James Salter - All That Is

“Amussen,” she said wittily, “Like the river.”

“No. Two s’s.”

She felt he was losing interest.

“Do you have lots to do?”

“Today, do you mean? I have some work I should do.”

“I have a million things to do.”

“I shouldn’t be keeping you,” he said.

“Oh, you’re not keeping me. I’m just afraid that I’m boring you.”

“You’re not boring me, not a bit.”

“So, are you going to the Susan Sontag talk?”

“When is that?”

“It’s at the college. It’s tonight.”

“I hadn’t thought about it. Are you going?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I’ll see you there.”

She was already thinking of what to wear. She decided on a certain summery frock.

“What did you think of the food?” she asked as he was paying the check. “Here, let me pay for mine.”

She found her wallet but he put his hand over it and the bills she was clutching.

“No, no,” he said. “It’s my lunch. Publishers always pay for lunch.”

She had a good feeling as they stood there, as if she could hug herself. She felt he liked her as a woman. That was unmistakable. She felt she was perhaps a companion for him although at the end he had seemed rather abrupt—it was probably a matter of not really knowing him.

The day had been warm. It was still light outside as people walked in and tried to find empty seats. The hall was completely filled. Like a lone bird rising from the flock a hand waved from the middle of the audience. She had saved him a seat. Susan Sontag, when she came onto the stage on a wave of applause, was a dramatic figure in black and white—black trousers, black raven hair with a great shock of white running through it and a bold, sharp face. She spoke for half an hour about film. There were many students taking notes. Katherine sat attentive, her chin held slightly forward as she listened. At the end as they left she asked him as if in confidence,

“What did you think?”

“I wondered what all those girls were writing down.”

“Everything she said.”

“I hope not.”

Just outside they encountered Claire, who was smiling with joy.

“Wasn’t that marvelous!” she cried.

“It was quite a performance,” Bowman agreed. He felt like a drink, he said.

“Shall I come with you?” Claire asked congenially.

“Sure,” he said.

They went in two cars—Claire rode with Katherine—to the Madalin Hotel, which was in the center of Tivoli and had a good bar. Bowman arrived after they did. He had parked in front of his house just two blocks away.

It was a weekend night and there was a crowd. Claire continued talking about Susan Sontag. What did they really think of her—she meant what did Bowman think.

“She’s a figure from the Old Testament,” he said.

“She’s such a powerful person. You just feel it.”

“All powerful women cause anxiety,” he said.

“Do you really think so?”

“It’s not a question of what you think. It’s what anybody thinks.”

“You do?”

“Men do,” he said.

She was a little dismayed. It sounded chauvinistic.

“I thought she said some very interesting things about film.”

“Film,” he said.

“Being the supreme art of the century.”

“Yes, I heard that. I suppose it’s true. It sounded a little extreme.”

“But haven’t you been really transported by certain movies? You always remember them.”

He was listening and he now heard clearly what it was, a slight th on the s as if the tip of her tongue didn’t get out of the way quickly enough. She had said “transthported.”

“Didn’t you find it amazing when she said that if Wagner were born today he’d be a film director?”

“Amazing is not the word. I wonder why she picked Wagner. She skipped too many of them. She skipped Mozart.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Claire agreed.

“Dancing is more important than movies,” he said.

“Do you mean ballet?”

“No, just dancing. If you know how to dance you can be happy.”

“I realize you’re joking now.”

“No.”

They went on talking and drinking. Katherine was annoyed that Claire had come with them and that she wouldn’t stop talking. Oh, Claire! she said several times or ignored her. The noise in the bar was deafening.

Claire took up a different tack.

“What things are you interested in?” she asked Bowman. “What am I interested in?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m interested in architecture. Painting.”

“I mean in a personal way.”

“What do you mean, personal?”

“What about women?”

There was a moment’s pause and he began laughing.

“What’s funny?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m interested in women.”

“I was just asking. Kathy should get married, don’t you think?” she remarked.

“Are those two things connected?”

“Oh, God, Claire, what are you talking about?” Katherine said.

“You’re such a desirable woman,” Claire said. “No, really,” she said to Bowman, “don’t you think so?”

“You’re embarrassing her.”

He was becoming annoyed. This was a relentless woman, he thought, and also without much humor. He wondered what bound the two of them together. Some hidden understanding women always have.

“You do agree, don’t you? She is desirable.”

He looked at Katherine.

“Yes, I’d say so.”

When Claire went to the ladies’ room, Katherine apologized,

“I’m deeply sorry for this. She’s crazy. Can you forgive me?”

“You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“She’s not used to drinking. All they have is that terrible wine. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s all right. Really.”

“Anyway I just wanted to say…”

Claire was coming back.

“Hello, again,” she said.

“Stop being a fool,” Katherine hissed.

“What?”

“Are you ready to go?”

“What’s going on? I haven’t finished my drink.”

“I’ve finished mine.”

“I see that.”

“I have to be going anyway,” Bowman said.

“So soon?” said Claire.

Katherine said nothing. She had an expression of acceptance.

“Good night,” Bowman told them.

He made his way out through the people in the bar. There was a crowd waiting to get into the restaurant across the street and others who’d come out of it were lingering. It was warm. Music was playing somewhere. Two girls sat on a large rock that was embedded in the sidewalk, smoking and talking. There were a lot of cars.

He was in his pajamas an hour later when someone knocked on the door.

“Yes? Who is it?”

They knocked lightly again.

He opened the door and Katherine was standing there. She had stayed at the bar, he saw.

“I had to come and apologize,” she said. “I was so embarrassed. I woke you, didn’t I?”

“No, I was awake,” he said.

He was regarding her cooly, she felt.

“I only wanted to make sure you knew I didn’t put her up to that.”

“I didn’t think that.”

“I just wanted to tell you tonight.”

“Can you get home all right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

It had been a mistake, she realized. She was not sure what to say. She moved her fingers in a foolish little good-bye and walked quickly to the gate.

The town would have been dull without her and her longing to live a somehow different life. She was tired of the former one. The encounters in it had not been happy although she retained her high spirits for the most part. She had a brief affair with a visiting anthropologist who came to teach for a week and met her the first day. She said nothing about it to Bowman, to whom she was faithful in a deeper way, and also it had just been Monday to Friday. She already regretted it. When Bowman came to pick her up one evening he happened to notice a book the anthropologist had written and given to her. It had a vulgar inscription that he mused over while she was finishing dressing, but he had closed the book and he said nothing about it when she appeared.