Light Years (22 page)

“Too bad about Arnaud,” Neil said.

“It’s horrible.”

“Eve says he … may never talk right again,” he said to the water glass. He had a thin mouth, the words leaked out.

“They don’t know.”

“Would you like some tea?” Eve asked.

“Let me make it,” Nedra said, rising quickly to her feet. She disappeared into the kitchen.

“Rotten weather, isn’t it?” Neil murmured after a pause.

“Yes.”

“It’s a lot colder than … last winter,” he said.

“I guess it is.”

“Something to do with the … earth’s orbit … I don’t know. We’re supposed to be entering a new ice age.”

“Not another one,” she said.

4

THE SEASONS BECAME HER SHELTER
, her raiment. She bent to them, she was like the earth, she ripened, grew sere, in the winter she wrapped herself in a long sheepskin coat. She had time to waste, she cooked, made flowers, she saw her daughter stricken by a young man.

His name was Mark. He made beautiful line drawings, without shadow, without flaw, like the Vollards of Picasso. He resembled them; he was lean, his legs were long, his hair faded brown. He came in the afternoons, they sat in her room for hours with the door closed, sometimes he stayed for dinner.

“I like him,” Nedra said. “He isn’t callow.”

Afterwards Franca looked up the word. Destitute of feathers, it said.

“She likes you. She says you’re feathered.”

“I’m what?”

“Like a bird,” she said.

Franca he was in love with, but Nedra he revered. Their world had a mysterious pull. It was more vivid, more passionate than other worlds. To be with them was like being in a boat, they floated along their own course. They invented their life.

The three of them met in the Russian Tea Room. The headwaiter knew Nedra; they were given one of the booths near the bar. It was one she liked. Nureyev had once sat nearby. “At that table there,” she said.

“All alone?”

“No. Have you ever seen him?” she said. “He’s the most beautiful man on earth. You simply can’t believe it. When he got up to leave, he went over to the mirror and buttoned his coat, tied the belt. The waiters were watching, they were standing in adoration, like schoolgirls.”

“He comes from a little town, isn’t that right?” Franca said. “They knew he was very talented. They thought he should go to Moscow to school, but he was too poor to ride the train. He waited six years to be able to buy a ticket.”

“I don’t know if it’s true,” Nedra said, “but it fits him. How old are you, Mark?”

“Nineteen,” he said.

She knew what that meant, what acts were burning within him, what discoveries were ordained. He had been to Italy on a year of exchange and inspired in Franca a desire to do the same. Imagine a boy of eighteen landing in Southampton. He looked at a map and saw that Salisbury was not far. Salisbury, he suddenly thought, the painting of its cathedral by Constable came to his mind, a painting he knew and admired, and here was the name on a map. He was overwhelmed by the coincidence, as if the one word he knew in a foreign language had brought him success. He took the train, he had a compartment all to himself, he was delighted, the countryside was ravishing, he was alone, traveling the world, and then, across a valley, the cathedral appeared. It was late afternoon, the sun was falling upon it. He was so deeply moved he applauded, he said.

Viri arrived and sat down. He was urbane; in that room, at that hour, he seemed the age one longs to be, the age of accomplishments, of acceptance, the age we never achieve. He saw before him his wife and a young couple. Franca was surely a woman, he knew it suddenly. He had somehow missed the moment it had happened, but the fact was clear to him. Her real face had emerged from the young, sympathetic face it had been and in an hour become more passionate, mortal. It was a face he was in awe of. He heard her voice saying, “Yeah, yeah,” eagerly in response to Mark, the years of her girlhood vanished before his eyes. She would take off her clothes, live in Mexico, find life.

“Don’t you want a drink, Viri?”

“A drink? Yes, what’s that you have?”

“It’s called White Nights.”

“Let me taste it,” he said. “What’s in it?”

“Vodka and Pernod.”

“Is that all?”

“A lot of ice.”

“I was coming down in the elevator today, you’ll never guess who got on: Philip Johnson.”

“Really?”

“He looked fantastic. I said hello to him. He had on a terrific hat.”

Mark said, “Is this Philip Johnson, the …”

“Architect.”

“Why was he wearing the hat?” Franca asked.

