Solo Faces (18 page)

“Ahh,” they said, politely.

“Here. Like this.”

“Ah!” They were giggling, talking. “Weight heavy.”

“Very heavy. Take it, it’s for you.” He was handing them out.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you.”

“Where are you from?”

“Kyoto.”

“Here, take it. You, too.” He was giving it away, the worn steel he had driven into granite that faces blue air. “This one,” he said, “was used on the Dru.”

They tried to understand him. Ah, yes. The Dru.

C
ATHERIN STEPPED FROM THE
doorway and into the sunlight. Her car was across the way near a small park surrounded by trees—really not much more than a place where three streets came together. The grass was always tall and untended. Though it faced Vigan’s house, was only a few feet away, she had never entered it. She was searching for her keys when she noticed someone sitting in the shade. From the first moment she recognized him. She waited there, her heart racing nervously, as he rose and came toward her.

“Hello, Catherin,” he said.

He had changed from the last time she had seen him, even from the interviews on television. She could not tell what it was. She greeted him more or less calmly, hardly conscious of what she was saying.

“You look surprised to see me,” he said.

“Not really.”

“Didn’t you get my letter?”

“What letter?”

“I wrote to you, it was at least a week ago.”

“I never received it,” she said simply.

“That’s strange.” He waited. “Well, I said I might be coming, that’s all.”

She began to look for her keys again. He stood there. His letter had not reached her, nor in a sense had he. There was a distance between them, the invisible distance between what we possess and what we will never possess. She was even dressed differently. She was wearing clothes he had never seen before.

“How long have you been here?” she asked, not looking up from her handbag. Vigan had left the house only an hour earlier. The cook had then come. “Did you just arrive?”

“I got here at about eight this morning.”

“I see.”

“I walked around town for a while …”

“I see.”

“Not really. What are you looking for?”

“I have them,” she announced, holding them up. “How did you find the house? Well, you had the address, I suppose.”

“It’s no secret, is it?”

“No.”

“How have you been?” he said.

“Very well. And you? You look a little tired.”

“I’ve been traveling.”

“From where?”

“Chamonix.”

“Yes, of course.”

“How’s your baby?” he asked.

“He’s fine.”

“What did you name him?”

“Jean,” she said, the way the French say it.

“Jean.” He repeated it once or twice. “How did you pick Jean?”

“It goes with Vigan,” she said.

“Ah. What …” He found himself hesitating. “What does he look like?”

“He looks a bit like you.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.”

She had nothing for him, he could see that. Nothing remained. She was cool, disinterested. She had already assumed the beauty that belongs to strangers.

“Do you think I could see him?”

She did not reply. Within her was confusion. Further, she was nervous—someone coming along the street might see them standing here. Vigan himself might return. Ever since the baby had come he was more affectionate and unpredictable. He might turn the corner at any moment with a huge bunch of flowers on the seat beside him. And yet, here before her was the weary, unforgettable face of the man who was the father, who would always be.

“Well?”

“I don’t think you should have come,” was all she could say.

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“It was now or never,” he said simply.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going home.”

She felt a shock go through her. Even though he had abandoned her, he was now doing more, he was vanishing forever from her world.

“When are you going?”

“Tomorrow. I just came to say good-bye.”

“Ah, well. He’s asleep,” she said. “He’s taking his morning nap. Besides, the cook is there.”

“I don’t want to see the cook.”

“Look, it’s very difficult.”

He said nothing. He had only a mild desire to see his child, it was merely curiosity, but the brevity, the calmness of her refusal was killing him.

“You know, I’m getting married,” she said. “Henri is going to adopt him.”

“When?”

“In the fall.”

“So I may never see him again. This could be the last time.”

It was everything, his worn clothes, the faint lines in his forehead, the innocence that clung to him no matter what. He was not weak, he was not begging, he stood there patiently.

“You must promise to go,” she said. “You must give me your word.”

“Don’t worry.”

“You promise?”

