Light Years (15 page)

“You’re a lucky fellow,” Arnaud was saying. From the house they seemed immobile, as if posed. The sheets of foliage drifted above them. The corner of the tablecloth blew gently back. “You’ve reached shore.”

Viri did not reply. The vast, mild sway of summer moved the canopy of leaves, sifted through them, made them shimmer.

“You’re responding to a greater reality than other men, Viri. I mean, I could give examples, but it’s manifest. This is a kind of heaven.”

“Yes, well, it isn’t all me,” Viri said.

“It’s largely you.”

“No, you brought the cigars.” He paused. “The fact is, it’s not what it appears. I’m too easy-going.”

“What do you mean?”

“Women should be kept in cages. Otherwise …” He didn’t finish. Finally he said, “Otherwise, I don’t know.”

10

THEIR FRIENDS THAT YEAR WERE
Marina and Gerald Troy. She was an actress—she had played in Strindberg—her eyes were a piercing blue. She was rich. There was nothing recent in this wealth, it shone in everything: her skin, her fine smile. She went to the gymnasium three times a week, to an old Greek named Leon; his arms were still strong at eighty, his hair pure white.

Nedra began to go too. She had always been indifferent to sports, but from the first hours in the emptiness of the main room with its soiled windows above the traffic, the devoutness of the old man, the companionship, she felt she belonged to it. The showers were clean; the spareness, the green walls appealed to her. Her body awakened, she was suddenly aware that within it, as if existing by themselves, there were deep feelings of strength. When it was extended, hung upside down, when the muscles beneath were warmed and loose, when she felt like a young runner, she realized how much she could love this body, this vessel which would one day betray her—no, she did not believe that; the opposite, in fact. There were times she felt its immortality: on cool mornings, summer nights alone lying naked on top of the covers, in baths, while dressing, before love, in the sea, when limb-weary and ready to sleep.

She had lunch with Eve or Marina, sometimes with both. Noons when the restaurants filled with patrons, clamor, a perfect, calm light. In her handbag was a fresh letter from Europe which she had only glanced at, hastily scanned, the sight of the envelope was enough, the splash of its blue and red edge, the feverish handwriting. Robert had appeared sick and self-deluded, whining, sainted. He was being treated for his thyroid condition in a clinic near Reims.
Two years from now I can hear people saying: Your play is extraordinary. And my answer: It took me ten years to perfect my craftsmanship. I am wrestling with giants here. Every morning I wake up in a sweat, ready for the struggle. The impact is great, but I am never defeated. It is the rehearsals I miss, to attend them and see the progress the actors make. My being there is an absolute necessity. My eye and ear criticize every move and every intonation. I listen to the “commas” of the play as if they were drops falling from a fountain. Dis moi comment vont tout tes affaires. I am alone
.

The room was nearly empty. It was that still, central hour of the day, slow, deliquescent, two-thirty or three, the invisible cigarette smoke mingled with the air, the peel of lemon beside the empty cups, the traffic on the avenue silent, floating past as if in death, women in their thirties, talking.

“Neil is sick. He has diabetes,” Eve said.

“Diabetes?”

“That’s what they say.”

“Isn’t that hereditary?”

They sat at a table near the front. The waiter was watching them from near the bar. He was in love with them, their leisure, low voices, the confidences which involved them so.

“I just hope my son doesn’t get it,” Eve said. “Neil is a mess. I’m surprised that’s all he has.”

“He’s still living with whatever her name is?”

“As far as I know. She’s so stupid she wouldn’t know what to do for him anyway. She only has one … I don’t know what to call it … quality.”

“In bed, you mean?”

“She’s twenty-two, that’s her quality. Poor Neil, he’s like a jellyfish. His teeth are rotting out.”

“He looks terrible.”

“I don’t think he could even pick up a woman in a bar, in the dark. It serves him right, but it’s awful for Anthony to see him like that. It’s so sad. And he likes his father, he always has. They’ve always been close.”

“It’s so much easier when there are two of you,” Nedra said. “I couldn’t have raised my children alone. Oh, of course, I could have, but I see in them qualities that aren’t mine or a reaction against mine, that come from Viri. Anyway, I think girls need a male presence. It brings them to life in certain ways.”

