James Salter - Light Years

Who cleans this large house, who scrubs the floors? She does everything, this woman, she does nothing. She is dressed in her oat-colored sweater, slim as a pike, her long hair fastened, the fire crackling. Her real concern is the heart of existence: meals, bed linen, clothing. The rest means nothing; it is managed somehow. She has a wide mouth, the mouth of an actress, thrilling, bright. Dark smudges in her armpits, mint on her breath. Her nature is extravagant. She buys on impulse, she visits Bendel’s as she would a friend’s, gathering up five or six dresses and entering a booth, not bothering to draw the curtain fully, a glimpse of her undressing, lean arms, lean trunk, bikini underpants. Yes, she scrubs floors, collects dirty clothes. She is twenty-eight. Her dreams still cling to her, adorn her; she is confident, composed, she is related to long-necked creatures, ruminants, abandoned saints. She is careful, hard to approach. Her life is concealed. It is through the smoke and conversation of many dinners that one sees her: country dinners, dinners at the Russian Tea Room, the Café Chauveron with Viri’s clients, the St. Regis, the Minotaur.

Guests were driving from the city, Peter Daro and his wife.

“What time are they coming?”

“About seven,” Viri said.

“Have you opened the wine?”

“Not yet.”

The water was running, her hands were wet.

“Here, take this tray,” she said. “The children want to eat by the fire. Tell them a story.”

She stood for a moment surveying her preparations. She glanced at her watch.

The Daros arrived in darkness. The doors of their car slammed faintly. A few moments later they appeared at the entrance, their faces bright.

“Here’s a small gift,” Peter said.

“Viri, Peter’s brought wine.”

“Let me take your coats.”

The evening was cold. In the rooms, the feel of autumn.

“That’s a beautiful drive,” Peter said, smoothing his clothes. “I love to take that drive. As soon as you cross the bridge, you’re in trees, in darkness, the city is gone.”

“It’s almost primeval,” Catherine said.

“And you’re on your way to the beautiful house of the Berlands.” He smiled. What confidence, what success there is in a man’s face at thirty.

“You look wonderful, both of you,” Viri told them.

“Catherine really loves this house.”

“So do I.” Nedra smiled.

November evening, immemorial, clear. Smoked brook trout, mutton, an endive salad, a Margaux open on the sideboard. The dinner was served beneath a print of Chagall, the mermaid over the bay of Nice. The signature was probably false, but as Peter had said before, what difference did it make, it was as good as Chagall’s own, perhaps even better, with just the right degree of carelessness. And the poster, after all, was an issue of thousands, this angel afloat in pure night, the great majority of them not even distinguished by a signature of any kind, however fraudulent.

“Do you like trout?” Nedra asked, holding the dish.

“I don’t know which I like more, catching or eating them.”

“Do you really know how to catch them?”

“There are times I’ve wondered,” he said. He was helping himself generously. “You know, I’ve fished everywhere. The trout fisherman is a very special fellow, solitary, perverse. Nedra, this is delicious.”

He had hair that was thinning, and a smooth, full face, the face of an heir, of someone who works in the trust department of a bank. He spent his days on his feet, however, fishing for Gauloises from a crumpled package. He had a gallery.

“That’s how I won Catherine,” he said. “I took her fishing. Actually, I took her reading; she sat on the bank with a book while I fished for trout. Did I ever tell you the story about fishing in England? I went to a little river, perfect. It wasn’t the Test, that’s the famous one presided over for so many years by a man named Lunn. Marvelous old man, typically English. There’s a wonderful photograph of him with tweezers, sorting out insects. He’s a legend.

“This was near an inn, one of the oldest in England. It’s called the Old Bell. I came to this absolutely beautiful spot, and there were two men sitting on the bank, not too happy to have someone else appear, but of course, being English, they acted as if they hadn’t even seen me.”

“Peter, pardon me,” Nedra said. “Have some more.”

He served himself.

“Anyway, I said, ‘How is it?’ ‘Lovely day,’ one of them said. ‘I mean, how is the fishing?’ Long silence. Finally one of them said, ‘Trout here.’ More silence. ‘One over by that rock,’ he said. ‘Really?’ ‘I saw him about an hour ago,’ he said. Long silence again. ‘Big bugger, too.’ ”

“Did you catch it?” she asked.

“Oh, no. This was a trout they knew. You know how it is; you’ve been to England.”

“I’ve never been anywhere.”

“Come on.”

“But I’ve done everything,” she said. “That’s more important.” A wide smile over her wineglass. “Oh, Viri,” she said, “the wine is marvelous.”

“It is good, isn’t it? You know, there are some small shops—it’s surprising—where you can get quite good wines, and not expensively.”

“Where did you get this?” Peter asked.

“Well, you know Fifty-sixth Street…”

“Next to Carnegie Hall.”

“That’s it.”

“On the corner there.”

“They have some very good wines.”

“Yes, I know. Who is the salesman again? There’s one particular salesman…”

“Yes, he’s bald.”

“It’s not only that he knows wines; he knows the poetry of them.”

“He’s terrific. His name is Jack.”

“That’s right,” Peter said. “Nice man.”

“Viri, tell that conversation you overheard,” Nedra said.

“That wasn’t in there.”

“I know.”

“It was in the bookstore.”

“Come on, Viri,” she said.

“It’s just something I overheard,” he explained. “I was looking for a book, and there were these two men. One said to the other,” his imitation was lisping and perfect, “ ‘Sartre was right, you know.’

“ ‘Oh, yeah?’ ” He imitated the other. “ ‘About what?’

“ ‘Genet’s a saint,’ he said. ‘The man’s a saint. ’ ”

Nedra laughed. She had a rich, naked laugh. “You do that so well,” she told him.

“No,” he protested vaguely.

“You do it perfectly,” she said.

Country dinners, the table dense with glasses, flowers, all the food one can eat, dinners ending in tobacco smoke, a feeling of ease. Leisurely dinners. The conversation never lapses. Their life is special, devout, they prefer to spend time with their children, they have only a few friends.

“You know, I’m addicted to a number of things,” Peter began.

“Such as?” Nedra said.

“Well, the lives of painters,” he said. “I love to read them.” He thought for a moment. “Women who drink.”

“Really?”

“Irish women. I’m very fond of them.”

“Do they drink?”

“Drink? All Irish drink. I’ve been to dinners with Catherine where great ladies of Ireland have pitched forward into their plates, dead drunk.”

“Peter, I don’t believe it.”

“The butlers ignore them,” he said. “It’s known as the weakness. The Countess of—who was it, darling? The one we had such trouble with—drunk at ten in the morning. Rather a dark lady, suspiciously dark. A number of them are like that.”

“What do you mean, dark complexion?”

“Black.”

“How is that?” Nedra asked.

“Well, as a friend of mine would say, it’s because the count has a big cock.”