by James Salter
“Arnaud …”
“Hello, Viri.”
“Listen, what is today? Tuesday. On Thursday I want you to meet someone. You will thank me until the end of your life.”
“Where are you, in a brothel?”
“What is that story about the twelve absolutely pure men whose existence is essential to the world?”
“Give me the punch line.”
“No, this is a kind of Sholom Aleichem story. These twelve men—you must know it. They’re scattered over the earth. No one knows who they are, but when one of them dies, he’s immediately replaced. Without them, civilization would crumble, we would sink into chaos, crime, utter disillusion.”
“That’s probably what’s happened; we’re down to four or five.”
“I’ve met one.”
“So that’s it.”
“His name is Conrad.”
“Conrad? Are you kidding? He’s a crook.”
“No, this is a different Conrad. You have to meet him.”
“The last time you told me that, you know what happened?”
“I’m trying to recall.”
“I ended up investing five hundred dollars in a film.”
“Ah, I remember.”
“Conrad, eh? What’s he going to do for me?”
Viri was watching the traffic, the sounds of which came to him faintly, trembling the metal beneath his feet, his gaze drawn past by the gleaming cars.
“He’s going to make you some shirts.”
4
WINTER COMES. A BITTER COLD. The snow creaks underfoot with a rich, mournful sound. The house is surrounded by white. Hours of sleep, the air chill. The most delicious sleep, is death so warm, so easeful? He is barely awake; he emerges for a moment at first light as if by some instinct, buried, lost. His eyes open slightly, like an animal’s. For a moment he slips from dreams, he sees the sky, the light, nothing is moving, nothing is heard. The hour that is the last hour, the children sleeping, the pony silent in her stall.
The river was frozen. They learned it by telephone.
“Is it really frozen?”
“Yes,” he was assured. “They’re skating.”
“We’ll go.”
Down past the bridge there were great skirts of ice along the banks, and people already out, men in overcoats, women bundled against the cold. They skated in blinding sunshine, scarves about their necks, shouting to each other, the ankles of the smallest children folding like paper. Far out in the channel, the river was gray, the shade of shattered ice. A wind was blowing, a cold wind that burned the fingertips. The little girl with one leg was there. She was three, she had cancer, they had amputated her leg. Before that she had been invisible. Afterwards, on crutches, she became luminous; she took a long time to pass by on the sidewalk or sat in the car, unable to leave it, her small face in profile, unmoving. Her name was Monica. She had two brothers, small teeth, never a smile. She was the martyr of a desperate family; they hated themselves when they were impatient with her. They lived in an ugly house, a house the color of chilblains, brick, a few naked bushes at each end. In the stinging cold her father pulled her along the ice in a sort of curved, aluminum plate. She sat gravely, not speaking, her gloved hands holding the rim.
“Hello, Monica,” they called to her. They circled her and waved. She seemed not to see; she was motionless, like an old woman who has lived too long.
“Hold on,” they cried to her. “Hold tight.”
Her father was bareheaded. Viri knew him only by sight. He worked for an insurance company, driving to the city every day. “Hold on, Moni,” he told her. He began a sweeping turn. The plate swung around, tilting.
“Hold on,” they cried.
The air was crossed with voices, shouts, the scrape of skates. It was possible to go further out than anyone could remember; the ice was thick for half a mile from shore. People had lit bonfires and stood around them on the bank, warming themselves, still in their skates. A few dogs tried to run on the ice.
Nedra had not gone with them. She was in the kitchen. A fire burned. She had poured a dish of warm milk, and the puppy was drinking with brief, clumsy laps, the milk flashing in his mouth. He was tan, the color of a fox, with white underneath. His movements were hopelessly crude.
“You like it, don’t you?” she said. She touched his soft coat while he drank beneath her hand. “Hadji,” she said. “You’re going to be a big man. You’re going to bark and bark.”
Viri came in from skating, rubbing his hands. Close behind him, the children were taking off their coats in the hall.
