James Salter - Light Years

At ten she came in. “Please, I can’t talk,” she said.

She wore a slim, ribbed sweater the color of shipping cartons; her face was white. As she walked through the room he was conscious of her legs, the sound of her heels on the floor, the bones of her wrists. He could not look at her, everything about her he had known, had access to, was fading.

He left before noon for a meeting. He called her as soon as he was outside. Pages were torn from the directory in the phone booth. The door would not close.

“Kaya,” he said. “Please. What do you mean, you can’t talk?”

She seemed helpless.

“I need you,” he said. “I can’t do anything without you. Oh, God,” he breathed. His eyes were filling with tears. He could not tell her what he felt. He was like a fugitive. “Oh, God, I know this girl…”

“Stop.”

“I’ve gone to prison for her, my ribs are showing. I’ve given up my life…”

“How did I know you were coming?” she said. “Why didn’t you call me?” She began to weep. “Don’t you have any brains?” she cried.

He hung up. He knew perfectly well that talking was useless, that there had been a moment when he should have slapped her with all his strength. But he was not that sort of man. His hatred was weak, pallid, it could not even darken the blood.

Ten minutes later he excused himself from his client and rushed to call her again. He tried to be calm, unfrightened.

“Kaya.”

“Yes.”

“Meet me this evening.”

“I can’t.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Please, promise me.”

She would not answer. He begged her.

“Yes, all right,” she finally said.

He could not go back to work. He went instead to her apartment and rang the bell. No answer. He let himself in. A chill had come over him, a deep chill like the shock that follows an accident. The sun was shining. The radio gave the weather, the news.

The bed was unmade, he could not approach it. In the kitchen were dirty glasses, a tray of ice that now held only water. He went to the closet. Her things surrounded him, they seemed flimsy, without substance. His hand trembling, he somehow cut the heart out of a tumbling, dark dress, the most beautiful one she owned. He was afraid she might come back as he was doing it; he had no explanation, no way to turn. Afterwards he sat by the window. His breath was shallow, like that of a newt. He sat motionless; the emptiness, the tranquillity of the rooms began to calm him. She lay in the gray light of morning, her back smooth and luminous, her legs weak. She was barelimbed, unthinking. He parted her knees. Never.

Nedra was happy that evening. She seemed pleased with herself.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“What? Yes, it’s been a long day.”

“We’re going to have our own eggs,” she announced.

The children were ecstatic. “Come and see!” they cried.

They pulled him by the hand to the solarium with its floor of gravel. The chickens ran for the corners, then along the wall. Danny managed to catch one at last.

“Look at him, Papa, don’t you love him?”

The hen sat panicked within her arms, its small eyes blinking.

“Her,” Viri said.

“Do you want to know their names?” Franca asked.

He nodded vaguely.

“Papa?”

“Yes,” he said. “Where did you get them?”

“That’s Janet…”

“Janet.”

“Dorothy.”

“Yes.”

“And that one is Madame Nicolai.”

“That one…”

“She’s older than the others,” Franca explained.

He sat on the step. Already there was a slight, bitter smell in the room. A bit of feather floated mysteriously down. Madame Nicolai was sitting as if dumped in a great, warm pile of feathers, brown, beige, becoming paler as it descended to soft tan.

“She is wiser,” he said.

“Oh, she’s very wise.”

“A sage among hens. When do they begin to lay eggs?”

“Right away.”

“Aren’t they a little young?” He sat idly on the step watching their careful, measured movements, the jerk of their heads. “Well, if they don’t lay eggs, there are other things. Chicken Kiev…”

“Papa!”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“They’d understand.”

“No, they wouldn’t.”

“Madame Nicolai would understand,” he said.

She was standing now, apart from the others, looking at him. Her head was in profile, one unblinking eye black with an amber ring.

“She’s a woman of the world,” he said. “Look at her bosom, look at the expression on her beak.”

“What expression?”

“She understands life,” he said.

“She knows what it is to be a chicken.”

“Is she your favorite?”

He was trying to coax her to come to his half-closed hand. “Papa?”

“I think so,” he murmured. “Yes. She is a hen among hens. A hen’s hen,” he said.

They were clinging to his arms in happiness and affection. He sat there. The chickens were clucking, making little soft sounds like water boiling. He continued to extol her—she had now turned cautiously away—this adulterer, this helpless man.

FRANCA WAS TWELVE. IN THOSE slim dresses that fit a body still without hips one could not easily tell her age. She was perfectly formed, though without even the faint beginning of breasts. Her cheeks were cool. Her expression was that of a woman.

She made up stories and did drawings for them. Margot was an elephant. Juan was a snail. Margot loved Juan very much, and Juan was mad about her. They used to sit and just look at each other. One day, she said to him, Juan .

Yes, Margot .

Juan, you are not very intelligent. I’m not?

You haven’t seen the world .

No, Juan said, I don’t have an airplane…

The writer as a child, solemn, serene. Viri took a photograph of her holding the rabbit in her arms, a white paw resting on her wrist.

“Don’t move,” he whispered.

He stepped nearer, focusing. The rabbit was calm, immobile. His eyes, black and gleaming, gave no sense of seeing; they were hypnotized, fixed. His ears lay along his back like wilted celery. Only his nose trembled with life. Slowly Franca put her face to him, her lips to his rich coat. Viri took the picture.

She was in touch with mystery, like her mother. She knew how to tell tales. The gift had appeared early. It was either a true talent or it was precocious and would fade. She was writing a story called The Queen of Feathers . She sat on the entry step observing the hens. The house was silent. They were aware of her and unable, at the same time, to maintain interest. Their minds wandered, they searched for bits of grain as she patiently acquired their secrets. Suddenly their heads went up. They listened; someone was coming.

It was Danny. Hadji was with her. As soon as she opened the door he began to bark.

“Oh God, Danny.”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Get him out of here. He’s scaring the chickens.”

They both shouted at him. The chickens were huddled beneath an iron table filled with plants. The dog was in the doorway, barking. His ears went flat at each bark, his legs were planted firmly.

“He doesn’t like them,” Danny said.

“Make him stop.”

“I can’t. You know you can’t make him stop.”

“Well, take him away, then.”

They flew at him with their hands, shooing him down the hallway. He gave ground unwillingly, barking at them, at the room, the unseen chickens.

“It’s beginning to smell in there,” Danny said.

As sisters they were not devoted. They complained about each other, they hated to share. Franca was more beautiful, more admired. Danny was slower to bloom.