“Ah, well. Why does a rooster wear his feathers?”

“You’re as talented as he is,” Nedra said.

“It didn’t seem to worry him.”

“I’m going to buy you a marvelous hat.”

“A hat isn’t going to help that much.”

“A big, doe-colored velour hat,” she said.

“The kind that pimps wear.”

“I think I’ve somehow given you the wrong impression.”

“If Philip Johnson has a hat, you can have a hat.”

“It’s like the joke about the actor who dropped dead on the stage,” Viri said. “Do you know that story?” He turned to Mark. It was one of Arnaud’s, pungent, homely. “It was in the Yiddish theater. I think he was playing Macbeth.”

“They dropped the curtain, but everyone could see there was something wrong,” Nedra said. “Finally the manager came out and told them: it was a terrible thing, terrible, he was dead.”

“But a woman in the balcony keeps calling, ‘Give him some tsicken soup. Give him some tsicken soup!’ And the manager is standing there next to the body, and finally he calls out, ‘Look, you don’t understand. He’s dead! Tsicken soup couldn’t help him, lady!’ ‘It couldn’t hoit,’ she says.”

They told it together as fondly as they had once joined lives. No one knew Nedra as well as Viri. They were the owners of a vast, disordered merchandise; together they had faced it all. When he undressed at night, he was like a diplomat or judge. A white body, gentle and powerless, emerged from his clothes, his position in the world lay tumbled on the floor, fallen from his ankles; he was clement, he was froglike, a touch of melancholy in his smile.

He buttoned his pajamas, brushed his hair.

“Do you approve of him?” Nedra asked.

“Mark?”

“I’m sure they’ve made love.”

The coolness of it stung him. “Oh. Why?”

“Wouldn’t you?” she asked. “Well, maybe you wouldn’t.”

“I think it’s very important that she knows what to do.”

“Oh, she knows. I’ve given her everything she needs.”

“What do you mean, pills?”

“She didn’t want to take pills,” Nedra said.

“I see.”

“I agreed with her. She didn’t want chemicals in her body.”

His thoughts suddenly rushed to his daughter. She was not far away, she was in her room, the music on softly, her dresses neatly hung. He thought of her innocence, of the prodigality of life as if it had surprised him, like a sudden, unheard wave that catches a stroller on the beach, soaking his pants, his hair. And yet now, struck by that wave, a sense of acceptance, even pleasure, came over him. He had been touched by the sea, that greatest of earthly elements, as a man is touched by the hand of God. The need to fear such things was ended.

That night he dreamed of a seashore silver with wind. Kaya came to him. They were in a vast room, alone, there was a convention going on outside. He did not know how he persuaded her, but she said, “Yes, all right.” She slipped from her clothes. “But I like it in the evening too.”

Her hips were so real, so dazzling, that he hardly felt shame when his mother walked by, pretending not to see. She would tell Nedra, she would not tell Nedra, he could not decide, he tried not to worry. Then he lost this shining woman in a crowd, near a theater. She vanished. Empty rooms, corridors in which old classmates were standing, absorbed in conversation. He walked past them, conspicuously alone.

In the morning he looked at Franca more closely, concealing it, trying to be natural. He saw nothing. She seemed the same, if anything more affectionate, more in harmony with the day, the air, the invisible stars.

“How are things going at school?” he asked.

“Oh, I love school,” she said. “This year is the best.”

“That’s good. What do you like most?”

“Well, of everything …”

“Yes?”

“Biology.” She was tapping at the crown of a soft-boiled egg, dressed neatly, her face clear.

“And next to that?” he said.

“I don’t know. I guess French.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice to spend a year of college there?”

“In Paris?”

“Paris, Grenoble. There are a lot of places.”

“Yes. Well, I’m not sure I want to go to college.”

“What do you mean?”

“Now, don’t get excited,” she said. “I only mean I might want to go to art school or something.”

“Well, it’s true you paint beautifully,” he admitted.

“I haven’t decided.” She smiled like her mother, mysterious, assured. “We’ll have to see.”

“Is Mark going to stay in school?”

“He doesn’t know, either,” she said. “It depends.”

“I see.”

There was such reason in her voice.