“I’ve named him.”
“Good. What?”
“Hadji,” she said.
“Hadji.”
“Doesn’t it fit him?”
“Yes. What does it mean?”
“What does anything mean?”
Hadji was licking the empty dish. It clattered on the floor.
“We saw that little girl with one leg.”
“Monica.”
“Yes.”
“That’s so sad.”
“I can’t bear to look at her. It takes away my courage.”
“It was freezing cold.”
In the early afternoon they had chocolate and pears. The light had changed. The sun had gone behind some clouds; the day had no source. Viri played an Arab game of beans with them. In the end he let them win.
“Is there more hot chocolate?” he asked.
“I’ll make some,” Nedra said.
On the river the gulls seemed to be standing on the water. The ice was invisible. Their reflections were dark; one could see the black lines that were their legs. A canopy of music in the room, a tray with three cups, white cubes of sugar in a bowl, many books.
Their life is mysterious, it is like a forest; from far off it seems a unity, it can be comprehended, described, but closer it begins to separate, to break into light and shadow, the density blinds one. Within there is no form, only prodigious detail that reaches everywhere: exotic sounds, spills of sunlight, foliage, fallen trees, small beasts that flee at the sound of a twig-snap, insects, silence, flowers.
And all of this, dependent, closely woven, all of it is deceiving. There are really two kinds of life. There is, as Viri says, the one people believe you are living, and there is the other. It is this other which causes the trouble, this other we long to see.
“Come here, Hadji,” he says.
The dog, all knowledge already within it, all courage, all love, looks alert but uncomprehending.
“Come here,” Viri says. He reaches for it. It does not cower; it submits to being held.
“So you’re a cattle dog, are you? Where’s your tail? What happened to it? You don’t even know what a tail is, do you? You think a tail is something that hangs at one end of a cow. Now listen, Hadji, the first thing we have to talk about is hygiene. Our bathroom is in the house, yours is outside. The trees—”
“He wouldn’t know what to do with a tree, Viri.”
“You wouldn’t know what to do with a tree? The grass then, to start with. Afterwards small rocks, the corner of the building, steps, and then—then a tree. You’re going to be a huge dog, Hadji. You’re going to live with us. We’re going to take you down to the river. We’re going to take you to the sea. Oh, your teeth are sharp!”
He slept in a fruit basket, on his back like a bear. One morning there was great excitement. Franca saw it first. “His ear is up! His ear is up!” she cried.
They all ran to see it while he sat, unaware of his triumph. But it fell again in the afternoon.
He became intelligent, strong, he knew their voices. He was stoic, he was shrewd. In his dark eye one could see a phylum of creatures—horses, mice, cattle, deer. Frogboy, they called him. He lay on the floor with his legs stretched out behind. He watched them, his face resting on his paws.
5
LIFE IS WEATHER. LIFE IS MEALS. Lunches on a blue checked cloth on which salt has spilled. The smell of tobacco. Brie, yellow apples, wood-handled
knives.
It is trips to the city, daily trips. She is like a farm woman who goes to the market. She drove to the city for everything, its streets excited her, winter streets leaking smoke. She drove along Broadway. The sidewalks were white with stains. There were only certain places where she bought food; she was loyal to them, demanding. She parked her car wherever it was convenient, in bus stops, prohibited zones; the urgency of her errands protected her. The car was a little convertible, foreign, green and, unlike other things, neglected.
January. She drove to the city early, a cold day, the pavements were frozen, the pigeons huddled in the R’S of a FURNITURE sign. The city is a cathedral of possessions; its scent is dreams. Even those who have been rejected by it cannot leave. An ancient woman was sitting on a doorstep, her face coursed by years, her hair disarranged, a hideous woman with her teeth gone. She had an animal in her lap, its eyes running, its muzzle gray. She lowered her head and sat, her cheek against the little dog’s, silent, abandoned. In the next block was a derelict walking on his knees, his face so filthy, so red it seemed covered with wounds. His clothes were rags stained with vomit. He struggled, looking down into his pants as if for blood, oblivious to those who passed. In the theater lobbies were dwarfs, fat men, financial wizards with sullen faces, women in black stockings, furs. There were rings on their aging fingers, gold in their teeth.
