James Salter - Light Years

Goodbye Altoona, roofs, churches, trees. The watershed where they had gone on many summer afternoons, the cool, ferny ground, the abandoned ovens filled with butterflies and leaves. Broad Avenue with its houses, the neighborhoods of the unknown. In every dark parlor, it seemed, was a woman with swollen legs, or an old man, used, empty, stained. A town almost European in appearance, steep and spacious, shining in the sun of late afternoon. Like all such junctions it was a penal colony, pinned in the provinces by its rails.

She drove through the streets for the last time. Altoona was blue with morning, a city of trees. The cheap cafés were filled, the traffic passing. Poor food, plain people. All these meager lives were like mulch; they had made the trees of the town, its cornerstones, its endless solitude and calm. She thought of the snow falling in these same streets, of long winters, plays that had toured years before, of certain rich families whose homes were like another land, their daughters, their stores. She thought of her father, of men he once played cards with, his friends, their wives.

It was finished, done. Suddenly she felt it all through her like an omen. She was exposed. The way was clear for her own end.

ARNAUD WAS SITTING COMFORTABLY, veiled in the haze of cigar smoke, indolent, amused. The amusement was hidden; it was like coals beneath the ashes, it had to be uncovered to come to life. His hair seemed grayer, more tangled, his eyes more pale. There was the look of a marvelous derelict about him, a holy failure. He had full lips, stained teeth that were nonetheless strong, a face of the earth.

Nedra sat opposite him. “You must think of a question,” she said.

“All right.”

“And you must concentrate on it. I can’t do this unless you’re serious.”

He was smoking a small cigar like a dark bit of wood. He nodded slightly. “I’m serious.”

She began to look through the cards. He watched her. He was grave. It was as if they had entered a cathedral together. There fell about them a cool, a perceptible change of scale.

“I’m going to choose a card now,” she said, “to represent you.”

“How do you do that?”

“It depends on your characteristics, your age.”

“And if you didn’t know me, how would you do it?”

A swift smile. “How could I not know you?” she asked.

She laid down a card, a king who wore a yellow robe. His feet were hidden as well as the throne on which he sat, a Frankish king. “The King of Swords.”

“Good.”

It was winter. The days were deliciously aimless and long. She handed him the cards. “Shuffle them, and concentrate on the question.”

He shuffled them slowly. “What is the origin of this?” he asked.

“The tarot deck?”

“Who invented it?”

“It wasn’t invented,” she said. “Are they well mixed? Cut them three times. You know, I’m not an expert, Arnaud,” she said as she laid them out.

“No?”

“I don’t know all there is,” she apologized, “but I know quite a bit.”

She placed the cards carefully, with a kind of ceremonial precision. She covered the king with a card. She put still another one crossways on it. Then, in the further form of a cross, she put single cards above, below, and to either side.

Strange cards, their illustrations like those in books. They left her fingers with a faint, crisp sound. To the side of the cross she placed four cards in a column, one after another. The next to last was Death. It seemed to spread darkness over the rest. It was as if, casually, they had begun to read someone else’s letter in the middle of which suddenly was horrifying news.

“Well,” Nedra said, “you have a marvelous card here.” She was pointing to the last one. It was the Emperor.

“This is what is to come,” she said. “It means reason, strength, greatness.

“The most important influence is here.” She indicated the card on top of his. “This is a woman, a very good woman, a friend, loving, honorable. She is the key.”

They were bound together by the fragrance of tobacco, by the cold that lay at the windows, by a winter sky white as a cup.

“I think that your question may even be answered by this woman. Am I right?” she said.

“You’re too clever.”

“She either has the answer or she is the answer.”

“Well, the answer to my question is really a yes or a no.”

“I don’t think I can answer that yet.”

“Neither can I,” Arnaud said.

“Sometimes it’s impossible to see things clearly in your own life. You have to rely on someone outside to show you.”

“I’m willing to do that.”

“We’re talking about Eve, aren’t we?”

“Of course.”

“She’s my closest friend.”

“It’s difficult, isn’t it?”

“Well, you know you’re the only man in her life. I mean, in her whole life the one true man.”

“It’s very difficult,” Arnaud said. “I love her, I like Anthony, and yet there’s something that keeps me from it.”

“What?”

“I can’t say.”

“There probably has never been a marriage that hasn’t been entered with some uncertainty.”

“Were you uncertain?”

“It was just like going to be executed.”

“Come on, Nedra.”

“I suppose it wasn’t quite.”

“What else do you see for me?”

She looked at the cards. “I see another woman who is influencing you. I don’t recognize this woman. She’s dark, she has money, she’s probably very confident, very secure. She is the obstacle, the opposing force. She has unusual tastes which perhaps are hidden.”

“Have I met this woman yet?”

“I’m not sure.”

“She doesn’t sound like anyone I know.”

“Well, it’s here. You’re covered by the Queen of Wands…”

“This one.”

“Yes, and crossed by the Queen of Pentacles. That’s very unusual. It shows that your true companions are women. Now, what has happened is that…” She paused. “Certain ideas, certain suggestions have been made. It’s probably one principal proposition. You have a very hard struggle to face.”

“Still?”

She was reading ahead, she did not seem to hear him. “I don’t think I’m doing this well,” she said suddenly.

“I think you’re doing fantastically. I’d like to learn a bit about these unusual tastes.”

“No. No, I’m wrong. There are things here that are confusing.” She was vague, even a little nervous.

“Wait, I just want to know one thing.” Death in black letters was astride a white horse. The banner he bore was Arab, stiff as wood. “What does this mean?” he asked.

“Well, it can mean a number of things…”

“For instance.”

“Oh, anything. The loss of a benefactor, for example. Look, it’s snowing,” she said.

She took one of his cigars. Her long fingers held it at the end near her mouth. She leaned forward to accept a light.

Beyond the windows the snow was falling, more and more dense. Everything vanished in it.

“Let’s find Viri,” she cried.

He was out walking somewhere. They began to dress wildly in whatever was at hand. They bundled themselves like Russians in hats and scarfs and carried a coat for Viri.

“He’s down by the river,” Nedra guessed.

The snow was pouring down. It was covering their shoulders, brushing their eyes. They walked without speaking, as if in northern wastes. Their footsteps filled behind them. It was marvelous, strange. Then, racing toward them, his face white with snow, was Hadji. He barked, he dove at the soft drifts which were just forming, went sideways, rolled ecstatically, his legs in the air. Viri appeared behind him like a myth, a wanderer, his collar turned up, snow in his hair.