James Salter - Light Years

“Not very.”

“You have to illustrate it for me.” She had a certain, strange elation. Near her elbow was a San Raphael. She glanced up. “Would you like one?”

“I’ll have a sip of yours. No, on second thought, I will have one.”

She seemed calm, secure; she knew nothing, he was certain of it. She went to prepare the drink. He felt relief. He was like a hare, safe in his form at last. He had a glimpse of her crossing the hall and a feeling of great warmth came over him, affection for her hips, her hair, the bracelets on her wrist. In some way he was suddenly equal to her; his love did not depend on her alone, it was more vast, a love for women, largely ungratified, an unattainable love focused for him in this one wilful, mysterious creature, but not only this one. He had divided his agony; it was cleaved at last.

She returned with his drink and sat in a comfortable chair. “Did you work hard today?”

“Well, yes.” He sipped the drink. “This is delicious. Thank you.”

“And did it go well?”

“More or less.”

“Um.”

She knew nothing. She knew everything, the thought flashed, she was too wise to speak.

“What have you done today?” he asked.

“I’ve had a marvelous day, I really have. I’m writing the story of the eel for Franca and Danny. I don’t like the books they give them in school. I want to do my own. Let me read it to you. I’ll get it.” She smiled at him before she rose, a wide, understanding smile.

“The eel…” he said.

“Yes.”

“That’s very Freudian.”

“I know, but Viri, I don’t believe in all that. I think it’s quite narrow.”

“Narrow. Well, definitely narrow, but the symbolism is very clear.”

“What symbolism?”

“I mean, it’s clearly a cock,” he said.

“I hate that word.”

“It’s inoffensive.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Well, I mean, there are worse.”

“I just don’t like it.”

“What one do you like?”

“What word?”

“Yes.”

“Inimitable,” she said.

“Inimitable?”

“Yes.” She began to laugh. “He had a big inimitable. Listen to what I’ve written.”

She showed him a drawing she had done. It was just to give an idea; his would be better. “Oh, Nedra,” he said, “it’s beautiful.”

A strange, snakelike creature of elegant lines lay adorned in flowers.

“What kind of pen did you do it with?” he said.

“A sensational pen. Look. I bought it.”

He was examining it.

“You can use different points,” she explained.

“It’s a wonderful eel.”

“For centuries, Viri,” she said, “no one knew anything about them. They were an absolute mystery. Aristotle wrote that they had no sex, no eggs, no semen. He said they rose, already grown, from out of the sea. For thousands of years people believed that.”

“But don’t they lay eggs?”

“I’m going to tell you all that,” she promised. “Today, all day, I was drawing this eel. Do you like the flowers?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“You’re much better than I am, yours will be fantastic. Besides, you’re right, the eel is a male thing, but women understand it, too. It fascinates them.”

“I’ve heard that,” he murmured.

“Listen…”

He was empty, at peace. The darkened windows made the room seem bright. He had come in from the sea, from a thrilling voyage. He had straightened his clothes, brushed his hair. He was filled with secrets, deceptions that had made him whole.

“The eel is a fish,” she read, “of the order Apode . It is brown and olive, its sides are yellow, its belly pale. The male lives in harbors and rivers. The female lives far from the sea. The life of the eel was always a mystery. No one knew where they came from, no one knew where they went.”

“This is a book,” he said.

“A book or a story. Just for us. I love the descriptions. They live in fresh water,” she continued, “but once in their life, and once only, they go to the sea. They make the trip together, male and female. They never return.”

“This is accurate, of course.”

“The eel comes from an egg. Afterwards it is a larva. They float on the ocean current, not a quarter of an inch long, transparent. They feed on algae. After a year or longer they finally reach the shore. Here they develop into true young eels, and here, at the river mouths, the females leave the males and travel upstream. Eels feed on everything: dead fish and animals, crayfish, shrimp. They hide in the mud by day and eat at night. In the winter they hibernate.”

She sipped her drink and went on. “The female lives like this for years, in ponds and streams, and then, one day in autumn, she stops and eats nothing more. Her color changes to black or nearly black, her nose becomes sharper, her eyes large. Moving at night, resting by day, sometimes crossing meadows and fields, she travels downstream to the sea.”

“And the male?”

“She meets the male who has spent all his life near the river mouth, and together, by hundreds of thousands, they return to the place where they were born, the sea of weeds, the Sargasso Sea. At depths of uncounted feet they mate and die.”

“Nedra, it sounds like Wagner.”

“There are common eels, pike eels, snake eels, sharp-tailed eels, every kind of eel. They are born in the sea, they live in fresh water and they go to the sea to spawn and die. Doesn’t it move you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know how to end it.”

“Perhaps with a beautiful drawing.”

“Oh, there’ll be drawings on every page,” she said.

“I want it filled with drawings.”

His eyes felt tired.

“I want it to be on pale, gray paper,” she said. “Here, draw one.”

The children were coming downstairs.

“An eel?” he said.

“Here are a lot of pictures of them.”

“Are they allowed to see what I’m doing?”

“No,” she said. “No, it should be a surprise.”

They ate in a Chinese restaurant that was crowded on weekends but this night rather empty. The menus were worn and coming apart at the fold. He had two vodkas and showed his children how to use chopsticks. The dishes were set on the table and uncovered: shrimp and peas, braised chicken, rice. Two lives are perfectly natural, he thought, as he picked up a water chestnut. Two lives are essential. Meanwhile he was talking about China: legends of emperors, the stone pleasure boats in Peiping. Nedra seemed watchful, quiet. He suddenly grew cautious and became almost silent, afraid of betraying himself. There was something he had overlooked, he tried to imagine what it was, something she had noticed by chance. The guilt of the inexperienced, like a false illness, bathed him. He tried to remain calm, realistic.

“Would you like some dessert?” he asked.

He called the waiter, who wore a name tag on his jacket.

“Kenneth?” Viri said in surprise.

“Kennif,” the Chinese confirmed.

“Ah, yes. Kenneth, what is there for dessert? Do you have fortune cookies?”

“Oh yes, sah.”

“Kumquats?”

“No kumquat,” Kenneth said.

“No kumquat?”

“Jerro,” he said appeasingly.

“Just the cookies, then,” Viri said.

In clean pajamas he lay in bed waiting. His shoes were in the closet, his clothes put away. The coolness of the pillow beneath his head, the sense of weariness and well-being that filled him, he examined these things as if they were forewarnings. He lay resigned and cautious, ready for the blow.

Nedra took her place beside him. He lay there silent; he could not close his eyes. Her presence was the final pledge of sanctity and order, like those great commanders who were the last to sleep. The house was quiet, the windows dark, his daughters were in their beds. On Nedra’s finger, somewhere near him, was a gold band of marriage, an ink-stained finger possibly, a finger that he longed to stroke, that he had not the nerve to touch.