She went to the museum, to her husband’s office, to a shop on Lexington where she stood among the art books, tall, pensive, a woman with long legs, a graceful neck, on her forehead the faintest creases of the decade to come. In a nondescript restaurant she sat down to have a sandwich. She took off her coat. Beneath was an Irish sweater, ordinary, white, hung with necklaces of amber and colored seeds. Men alone at their tables looked at her. She ate calmly. Her mouth was wide and intelligent. She left a tip. She disappeared.
In the early winter evening she passes Columbia. The traffic is thick but moving. The food stores are crowded, the flashes of the railway above her make blue images lit like executions in the dusk. Home on the long, curving stretches, borne by other cars. By the time she had crossed the river the trees were black. She flew along, in the left lane only, above the limit, tired, happy, filled with plans. Her eyes were burning. On the seat behind her were white and orange bags from Zabar’s, on the floor were gas slips, parking tickets, mail that had never been opened, bills. The road runs along the great cliffs of the west bank; for most of the way there is not a house visible, not a store, nothing except the long galaxy of towns across the river, beginning to shine in the dark.
She turns from the highway and enters the backwaters, the pools of small life, houses she knows intimately without any idea of who is in them, parked cars she recognizes, a corner post office, a grocery that sells the city papers, the wooden fence of neighbors, the lights of home.
“What are the children doing, Alma?” she asks. The dog is leaping about at her feet. “Hello, Hadji. Be quiet.”
Drawing pictures upstairs, the Jamaica woman says. She has read to them; she has taken them on a walk.
“He is some dog,” she says. “A fine dog.”
“He is, isn’t he?”
“Oh, he like to bark.”
Her daughters are coming down the stairs. Mama, they cry.
“I brought something for you,” she says, kneeling in her coat.
“What is it?” they say. “Your face is so cold.”
“Yours is warm. What have you been doing?”
“We’re making something,” the younger says. “What did you bring?”
She names a French biscuit they love, LU’s.
“Oh, good!”
“What are you making?”
“We’re making an Egyptian temple,” Franca says. “Come and see.”
“But we have no more gold,” her sister cries. They call her Danny. Her name is Diane.
“Can you bring it down?” Nedra asks them. “Bring it to the kitchen. I’m going to have some tea.”
6
“BRUCE ETTINGER IS BEAUTIFUL,” Nedra whispered.
“Which one is he?”
“He’s there in the corner. He’s very tall.”
Viri looked over.
“You think he’s good-looking?”
“Wait till he smiles.”
The rooms were crowded. There were people they knew, people they might have known. Beautiful women, audacious clothes.
“He has a smile like a gangster,” Nedra said.
Eve was across the room in a thin, burgundy dress that showed the faint outline of her stomach. She was pale, elegant, slutty. Her eyes were bad; she could hardly see who she was talking to. She wore contact lenses, but not at a party. The man she was facing was shorter than she was. Behind them was a painting that seemed to be of a primitive jungle: blue, violet, sea-green.
“It matches your shirt,” Nedra said.
“Even Bruce Ettinger doesn’t have a shirt like this.”
“Oh, you have the best shirt. You have absolutely the best shirt.”
“I think so.”
“But he has the best smile.”
“I’ll get you something to drink,” he offered.
“Nothing too strong.”
She made her way slowly across the room, her face less animated than other women’s faces. She passed behind people, around them, nodded, smiled. She was that woman the first glimpse of whom changes everything.
“Saul Bellow is here,” Eve told her.
“Where? What does he look like?”
“He was in the hallway just a minute ago.”
They could not find him.
“I don’t think I’ve read anything he’s written.”
