Light Years (17 page)

“Danny will be beautiful,” Larry said. He was watching as she sat with the others, a plate in her lap. “She’s different from Franca,” he said. “Franca was always beautiful, she simply grows like a cat. I mean, from the very first she had claws, a tail, everything was there, but in Danny’s case something more mysterious is happening. It will all come slowly. It will only appear at the end.”

Beyond them was the sleeping grass, dry from the winter, warmed by the sun.

“She’s like that in many ways,” Viri said. “She has traits that are more or less awkward, even disturbing, but I have the feeling they’ll make sense later.”

“Your children give you something very special,” Larry said. “Sheltering them, knowing them. But that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

Viri was silent. He knew their situation. Rae sat down beside them.

“Why don’t you take some photos?” she asked.

“I’m out of film.”

“Oh, you have film.”

“No, I’m out.”

“I told you to stop and get some,” she said.

He was sipping the last of his champagne. “Yes, you did. You’re always right, aren’t you?”

She did not answer.

“I’m very lucky, you see,” he said to Viri.

Her face seemed quite small as she sat there, knees drawn up beneath her skirt.

“Yes, very lucky. Rae is always right. She has to be right. Nothing can be her fault, can it?”

She said nothing. He did not continue. He lay there supported by his elbows, the glass in his hand. Their whole life was displayed in the image of them there, he motionless, chin on his chest, the glass empty; she, head lowered, barren, hands clasped about her legs. They had Siamese cats, they went to museums and openings, she surely was passionate, they lived in a large Village flat.

In the late afternoon they were all inside. Larry was drinking coffee, a scarf around his neck, preparing to drive home. The children were playing, their exhaustion had not yet touched them. They would fall asleep by the fire after dinner, their faces flushed, their hearts at peace. Rae said goodbye. She was cheerful. In her pocket she revealed a small grass nest, and in it four chocolate eggs. They were going to have an omelet on the way home, she said. She offered an affectionate smile, unhygienic, brief.

Nedra and Eve sat by the window. The sound of the motorcycle died away. Viri had gone for a walk. Nedra was needlepointing a pair of slippers. There was a sun god on each toe.

“She’s very nice,” Eve said.

“Yes, I like her.”

“She talks a lot. I don’t mean foolishly—she’s interesting.”

“That’s true.”

“He, on the other hand …”

“He talks very little.”

“He hardly said a word.”

“Larry is always silent,” Nedra said.

“What hatred.”

“Do you think so? You’re very perceptive, Eve.”

“I’ve lived through it.”

Viri came in, the dog behind him, bits of grass stuck to his coat.

“Oh, you’ve been down to the river,” Nedra said.

“He’s had a day.”

“You like Easter, don’t you, Hadji? He’s probably thirsty, Viri.”

“He drank a lot of the river. Would you like some tea? I’ll make it.”

“That would be wonderful,” Nedra said. After he had gone, she turned to Eve. “What do you think of Viri and me?” Eve smiled.

“Can you see it in us?”

“You are absolutely … you’re perfect for each other.”

Nedra gave a slight sound as if finding a mistake in her work. “It’s impossible to live with him,” she said finally.

“It isn’t. That’s plain.”

“Impossible for me. No, you don’t see it. I love him, he’s a marvelous father, but it’s terrible. I can’t explain it. It’s what turns you to powder, being ground between what you can’t do and what you must do. You just turn to dust.”

“I think you’re just tired.”

“Viri and I are like Richard Strauss and his wife. I’m as nasty as she was—the only thing is, Strauss was a genius. She was a singer, they had terrific arguments. She would shriek and throw the music at him. When she was nobody, I mean. They were rehearsing his opera. She ran off to her dressing room. He followed her and they kept right on fighting.”

Viri returned with a tray and the tea.

“I’m telling about Strauss and his wife,” Nedra said.

“He had absolutely beautiful handwriting,” Viri commented.

“He was so talented.”

“He could have been a draftsman.”

“Well, anyway, the orchestra came and announced that they would not play any opera in which this woman had a role. And Strauss said, well, that’s unfortunate, as Fraulein de Ahna and I have just become engaged. She was an absolute bitch, you can’t believe it. He used to beg to get into her room. She told him when to work, when to stop work; she treated him like a dog.”

