James Salter - Last Night

— If you mean you would try to implicate me, I can only say that would be futile and foolish.

— But you wouldn’t be able to deny it, Brian said stubbornly.

— I’d most certainly deny it. It would just be seen as a frantic attempt to deflect your guilt and blacken others. No one would believe it, I assure you. Most important, Pamela would back me up.

— What an incredible, what a pompous statement. No, she won’t.

— Yes, she will. I’ve taken care of that.

He was not to see or speak to her again, without explanation or any farewell.

— I don’t believe it, Brian said.

He did not stay. He pushed back his chair, dropped his napkin on the table, and, excusing himself, left. Brule continued with lunch. He told the waiter to cancel the other order.

The earrings were still in his pocket. He set them in front of him and tried to call. She was away from her desk, her voice said. Please leave a message. He hung up. He felt a terrifying urgency; every minute was unbearable. He thought of going to her office but it would be difficult to talk to her there. She was away from her desk, in someone else’s office. Even that caused him unhappiness and envy. He thought of the hotel bar. In she had come in a short black skirt and high heels, on her white neck an opaque, blue necklace. With Brule it could not have been anything but sordid, some suggestion in that low voice, some clumsy act on a couch. What could it have been on her part except resignation, finally? He called again, and three or four more times during the afternoon, leaving the message to please call back, it was important.

At six, he somehow made his way home. It was one of those evenings like the beginning of a marvelous performance in which everyone somehow had a role. Lights had come on in the windows, the sidewalk restaurants were filling, children were running home late from playing in the park, the promise of fulfillment was everywhere. In the elevator a pretty woman he did not recognize was carrying a large bunch of flowers somewhere upstairs. She avoided looking at him.

He let himself into his apartment and immediately felt its emptiness. The furniture stood silently. The kitchen seemed cold, as if it had never known use. He walked around aimlessly and dropped into a chair. It was six-thirty. She would be home by now, he decided. She wasn’t. He made a drink and sat with it, sipping and thinking or rather letting the same helpless thoughts eat deeper, unalterable, as evening slowly filled the room. He turned on some lights and called her again.

The anguish was unbearable. She had been annoyed, but surely that was only at the moment. It could not be that. She had been frightened by Brule somehow. She was not the sort of person to be easily frightened. He made another drink and continued to call. Sometime after ten — his heart leapt — she answered.

— Oh, God, he said, I’ve been calling you all day. Where have you been? I’ve been frantic to talk to you. I had to have lunch with Brule; it was disgusting. I walked out. Has he talked to you?

— Yes, she said.

— I was afraid so. What did he say?

— It’s not that.

— Of course it’s that. He made some threats. Look, I’m coming over.

— No, don’t.

— Then you come here.

— I can’t, she said.

— Of course you can. You can do anything you want. I feel so terrible. He wanted to prevent me from talking to you. Listen, darling. This may take a little time to work out. We’ll have to lie a little low. You know I’m crazy about you. You know no one in the world has ever meant more to me. Whatever he said, nothing can affect that.

— I suppose.

He felt something then, a crack, a fissure. He had the sense of something impending and unbearable.

— It’s not you suppose. You know it. Tell me something, tell me the truth. When did it happen between you and him? I just want to know. Before?

— I don’t want to talk about it now, she said.

— Just tell me.

Suddenly something he hadn’t thought of came to him. He suddenly understood why she was so hesitant.

— Tell me one thing, he said. Does he want to keep seeing you?

— No.

— Is that the truth? You’re telling me the truth?

Sitting in a chair near her, legs sprawled like a lord, was Tahar with a bored look of patience.

— Yes, it’s the truth, she said.

— I don’t know what the solution is, but I know there is one, Brian assured her.

Tahar could hear only her end of the conversation and did not know who it was with, but he made a slight motion with his chin that said, finish with that. Pam nodded a little in agreement. Tahar did not drink but he offered a powerful intoxicant: darkened skin, white teeth, and a kind of strange perfume that clung even to his clothes. He offered rooms above the souk with a view of the city one could not even imagine, nights of an intense blueness, mornings when you had drifted far from the familiar world. Brian was someone she would remember, perhaps someone she could always call.

Tahar made another gesture of slight annoyance. For him, it was only the beginning.

LATE ONE AFTERNOON, near the close, his assistant, Kenny, palm over the mouthpiece, said there was someone named Noreen on the phone.

— You know her, she says.

— Noreen? I’ll take it, Arthur said. Just a minute.

He got up and closed the door to his cubicle. He was still visible through the glass as he sat and turned toward the window, distancing himself from all that was going on, the dozens of customers’ men, some of them women, which once would have been unthinkable, looking at their screens and talking on the phone. His heart was tripping faster when he spoke.

— Hello?

— Arthur?

The one word and a kind of shiver went through him, a frightened happiness, as when your name is called by the teacher.

— It’s Noreen, she said.

— Noreen. How are you? God, it’s been a long time. Where are you?

— I’m here. I’m living back here now, she said.

— No kidding. What happened?

— We broke up.

— That’s too bad, he said. I’m sorry to hear that.

He always seemed completely sincere, even in the most ordinary comments.

— It was a mistake, she said. I never should have done it. I should have known.

The floor around the desk was strewn with paper, reports, annual statements with their many numbers. That was not his strength. He liked to talk to people, he could talk and tell stories all day. And he was known to be honest. He had taken as models the old-timers, men long gone such as Henry Braver, Patsy Millinger’s father, who’d been a partner and had started before the war. Onassis had been one of his clients. Braver had an international reputation as well as a nose for the real thing. Arthur didn’t have the nose, but he could talk and listen. There were all kinds of ways of making money in this business. His way was finding one or two big winners to go down and double on. And he talked to his clients every day.

— Mark, how are you, tootsula? You ought to be here. The numbers came in on Micronics. They’re all crying. We were so smart not to get involved in that. Sweetheart, you want to know something? There are some very smart guys here who’ve taken a bath. He lowered his voice. Morris, for one.

— Morris? They should give him an injection. Put him to sleep.

— He was a little too smart this time. Living through the Depression didn’t help this time.

Morris had a desk near the copy machine, a courtesy desk. He had been a partner, but after he retired there was nothing to do — he hated Florida and didn’t play golf — and so he came back to the firm and traded for himself. His age alone set him apart. He was a relic with perfect, false teeth and lived in some amberoid world with an aged wife. They all joked about him. The years had left him, as if marooned, alone at his desk and in an apartment on Park Avenue no one had ever been to.