Light Years (32 page)

It was all leaving her in slow, imperceptible movements, like the tide when one’s back is turned: everyone, everything she had known. So all of grief and happiness, far from being buried with one, vanished beforehand except for scattered pieces. She lived among forgotten episodes, unknown faces bereft of names, closed off from the very world she had created; that was how it came to be. But I must show nothing of that, she thought. Her children—she must not reveal it to them.

She formed her life day by day, taking as its materials the emptiness and panic as well as the rushes, like fever, of contentment. I am beyond fear of solitude, she thought, I am past it. The idea thrilled her. I am beyond it and I will not sink.

This submission, this triumph made her stronger. It was as if finally, after having passed through inferior stages, her life had found a form worthy of it. Artificiality was gone, together with foolish hopes and expectations. There were times when she was happier than she had ever been, and it seemed that this happiness was not bestowed on her but was something she had herself achieved, had searched for, not knowing its form, had given up everything lesser—even things that were irreplaceable—to gain.

Her life was her own. It was no longer there to be taken by anyone.

2

WHEN VIRI SOLD THE HOUSE, SHE
was startled. It was something she assumed would never happen, for which she was unprepared. She was disturbed by the act. It was either sickness or great strength on Viri’s part; she did not know which she feared most. There were many things there that belonged to her, she had never bothered to take them, she was always free to. Now, when she suddenly saw them about to vanish, it did not matter. She told her daughters to take what they liked; the rest she would attend to.

Viri was going away, they told her.

“Where?”

“His desk is covered with travel folders. He has some of them marked.”

She called him. “I was so sorry to hear about the house.”

“It was falling apart,” he said. “Not really, but I couldn’t take care of it. It’s a whole life, you know?”

“I know.”

“I got a hundred and ten thousand for it.”

“That much?”

“Half is yours. Less the mortgage and all that.”

“I think you got a very good price. It isn’t worth that. I’m sure they didn’t look in the cellar.”

“It’s not the cellar, it’s the roof.”

“Yes, the roof. But in another way, it’s worth much more than a hundred and ten thousand.”

“Not really.”

“Viri, I’m very pleased with the price. It’s just … well, we can’t sell it again, can we?”

He sailed on the
France
in the noisy, sad afternoon. Nedra came to see him off, like a sister, an old friend. There was a huge crowd, a crowd that would stand at the end of the pier finally, jammed together, waving, a crowd of the twenties, of revolutions in Mexico, threats of war.

They sat in the cabin with a bottle of champagne. “Would you like to see the bathroom?” he said. “It’s very nice.”

“How long will you stay, Viri?” she asked as they examined the fixtures, the details that had been designed for rough sea.

“I’m not sure.”

“A year?”

“Oh, yes. At least a year.”

Franca came at last. “What traffic!” she said.

“Would you like some champagne?”

“Please. I had to get out of the taxi three blocks away.”

Viri took them on a tour. Glasses in hand, he showed them the salons, the dining room, the empty theater. The stairways were crowded, the passages redolent with Gauloise smoke.

“All these people aren’t going?” Franca asked.

“They’re either going or someone they know is.”

“It’s incredible.”

“It’s completely booked,” he said.

The announcements had begun for passengers to go ashore. They made their way toward the gangplank. He kissed his daughter and embraced her, and Nedra as well. “Goodbye, Viri,” she said.

They stood on the pier. They could see him at the rail on the deck where they had parted, his face very white and small. He waved; they waved back. The ship was enormous, there were passengers at every level, the vastness of its black, stained side overwhelmed them. It was like waving farewell to a library, a hotel. At last it began to move. “Goodbye,” they called out. “Goodbye.” The great moans of the whistle were flooding the air.

At dinner that night, Nedra found herself thinking of things that had gone with the house—or rather, despite herself, they were somehow washed up to her like traces of a wreck far out at sea. Nevertheless, much remained. She and her daughter sat now in a house—it was really just some rooms—left over from the one that was gone. They drank wine, they told stories. All that was missing was a fire.

