James Salter - Last Night

— Chicken Vesuvio, Arthur said.

— It was pretty good.

— So you met his mother.

— I’m too skinny, she said.

— She sounds like my mother. Are you sure she’s Italian?

She liked Bobby, at least a little, he could see. Still it was difficult to think of him as being really significant. He was someone to talk about. He wanted her to go away on a weekend with him.

— To the Euripides, Arthur said, his stomach suddenly turning over.

— Not that good.

The Euripides Hotel that didn’t exist, but that they always joked about because he didn’t know who Euripides was.

— Don’t let him take you to the Euripides, he said.

— I couldn’t do that. It’s a Greek place, she said. For us Greeks.

Then, late one night in October, his doorbell rang.

— Who is it? Arthur said.

— It’s me.

He opened the door. She stood in the doorway with a smile that he saw had hesitation in it.

— Can I come in?

— Sure, tootsula. Of course. Come in. What’s happened, is something wrong?

— There’s nothing wrong, really. I just thought I would. . come by.

The room was clean but somehow barren. He never sat in it and as much as read a book. He lived in the bedroom like a salesman. The curtains hadn’t been washed in a long time.

— Here, sit down, he said.

She was walking a bit carefully. She had been drinking, he could see. She felt her way around a chair and sat.

— You want something? Coffee? I’ll make some coffee.

She was looking around her.

— You know, I’ve never been here. This is the first time.

— It’s not much of a place. I guess I could find something better.

— Is that the bedroom?

— Yes, he said, but her gaze had drifted from it.

— I just wanted to talk.

— Sure. About what?

He knew, or was afraid he did.

— We’ve known each other a long time. What has it been, three years?

He felt nervous. The aimless way it was going. He didn’t want to disappoint her. On the other hand, he was not sure what it was she wanted. Him? Now?

— You’re pretty smart, she said.

— Me? Oh, God, no.

— You understand people. Can you really make some coffee? I think I’d like a cup.

While he busied himself, she sat quietly. He glanced briefly and saw her staring toward the window, beyond which were the lights of apartments in other buildings and the black, starless sky.

— So, she said, holding the coffee, give me some advice. Bobby wants to get married.

Arthur was silent.

— He wants to marry me. The reason I was never serious about him, I was always making fun of him, his being so Italian, his big smile, the reason was that he was involved all that time with some Danish girl. Ode is her name.

— I figured something like that.

— What did you figure?

— Ah, I could see something wasn’t right.

— I never met her. I imagined her as being pretty and having this great accent. You know how you torture yourself.

— Ah, Noreen, he said. There’s nobody nicer than you.

— Anyway, yesterday he told me he’d broken up with her. It was all over. He did it because of me. He realized it was me he loved, and he wanted to marry me.

— Well, that’s. .

Arthur didn’t know what to say; his thoughts were skipping wildly, like scraps of paper in a wind. There is that fearful moment in the ceremony when it is asked if there is anyone who knows why these two should not be wed. This was that moment.

— What did you tell him?

— I haven’t told him.

A gulf was opening between them somehow. It was happening as they sat there.

— Do you have any feeling about it? she asked.

— Yes, I mean, I’d like to think about it. It’s kind of a surprise.

— It was to me, too.

She hadn’t touched the coffee.

— You know, I could sit here for a long time, she said. It’s as comfortable as I’ll ever feel anywhere. That’s what’s making me wonder. About what to tell him.

— I’m a little afraid, he said. I can’t explain it.

— Of course you are. Her voice had such understanding. Really. I know.

— Your coffee’s going to get cold, he said.

— Anyway, I just wanted to see your apartment, she said. Her voice suddenly sounded funny. She seemed not to want to go on.

He realized then, as she sat there, a woman in his apartment at night, a woman he knew he loved, that she was really giving him one last chance. He knew he should take it.

— Ah, Noreen, he said.

After that night, she vanished. Not suddenly, but it did not take long. She married Bobby. It was as simple as a death, but it lasted longer. It seemed it would never go away. She lingered in his thoughts. Did he exist in hers? he often wondered. Did she still feel, even if only a little, the way he felt? The years seemed to have no effect on it. She was in New Jersey somewhere, in some place he could not picture. Probably there was a family. Did she ever think of him? Ah, Noreen.

SHE HAD NOT CHANGED. He could tell it from her voice, speaking, as always, to him alone.

— You probably have kids, he said as if casually.

— He didn’t want them. Just one of the problems. Well, all that’s acqua passata, as he liked to say. You didn’t know I got divorced?

— No.

— I more or less kept in touch with Marie up until she retired. She told me how you were doing. You’re a big wheel now.

— Not really.

— I knew you would be. It would be nice to see you again. How long has it been?

— Gee, a long time.

— You ever go out to Westhampton?

— No, not for years.

— Goldie’s?

— He closed.

— I guess I knew that. Those were wonderful days.

It was the same, the ease of talking to her. He saw her great, winning smile, the well-being of it, her carefree walk.

— I’d love to see you, she said again.

They agreed to meet at the Plaza. She was going to be near there the next day.

He began walking up Fifth a little before five. He felt uncertain but tenderhearted, in the hands of a wondrous fate. The hotel stood before him, immense and vaguely white. He walked up the broad steps. There was a kind of foyer with a large table and flowers, the sound of people talking. As if, like an animal, he could detect the slightest noise, he seemed to make out the clink of cups and spoons.

There were flower boxes with pink flowers, the tall columns with their gilded tops, and in the Palm Court itself, which was crowded, through a glass panel he saw her sitting in a chair. For a moment he was not sure it was her. He moved away. Had she seen him?

He could not go in. He turned instead and went down the corridor to the men’s room. An old man in black pants and a striped vest, the attendant, offered a towel as Arthur looked at himself in the long mirror to see if he had changed that much, too. He saw a man of fifty-five with the same Coney Island face he had always seen, half comic, kind. No worse than that. He gave the attendant a dollar and walked into the Palm Court, where, amid the chattering tables, the mock candelabra, and illuminated ceiling, Noreen was waiting. He was wearing his familiar dog’s smile.

— Arthur, God, you look exactly the same. You haven’t changed a bit, she said enthusiastically. I wish I could say that.

It was hard to believe. She was twenty years older; she had gained weight, even her face showed it. She had been the most beautiful girl.

— You look great, he said. I’d recognize you anywhere.

— Life’s been good to you, she said.

— Well, I can’t complain.

— I guess I can’t either. What happened to everybody?

— What do you mean?

— Morris?