Light Years (3 page)

“Irish women. I’m very fond of them.”

“Do they drink?”

“Drink? All Irish drink. I’ve been to dinners with Catherine where great ladies of Ireland have pitched forward into their plates, dead drunk.”

“Peter, I don’t believe it.”

“The butlers ignore them,” he said. “It’s known as
the
weakness. The Countess of—who was it, darling? The one we had such trouble with—drunk at ten in the morning. Rather a dark lady, suspiciously dark. A number of them are like that.”

“What do you mean, dark complexion?”

“Black.”

“How is that?” Nedra asked.

“Well, as a friend of mine would say, it’s because the count has a big cock.”

“You do know a lot about Ireland.”

“I’d like to live there,” Peter said.

A slight pause. “What do you like best of all?” she said.

“Best of all? Are you serious? I would rather spend a day fishing than anything in the world.”

“I don’t like getting up so early,” Nedra said.

“You don’t have to get up early.”

“I thought you did.”

“I promise you, no.”

The bottles of wine were finished. The color of their emptiness was the color in cathedral naves.

“You have to wear boots and all that,” she said.

“That’s only for trout.”

“They’re always filling with water and drowning people.”

“Occasionally,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

She reached in back of her head, as if not listening, unfastened her hair and shook it behind her.

“I have a marvelous shampoo,” she announced. “It comes from Sweden. I get it at Bonwit Teller’s. It’s really grand.”

She was feeling the wine, the soft light. Her work was finished. The coffee and Grand Marnier she left to Viri.

They sat on the couches near the fire. Nedra went to the phonograph. “Listen to this,” she said. “I’ll tell you when it comes.”

A record began of Greek songs. “It’s the next one,” she explained. They waited. The passionate, wailing music beat against them. “Listen. It’s a song about a girl whose father wants her to marry one of her nice suitors …”

She moved her hips. She smiled. She slipped off her shoes and sat with her legs drawn up beneath her.

“… but she doesn’t want to. She wants to marry the town drunk because he will make marvelous love to her every night.”

Peter watched her. There were moments when it seemed she revealed everything. In her chin was an indentation, clear, round as a shot. A mark of intelligence, of nakedness, which she wore like a jewel. He tried to imagine scenes that went on in this house, but was hindered by her laughter. It was a disclaimer, a garment she could leave behind, like empty stockings, like a bather’s robe on the beach.

They sat in the soft cushions talking until midnight. Nedra drank freely, holding out her glass to have it refilled. She was carrying on a separate conversation with Peter, as if the two of them were closest, as if she understood him utterly. All the rooms and closures here were hers, the spoons, the fabrics, the floor beneath one’s feet. It was her province, her serai where she could walk barelegged, where she was free to sleep, her arms naked, her hair strewn about her. When she said good night her face seemed already washed, as if in preparation. The wine had made her sleepy.

“The next time you marry,” Catherine said as she drove home with her husband, “you should marry someone like her.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Don’t be frightened. I just mean it’s obvious you’d like to go through all that …”

“Catherine, don’t be foolish.”

“… and I think you should.”

“She’s a very generous woman, that’s all.”

“Generous?”

“I’m using it in the sense of abundant, rich.”

“She’s the most selfish woman on earth.”

3

HE WAS A JEW, THE MOST ELEGANT
Jew, the most romantic, a hint of weariness in his features, the intelligent features everyone envied, his hair dry, his clothes oddly threadbare—that is to say, not overly cared for, a button missing, the edge of a cuff stained, his breath faintly bad like the breath of an uncle who is no longer well. He was small. He had soft hands, and no sense of money, almost none at all. He was an albino in that, a freak. A Jew without money is like a dog without teeth. The urgency of it, yes, he often knew that but its presence was all accident, like rain, it came or it did not. He was innocent of any real instinct.

His friends were Arnaud, Peter, Larry Vern. All friends are friends in a different way. Arnaud was his closest friend; Peter, his oldest.