“You seem nervous about something. What is it? What do you think I’m going to do, steal him? I want to look at him, that’s all. Is that so much?”

“Wait here,” she said and went inside.

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the street was empty. It was not hard to imagine he was elsewhere, in any small town, even Chamonix. Behind the walls and fences were little gardens, rows of green laid out in careful mounds. These houses, these villages, except for the antennas on the roofs, were unchanged from a century before. He had grown to love this country which was not his own. He felt a sudden overwhelming grief at the thought of leaving it. Something swept over him like a wave. He felt himself—his chest—beginning to crack, to fall apart. He could not help it. He loved her and this love had betrayed him. He stood there trying to withstand things: the houses, people passing, his own worthlessness. He wanted to run, to come back another time with his strength renewed, when he could hurt her somehow instead of suffering this useless longing, this regret.

Above him he heard a sound. He looked up.

The shutters of a window on the second floor had opened and after a moment Catherin appeared. In her arms she held her child. She stood as if alone, calm, unobserved. She was silent, focusing on it all her attention and love. From that distance Rand could barely discern its face. He could see the small hands, the pale hair. After a while Catherin looked down. The infant was moving its arms.

“What?”

She had said something, a silent word Rand could not make out. But she did not repeat it. Instead she drew the child closely to her, hesitated, and stepped back into the room. After a minute her hands reached out to close the shutters.

Catherin! he almost cried. It seemed as if all that had gone before was a journey, that the road had brought him here and ended. He did not know what to do. He stood there. Above him the leaves were sighing faintly, the weight of languorous hours upon them, of endless summer days.

It was in Grenoble on the way north that what she had said finally came to him, like a piece of a puzzle that is turned over and over and suddenly falls into place. He saw it plainly, the long blank wall of the house, the window, the small arms moving aimlessly, one simple word: good-bye.

A
PALE AFTERNOON HUNG
over the sea. It seemed that California was even more crowded, there were more people, more cars. The string of houses stretched farther up the coast. New businesses, signs. At the same time, he recognized it all. It was unchanged. Near Trancas a car slowed down to pick him up. The driver was a heavyset man in a rumpled suit. He’d come straight through from Mexico City, he said, heading for Seattle. He’d only stopped for gas.

“Where are you heading for?” he asked.

“Up to Santa Barbara.”

“You should have caught the local. What’s your name?”

“Rand. What’s yours?”

“Call me Tiger,” he said. He was balding, hair combed long across his scalp. He needed a shave. “Ever been to Mexico?”

“Not for a while.”

“I go there all the time. You can have a fabulous time in Mexico. It used to be you could see championship fights for five dollars. That was twenty years ago. Things have changed. When’s the last time you were there?”

“I’ve been in France.”

“Is that right?” he said. “Where were you, in Paris? I’ve been to Paris. I used to go there a lot. Are you going back?”

“Maybe.”

“You want a good address?”

“Okay.”

He glanced over, “I mean, really good.”

“Sure,” Rand said.

“The Louvre!” he burst out and began to laugh. He reached into his pocket. “You smoke cigars? Here. Hey, why don’t you drive with me to Seattle? Ever been there? I bet you haven’t. Great place. That’s where I live.”

“What do you do there?”

“I’m an architect. Here’s a card.”

He dropped Rand off on the highway at Santa Barbara.

“See you around,” he said. He sped off.

The day was warm. The sea horizon shimmered. Birds were singing as he walked uphill.

The house was a white Victorian or somewhat influenced by the period. It was low, only one story high, and set back from the street.

He rang the bell. There was a sound of footsteps, a pause, and Carol opened the door. She was in a shirt and pants. Her face was bare as if she had just gotten up or washed.

“Rand!” she cried. She embraced him. “I’m so glad to see you. You look wonderful. Did you just get in?”

“This morning,” he said. “How are you?”

“Not bad. Really not bad. We’ve had wonderful weather. Come in.”

He followed her into the hall.

“Nice house.”