5

IN THE FALL—IT WAS OCTOBER, A
windy day—she drove to Jivan’s for lunch. The river was a brilliant gray, the sunlight looked like scales.

He had moved. He had bought the small, stone cottage at the end of a rutted drive, a long drive that crossed a brook. The trees were everywhere, the sun spilled through them. She was in a white dress, cool as fruit.

The brightness of Asia Minor filled the room when she opened the door. There was a silver-legged table that bore, like a catalog, perfect unused objects: art books, sculpture, pebbles, bowls of beads. On the walls were paintings. It was she who had been responsible for the decoration; her touch was everywhere. The chairs were filled with cushions of beautiful colors—lemon, magenta, tan.

Jivan came forward. He was polite. “Nedra,” he greeted her, extending his arms.

“What a beautiful day.”

“How is your family?”

“All well.”

There was a man in a business suit sitting quietly whom she had not noticed.

“This is André Orlosky,” Jivan said.

A pale face and prominent jawbones. He wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses, also a vest. There was a strange disharmony between his person and his clothes, as if he had dressed for a photograph or borrowed a suit. An impassive face, the face of a fanatic.

“André is a poet.”

“I just gave a ride to a poet,” Nedra said.

She had seen a white-haired man loping along the road. “Where are you going,” she had asked, slowing down. He told her. It was about a mile further on. He was gardening there. And why was he running? He lived in Nanuet; he’d run from there.

“He was old, but he had a wonderful face, all tanned.”

“And very strong legs.”

“Really, he was interesting. He came from California. He recited one of his poems for me. It was about the astronauts. It wasn’t very good,” she admitted.

Jivan brought her a glass of wine.

“It was his courage I admired,” Nedra said. She smiled that stunning, wide smile. She looked at André. “Do you know what I mean?”

“How have you been?” Jivan asked.

“We’re going to Europe,” she announced.

“When?” he said, a little weakly.

“We’re going to Paris, next spring, I hope.”

“Next spring.”

“We’re going to rent a car and then drive everywhere. I want to see it all.”

“How long will you stay?”

“At least three weeks. I want to go to Chartres and Mont-Saint-Michel. After all, this is the first time.”

“But Viri has been there.”

“So he says.”

“André knows Europe.”

“Is that right?”

“I went to school there,” André said. He had to clear his throat.

“Oh, yes? Where?”

“Near Geneva.”

“It’s funny,” Jivan said, “I don’t have any desire to go to Europe. I’d like to go and see my mother, but for me this is the land of marvels. Whatever there is in Europe, there’s more here.”

“But you’ve been there,” Nedra pointed out.

“You’ll see.”

She sipped her wine. Jivan had laid out an elaborate cold meal. He was serving as they talked. “Europe …” he continued.

“No more,” she said.

“No meat?”

“No more about Europe. I don’t want you to spoil it.” She opened her napkin and accepted a plate. “I love lunch,” she said. “It’s so good to have it with friends.”

“That’s true,” André said.

“People suspect you for it, though.”

He made a vague motion with his head.

“Do you live in the city?” she asked.

“Yes.”

In the city and alone. That was very interesting to her, she said, the idea of living alone. What was it like?

“Luxurious,” he said.

“You get used to it,” Jivan added.

“It depends so much on who you ask, doesn’t it?” she said. “If you don’t have a woman you must have some other passion,” Jivan said. “One or the other.”

“But not both,” André muttered.

He said little and said it mildly, almost indifferently. He ate very little. Instead he smoked a cigarette and drank the wine. The aroma of tobacco in the sunlit room was faint and delicious. Jivan brought out small dishes of candied grapes sent to him by his mother, and beside them placed tiny silver spoons. He poured coffee. The cigarette of the poet blued the air.

“What have you written?” Nedra asked.

“
These bbones in bbed
.” He spelt it out.

“Is that a poem?”

“It’s a poem and a book.”

She sipped the coffee. “I’d love to read it,” she said. She liked the way he was dressed, like a businessman. The small cup in her hand, the clearness of her voice, the white of her clothing—it was she who was central to the room, her movements, her smiles. Beneath their brilliance women have a power as stars have gravity. In the bottom of her cup lay the warm, rich silt.

“More coffee?” Jivan asked. “Please.”