He lingered before the counter, his eye passing over colored bolts of cloth.

“Have we made shirts for you before, sir?” a voice asked, an assured voice, immensely wise.

“Are you Mr.…?”

“Conrad.”

“Mr. Daro gave me your name,” Viri said.

“How is Mr. Daro?”

“He recommended you very highly.”

The salesman nodded. He smiled at Viri, the smile of a colleague.

Three in the afternoon. The tables in the restaurants have emptied, the day has begun to fade. A few women loitering among the distant displays of the store, otherwise everything quiet. Conrad had a slight accent, difficult at first to place. It seemed not so much alien as a little special, a mark of perfect manners. It was, in fact, Viennese. There was a profound wisdom in it, the wisdom of a man who could be discreet, who dined sensibly, even frugally, alone, who read the newspaper page by page. His fingernails were cared for, his chin well-shaved.

“Mr. Daro is a very engaging man,” he said as he accepted Viri’s coat, hanging it near the mirror with care. “He has one unusual feature. His neck is seventeen and a half.”

“Is that large?”

“From the shoulders up, he could easily be a prizefighter.”

“His nose is too fine.”

“From the shoulders up and the chin down,” Conrad said. He was measuring Viri with the care and delicacy of a woman, the length of each arm, the chest, waist, the circumference of his wrists. Each figure he noted down on a large, printed card, a card which he explained would exist always. “I have customers from before the war,” he said. “They still come to me. On Tuesdays and Thursdays; those are the only days I am here.”

He laid his sample books on the counter, opening them as one unfolds a napkin. “Now, look through these,” he said. “These are not everything, but they are the best things.”

The pages had squares of fabric, lemon, magenta, cocoa, gray. There were stripes, batiks, Egyptian cottons light enough to read through.

“Here is a good one. No, not quite right,” Conrad decided.

“What about this?” Viri said. He was holding a piece of cloth. “Would that be too much, a whole shirt of it?”

“It would be better than half a shirt,” Conrad said. “No, truthfully …” He reflected. “It would be fabulous.”

“Or this,” Viri said.

“I can see already—I have known you only a few minutes, but I can see you are a man of definite tastes and opinions. Yes, I mean there is no question.”

They were like old friends; a vast understanding had risen between them. The lines in Conrad’s face were those of a widower, a man who had earned his knowledge. His style was respectful but confident.

“Try these collars,” he said. “I am going to make you some wonderful shirts.”

Viri stood before the mirror inspecting himself in various collars, long, pointed, collars with rounded tips.

“Not bad.”

“Not quite high enough for you,” Conrad suggested. “You don’t mind me saying this?”

“Not at all. There is one thing, though,” Viri said, changing collars. “The sleeves. I noticed you put down thirty-three.”

Conrad consulted the card. “Thirty-three,” he agreed. “Correct. The tape does not err.”

“I don’t like them quite that long.”

“That’s not long. For you, thirty-four would be long.”

“And thirty-two?”

“No, no. That would be witty,” Conrad said, “but what is there about sleeves that makes you incline toward the grotesque?”

“I like to see my knuckles,” Viri said.

“Mr. Berland—”

“Believe me, thirty-three is too long.”

Conrad reversed his pencil.

“I am committing a crime,” he said, erasing half an inch. “They won’t be too short, I assure you. I don’t like a long sleeve.”

“Mr. Berland, a shirt … no, I don’t have to explain it to you.”

“Of course not.”

“A bad shirt is like the story of a pretty girl who is single and one day she finds herself pregnant. It’s not the end of life, but it’s serious.”

“What about the pocket? I like a fairly deep pocket.” Conrad looked pained. “A pocket,” he said. “What earthly use do you have for a pocket? It ruins the shirt.”

“Not completely, does it?”

“When a shirt already has sleeves that are a little short, and on top of that a pocket …”

“The pocket isn’t really on top of the sleeves. I pictured it more or less between them.”

