James Salter - All That Is

As they came to the expressway, she said,

“Where are you coming from?”

It was the way she said it. She almost seemed to know him.

“London,” he said, looking at her more closely for the first time. “And you?”

“From Athens.”

“That’s a long flight,” he commented.

“They’re all long. I don’t like to fly. I’m always afraid the plane is going to crash.”

“I don’t think you have to be afraid of crashing. It’s quick. It’s all over in a second.”

“It’s what happens before that, when you know you’re about to crash.”

“I suppose so, but how would you prefer to die?”

“Some other way,” she said.

In the light from oncoming cars he could see her dark hair and lipstick that made him take her for Greek. The expressway paralleled Manhattan, which was like a long necklace of light across the river. At the far end was the financial district and then, from midtown on up, the countless tall buildings, the great boxes of light. It was like a dream, trying to imagine it all, the windows and entire floors that never went dark, the world you wanted to be in.

“Do you live in Athens?” he asked.

“No,” she said easily, “I was taking my daughter to visit her father.”

“I’ve never been to Greece.”

“That’s a pity. It’s a marvelous country. When you go, go to the islands.”

“Any one in particular?”

“There are so many,” she said.

“Yes.”

“There are places that time seems never to have touched, absolutely unspoiled.”

They looked at one another without speaking. He did not know what she might be seeing. She had clear, smooth features.

“The people have something you don’t find here,” she said. “They have a joy of life.”

“That’s nonsense,” he said.

She ignored it.

“Were you in London on business?”

“Yes, business. The London Book Fair.”

“Are you a publisher?”

“Not really. I’m an editor. A publisher has different responsibilities.”

“What sort of books do you edit?”

“Mainly novels,” he said.

“The friend I’m staying with was in a novel. She’s rather proud of it. Eve was her name in the book. That’s not her name.”

“Which book is that?”

“You know, I forget the title. I only read the parts about her. She knew the author. So, tell me your name,” she said after a pause.

Her own name was Christine, Christine Vassilaros. She was not Greek, she was married to a Greek man, a businessman, from whom she had separated. Her friend, Kennedy, the one who’d been written about, was also separated and living in a rent-controlled apartment that was a grand relic of life before the two World Wars and the time between them. I’m not giving up the apartment, she had said. It was like an apartment in Havana, bygone and only sparsely furnished, on Eighty-Fifth Street.

They arrived at Bowman’s street first. He handed her something more than half the fare.

“It was very nice of you to share the cab,” he said. “Can I call you sometime?” he straightforwardly asked.

She wrote down a telephone number on the back of an airline stub.

“Here,” she said.

And she pressed it in his hand.

As the cab left, he had an exalted feeling. The taillights going down the street, bearing her away. It had been like theater, a glorious first act. The doorman greeted him.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Yes, good evening.”

I’ve met the most wonderful woman, he wanted to say. He had met her by chance. He thought about it excitedly while going upstairs, and then in the apartment. She was married, she had said, but that was understandable—at a certain point in life, it seemed everyone was. At a certain point also you began to feel that you knew everyone, there was no one new, and you were going to spend the rest of your life among familiar people, women especially. It was not that she had been friendly, it was that but more. He felt like trying the telephone number, but that was foolish. She wouldn’t have even arrived at her street yet. He was already impatient. He must somehow not seem it.

When she came to lunch a day later, he knew it was all in vain. She was younger than he thought, but he could not be sure. They sat facing one another. She had the neck of a woman of twenty, and her face had only the faintest lines from expressions, from her smile. There was almost a physical thrill to her. He didn’t want to succumb to it, but he was unable to prevent it, her bare neck and arms. She was certainly aware of it. Don’t become intoxicated, she seemed to say. He could look at her so closely. Her gleaming dark hair. Her upper lip was arched. She held her fork with a kind of languor as if ready to discard it, but she ate with generous mouthfuls as she talked, not diverted from the food. Her other hand was raised and half-closed, as if drying her nails. Long, disdainful fingers. It turned out she had lived in New York, on Waverly Place, she and her husband, for a number of years.

“Six,” she said. She had worked as a broker.

He was looking at her. You wanted to watch her.

“It was beautiful,” she said. “That’s a nice part of the city.”

“You know New York then,” he said feeling jealous.

“Very well.”

She didn’t say much more or much about her husband. His business was in Athens, that was all. They’d been living in Europe.

“In Athens?”

“But we’re separated.”

“Are you still on good terms?”

“Well…”

“Intimate terms?” he found himself asking.

She smiled. “Hardly,” she said.

He felt he could say anything to her, tell her anything. There was a kind of complicity, even if nascent, between them.

“How old is your daughter?” he asked.

She was fifteen. He was astonished to hear that.

“Fifteen! You don’t look as if you could have a fifteen-year-old daughter,” he said and added casually, “how old are you?”

She made a slight, disapproving expression.

“Thirty-two?”

“I was born during the war,” she said. “Not at the beginning of it,” she added.

He was aware of his own age, but she didn’t bother to ask it. Her daughter’s name was Anet.

“How is that spelled?” he said.

It was a beautiful name.

“She’s a marvelous girl. I’m mad about her,” she said.

“Well, your daughter…”

“It’s not just that. Do you have children?”

“No,” he said.

He almost felt he’d fallen short in her eyes. He was visibly older, he was single, he had no family.

“But that’s a very nice name,” he repeated. “Some names are like magic. Unforgettable.”

“That’s true.”

“Vronsky,” he said as an example.

“Not a very good name for a girl.”

“No, of course not. Unforgettable, but not good.”

“I’d almost have another child just to name it. If you were to have a child, what would you name it?” she asked.

“That’s something I’ve never really thought about. If it was a boy…”

“Yes,” she said. “A boy.”

“If it was a boy, Agamemnon.”

“Ah. Yes,” she said. “Of course. Achilles is a good name, too. Agamemnon sounds a little more like a horse.”

“He’d be a wonderful boy,” Bowman argued.

“I’m sure he’d be. With that name he’d have to be. And what would you name a girl? I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“A girl? Quisqueya,” he said.

“I see you’re a traditionalist. What was that name, again?”

“Quisqueya.”

“It must be some figure in history or a novel.”

“It’s a Peruvian name.”

“Peruvian? Really?”

“No, I made that up,” he confessed.