James Salter - Light Years

“Don’t you want a drink, Viri?”

“A drink? Yes, what’s that you have?”

“It’s called White Nights.”

“Let me taste it,” he said. “What’s in it?”

“Vodka and Pernod.”

“Is that all?”

“A lot of ice.”

“I was coming down in the elevator today, you’ll never guess who got on: Philip Johnson.”

“Really?”

“He looked fantastic. I said hello to him. He had on a terrific hat.”

Mark said, “Is this Philip Johnson, the…”

“Architect.”

“Why was he wearing the hat?” Franca asked.

“Ah, well. Why does a rooster wear his feathers?”

“You’re as talented as he is,” Nedra said.

“It didn’t seem to worry him.”

“I’m going to buy you a marvelous hat.”

“A hat isn’t going to help that much.”

“A big, doe-colored velour hat,” she said.

“The kind that pimps wear.”

“I think I’ve somehow given you the wrong impression.”

“If Philip Johnson has a hat, you can have a hat.”

“It’s like the joke about the actor who dropped dead on the stage,” Viri said. “Do you know that story?” He turned to Mark. It was one of Arnaud’s, pungent, homely. “It was in the Yiddish theater. I think he was playing Macbeth.”

“They dropped the curtain, but everyone could see there was something wrong,” Nedra said. “Finally the manager came out and told them: it was a terrible thing, terrible, he was dead.”

“But a woman in the balcony keeps calling, ‘Give him some tsicken soup. Give him some tsicken soup!’ And the manager is standing there next to the body, and finally he calls out, ‘Look, you don’t understand. He’s dead! Tsicken soup couldn’t help him, lady!’ ‘It couldn’t hoit,’ she says.”

They told it together as fondly as they had once joined lives. No one knew Nedra as well as Viri. They were the owners of a vast, disordered merchandise; together they had faced it all. When he undressed at night, he was like a diplomat or judge. A white body, gentle and powerless, emerged from his clothes, his position in the world lay tumbled on the floor, fallen from his ankles; he was clement, he was froglike, a touch of melancholy in his smile.

He buttoned his pajamas, brushed his hair.

“Do you approve of him?” Nedra asked.

“Mark?”

“I’m sure they’ve made love.”

The coolness of it stung him. “Oh. Why?”

“Wouldn’t you?” she asked. “Well, maybe you wouldn’t.”

“I think it’s very important that she knows what to do.”

“Oh, she knows. I’ve given her everything she needs.”

“What do you mean, pills?”

“She didn’t want to take pills,” Nedra said.

“I see.”

“I agreed with her. She didn’t want chemicals in her body.”

His thoughts suddenly rushed to his daughter. She was not far away, she was in her room, the music on softly, her dresses neatly hung. He thought of her innocence, of the prodigality of life as if it had surprised him, like a sudden, unheard wave that catches a stroller on the beach, soaking his pants, his hair. And yet now, struck by that wave, a sense of acceptance, even pleasure, came over him. He had been touched by the sea, that greatest of earthly elements, as a man is touched by the hand of God. The need to fear such things was ended.

That night he dreamed of a seashore silver with wind. Kaya came to him. They were in a vast room, alone, there was a convention going on outside. He did not know how he persuaded her, but she said, “Yes, all right.” She slipped from her clothes. “But I like it in the evening too.”

Her hips were so real, so dazzling, that he hardly felt shame when his mother walked by, pretending not to see. She would tell Nedra, she would not tell Nedra, he could not decide, he tried not to worry. Then he lost this shining woman in a crowd, near a theater. She vanished. Empty rooms, corridors in which old classmates were standing, absorbed in conversation. He walked past them, conspicuously alone.

In the morning he looked at Franca more closely, concealing it, trying to be natural. He saw nothing. She seemed the same, if anything more affectionate, more in harmony with the day, the air, the invisible stars.

“How are things going at school?” he asked.

“Oh, I love school,” she said. “This year is the best.”

“That’s good. What do you like most?”

“Well, of everything…”

“Yes?”

“Biology.” She was tapping at the crown of a soft-boiled egg, dressed neatly, her face clear.

“And next to that?” he said.

“I don’t know. I guess French.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice to spend a year of college there?”

“In Paris?”

“Paris, Grenoble. There are a lot of places.”

“Yes. Well, I’m not sure I want to go to college.”

“What do you mean?”

“Now, don’t get excited,” she said. “I only mean I might want to go to art school or something.”

“Well, it’s true you paint beautifully,” he admitted.

“I haven’t decided.” She smiled like her mother, mysterious, assured. “We’ll have to see.”

“Is Mark going to stay in school?”

“He doesn’t know, either,” she said. “It depends.”

“I see.”

There was such reason in her voice.

IN THE FALL—IT WAS OCTOBER, A windy day—she drove to Jivan’s for lunch. The river was a brilliant gray, the sunlight looked like scales.

He had moved. He had bought the small, stone cottage at the end of a rutted drive, a long drive that crossed a brook. The trees were everywhere, the sun spilled through them. She was in a white dress, cool as fruit.

The brightness of Asia Minor filled the room when she opened the door. There was a silver-legged table that bore, like a catalog, perfect unused objects: art books, sculpture, pebbles, bowls of beads. On the walls were paintings. It was she who had been responsible for the decoration; her touch was everywhere. The chairs were filled with cushions of beautiful colors—lemon, magenta, tan.

Jivan came forward. He was polite. “Nedra,” he greeted her, extending his arms.

“What a beautiful day.”

“How is your family?”

“All well.”

There was a man in a business suit sitting quietly whom she had not noticed.

“This is André Orlosky,” Jivan said.

A pale face and prominent jawbones. He wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses, also a vest. There was a strange disharmony between his person and his clothes, as if he had dressed for a photograph or borrowed a suit. An impassive face, the face of a fanatic.

“André is a poet.”

“I just gave a ride to a poet,” Nedra said.

She had seen a white-haired man loping along the road. “Where are you going,” she had asked, slowing down. He told her. It was about a mile further on. He was gardening there. And why was he running? He lived in Nanuet; he’d run from there.

“He was old, but he had a wonderful face, all tanned.”

“And very strong legs.”

“Really, he was interesting. He came from California. He recited one of his poems for me. It was about the astronauts. It wasn’t very good,” she admitted.

Jivan brought her a glass of wine.

“It was his courage I admired,” Nedra said. She smiled that stunning, wide smile. She looked at André. “Do you know what I mean?”

“How have you been?” Jivan asked.

“We’re going to Europe,” she announced.

“When?” he said, a little weakly.

“We’re going to Paris, next spring, I hope.”

“Next spring.”

“We’re going to rent a car and then drive everywhere. I want to see it all.”

“How long will you stay?”