James Salter - All That Is

“No, with an American house, Braden and Baum. You know,” he confessed, “you’re the first person I’ve talked to tonight.”

A waiter was near them.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“No, thank you. I’ve had too much to drink already,” she said.

He could see that then, from her eyes and a certain hesitation in her movements.

“Are you here with someone?” he found himself asking.

“Yes. With my husband.”

“Your husband.”

“As he’s called. What did you say your name was?”

Her name was Enid Armour.

“Mrs.” he said. Mrs. Armour.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“It’s all right. Are you staying in London long?”

“No.”

“Another time,” she said.

“I hope so.”

She appeared to lose interest but pressed the edge of his hand as if in consolation as she moved away. He didn’t see her again in the crowd although there were other lustrous figures. She might have left. He found out her husband’s name from a list on a table near the door. At nearly three in the morning there were fantastic figures, a man dressed as an owl with shreds of cloth for feathers and a woman with a top hat and in black tights, sleeping or passed out on the couches. He went by them in his tunic like a lone figure surviving history.

His hotel was near Queen’s Gate and the room was plain. He lay there wondering if she would remember him. The night, he realized, had been glamorous. It would soon be four o’clock and he was tired. He fell into a profound sleep that ended with the sun coming full through the window and filling the room. Across the street the buildings were blazing in the light.

E. G. Armour was listed. Wanting to call but uncertain, Bowman tried to summon his nerve. He was aware it was a foolhardy thing to do and decided yes and no half a dozen times while dressing. Would it be she who answered? Finally he picked up the phone. He could hear it ringing, where, he did not know. After several rings a man’s voice said, hello.

“Mrs. Armour, please.”

He was sure the man could hear his heart.

“Yes, who is this?”

“Philip Bowman.”

The phone was put down and he heard her being called. His nervousness increased.

“Hallo,” a cool voice said.

“Enid?”

“Yes?”

“Uh, this is Philip Bowman.”

He began to explain who he was, where they had met.

“Yes, of course,” she said though it sounded matter-of-fact.

He asked, because he would not have forgiven himself if he hadn’t, if she could have lunch.

There was a pause.

“Today?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Well, it would have to be on the late side. After one.”

“Yes. Where should we meet?”

She suggested San Frediano on the Fulham Road, not far from where she lived. It was there that Bowman, who had been waiting, saw her enter and then move through the tables. She was wearing a gray pullover and a kind of suede jacket, an unapproachable woman who then saw him. He stood up a little clumsily.

She smiled.

“Hallo,” she said.

“Hello.”

It seemed his manhood had suddenly caught up with him, as if it had been waiting somewhere in the wings.

“I was afraid to call you,” he said.

“Really?”

“It was a superhuman act.”

“Why is that?” He didn’t answer.

“Did you finally speak to someone else last night?”

“Only you,” he said. “I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true.”

“You don’t seem that withdrawn.”

“I’m not. I just didn’t find anyone I felt I could talk to.”

“Yes, all those sultans and Cleopatras.”

“It was a fantastic evening.”

“I imagine it was,” she said. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I’m probably pretty much what you see. I’m thirty-four years old. And as you can probably tell, a bit in awe.”

“You’re married?” she asked casually.

“Yes.”

“As am I.”

“I know. I spoke to your husband, I think.”

“Yes. He’s on his way to Scotland. We’re not on very good terms. I’m afraid I didn’t quite understand the conditions of marriage.”

“What are they?”

“That he would be looking for another woman constantly and I would be trying to prevent it. It’s boring. Are you on good terms with your wife?”

“On a certain level.”

“Which one is that?”

“I don’t mean a particular level. I mean just down to a certain level.”

“I don’t think you ever really know anybody.”

She was originally from Cape Town, it turned out, born on the steps of the hospital there which were as far as her mother got that night, she could never leave a party. But she was completely English; they moved to London when she was a little child. She was damaged though she did not appear to be. Her beauty was unwary. Her husband, in fact, had another woman, a woman who might come into some money, but he was not ready to get a divorce. Wiberg had anyway advised her to not get a divorce, she had no income and was better off as she was, he said. He meant by this nicely situated, from his point of view, to all appearances well-off and very decorative.

“How do you know Wiberg?”

“He’s an amazing man,” she said. “He knows everyone. He’s been very nice to me.”

“How?”

“Oh, in a number of ways. He lets me dress up like a pirate, for example.”

“You mean last night.”

“Um.”

She smiled at him. He could not take his eyes from her, the way her mouth moved when she spoke, the slight, careless gesture of a hand, her scent. She was like another language, nothing like his own.

“Men must be after you in droves.”

“Not in the way you’d like,” she said. “Do you want to know what happened? The most frightening thing.”

She’d been near Northampton and had an accident with the car. A bit shaken, she’d gone to this little hotel and ended up having dinner there and a glass of wine by the fire. She had taken a room and afterwards, at night, she heard two men talking in low voices outside the door as she got ready for bed. Then they tried to get into the room. She saw the door handle moving. Go away! she called. There was no telephone in the room, which they probably knew. They spoke through the door, they just wanted to talk to her, they said.

“Not tonight. I’m very tired,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

The door handle moved again, being tried. Just to talk, they assured her, they knew she would not be there tomorrow.

“Yes, yes. I’ll be here,” she promised.

After a while it was quiet. She listened at the door and then, in great fear, opened it slightly, saw no one and took her things and fled. She drove off in the car with things banging and slept in it through the night near some houses under construction.

“Well, you have luck, don’t you,” he said. He took her hand, which was slender. “Let me look at it,” he said. “This is your life line”—touching it with his finger. “According to this, you’re going to be around for a long time, I’d say into your eighties.”

“I can’t say I’m looking forward to that.”

“Well, you may change your mind. I see some children here, do you have children?”

“No, not yet.”

“I see two or three. It breaks up a little there, it’s hard to be certain.”

He sat holding her hand which for a moment closed affectionately around his. She smiled.

“Would you do me a favor?” she said. “Come with me for a few minutes after lunch, would you? There’s a shop just a few doors down that has a beautiful dress I’ve been looking at. If I tried it on, would you tell me yes or no?”

She tried on not one but two dresses in the small but stylish shop, coming out from behind the curtain and turning slightly from side to side. The white glint of a brassiere strap that she pushed underneath as an afterthought seemed a sign of purity. When she said good-bye, it was like a play ending. It was like the theater and coming out again to the streets. He saw his reflection in many windows as he passed and stopped to take measure of himself. He felt in possession of the city, not the Victorian city with its dark wood interiors and milky marble halls, the tall red buses that lurched by, endless windows and doors, but another city, visible yet unimagined.