Viri poured the tea. A perfume rose from the cups.

“Milk?” he asked Eve.

“Just black,” she said.

Franca and Anthony came into the room.

“Would you like some tea?” he asked them. “Bring two cups.”

He poured theirs; they sat on cushions on the floor.

“There’s a certain kind of greatness,” Viri said, “Strauss’s, for instance, which begins in the heavens. The artist doesn’t ascend to glory, he appears in it, he already has it and the world is prepared to recognize him. Meteoric, like a comet—those are the phrases we apply, and it’s true, it
is
a kind of burning. It makes them highly visible, and at the same time it consumes them, and it’s only afterwards, when the brilliance is gone, when their bones are lying alongside those of lesser men, that one can really judge. I mean, there are famous works, renowned in antiquity, and today absolutely forgotten: books, buildings, works of art.”

“But isn’t it true,” Nedra said, “that most great architects were accepted in their time?”

“Well, they had to be, or they wouldn’t have built anything. There are many architects, though, who were very highly regarded and have passed into obscurity.”

“But not the reverse.”

“No,” Viri admitted. “No one has yet gone the other way. Perhaps I’ll be the first.”

“You’re not obscure, Papa,” Franca protested.

“He obscure but he was honest,” Viri said.

“What about Obscure, the Jude?” Nedra said.

“Ha, good, very good,” he said. He felt a touch of bitterness at the jokes they were making.

When they began to prepare supper late in the day, he went upstairs. He looked at himself in the mirror, suddenly without illusion. He was in middle life; he could no longer recognize the young man he had been.

He sat in the bedroom drawing figures, words, embellishing them, making them into designs.
1928
, he wrote, and after it,
Born June 12 in Philadelphia, Pa. 1930 moves to Chicago, Ill
. He continued the entries, listing his life as if it were a painter’s.
1941 Enters Phillips Exeter. 1945 Enters Yale
.
1950 Travels in Europe. 1951 Marries Nedra Carnes
.

In the quiet the thoughts came streaming to him: days he had nearly forgotten, failures, old names.
1960 The single most beautiful year of my life
, he wrote. And then, beneath,
Loses everything
.

He was interrupted by the calling of his wife: Arnaud was on the telephone. The chronology in his pocket, he came downstairs. The lights were on, evening had come. Eve, her knees bent to one side, her smooth, stockinged feet half out of her shoes, was talking on the phone.

“You know, I can’t decide whether I wish I were there or you were here,” she was saying. Arnaud had been visiting his mother, but now he longed to speak to his other family, the family of his heart. His affection was extravagant, he told funny stories, he begged for details of the day.

Viri took the phone. They were united, all of them, in the great, blue evening that reigned over the river and hills. They talked on and on.

Afterwards he sat with the paper, the Sunday edition, immense and sleek, which had lain unopened in the hall. In it were articles, interviews, everything fresh, unimagined; it was like a great ship, its decks filled with passengers, a directory in which was entered everything that had made any difference to the city, the world. A great vessel sailing each day, he longed to be on it, to enter its salons, to stand near the rail.

You are not obscure, they told him. You have friends. People admire your work. He was, after all, a good father—that is to say, an ineffective man. Real goodness was different, it was irresistible, murderous, it had victims like any other aggression; in short, it conquered. We must be vague, we must be gentle, we are killing people otherwise, whatever our intentions, we are crushing them beneath a vision of light. It is the idiot, the weakling, he thought, the son who has failed; once beyond that there is no virtue possible.

Night falls. The cold lies in the fields. The grass turns to stone.

In bed, he lay like a man in prison, dreaming of life.

“What was the joke Booth told that was so funny?” Nedra asked. She was brushing her hair.

“His smile is extraordinary,” Viri said. “It’s like an old politician’s.”

“Where was his wife?”

“She’s learning to fly.”

“Learning to fly?”

“So he says. Anyway, there were two drunks on an elevator. It was in some hotel …”

“This is the joke?”