“It’s very nice. Wait till you see the garden. Just leave your things there. Let’s go in back.”

She led the way through the kitchen and opened the screen door. There was a porch and two wooden steps.

“Darling,” she said, “look who’s here.”

A man was seated by a glass table in the shade of the trees. He turned his head. He was wearing a blue sport shirt with a bamboo pattern. His arms were as powerful as ever. He raised one.

“Well, finally.” It was Cabot. He was sitting in a wheelchair. He turned himself around and extended his hand. “Hello, you bastard,” he said. “I thought it was time you appeared.”

“How’ve you been?” Rand asked.

“What a question.”

“You look fine.”

“Oh, don’t mind all this,” Cabot indicated. “You’ll get used to it. When did you get in? How long can you stay? We’ve got a room for you, did Carol show it to you?”

“Not yet,” she said.

“It’s the best room in the house. It’s the room I’m going to die in. Come on”—he started off in his wheelchair—“follow me, as they say.”

He was paralyzed from the waist down, his legs in the limp cloth of a cripple’s pants. The fall had almost killed him; he had been in a coma for a week. At first they thought he would never come out of it and only half of him did. For days he lay while they conducted tests and treated him. He was engaged in a secret, a crucial effort of his own, he was trying by any means, even by force of will alone, to make some movement with his toes. He could almost see them do it but they never did. He would start again and continue until he was exhausted, lie quietly for a while and begin once more. He had no pain, no feeling, nothing at all. His legs might have belonged to someone else.

“His spine was broken,” Carol explained when they were alone. “The nerve doesn’t regenerate, I guess you know that. Almost any other nerve they can patch together, but this one they can’t.”

“And that’s it?”

“I’m afraid. He’ll never get out of his chair.”

“What else does it affect? The inner organs?”

“Everything below the waist.”

Outside birds were singing in the full heat of afternoon. The sound seemed to cover the house. Rand felt drowsy. Looking out at the haze-covered hills, he felt he had come to a kind of hospital himself, that he had an illness they would not yet divulge.

That evening Cabot’s lawyer dropped by. She was a woman, no older than Rand, aggressive, confident. Her name was Evelyn Kern.

“Glad to meet you,” she said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

They were filing a suit against the insurance company. The settlement after the accident had been small.

“We have to get him some money to live on,” she explained, “not to mention medical expenses.”

It was very easygoing and casual. They sat and drank. They talked about the past.

“I hear you tried the Walker,” Cabot said.

“That’s about all you can say—I tried.”

“What happened?”

Rand shrugged.

“Your glass is empty. Carol, get him a drink, will you? How high did you get?”

“I could have gone higher.”

“A lot higher, as they used to say.”

“What is the Walker?” Evelyn asked.

“It’s part of the Grandes Jorasses, a ridge that goes straight up.”

“It sounds terrifying.”

“It’s a classic. I always wanted to do the Walker,” Cabot remarked.

“Maybe you will,” Rand said.

There was an awkward silence.

“You going to carry me up that, too?”

“Who knows?”

So began his visit. The garden was filled with pines and a pair of huge palms. Past the back fence was cane grass, tall and rustling. Carol often worked outside, weeding and watering the plants. She knelt on the ground, the nape of her neck bent forward, bare. Her legs were lean and tanned. She sat back, aware of Rand’s presence. She did not look at him.

“This is my green tent,” she explained. The branches met over her head. Sunlight filtered through.

On the other side of the hedge a neighbor, Mrs. Dabney, was watering. She was in her sixties. She had a kerchief over her head and wore a halter which gave glimpses of ruined flesh. Her husband had had two heart attacks.

Rand sat sunning himself on the steps, shirtless.

“You’re going to frighten her,” Carol warned.

“Frighten her?” Mrs. Dabney was keeping up a spray of water on her jade trees to show she was occupied. “She comes a little closer every day. Those are beautiful hibiscus, Mrs. Dabney,” he called.

“They’re the state tree of Hawaii,” she answered, “did you know that?”