“Boys are the same.”

“I suppose.”

“Why don’t you share Viri with me?” Eve asked. She laughed. “I’m not serious.”

“Share him?” Nedra said. “Well, I don’t know. I’ve never thought of it.”

“I didn’t really mean it.”

“I don’t think it would work, not with Viri. Now Arnaud …”

“You’re right,” Eve said.

“Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, I think he would be better with two women.”

“But you’re much neater than I am.”

“I think you’re more understanding.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yes,” Nedra said. “And it’s natural. I’m sure it would end with him loving you more. Yes, it’s true.”

They emerged from the narrow doorway unhurried, fond. On Lexington Avenue the traffic was endless, cars from the suburbs, taxis, dark limousines that floated over the ruts. They strolled. The streets were like rivers fed by tributaries along which they lingered, glancing at windows in which their reflections appeared. There were shops Nedra felt drawn toward, places where she had bought things, tablecloths, scent. Sometimes the stare of a salesgirl, idle, alone, met hers above displays of books, by stands of wine. She was not hurried; she did not smile. It was the intelligence in her face that struck them, the grace. It was someone whose face they had seen, someone who possessed everything—leisure, friends, the hours of a day were like a hand of cards. On these same avenues Viri walked alone. The rise of one is the fall of the other. His mind was filled with details, appointments; in the sunlight his skin looked dry.

She drove home in early traffic, between the cars of women returning from the doctor’s and men whose work was ended. The trees were beginning to change.

Five in the afternoon. She arranged her hair before the mirror in her room, her hands were pale. She smoothed her cheeks, her mouth, as if pressing away traces of an event. There was no event, she was preparing for one: a telephone call, a piece of music, half an hour of reading.

It was the telephone. The voice of Mrs. Dahlander, wavering, composed.

“Could you come to the hospital?” she asked. “My husband’s not here. Leslie fell from a horse.”

It had happened an hour before. She was riding alone. No one saw the gallop, the stumble, the moment in which she sprawled through air in a position like a joke and then hit and lay still while her horse stopped and began to graze. The meadow was empty, invisible from the road.

At the hospital they pronounced it grave, a concussion. She was still unconscious. Her face was bruised. Her head had struck a rock. She was adopted, an only child. The doctor was explaining the urgency, the risk, to her stupefied parent. It was in the waiting room of the children’s wing. Torn books were piled on the shelves, there were blocks on the floor. If the bleeding within the skull continued, it would exert fatal pressure on the brain.

“What can you do?”

“We’ll have to operate.”

The neurosurgeon was already visible in a green smock.

“We have to have your permission.”

She turned to Nedra, begging. “What shall I do?”

They questioned the doctor again. Patiently he described it once more. It was dinnertime; the streets were becoming dark. The forgotten horse, still bridled, stood in the empty field. The grass was turning cold.

“I want to wait for my husband.”

“We can’t wait.”

She turned to Nedra again. “I want to wait for him,” she pleaded. “Don’t you think I should wait?”

“I don’t know if you can,” Nedra said.

The barren woman nodded, gave up. She crumpled, yes, all right, save her. There was just a glimpse as the child rolled past, mortally still. She was gone for hours, she emerged like a broken doll, eyes closed, head in white bandages. That night she was placed in ice. The pressure within the shaved head continued to mount. The surgeon was called at midnight. He found her parents waiting.

“We’ll know by morning,” he told them.

A morning when Viri in the last of sleep saw a woman in a beautiful dress arrive at the elevator in a great hotel. It was Kaya. She did not see him. There were two men with her wearing dinner jackets. He did not want to be seen: his ordinary clothes, his teeth, his thinning hair. He saw them enter the elevator, ascend to a roof garden, a party, to an elegance he could not imagine, and suddenly he knew she was no longer the same; she was captured at last.

In the house on the river he dreamed in the early morning. Autumn, alone in his sleep, the rooms cool, deserted, winds from the Hudson washing him like a corpse.

11

THE FIRST SNOWS FELL. IT WAS
like midwinter, the windows took on a chill. One could lie in bed in darkness and watch the coming of light.