“A woman got on—she was completely nude. They just stood there and didn’t say anything. After she got off, one of them turned to the other: ‘You know,’ he said, ‘s’funny, my wife has an outfit exactly like that.’ ”

13

THE MORNINGS WERE WHITE, THE
trees were still bare. The telephone rang. A soft vapor was rising from the roof of the Marcel-Maas barn. His wife was there alone.

“Come and see me,” she begged Nedra.

“Well, I’m going into the city later. Perhaps on the way.”

“I want to talk to you.”

Nedra drove by at noon. The uncut grass was silent, the air cool. The stone walls of the barn shone in the clear April light. Still dry, still sleeping, the orchard sloped away.

“I’m having a
kir
,” Nora said. “Would you like one? It’s white wine and cassis.”

“Yes, I’d love one.”

She poured the wine. “Robert is living in New York,” she said. “Here. Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell you about it.”

She sat down and sipped. “It should be colder,” she said. She jumped up to get another bottle of wine.

“This is all right.”

“No, I want you to have it exactly as it should be.” She was filled with a pathetic energy. “You deserve it,” she said.

Nedra sat calmly, but she was uncomfortable. She dreaded confidences, especially those of strangers.

“Here,” Nora said again.

The glass was chilled. “Oh, it’s good.”

Calmly, like lovers raising their eyes, they exchanged unintentional glances.

“I’m glad you came. I just wanted to see you. You know, people around here are so boring.”

“Yes,” Nedra said, “why is that?”

“They’re sunk in their lives. I don’t know any of them anyway. We hardly ever entertained. Well, there is a girl named Julie,” she said. “Do you know her? She sells cosmetics. She used to be a stripteaser. Do you like the
kir?”

“It’s wonderful. What is it again?”

“Wine and cassis, very little cassis.”

Nedra was inspecting the bottle in which it came.

“It’s made from berries,” Eve said.

“What kind of berries?”

“I don’t know. French. I was telling you about Julie. She’s had a fantastic life. Gangsters used to take her to the St. George Hotel. I mean, she can describe them. They sent her home with a bodyguard. Of course, you know what the bodyguard did. Now she’s selling face cream. Would you like another one? You haven’t finished.”

“Not yet.”

“Let’s sit near the window. It’s nicer there.”

As they were moving the phone rang. Nora picked it up abruptly. “Hello,” she said. She listened. “I’m sorry, Mr. Maas isn’t here. Mr. Maas is in New York.”

She listened again. “New York, New York,” she said.

“One moment, please,” the operator was saying. Then, “My party would like to speak to Miss Moss. Is Miss Moss there?”

“Miss Moss is in Los Angeles, California,” Nora said. “Who is calling?”

Nedra sat in a comfortable chair, the sun on her knees. The window sill was dense with plants. The music from half-forgotten Broadway shows was playing. Nora came back, sat down and closed her eyes. She began to hum, to sing an occasional phrase, finally she was holding long, passionate notes with all her heart. Suddenly she got up and began to move from side to side, to dance. She shot out her hands in the style of hoofers. She laughed self-consciously, but she didn’t stop. One saw the life in which she had bloomed, the gaiety, the foolishness leaking out like the stuffing from a doll.

“I used to know all the scores by heart,” she confessed.

She could cook, her legs were good, what was she going to do, she asked, stay out here with the apple trees? Most of them were so old anyway that they never bore fruit.

“I like to read,” she said, “but my God …”

She had good hands, she said. She looked at them, one side, then the other, a little worn, but they know things. Well, that was true of everything about her.

“The thing is, a man can go off with a younger woman, but it doesn’t work the other way.”

“Yes, it does,” Nedra said.

“You think so?”

“Certainly.”

“No, not for me,” she decided. “You have to believe in it.”

Here she sat, alone in the country. In the orchard were the trees; in the cupboard, clean glasses and plates. It was a house built of stone, a house that would stand for centuries, and within it were the books and clothes, the sunny rooms and tables necessary for life. And there was a woman as well, her eyes still clear, her breath sweet. Silence surrounded her, the air, the hush of the grass. She had no tasks.

“I’m not staying out here,” she said abruptly.

Some of his clothes were hanging in the closets, his canvases were still in the studio above their heads. She could not stay. The ending of days was too long, the darkness came and crushed her, she could not move.