“Arthur Kopit is here,” Eve said.
“Well, he can’t even write.”
“He’s very funny.”
“Bruce Ettinger is here,” Nedra said.
“Who?”
“He’s a man who doesn’t have very nice shirts.”
“Shirts. Have you seen the shirts Arnaud had made?”
“Viri sent him.”
“Did he?”
“Are they nice?”
“He even sleeps in them.”
Arnaud was coming toward them at that moment, warm, unperturbed, his shoulders flecked with what looked like talcum powder. In each hand was a glass.
“Hello, Nedra,” he said. He leaned to kiss her. “Here you are, darling,” he said to Eve. “Where’s Viri?”
“He’s here.”
“Where?”
“You’ll recognize him,” Nedra said. “He’s wearing the exact same shirt.”
“Ah, you’re jealous.”
“Of course not,” Nedra said. “I think you deserve to have beautiful things …”
“You know, I’ve always adored you.”
“I mean, after all, you already have us.” She smiled at him, knowing, direct, her white teeth showing.
“You’re right,” he said. “Here’s Viri.”
“They had no Cinzano. I got you a sweet vermouth—” he didn’t finish; Arnaud was embracing him. “Wait, wait, you’re spilling my drink! You’re going to wrinkle my shirt!” he cried.
“You know, you’re strong,” he said when he was released.
“He’s strong as a bull,” Eve said.
Arnaud was strong in the manner of men who surprise you—math teachers, dentists. He was past his real strength, thirty-four, a pot-bellied figure already dark with cigar smoke. He was vague, cunning, clumsy. He could do fantastic tricks with cards.
“I used to wrestle,” he said. “I fought some big men …”
“Where, in college?”
“… some of them eight feet tall. The only trouble with it is that everyone smells so bad.”
He was drinking. He smiled when he drank; it didn’t affect him. It made him another man, a man who could not be offended, who swam in the warmth of life. Around him were women in gold dresses, women who once were models. They were the caryatids of a cert
ain fashionable layer of New York. Arnaud, with his gray complexion, the dandruff on his collar, was their favorite. He was fond, irreverent, he loved to tell tales.
“You’re coming to the film?” the host asked them.
“Is there going to be a film?” Nedra said.
“In a couple of hours,” deBeque said. “It’s a film we’re distributing; it hasn’t been shown.”
“Do you know Eve Caunt?” Viri offered.
“Eve? Of course I know Eve. Everyone knows Eve.” His eyes were as pale as a glass of water. His stare was scalding.
“I don’t know half the people here,” he confessed to Viri. “Well, the women; I know all the women.” He lowered his voice. “There are some fantastic women here, believe me.”
He took Viri by the arm and led him off. “I want to talk to you,” he explained. “Wait, here’s someone you should meet.” He reached for a bare arm. “This is Faye Massey.”
The bad complexion of a girl of good family. A low-cut dress on which the watery stare lingered. “You’re looking very well, Faye,” he said.
“Is the film as bad as I hear?”
“Bad? It’s a ravishing film.”
“That’s not what I hear,” she said.
“Faye is a very interesting girl,” deBeque said, glancing down again into her dress. “A lot of people say so.”
“Stop it,” she said.
“I think this evening belongs to the women,” deBeque decided.
“What do you mean by that?”
“You’re all so good-looking.”
Beyond them Viri could see a girl sitting on the edge of a couch.
“Why are you always talking in the plural?”
“It’s natural for a man.”
“What’s natural and what’s not natural?” she asked. “We’re so far from being natural … that’s the whole trouble.”
Viri was waiting to excuse himself. “Do you think of yourself as natural?” she asked him.
“We all do, don’t we?” he said. “More or less.”
“You can think anything you like,” she said. “Just name me one.”
“Do you know Arnaud Roth?”
“Who?” Suddenly she smiled, a warm, unexpected smile. “Arnaud. You’re right. I love him,” she said. “I’ve known him for years.”
