Solo Faces (21 page)

Bonney watched them drive away. “Who was that?”

“Oh, she’s been going with him for a while.”

“What is he, a little crazy?”

“Could be,” the bartender replied.

The afternoon was fading. Throughout the east, in the ominous quiet that surrounds stadiums, the final quarter was being played.

They drove along the sea which was smooth, metallic. The neon of motels and roadside restaurants was on. He seemed moody—that was often so. She used to blame it on his working alone; he ran a wrecking yard for a man in Pensacola, it was over toward the bay. A car would be brought in crushed almost double, doors jammed, the seats glittering with broken glass. “Have to be some drunk to live through that,” the tow-truck driver would say.

He liked it, the solitude, the sun. From beyond the fence the faint sound of traffic came. Within, in dust and silence, the battered front ends were set in rows, headlights missing, wheels gone. There was rust everywhere, spiders spinning beneath the dash. To one side, like a fated Panzer unit, were lines of Volkswagens, square-backs, sedans, most of them down on their rear axles, their noses raised like dying beasts. There were stickers on the windows from Texas, Georgia,
Turista
Mexico.

He had a small apartment, two rooms and a kitchen, neat and somewhat bare. There was a wooden table with books above it on a shelf, a hammock, a wicker couch. The sun came through the windows in the morning and poured on the empty floor. He had few friends. On weekends he slept late. There was never a newspaper, not even a magazine. He was recovering from something, an illness, a wound. He had no plans. Occasionally he talked of buying a boat and one night, unexpectedly, about France.

“You’ve been to France?”

“I used to live there,” he said. That was all.

Sometimes she found him lying in the hammock late at night, barefoot, the television on, arms folded over his head as if to keep out the light.

She began preparing dinner. It was almost evening, it had started to rain. She appeared from time to time in the doorway of the kitchen, passing back and forth. She was somewhat lanky, all arms and legs. The room grew slowly darker, the doorway more and more bright. He heard her mixing things, running water. The refrigerator door opened and closed. She came into the room with a piece of buttered bread and a can of beer. She sat down beside him. The wind was blowing now, the window spattered with rain.

“Are you hungry?”

“Not too.”

“Why don’t we wait then?” she said. She looked at her knees. Her hair was unfastened and hanging down. She gathered it idly in her hand. “I had a letter from Fraser,” she said.

“Oh?”

“From Atlanta. He’s quit drinking, he says. Even has a job.” The gusts of rain were sweeping against the house. “He wants me to come back,” she said.

There was a silence.

“I thought that was over.”

She shrugged.

“Do you want to go?”

She didn’t answer. After a moment he turned away. It was as if he’d forgotten her, as if he were thinking about something else. There were always long waits with him, like descents.

“Why are you telling me?” he said finally.

“Don’t you want to know?”

He did not want to live again anything he had already lived. He did not want it all repeated.

“It’s really raining. It looks like a storm,” he said. The words, the sentences were jammed and awkward. He could not seem to work them free. “Don’t go back,” he said.

“Why not?”

“It’s finished. When something’s finished, that’s it.”

“Not always,” she said.

“Well, maybe you’re right,” he said. “I guess there are no rules.”

“I really don’t know what you want,” she said. “That’s the thing.”

“I suppose.”

“I don’t really know you.”

“You say you don’t, but you do. You know, all right. I’m a fake,” he said calmly, “just like the rest of them.”

There was silence. He sat with his thoughts.

“You know, I’m thirty-four,” she said.

“Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were thirty-two.”

“No, I’m thirty-four. I just thought you should know.”

“That’s not so bad.”

“I want to trust someone,” she said. She was not looking at him but at the floor. “I want to feel something. With you, though, it’s like somehow it goes into empty air.”

“Empty air …”

“Yes.”

“Well, what you have to do is hold on,” he said. “Don’t get scared.”

“Really?”

“I can’t tell you any more than that.”

“Hold on …,” she said.

“That’s right.”

He sees it there in the darkness, not a vision, not a sign, but a genuine shelter if he can only reach it. In the lighted room are figures, he sees them clearly, sometimes seated together, sometimes moving, a man and a woman visible through the window, in the dusk, the Florida rain.

James Salter (b. 1925) is a novelist, short story writer, and screenwriter, best known for his critically acclaimed classic novels
A Sport and a Pastime
(1967) and
Light Years
(1976). Though his earliest novels centered on life in the military, Salter’s subject matter has been diverse, and his potent, lyrical prose has earned him praise from critics, readers, and fellow novelists.

Salter was born James Horowitz on June 10, 1925, in Passaic, New Jersey. He grew up in New York City where his father, George, was an economist and real estate broker. Throughout his youth Salter was a sheltered only child, good student, and avid reader. He attended public schools in New York, leading to his graduation from Horace Mann at the age of seventeen.

In 1942 Salter followed in the footsteps of his father and entered West Point, where he graduated as a pilot in 1945. He was stationed in the Philippines in 1946, followed by Japan and Hawaii. After returning to school for a master’s degree at Georgetown University, he volunteered for duty in the Korean War, where he joined a fighter wing that was charged with the task of countering enemy MiG jet fighters. He logged over one hundred combat missions. The experience provided the basis of his first novel,
The Hunters
(1956), which he wrote while still serving in the Air Force. The book realistically portrayed the lives of pilots during war and quickly became a classic of aviation literature. It was made into a film starring Robert Mitchum in 1958.

Prior to the publication of his first novel, Salter married Ann Altemus, with whom he eventually had four children. With the success of his first novel—and with his growing family—Salter made the difficult decision to leave the military and throw himself into writing fulltime. He published a second novel,
The Arm of Flesh
in 1961.

In 1967, Salter’s third novel,
A Sport and a Pastime
, forever changed the trajectory of his career. While his first two books had earned him a reputation for candid depictions of military life, the third entered new territory, describing an Ivy League dropout who begins an affair with a young shopgirl in provincial France. Powerful and sensual, A Sport and a Pastime shocked readers and drew praise from critics for its sophisticated style. Two more novels followed:
Light Years
(1975), about a deteriorating marriage, and
Solo Faces
(1979), about the classic American loner and romantic figure, in this case a mountain climber.

Salter has published many award-winning short stories, and his collection
Dusk and Other Stories
received the PEN/Faulkner Award in 1988. He also worked for a number of years as a screenwriter, starting with the script for
Downhill Racer
(1969), starring Robert Redford. It was during this time that Salter and his wife divorced. He later met journalist and playwright Kay Eldredge, with whom he has one son.

Salter lives with Eldredge in New York City and Colorado.