James Salter - Last Night

— I don’t know. I just wasn’t interested in the things he was interested in.

— Such as? Kathrin said.

— Everything.

— Give us an idea.

— The usual stuff.

— What?

— Anal sex, Jane said. She’d made it up, on an impulse. She wanted to break through somehow.

— Oh, God, Kathrin said. Makes me think of my ex.

— Malcolm, said Leslie, so, where is Malcolm? Are you still in touch?

— He’s over in Europe. No, I never hear from him.

Malcolm wrote for a business magazine. He was short, but a very careful dresser — beautiful, striped suits and shined shoes.

— I wonder how I ever married him, Kathrin said. I wasn’t very foresighted.

— Oh, I can see how it happened, Leslie said. In fact, I saw how it happened. He’s very sexy.

— For one thing, it was because of his sister. She was great. We were friends from the first minute. God, this is strong, Kathrin said.

— You want a little more water?

— Yes. She gave me my first oyster. Am I supposed to eat that? I said. I’ll show you how, she said, just throw them back and swallow. It was at the bar in Grand Central. Once I had them I couldn’t stop. She was so completely up front. Are you sleeping with Malcolm? she asked me. We’d hardly met. She wanted to know what it was like, if he was as good as he looked.

Kathrin had drunk a lot of wine in the restaurant and a cocktail before that. Her lips glistened.

— What was her name? Jane asked.

— Enid.

— Oh, beautiful name.

— So, anyway, he and I went off — this was before we were married. We had this room with nothing in it but a window and a bed. That’s when I was introduced to it.

— To what? Leslie said.

— In the ass.

— And?

— I liked it.

Jane was suddenly filled with admiration for her, admiration and embarrassment. This was not like the thing she had made up, it was actual. Why couldn’t I ever admit something like that? she thought.

— But you got divorced, she said.

— Well, there’s a lot beside that in life. We got divorced because I got tired of him chasing around. He was always covering stories in one place or another, but one time in London the phone rang at two in the morning and he went into the next room to talk. That’s when I found out. Of course, she was just one of them.

— You’re not drinking, Leslie said to Jane.

— Yes, I am.

— Anyway, we got divorced, Kathrin went on. So, now it’ll be both of us, she said to Leslie. Join the club.

— Are you really getting divorced? Jane asked.

— It’ll be a relief.

— How long has it been? Six years?

— Seven.

— That’s a long time.

— A very long time.

— How did you meet? Jane said.

— How did we meet? Through bad luck, Leslie said — she was pouring more scotch into her glass. Actually, we met when he fell off a boat. I was going out with his cousin at the time. We were sailing, and Bunning claimed he had to do it to get my attention.

— That’s so funny.

— Later, he changed his story and said he fell and it had to be some where.

Bunning’s first name was actually Arthur, Arthur Bunning Hasset, but he hated the Arthur. Everyone liked him. His family owned a button factory and a big house in Bedford called Ha Ha, where he was brought up. In theory he wrote plays, at least one of which was close to being a success and had an off-Broadway run, but after that things became difficult. He had a secretary named Robin — she was called his assistant — who found him incredible and unpredictable, not to mention hilarious, and Leslie herself had always been amused by him, at least for several years, but then the drinking started.

The end had come a week or so before. They were invited to an opening night by a theatrical lawyer and his wife. First there was dinner, and at the restaurant, Bunning, who had started drinking at the apartment, ordered a martini.

— Don’t, Leslie said.

He ignored her and was entertaining for a while but then sat silent and drinking while Leslie and the couple went on with the conversation. Suddenly Bunning said in a clear voice,

— Who are these people?

There was a silence.

— Really, who are they? Bunning asked again.

The lawyer coughed a little.

— We’re their guests, Leslie said coldly.

Bunning’s thoughts seemed to pass to something else and a few moments later he got up to go to the men’s room. Half an hour passed. Finally Leslie saw him at the bar. He was drinking another martini. His expression was unfocused and childlike.

— Where’ve you been? he asked. I’ve been looking all over for you.

She was infuriated.

— This is the end, she said.

— No, really, where have you been? he insisted.

She began to cry.

— I’m going home, he decided.

Still, she remembered the summer mornings in New England when they were first married. Outside the window the squirrels were running down the trunk of a great tree, headfirst, curling to the unseen side of it, their wonderful bushy tails. She remembered driving to little summer theaters, the old iron bridges, cows lying in the wide doorway of a barn, cut cornfields, the smooth slow look of nameless rivers, the beautiful, calm countryside — how happy one is.

— You know, she said, Marge is crazy about him. Marge was her mother. That should have been the tip-off.

She went to get more ice and in the hallway caught sight of herself in a mirror.

— Have you ever decided this is as far as you can go? she said, coming back in.

— What do you mean? said Kathrin.

Leslie sat down beside her. They were really two of a kind, she decided. They’d been bridesmaids at one another’s wedding. They were truly close.

— I mean, have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror and said, I can’t. . this is it.

— What do you mean?

— With men.

— You’re just sore at Bunning.

— Who really needs them?

— Are you kidding?

— You want me to tell you something I’ve found out?

— What?

— I don’t know. . Leslie said helplessly.

— What were you going to say?

— Oh. My theory. . My theory is, they remember you longer if you don’t do it.

— Maybe, Kathrin said, but then, what’s the point?

— It’s just my theory. They want to divide and conquer.

— Divide?

— Something like that.

Jane had had less to drink. She wasn’t feeling well. She had spent the afternoon waiting to talk to the doctor and emerging onto the unreal street.

She was wandering around the room and picked up a photograph of Leslie and Bunning taken around the time they got married.

— So, what’s going to happen to Bunning? she asked.

— Who knows? Leslie said. He’s going to go on like he’s going. Some woman will decide she can straighten him out. Let’s dance. I feel like dancing.

She made for the CD player and began looking through the CDs until she found one she liked and put it on. There was a moment’s pause and then an uneven, shrieking wail began, much too loud. It was bagpipes.

— Oh, God, she cried, stopping it. It was in the wrong. . it’s one of his.

She found another and a low, insistent drumbeat started slowly, filling the room. She began dancing to it. Kathrin began, too. Then a singer or several of them became part of it, repeating the same words over and over. Kathrin paused to take a drink.

— Don’t, Leslie said. Don’t drink too much.

— Why?

— You won’t be able to perform.

— Perform what?

Leslie turned to Jane and motioned.

— Come on.

— No, I don’t really. .

— Come on.