James Salter - Light Years

Booth Paum arrived with his daughter. He had made entrances since the days of Maxwell Anderson. Like all actors he could unfurl long speeches, reciting with a kind of threatening intensity; he could mimic, he could dance.

“I hope we’re not late,” he said. He introduced the friend his daughter had brought.

Four girls and a boy, they were. Viri began explaining the rules. “There are three kinds of eggs,” he said. “There are solid colors, speckled, and there are also twelve gold bees. The bees are worth five, the speckled three, and the solid colors one.”

He pointed out the boundaries.

“It’s now eleven-thirty,” he said. He told them how much time they had. “Are you ready?”

“Yes!”

“Begin.”

They scattered across the sunny ground, Hadji dashing after them, barking. Soon they were far off, separate figures moving slowly, heads down among the trees.

“They’re not all on the ground!” Viri called.

During the long hunt with its distant shouts and cries, the adults sat outside, the women on small, iron benches, the men on a bank. Paum had a glass of tea which he drank Russian style, a cube of sugar between his teeth. Actors were original, actors were vivid. He stood with the river behind him, a confident figure. It was as if all reports were unfounded; he refuted them with his ease, his well-combed hair.

“I heard a funny story,” he told them. “It seems there were two drunks in an elevator…”

The tea was brown in the glass, his fingernails were perfectly shaped, his shoes from Bally were shined.

Dana, his daughter, won the hunt. She found the most eggs, including four of the bees. The prize was a huge cardboard soldier filled with popcorn; second prize was a rosewood pen.

The women brought the food out and arranged a table. There was wine and a bottle of Moët and Chandon. The afternoon was mild, spacious. A slight breeze carried off voices so that twenty feet of separation were mysterious, one saw conversations, the words were lost.

“Danny will be beautiful,” Larry said. He was watching as she sat with the others, a plate in her lap. “She’s different from Franca,” he said. “Franca was always beautiful, she simply grows like a cat. I mean, from the very first she had claws, a tail, everything was there, but in Danny’s case something more mysterious is happening. It will all come slowly. It will only appear at the end.”

Beyond them was the sleeping grass, dry from the winter, warmed by the sun.

“She’s like that in many ways,” Viri said. “She has traits that are more or less awkward, even disturbing, but I have the feeling they’ll make sense later.”

“Your children give you something very special,” Larry said. “Sheltering them, knowing them. But that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

Viri was silent. He knew their situation. Rae sat down beside them.

“Why don’t you take some photos?” she asked.

“I’m out of film.”

“Oh, you have film.”

“No, I’m out.”

“I told you to stop and get some,” she said.

He was sipping the last of his champagne. “Yes, you did. You’re always right, aren’t you?”

She did not answer.

“I’m very lucky, you see,” he said to Viri.

Her face seemed quite small as she sat there, knees drawn up beneath her skirt.

“Yes, very lucky. Rae is always right. She has to be right. Nothing can be her fault, can it?”

She said nothing. He did not continue. He lay there supported by his elbows, the glass in his hand. Their whole life was displayed in the image of them there, he motionless, chin on his chest, the glass empty; she, head lowered, barren, hands clasped about her legs. They had Siamese cats, they went to museums and openings, she surely was passionate, they lived in a large Village flat.

In the late afternoon they were all inside. Larry was drinking coffee, a scarf around his neck, preparing to drive home. The children were playing, their exhaustion had not yet touched them. They would fall asleep by the fire after dinner, their faces flushed, their hearts at peace. Rae said goodbye. She was cheerful. In her pocket she revealed a small grass nest, and in it four chocolate eggs. They were going to have an omelet on the way home, she said. She offered an affectionate smile, unhygienic, brief.

Nedra and Eve sat by the window. The sound of the motorcycle died away. Viri had gone for a walk. Nedra was needlepointing a pair of slippers. There was a sun god on each toe.

“She’s very nice,” Eve said.

“Yes, I like her.”

“She talks a lot. I don’t mean foolishly—she’s interesting.”

“That’s true.”

“He, on the other hand…”

“He talks very little.”

“He hardly said a word.”

“Larry is always silent,” Nedra said.

“What hatred.”

“Do you think so? You’re very perceptive, Eve.”

“I’ve lived through it.”

Viri came in, the dog behind him, bits of grass stuck to his coat.

“Oh, you’ve been down to the river,” Nedra said.

“He’s had a day.”

“You like Easter, don’t you, Hadji? He’s probably thirsty, Viri.”

“He drank a lot of the river. Would you like some tea? I’ll make it.”

“That would be wonderful,” Nedra said. After he had gone, she turned to Eve. “What do you think of Viri and me?” Eve smiled.

“Can you see it in us?”

“You are absolutely… you’re perfect for each other.”

Nedra gave a slight sound as if finding a mistake in her work. “It’s impossible to live with him,” she said finally.

“It isn’t. That’s plain.”

“Impossible for me. No, you don’t see it. I love him, he’s a marvelous father, but it’s terrible. I can’t explain it. It’s what turns you to powder, being ground between what you can’t do and what you must do. You just turn to dust.”

“I think you’re just tired.”

“Viri and I are like Richard Strauss and his wife. I’m as nasty as she was—the only thing is, Strauss was a genius. She was a singer, they had terrific arguments. She would shriek and throw the music at him. When she was nobody, I mean. They were rehearsing his opera. She ran off to her dressing room. He followed her and they kept right on fighting.”

Viri returned with a tray and the tea.

“I’m telling about Strauss and his wife,” Nedra said.

“He had absolutely beautiful handwriting,” Viri commented.

“He was so talented.”

“He could have been a draftsman.”

“Well, anyway, the orchestra came and announced that they would not play any opera in which this woman had a role. And Strauss said, well, that’s unfortunate, as Fraulein de Ahna and I have just become engaged. She was an absolute bitch, you can’t believe it. He used to beg to get into her room. She told him when to work, when to stop work; she treated him like a dog.”

Viri poured the tea. A perfume rose from the cups.

“Milk?” he asked Eve.

“Just black,” she said.

Franca and Anthony came into the room.

“Would you like some tea?” he asked them. “Bring two cups.”

He poured theirs; they sat on cushions on the floor.

“There’s a certain kind of greatness,” Viri said, “Strauss’s, for instance, which begins in the heavens. The artist doesn’t ascend to glory, he appears in it, he already has it and the world is prepared to recognize him. Meteoric, like a comet—those are the phrases we apply, and it’s true, it is a kind of burning. It makes them highly visible, and at the same time it consumes them, and it’s only afterwards, when the brilliance is gone, when their bones are lying alongside those of lesser men, that one can really judge. I mean, there are famous works, renowned in antiquity, and today absolutely forgotten: books, buildings, works of art.”