Viri dined at the second sitting. He had a drink at the bar, where people entered with cries of greeting to the bartender. In the corridor were women of fifty, dressed for dinner, their cheeks rouged. Two of them sat near him. While one talked, the other ate long, triangular bread and butter pieces, two bites to each. He read the menu and a poem of Verlaine’s on the back. The consommé arrived. It was nine-thirty. He was sailing to Europe. Beneath him as he lifted his spoon, fish were gliding black as ice in a midnight sea. The keel crossed over them like a comb of thunder.

Franca had become an editor. She had manuscripts to think about now, to coax into being. She worked in a cubicle that was piled with new books, pictures, clippings, distractions of every sort. She went to meetings, lunches. In the spring she was going to Greece. She was serene, her smile was winning, she did not know the way to happiness but she knew she would arrive there.

“Are you still seeing Nile?” Nedra asked.

“Poor Nile,” Franca said.

Nedra was smoking a cigar, it provided a dash of authority, of strength. She turned on music, as a man might do for a woman, and drew her feet beneath her on the couch.

“This afternoon, on the boat, I was thinking how backward it all was. We should have been seeing you off,” she said.

“I’m going to fly.”

“You must go further than I did,” Nedra said. “You know that.”

“Further?”

“With your life. You must become free.”

She did not explain it; she could not. It was not a matter of living alone, though in her own case this had been necessary. The freedom she meant was self-conquest. It was not a natural state. It was meant only for those who would risk everything for it, who were aware that without it life is only appetites until the teeth are gone.

3

NEDRA’S APARTMENT WAS NEAR
the Metropolitan. It was on street level, an annex to a building. It had only two rooms, but there was a garden, more than that, a wall entirely of windows like a greenhouse. The garden had died; it was dry, the vines were brittle, the stone urns empty. But the sun fell into it all day long, and within, behind the bank of glass, she had many plants, protected, cared for. They bathed in the light; they gave off a richness and calm. The door to the garden, like that of a house in France, was of painted iron with glass in its upper half. There was a fireplace in her bedroom and a narrow, decaying bath. At a small table, in the mornings, barefoot, alone, she sat, and set her imagination free. The silence, the sunlight enclosed her. She began—not seriously she told herself—she was too proud to risk early failure—to write a few stories for children. Viri had been wonderful at making them up. Often she thought of him as would the widow of a famous man; she saw him again drinking tea in the morning, smoking a little awkwardly, his slightly bad breath, his thinning hair only adding to the memory. He was so dependent, so foolish. In a time of hardship or upheaval he would have quickly vanished, but he had been fortunate, he had found himself always in sheltered times, the years had been calm. She saw him with his small hands, his blue-striped shirt, his ineffectiveness, his vagaries. When it came to stories, though, he was like a man who knew railroad schedules, he was exact, assured. He would begin in wonderful, faintly witty sentences. His stories were light but not frivolous; they had a strange clarity, they were like a part of the ocean where one could see the bottom.

She saw herself in the mirror. The light was mild. A mole near her jaw had darkened. The lines in her face were tentative no longer. There was no question, she looked older, the age of one who is admired but not loved. She had made the pilgrimage through vanity, the pages of magazines, through envy itself to a vaster, more tranquil world. Like a traveler, there was much she could tell, there was much that could never be told.

Young women liked to talk to her, to be in her presence. They were able to confess to her. She was at ease. There was one who worked with Franca, Mati, whose husband had left her, who acted as if she had already drowned herself. One afternoon Nedra showed her how to paint her eyes. In an hour, just as Kasine was said to have changed an actress, she transformed a plain, defeated face into a kind of Nefertiti able to smile.

She could see the lives of such young women clearly, things invisible to them or hidden. And one day there came to her a Japanese girl, small-boned, mysterious, a girl born in St. Louis but indelibly foreign, completely of another place. It was like watching an exotic animal that eats in its own way, that has its own stride. Her name was Nichi. She came often, sometimes she stayed for two or three days. Her s’s were soft, with an Oriental secrecy. She was graceful, like a cat, she could walk on plates without making a sound. She had lived with a doctor for five years.

