Текст книги "Dusk and Other Stories"

Автор книги: James Salter

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

Hedges was alone. The men his age had made their reputations, everything was passing him by. Anyway he often felt it. He knew the lives of Cervantes, Stendhal, Italo Svevo but none of them was as improbable as his own. And wherever they went there were his notebooks and papers to carry. Nothing is heavier than paper.

In Grasse he had trouble with his teeth, something went bad in the roots of old repairs. He was in misery, they had to pay a French dentist almost every penny they had. In Venice he was bitten by a cat. A terrible infection developed, his arm swelled to twice its size, it seemed the skin would burst. The camerieratold them cats had venom in their mouth like snakes, the same thing had happened to her son. The bites were always deep, she said, the poison entered the blood. Hedges was in agony, he could not sleep. It would have been much worse fifty years ago, the doctor told them. He touched a point up near his shoulder. Hedges was too weak to ask what it meant. Twice a day a woman came with a hypodermic in a battered tin box and gave him shots. He was growing more feverish. He could no longer read. He wanted to dictate some final things, Nadine took them down. He insisted on being buried with her photograph over his heart, he had made her promise to tear it from her passport.

“How will I get home?” she had asked.

Beneath them in the sunlight the great river flowed, almost without a sound. The lives of artists seem beautiful at last, even the terrible arguments about money, the nights there is nothing to do. Besides, through it all, Hedges was never helpless. He lived one life and imagined ten others, he could always find refuge in one of them.

“But I’m tired of it,” she confessed. “He’s selfish. He’s a child.”

She did not look like a woman who had suffered. Her clothes were silky. Her teeth were white. On the far pathways couples were having lunch, the girls with their shoes off, their feet slanting down the bank. They were throwing bits of bread in the water.

The development of the individual had reached its apogee, Hedges believed, that was the essence of our time. A new direction must be found. He did not believe in collectivism, however. That was a blind road. He wasn’t certain yet of what the path would be. His writing would reveal it, but he was working against time, against a tide of events, he was in exile, like Trotsky. Unfortunately, there was no one to kill him. It didn’t matter, his teeth would do it in the end, he said.

Nadine was staring into the water.

“There are nothing but eels down there,” she said.

He followed her gaze. The surface was impenetrable. He tried to find a single, black shadow betrayed by its grace.

“When the time comes to mate,” she told him, “they go to the sea.”

She watched the water. When the time came they heard somehow, they slithered across meadows in the morning, shining like dew. She was fourteen years old, she told him, when her mother took her favorite doll down to the river and threw it in, the days of being a young girl were over.

“What shall I throw in?” he asked.

She seemed not to hear. Then she looked up.

“Do you mean that?” she finally said.

She wanted them to have dinner together, would Hedges sense something or not? He tried not to think about it or allow himself to be alarmed. There were scenes in every literature of this moment, but still he could not imagine what it would be like. A great writer might say, I know I cannot keep her, but would he dare give her up? Hedges, his teeth filled with cavities and all the years lying on top of his unwritten works?

“I owe him so much,” she had said.

Still, it was difficult to face the evening calmly. By five o’clock he was in a state of nerves, playing solitaire in his room, rereading articles in the paper. It seemed that he had forgotten how to speak about things, he was conscious of his facial expressions, nothing he did seemed natural. The person he had been had somehow vanished, it was impossible to create another. Everything was impossible, he imagined a dinner at which he would be humiliated, deceived.

At seven o’clock, afraid the telephone would ring at any moment, he went down in the elevator. The glimpse of himself in the mirror reassured him, he seemed ordinary, he seemed calm. He touched his hair. His heart was thundering. He looked at himself again. The door slid open. He stepped out, half expecting to find them there. There was no one. He turned the pages of the Zurich paper while keeping an eye on the door. Finally he managed to sit in one of the chairs. It was awkward. He moved. It was seven-ten. Twenty minutes later an old Citroën backed straight into the grill of a Mercedes parked in the street with a great smashing of glass. The concierge and desk clerk went running out. There were pieces everywhere. The driver of the Citroën was opening his door.

“Oh, Christ,” he murmured, looking around.

It was William Hedges. Alone.

They all began to talk at once. The owner of the Mercedes, which was blinded, fortunately was not present. A policeman was making his way along the street.

“Well, it’s not too serious,” Hedges said. He was inspecting his own car. The taillights were shattered. There was a dent in the trunk.

After much discussion he was finally allowed to enter the hotel. He was wearing a striped cotton jacket and a shirt the color of ink. He had a white face, damp with sweat, the face of an unpopular schoolboy, high forehead, thinning hair, a soft beard touched with gray, the beard of an explorer, a man who washed his socks in the Amazon.

“Nadine will be along a little later,” he said.

When he reached for a drink, his hand was trembling.

“My foot slipped off the brake,” he explained. He quickly lit a cigarette. “The insurance pays that, don’t they? Probably not.”