“What can I say to you? Why do you want a pocket?”

“I need to carry a pencil,” Viri said.

“Not there. Now that,” he said, referring to a collar Viri had put on, “that is an extremely nice collar, do you agree?”

“It’s not too high in the back?” He was turning his head to one side to see better.

“No, I don’t think so, but if you like we can make it a little lower—a quarter of an inch, say.”

“I’m not trying to be too demanding.”

“No, no,” Conrad assured him. “Not at all. I’ll just make a little note …” He wrote as he talked. “Details are everything. I have had clients … I had a man from a famous family in the city, politically very important, he had two passions, dogs and watches. He owned large numbers of both. He used to write down the precise time at which he went to bed and got up every day. His left cuff was made half an inch bigger than the right, for his wrist watches, of course. They were mostly Vacheron Constantins. Actually, a quarter of an inch would have been enough. His wife, who was in every other respect a saint, called him Doggy. In his monograms was the profile of a schnauzer.

“I have also had customers of the type—I am not being specific—but of the Lepke-Buchalter type. You know who he was?”

“Yes.”

“Gangsters. Well, you know that criminal fashions have often made the transition into chic, but the fact is, these men were marvelous customers.”

“They spent a lot of money?”

“Oh, money … aside from money.” Conrad gestured broadly. “Money was not a consideration. They were so pleased to have someone who paid attention to them, who tried to dress them properly. Pardon me, but what do you do?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m an architect.” It seemed a bit weak after kings of crime.

“An architect,” Conrad said. He paused as if to allow the thought to descend. “Have you done any buildings around here?”

“Not around here.”

“Are you a good architect? Will you show me one of your buildings?”

“That depends, Mr. Conrad, on what the shirts are like.”

Conrad uttered a little sound of appreciation and understanding.

“In that regard,” he said, “I can assure you. I am thirty, no, thirty-one years at my business. I have made some very good shirts, I have made some bad shirts, but altogether I have not failed to learn my art completely. I can say to myself, Conrad, you lack, unfortunately, the proper schooling, your exchequer is a bit frail, but one thing is acknowledged: you know shirts. From cuff to cuff, if I may be permitted. Now, when am I here?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“I was just testing you,” Conrad said.

They chose a cloth that was printed like feathers, feathers of dark green, black, permanganate, another the color of deerskin, and a third the blue of police.

“You don’t think the blue is too blue?”

“A blue cannot be too blue,” Conrad said. “How many shall we make?”

“Well, one of each,” Viri said.

“Three shirts?”

“You’re disappointed.”

“I shall only be disappointed if they are not among your favorite things,” Conrad said. He sounded a bit resigned.

“I am going to send you many customers.”

“I am sure of it.”

“I’ll give you the name of one right now. I don’t know when he’ll be in, but very soon.”

“Tuesday or Thursday,” Conrad warned.

“Naturally. His name is Arnaud Roth.”

“Roth,” Conrad said.

“Arnaud.”

“Tell him I am looking forward eagerly.”

“But you’ll remember the name?”

“Please,” Conrad protested. He was like a patient who has had too long a visit; he seemed somehow worn.

“You’ll find him very amusing,” Viri said.

“I am certain of it.”

“When will these shirts be ready?” he said, putting on his coat.

“In four to six weeks, sir.”

“That long?”

“When you see them, you will be astonished at how quickly they were made.”

Viri smiled. “It was a great pleasure, Mr. Conrad,” he said.

“The pleasure was mine.”

The avenue was dense with people, the sunlight still brilliant; the first commuters, well-dressed, were heading for early trains. The turmoil of traffic was sweet to him as he walked in the flowing crowd. He knew in that moment what all these people were seeking. He understood the city, the teeming streets, autumn days flashing like knives in the highest windows, businessmen issuing from the revolving door of the Sherry-Netherland, the wind-swept park.

In a phone booth he composed a familiar number.

“Yes, hello,” a voice said languidly.

“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.”