“But that’s over,” she said. “A psychiatrist, he had no practice, he was in research. A very intelligent man, brilliant.”

“But you never married.”

“No. I slowly realized that … the answer isn’t in psychiatry. You know, they’re strange, they have very strange ideas. I don’t even want to tell you. He’ll be a famous man,” she said. “He’s writing a book. He’s worked on it for a long time. It’s about unconventional healing. Of course, it has to do with the mind, the power of thought. You know, there are men who can perform what we think of as miracles. There was a famous one in Brazil; we went to see him. He was a clerk in a hospital, but after work he saw patients, they came from all over, from hundreds of miles away. He even operated on them without anesthetic. They didn’t even bleed. It’s the truth. We made a film of it.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Oh, the government suppresses everything,” she said. She was intense, certain. “The doctors try to deny him.”

“But how does he work? What does he say to a patient?”

“Well, I don’t speak Spanish, but he asks them: What’s wrong? Where does it hurt? He touches them, like a blind man touches all over, and then he stops and he says: It’s here.”

“Incredible.”

“Then he cuts, with an ordinary knife.”

“He sterilizes it?”

“A kitchen knife. I’ve seen it.”

They hypnotized one another with talk and admiration. The hours passed slowly, hours when the city sank into afternoon, hours that were theirs alone. Nedra had a taste for the East given to her, perhaps, by Jivan, and now, in the presence of this slim girl who spoke of having nine senses, who complained that she had no breasts, she found herself drawn to it once more. Nichi had small teeth, terrible teeth, she swore, she had just paid her dentist two hundred dollars and even that was a special price.

“I told him that when I was under the gas, he could do what he liked.”

“And?”

“I’m not sure.”

She was perfectly shaped. She was, as they say so often, like a doll. Her fingers were thin, her toes bony as the feet of a sparrow. In her own apartment she burned incense; her clothes had a faint scent of it. She had a master’s degree in psychology, but aside from her studies had read nothing. Nedra mentioned Ouspensky. No, she had never heard of him. She had never read Proust, Pavese, Lawrence Durrell.

“What did they write?” she said.

“And Tolstoy?”

“Tolstoy. I think I’ve read some Tolstoy.”

They met in the garden of the Modern Art, the city muted beyond its walls. They had lunch, they talked. Beneath the gleaming black hair burning in the sun, behind the intense eyes, for a moment Nedra saw something which touched her deeply—that rare thing, the idea of a friend one makes when the heart has already begun to close.

She was like a fruit tree, she thought to herself, past bearing but still strong, like the trees in the sloping orchard of Marcel-Maas long ago. His name had been in the paper recently. He had had an important show, there were articles about him. He was being conceded at last, all he had dreamed and wanted, the things he could not say, the friends he had never had, the acclaim—all of it was laid now at the foot of canvases he had painted. He was safe at last. He existed, he could not disappear. Even his ex-wife was saved by this. She was part of it, she had made her exit before the final act, but she would have it to talk about for as long as she lived—at dinners, in restaurants, in the great, empty rooms of the barn, if she lived there still.

The young women came to her. Telephone calls, conversations with friends, an occasional letter from Viri. She realized that life consisted of these pebbles. One has to submit to them, she told Nichi. “… walk on them,” she said, “bruise one’s feet.”

“What do you mean by pebbles? I think I know.”

“… lie on them, exhausted. Do you know the way your cheek is warmed by the sun they have gathered?”

“Yes.”

“Let me read your palm,” Nedra said.

The hand was narrow, the lines surprisingly deep. It seemed naked, this palm, like that of an older woman. She traced the chief lines. She felt those flat eyes glancing up at her own face with its leanness, its intelligence, its immobility, in fascination and belief, but she acknowledged nothing.

“Your hand is halfway between emotion and intellect,” she said, “divided between them. You are able to see yourself coldly, even in periods when you are ruled by emotion, but at the same time you are a romantic, you would like to give yourself completely, without thinking. Your intellect is strong.”