He seemed to have reached a stop, the first of many enormous pauses during which he looked in his lap. Then, as if it were the thing he had been struggling to think of, he inquired painfully, “What do you… think of Basel?”

The headwaiter had placed them on opposite sides of the table, the empty chair between them. Its presence seemed to weigh on Hedges. He asked for another drink. Turning, he knocked over a glass. That act, somehow, relieved him. The waiter dabbed at the wet tablecloth with a napkin. Hedges spoke around him.

“I don’t know exactly what Nadine has told you,” he said softly. A long pause. “She sometimes tells… fantastic lies.”

“Oh, yes?”

“She’s from a little town in Pennsylvania,” Hedges muttered. “Julesberg. She’s never been… she was just a… an ordinary girl when we met.”

They had come to Basel to visit certain institutions, he explained. It was an… interesting city. History has certain sites upon which whole epochs turn, and the village of Dornach gave evidence of a very… The sentence was never finished. Rudolf Steiner had been a student of Goethe….

“Yes, I know.”

“Of course. Nadine’s been telling you, hasn’t she?”

“No.”

“I see.”

He finally began again, about Goethe. The range of that intellect, he said, had been so extraordinary that he was able, like Leonardo before him, to encompass all of what was then human knowledge. That, in itself, implied an overall… coherence, and the fact that no man had been capable of it since could easily mean the coherence no longer existed, it was dissolved…. The ocean of things known had burst its shores.

“We are on the verge,” Hedges said, “of radical departures in the destiny of man. Those who reveal them…”

The words, coming with agonized slowness, seemed to take forever. They were a ruse, a feint. It was difficult to hear them out.

“…will be torn to pieces like Galileo.”

“Is that what you think?”

A long pause again.

“Oh, yes.”

They had another drink.

“We are a little strange, I suppose, Nadine and I,” Hedges said, as if to himself.

It was finally the time.

“I don’t think she’s a very happy woman.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Happy?” Hedges said. “No, she isn’t happy. She isn’t capable of being happy. Ecstasies. She is ecstatic. She tells me so every day,” he said. He put his hand to his forehead, half covering his eyes. “You see, you don’t know her at all.”

She was not coming, suddenly that was clear. There was going to be no dinner.

Something should have been said, it ended too vaguely. Ten minutes after Hedges had gone, leaving behind an embarrassing expanse of white and three places set, the thought came of what he should have demanded: I want to talk to her.

All doors had closed. He was miserable, he could not imagine someone with weaknesses, incapacities like his own. He had intended to mutilate a man and it turned into monologue—probably they were laughing about it at that very moment. It had all been humiliating. The river was moving beneath his window, even in darkness the current showed. He stood looking down upon it. He walked about trying to calm himself. He lay on the bed, it seemed his limbs were trembling. He detested himself. Finally he was still.

He had just closed his eyes when in the emptiness of the room the telephone rang. It rang again. A third time. Of course! He had expected it. His heart was jumping as he picked it up. He tried to say hello quite calmly. A man’s voice answered. It was Hedges. He was humble.

“Is Nadine there?” he managed to say.

“Nadine?”

“Please, may I speak to her,” Hedges said.

“She’s not here.”

There was a silence. He could hear Hedges’ helpless breathing. It seemed to go on and on.

“Look,” Hedges began, his voice was less brave, “I just want to talk to her for a moment, that’s all…. I beg you…”

She was somewhere in the town then, he hurried out to find her. He didn’t bother to decide where she might be. Somehow the night had turned in his direction, everything was changing. He walked, he ran through the streets, afraid to be late.

It was nearly midnight, people were coming out of the theaters, the café at the Casino was roaring. A sea of hidden and half-hidden faces with the waiters always standing so someone could be hidden behind them, he combed it slowly. Surely she was there. She was sitting at a table by herself, she expected to be found.

The same cars were turning through the streets, he stepped among them. People walked slowly, stopping at lighted windows. She would be looking at a display of expensive shoes, antique jewelry perhaps, gold necklaces. At the corners he had a feeling of loss. He passed down interior arcades. He was leaving the more familiar section. The newsstands were locked, the cinemas dark.

Suddenly, like the first truth of illness, the certainty left him. Had she gone back to her hotel? Perhaps she was even at his, or had been there and gone. He knew she was capable of aimless, original acts. Instead of drifting in the darkness of the city, her somewhat languid footsteps existing only to be devoured by his, instead of choosing a place in which to be found as cleverly as she had drawn him to follow, she might have become discouraged and returned to Hedges to say only, I felt like a walk.

There is always one moment, he thought, it never comes again. He began going back, as if lost, along streets he had already seen. The excitement was gone, he was searching, he was no longer sure of his instincts but wondering instead what she might have decided to do.