On Thanksgiving Day there was a dazzling storm. Hadji was joyous. He leapt through the white like a porpoise, rolled on his back, ran wildly, bit at the snow. Danny could see him turn, far off, and look for her: black eyes, kohl eyes, tall alert ears.

“Here, Snowboy,” she called. “Come here.”

His ears lay back as he ran; he would not obey. She clapped her hands. He ran in great, drunken circles, sometimes pausing to lie in the snow and watch her with foxlike glances. She kept calling. He barked.

“You bastard,” she cried.

All through December, it seemed, there were dinners. Discussions of the menu, the guests. Shrimp, Viri said, yes, all right, shrimp, but not gazpacho, he insisted. It was not the weather for gazpacho; it was too cold.

“Not by the fire,” Nedra said.

“But there’s no fire in the dining room,” he cried.

She did not answer. She was hard at work. Who had she finally invited, he asked?

“The Ayashes,” she said.

“The Ayashes!”

“Viri, we have to. I mean, I don’t really care, but it’s embarrassing.”

“Who else?”

“Vera Cray.”

“What is this? The county home for the aged?”

“She’s a marvelous woman. She hasn’t been out since her husband died.”

“Yes, I believe that,” he said. “But they’re not going to mix. Mrs. Ayashe is an idiot. Vera is very intense.”

“You’ll be sitting between them.”

“Not all night.”

“Give them plenty to drink,” she said. “Do you want to taste something?”

It was the
pâté maison
. “Oh!” he moaned.

“What?”

“It’s brilliant!”

“Try it with mustard,” she said.

They were having Meursault,
fromages
, pastries from Leonard’s.

“It’s going to be a wonderful dinner,” he said. He thought for a moment. “Perhaps we won’t have to talk.”

Two weeks later they were having Viri’s client who had bought some old brick houses and land near Croton and wanted to make them over into a compound. The original structures would be included in a larger, more elegant whole, much as ancient sculpture embedded in villa walls. His name was S. Michael Warner; he was also known as Queen Mab.

“He’s bringing Bill Hale.”

“Oh, shit,” Nedra said.

“You don’t even know him.”

“You’re right. And he couldn’t be worse than Michael, could he?”

“Nedra, he’s my client.”

“Oh, you know I adore him.”

An entire day was consecrated to preparations. She shopped for hours in her favorite stores.

By evening the house was ready. There were flowers beneath the lamps, the curtains were drawn, the fire crackled behind the Hessians’ iron knees. Nedra wore a quilted dress of dark blue and rose. Her belt was sewn with small, silver bells, her hair was drawn back, her neck bare.

Her face was cool and gleaming. Her laugh was gorgeous, it was like applause.

Michael Warner was immaculate, a man of forty-five with the ease and smile of someone who notices every mistake. He was charmed by Nedra. He recognized in her a woman who would not betray him. She would never be banal or foolish.

“This is Bill Hale.”

“Hello, Bill,” she said warmly.

A strange, winter party. Dr. Reinhart and his wife were late, but they arrived at just the right moment. They were like the last players for whom the game has waited. They seated themselves as if knowing exactly what was expected. Reinhart had wonderful manners. This wife was his third.

“You’re a doctor, of medicine?” Michael confirmed.

“Yes.” He was in research, however, he explained. A form of research. In fact, he was writing.

“Like Chekhov,” his wife said. She had a slight accent.

“Well, not exactly.”

“Chekhov
was
a doctor, wasn’t he?” Michael said.

“There have been a number—who have become writers, that is. Of course, I don’t mean to include myself. I’m only writing a biography.”

“Really?” Bill said. “I adore biography.”

“Who is the subject of it?” Nedra asked.

“It’s actually a … it’s a multiple biography,” Reinhart said. He accepted a drink gratefully. “Thank you. It’s the lives of children of famous men.”

“How interesting.”

“Dickens, Mozart, Karl Marx.” He sipped his drink as a patient might sip a glass of juice, an educated patient, frail, resigned. “Even their names are fascinating. Plorn, that was Dickens’ last child. Stanwix, that was the son of Melville.”

“And what becomes of them?” Nedra asked.

“Well, there isn’t a fixed pattern. But perhaps it could be there are more misfortunes than with other children, more sorrows.”