James Salter - Light Years

“Mr. Berland, a shirt… no, I don’t have to explain it to you.”

“Of course not.”

“A bad shirt is like the story of a pretty girl who is single and one day she finds herself pregnant. It’s not the end of life, but it’s serious.”

“What about the pocket? I like a fairly deep pocket.” Conrad looked pained. “A pocket,” he said. “What earthly use do you have for a pocket? It ruins the shirt.”

“Not completely, does it?”

“When a shirt already has sleeves that are a little short, and on top of that a pocket…”

“The pocket isn’t really on top of the sleeves. I pictured it more or less between them.”

“What can I say to you? Why do you want a pocket?”

“I need to carry a pencil,” Viri said.

“Not there. Now that,” he said, referring to a collar Viri had put on, “that is an extremely nice collar, do you agree?”

“It’s not too high in the back?” He was turning his head to one side to see better.

“No, I don’t think so, but if you like we can make it a little lower—a quarter of an inch, say.”

“I’m not trying to be too demanding.”

“No, no,” Conrad assured him. “Not at all. I’ll just make a little note…” He wrote as he talked. “Details are everything. I have had clients… I had a man from a famous family in the city, politically very important, he had two passions, dogs and watches. He owned large numbers of both. He used to write down the precise time at which he went to bed and got up every day. His left cuff was made half an inch bigger than the right, for his wrist watches, of course. They were mostly Vacheron Constantins. Actually, a quarter of an inch would have been enough. His wife, who was in every other respect a saint, called him Doggy. In his monograms was the profile of a schnauzer.

“I have also had customers of the type—I am not being specific—but of the Lepke-Buchalter type. You know who he was?”

“Yes.”

“Gangsters. Well, you know that criminal fashions have often made the transition into chic, but the fact is, these men were marvelous customers.”

“They spent a lot of money?”

“Oh, money… aside from money.” Conrad gestured broadly. “Money was not a consideration. They were so pleased to have someone who paid attention to them, who tried to dress them properly. Pardon me, but what do you do?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m an architect.” It seemed a bit weak after kings of crime.

“An architect,” Conrad said. He paused as if to allow the thought to descend. “Have you done any buildings around here?”

“Not around here.”

“Are you a good architect? Will you show me one of your buildings?”

“That depends, Mr. Conrad, on what the shirts are like.”

Conrad uttered a little sound of appreciation and understanding.

“In that regard,” he said, “I can assure you. I am thirty, no, thirty-one years at my business. I have made some very good shirts, I have made some bad shirts, but altogether I have not failed to learn my art completely. I can say to myself, Conrad, you lack, unfortunately, the proper schooling, your exchequer is a bit frail, but one thing is acknowledged: you know shirts. From cuff to cuff, if I may be permitted. Now, when am I here?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“I was just testing you,” Conrad said.

They chose a cloth that was printed like feathers, feathers of dark green, black, permanganate, another the color of deerskin, and a third the blue of police.

“You don’t think the blue is too blue?”

“A blue cannot be too blue,” Conrad said. “How many shall we make?”

“Well, one of each,” Viri said.

“Three shirts?”

“You’re disappointed.”

“I shall only be disappointed if they are not among your favorite things,” Conrad said. He sounded a bit resigned.

“I am going to send you many customers.”

“I am sure of it.”

“I’ll give you the name of one right now. I don’t know when he’ll be in, but very soon.”

“Tuesday or Thursday,” Conrad warned.

“Naturally. His name is Arnaud Roth.”

“Roth,” Conrad said.

“Arnaud.”

“Tell him I am looking forward eagerly.”

“But you’ll remember the name?”

“Please,” Conrad protested. He was like a patient who has had too long a visit; he seemed somehow worn.

“You’ll find him very amusing,” Viri said.

“I am certain of it.”

“When will these shirts be ready?” he said, putting on his coat.

“In four to six weeks, sir.”

“That long?”

“When you see them, you will be astonished at how quickly they were made.”

Viri smiled. “It was a great pleasure, Mr. Conrad,” he said.

“The pleasure was mine.”

The avenue was dense with people, the sunlight still brilliant; the first commuters, well-dressed, were heading for early trains. The turmoil of traffic was sweet to him as he walked in the flowing crowd. He knew in that moment what all these people were seeking. He understood the city, the teeming streets, autumn days flashing like knives in the highest windows, businessmen issuing from the revolving door of the Sherry-Netherland, the wind-swept park.

In a phone booth he composed a familiar number.

“Yes, hello,” a voice said languidly.

“Arnaud…”

“Hello, Viri.”

“Listen, what is today? Tuesday. On Thursday I want you to meet someone. You will thank me until the end of your life.”

“Where are you, in a brothel?”

“What is that story about the twelve absolutely pure men whose existence is essential to the world?”

“Give me the punch line.”

“No, this is a kind of Sholom Aleichem story. These twelve men—you must know it. They’re scattered over the earth. No one knows who they are, but when one of them dies, he’s immediately replaced. Without them, civilization would crumble, we would sink into chaos, crime, utter disillusion.”

“That’s probably what’s happened; we’re down to four or five.”

“I’ve met one.”

“So that’s it.”

“His name is Conrad.”

“Conrad? Are you kidding? He’s a crook.”

“No, this is a different Conrad. You have to meet him.”

“The last time you told me that, you know what happened?”

“I’m trying to recall.”

“I ended up investing five hundred dollars in a film.”

“Ah, I remember.”

“Conrad, eh? What’s he going to do for me?”

Viri was watching the traffic, the sounds of which came to him faintly, trembling the metal beneath his feet, his gaze drawn past by the gleaming cars.

“He’s going to make you some shirts.”

WINTER COMES. A BITTER COLD. The snow creaks underfoot with a rich, mournful sound. The house is surrounded by white. Hours of sleep, the air chill. The most delicious sleep, is death so warm, so easeful? He is barely awake; he emerges for a moment at first light as if by some instinct, buried, lost. His eyes open slightly, like an animal’s. For a moment he slips from dreams, he sees the sky, the light, nothing is moving, nothing is heard. The hour that is the last hour, the children sleeping, the pony silent in her stall.

The river was frozen. They learned it by telephone.

“Is it really frozen?”

“Yes,” he was assured. “They’re skating.”

“We’ll go.”

Down past the bridge there were great skirts of ice along the banks, and people already out, men in overcoats, women bundled against the cold. They skated in blinding sunshine, scarves about their necks, shouting to each other, the ankles of the smallest children folding like paper. Far out in the channel, the river was gray, the shade of shattered ice. A wind was blowing, a cold wind that burned the fingertips. The little girl with one leg was there. She was three, she had cancer, they had amputated her leg. Before that she had been invisible. Afterwards, on crutches, she became luminous; she took a long time to pass by on the sidewalk or sat in the car, unable to leave it, her small face in profile, unmoving. Her name was Monica. She had two brothers, small teeth, never a smile. She was the martyr of a desperate family; they hated themselves when they were impatient with her. They lived in an ugly house, a house the color of chilblains, brick, a few naked bushes at each end. In the stinging cold her father pulled her along the ice in a sort of curved, aluminum plate. She sat gravely, not speaking, her gloved hands holding the rim.