James Salter - Last Night

— That’s a little hard to believe.

— It never measures up, that’s the trouble. It’s never what it should be or used to be. How old are you now? You look a little heavier. Do you exercise? Do you go to the steam room and look down at yourself?

— I don’t have the time.

— Well, if you had more time. If you were free you’d be able to steam, shower, put on fresh clothes, and, let’s see, not too early to go down to, what, the Odeon and have a drink and see if anyone’s there, any girls. You could have the bartender offer them a drink or simply talk to them yourself, ask if they were doing anything for dinner, if they had any plans. As easy as that. You always liked good teeth. You liked slim arms and, how to put it, great tits, not necessarily big — good-sized, that’s all. And long legs. Do you still like to tie their hands? You used to like to, it’s always exciting to find out if they’ll let you do it or not. Tell me, Chris, did you love me?

— Love you? He was leaning back in the chair. For the first time she had the impression he might have been drinking a little more than usual these days. Just the look of his face. I thought about you every minute of the day, he said. I loved everything you did. What I liked was that you were absolutely new and everything you said and did was. You were incomparable. With you I felt I had everything in life, everything anyone ever dreamed of. I adored you.

— Like no other woman?

— There was no one even close. I could have feasted on you forever. You were the intended.

— And Pam? You didn’t feast on her?

— A little. Pam is something different.

— In what way?

— Pam doesn’t take all that and offer it to someone else. I don’t come back from a trip unexpectedly and find an unmade bed where you and some guy have been having a lovely time

— It wasn’t that lovely.

— That’s too bad.

— It was far from lovely.

— So, why did you do it, then?

— I don’t know. I just had the foolish impulse to try something different. I didn’t know that real happiness lies in having the same thing all the time.

She looked at her hands. He noticed again her long, flexible thumbs.

— Isn’t that right? she asked coolly.

— Don’t be nasty. Anyway, what do you know about true happiness?

— Oh, I’ve had it.

— Really?

— Yes, she said. With you.

He looked at her. She did not return his look, nor was she smiling.

— I’m going to Bangkok, she said. Well, Hong Kong first. Have you ever stayed at the Peninsula Hotel?

— I’ve never been to Hong Kong.

— They say it’s the greatest hotel anywhere, Berlin, Paris, Tokyo.

— Well, I wouldn’t know.

— You’ve been to hotels. Remember Venice and that little hotel by the theater? The water in the street up to your knees?

— I have a lot of work to do, Carol.

— Oh, come on.

— I have a business.

— Then how much is this e.e. cummings? she said. I’ll buy it and you can take a few minutes off.

— It’s already sold, he said.

— Still has the price in it.

He shrugged a little.

— Answer me about Venice, she said.

— I remember the hotel. Now let’s say good-bye.

— I’m going to Bangkok with a friend.

He felt a phantom skip of the heart, however slight.

— Good, he said.

— Molly. You’d like her.

— Molly.

— We’re traveling together. You know Daddy died.

— I didn’t know that.

— Yes, a year ago. He died. So my worries are over. It’s a nice feeling.

— I suppose. I liked your father.

He’d been a man in the oil business, sociable, with certain freely admitted prejudices. He wore expensive suits and had been divorced twice but managed to avoid loneliness.

— We’re going to stay in Bangkok for a couple of months, perhaps come back through Europe, Carol said. Molly has a lot of style. She was a dancer. What was Pam, wasn’t she a teacher or something? Well, you love Pam, you’d love Molly. You don’t know her, but you would. She paused. Why don’t you come with us? she said.

Hollis smiled slightly.

— Shareable, is she? he said.

— You wouldn’t have to share.

It was meant to torment him, he knew.

— Leave my family and business, just like that?

— Gauguin did it.

— I’m a little more responsible than that. Maybe it’s something you would do.

— If it were a choice, she said. Between life and. .

— What?

— Life and a kind of pretend life. Don’t act as if you didn’t understand. There’s nobody that understands better than you.

He felt an unwanted resentment. That the hunt be over, he thought. That it be ended. He heard her continue.

— Travel. The Orient. The air of a different world. Bathe, drink, read. .

— You and me.

— And Molly. As a gift.

— Well, I don’t know. What does she look like?

— She’s good-looking, what would you expect? I’ll undress her for you.

— I’ll tell you something funny, Hollis said, something I heard. They say that everything in the universe, the planets, all the galaxies, everything — the entire universe — came originally from something the size of a grain of rice that exploded and formed what we have now, the sun, stars, earth, seas, everything there is, including what I felt for you. That morning on Hudson Street, sitting there in the sunlight, feet up, fulfilled and knowing it, talking, in love with one another — I knew I had everything life would ever offer.

— You felt that?

— Of course. Anyone would. I remember it all, but I can’t feel it now. It’s passed.

— That’s sad.

— I have something more than that now. I have a wife I love and a kid.

— It’s such a cliché, isn’t it? A wife I love.

— It’s just the truth.

— And you’re looking forward to the years together, the ecstasy.

— It’s not ecstasy.

— You’re right.

— You can’t have ecstasy daily.

— No, but you can have something as good, she said. You can have the anticipation of it.

— Good. Go ahead and have it. You and Molly.

— I’ll think of you, Chris, in the house we’ll have on the river in Bangkok.

— Oh, don’t bother.

— I’ll think of you lying in bed at night, bored to death with it all.

— Quit it, for God’s sake. Leave it alone. Let me like you a little bit.

— I don’t want you to like me. In a half-whisper she said, I want you to curse me.

— Keep it up.

— It’s so sweet, she said. The little family, the lovely books. All right, then. You missed your chance. Bye-bye. Go back and give her a bath, your little girl. While you still can, anyway.

She looked at him a last time from the doorway. He could hear the sound of her heels as she went through the front room. He could hear them go past the display cases and toward the door where they seemed to hesitate, then the door closing.

The room was swimming, he could not hold on to his thoughts. The past, like a sudden tide, had swept back over him, not as it had been but as he could not help remembering it. The best thing was to resume work. He knew what her skin felt like, it was silky. He should not have listened.

On the soft, silent keys he began to write: Jack Kerouac, typed letter signed (“Jack”), 1 page, to his girlfriend, the poet Lois Sorrells, single-spaced, signed in pencil, slight crease from folding. It was not a pretend life.

NEWELL HAD MARRIED a Czech girl and they were having trouble, they were drinking and fighting. This was in Kaiserslautern and families in the building had complained. Westerveldt, who was acting adjutant, was sent to straighten things out — he and Newell had been classmates, though Newell was not someone in the class you remembered. He was quiet and kept to himself. He had an odd appearance, with a high, domed forehead and pale eyes. Jana, the wife, had a downturned mouth and nice breasts. Westerveldt didn’t really know her. He knew her by sight.