roll for a loud American, with an IOU for thirty thousand dollars in his pocket.

A small crowd was grouped around the exit of the chair lift, where people put on their skis to traverse to the T-bar. The afternoon was suddenly very quiet. Sloane was lying on his back, staring up at the sky. Another ski teacher was rubbing snow on his face, which was a terrible purple and green. Fabian got down on one knee beside the body and tore open the zipper of Sloane’s anorak and pulled up the sweater and shirt underneath. Sloane’s chest was hairy and white. I started to shake in cold, involuntary shudders. I could feel my teeth set like clamps in my jaws. Fabian leaned over and put his ear to Sloane’s chest. It seemed hours before Fabian lifted his head. Slowly he pulled Sloane’s shirt and sweater down and zipped up the anorak. “I think we’d better take him down to the hospital,” Fabian said to the two instructors. “As quickly as possible.” He stood up, rubbing his face as if to hide his sorrow. “Poor man,” he said, “he was a heavy drinker. The altitude and the sudden cold … If you’ll carry him to the lift,” he said to the instructors, “I’ll go down with him, Just call for an ambulance to be waiting at the bottom. Douglas, may I speak to you for a moment…?” He put his arm around my shoulders and led me to one side, two friends of the newly departed seeking a moment alone to soften the blow of the tragic loss of a comrade. Right out of an old wartime B movie, I thought, playing my part with conviction. The crowd, which had now grown larger, parted respectfully.

“Douglas, my boy,” Fabian whispered, patting my shoulder as if to console me, “I will not leave the corpse. I’ll get the IOU out of his pocket on the way down. Do you remember which side it was on?”

“That’s what I call showing a decent respect for the dead,” I said. “Left.”

“I admire your attitude. Gentle Heart.” He pulled me to him in a manly embrace, as though to keep me from breaking down. “I must say, old chap,” he said, “you are Johnny-on-the-spot when it comes to heart attacks.” Then he dropped his arm and said aloud, so that everybody could hear what he was saying, “I’ll leave you to break the news to Lily. She’ll be undone. Give her a stiff brandy.”

Then he walked, his head down, along the snowy path to the lift, where the two ski instructors were securely strapping the corpse onto one of the two-seater chairs. Fabian got into the second seat and put his arm protectively around the dead man. He gave a signal and the chair began to move slowly down the hill.

The two ski teachers took the next chair down. Honorary pallbearers, in bright jackets, descending into the valley to help dispose of the dead.

I went back into the club, where Lily was finishing her coffee, and ordered two brandies.

When I got back to the hotel, I was told by the concierge that Mr Fabian expected me to come up to his room. It was late in the afternoon. Lily and I had had several more brandies, sitting in silence as the restaurant slowly emptied. Death makes for long lunches.

I had left Lily at the hairdresser’s. “No sense,” she had said, “in wasting the whole afternoon.” We had taken the chair lift out of a sense of decorum. Skiing down, we agreed, after what had happened, would have seemed frivolous. Neither of us had spoken of Eunice.

“What was the last thing you said to the man?” Lily asked as we swung slowly toward the shadowed valley.

“Fuck off,” I said.

She nodded. “That’s what I thought you said. Hail and Farewell.” She gestured toward the peaks in the distance, still glowing in sunlight. The eagle, if that was what it was, was back on station, patrolling the neutral Helvetian air. “There are worse places to die.” She chuckled. “And worse last words. If there’s any justice, he cut that wife of his out of his will.”

“I’m sure he didn’t.”

“I said, if there’s any justice.”

“Do you think your husband has cut you out of his will?”

“Don’t be so American,” she said.

We left it at that.

On the way back to the hotel I stepped off at a shop and bought myself a topcoat. Didi Wales was welcome to her memento. It was a small price to pay for her absence.

Fabian was packing when I arrived at the suite he shared with Lily. He did not travel light. There were four big suitcases scattered around the two rooms. As usual, there were newspapers everywhere, opened to the financial pages. He packed swiftly and neatly, shoes in one bag, shirts in another, in crisp perfect piles. “I’m accompanying the body home,” he said. “It’s the least I can do, don’t you think?”

“The least,” I said.

“You were correct,” he said. “The IOU was in the left pocket. The formalities will all be taken care of before this evening. The Swiss are very efficient when it comes to getting a dead foreigner out of the country. He was only fifty-two. A Choleric man. Premature destruction. A lesson for us all. I called his wife. She took the news bravely. She’s going to meet us – the coffin and myself – at Kennedy tomorrow – She’s making the necessary dreary arrangements. By the way, do you happen to know where Lily is?”

“Getting her hair done.”

“Unflappable girl. I admire that in her.” He picked up the phone and asked for the hairdresser’s. While he was waiting for the call to be put through, he said. “Would you mind driving us down to Geneva tomorrow?”