On the stairway near the Heuwaage, he stopped. The square was empty. He was suddenly cold. A lone man was passing below. It was Hedges. He was wearing no tie, the collar of his jacket was turned up. He walked without direction, he was in search of his dreams. His pockets had bank notes crumpled in them, cigarettes bent in half. The whiteness of his skin was visible from afar. His hair was uncombed. He did not pretend to be young, he was past that, into the heart of his life, his failed work, a man who took commuter trains, who drank tea, hoping for something, some proof in the end that his talents had been as great as the others’. This world is giving birth to another, he said. We are nearing the galaxy’s core. He was writing that, he was inventing it. His poems would become our history.

The streets were deserted, the restaurants had turned out their lights. Alone in a café in the repetition of empty tables, the chairs placed upon them upside down, his dark shirt, his doctor’s beard, Hedges sat. He would never find her. He was like a man out of work, an invalid, there was no place to go. The cities of Europe were silent. He coughed a little in the chill.

The Goetheanum of the photograph, the one she had shown him, did not exist. It had burned on the night of December 31, 1922. There had been an evening lecture, the audience had gone home. The night watchman discovered smoke and soon afterward the fire became visible. It spread with astonishing rapidity and the firemen battled without effect. At last the situation seemed beyond hope. An inferno was rising within the great windows. Steiner called everyone out of the building. Exactly at midnight the main dome was breached, the flames burst through and roared upward. The windows with their special glass were glowing, they began to explode from the heat. A huge crowd had come from the nearby villages and even from Basel itself where, miles away, the fire was visible. Finally the dome collapsed, green and blue flames soaring from the metal organ pipes. The Goetheanum disappeared, its master, its priest, its lone creator walking slowly in the ashes at dawn.

A new structure made of concrete rose in its place. Of the old, only photos remained.

DIRT

Billy was under the house. It was cool there, it smelled of the unturned earth of fifty years. A kind of rancid dust sifted down through the floorboards and fell on his face like a light rain. He spit it out. He turned his head and, reaching carefully up, wiped around his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. He looked back toward the strip of daylight at the edge of the house. Harry’s legs were in the sun—every so often, with a groan, he would kneel down and see how it was going.

They were leveling the floor of the old Bryant place. Like all of them it had no foundation, it sat on pieces of wood.

“Feller could start right there,” Harry called.

“This one?”

“That’s it.”

Billy slowly wiped the dirt from his eyes again and began to set up the jack. The joists were a few inches above his face.

They ate lunch sitting outside. It was hot, mountain weather. The sun was dry, the air thin as paper. Harry ate slowly. He had a wrinkled neck and white stubble along his jowl line.

Death was coming for Harry Mies. He would lie emptied, his cheeks rouged, the fine, old man’s ears unhearing. There was no telling the things he knew. He was alone in the far fields of his life. The rain fell on him, he did not move.

There are animals that finally, when the time comes, will not lie down. He was like that. When he kneeled he would get up again slowly. He would rise to one knee, pause, and finally sway to his feet like an old horse.

“Feller in town with all the hair…” he said.

Billy’s fingers made black marks on the bread.

“The hair?”

“What’s he supposed to be?”

“I think a drummer,” Billy said.

“A drummer.”

“He’s with a band.”

“Must be with something,” Harry said.

He unscrewed the cap from a battered thermos and poured what looked like tea. They sat in the quiet of the tall cottonwoods, not even the highest leaves were moving.

They drove to the dump, the sun in the windshield was burning their knees. There was an old cattle gate salvaged from somewhere, some bankrupt ranch. It was open, Harry drove in. They were in a field of junk and garbage on the edge of the creek, a bare field forever smoldering. A black man in overalls appeared from a shack surrounded by bedsprings. He was round-shouldered, heavy as a bull. There was an old, green Chrysler parked on the far side.

“Looking for some pipe, Al,” Harry said.

The man said nothing. He gave a sort of halfhearted signal. Harry had already gone past and turned down an alley of old furniture, stoves, aluminum chairs. There was a sour smell in the air. A few refrigerators, indestructible, had fallen down the bank and were lying half-buried in the stream.

The pipe was all in one place. It was mostly rusted, Billy kicked aimlessly at some sections.

“We can use it,” Harry commented.

They began carrying pieces back to the car and put them on the roof. They drove slowly, the old man’s head tilted back a little. The car swayed in and out of holes. The pipe rolled in the rack.

“Pretty good feller, Al,” Harry said. They were coming to the shack. He lifted his hand as they passed. No one was there.

Billy’s mind was wandering. The ride to town seemed long.

“They give him a lot of trouble,” Harry said. He was watching the road, the empty road which connects all these towns.

“There’s none of that stuff much good out there,” he said. “Sometimes he tries to charge a little for it. People feel like they ought to be able to carry it off for nothing.”

“He didn’t charge you.”

“Me? No, I bring him a little something now and then,” Harry said. “Old Al and me are friends.”

After a while, “Claims to be a free country, I dunno…” he said.

The cowboys at Gerhart’s called him the Swede, but he never went in there. They would see him go by outside, papery skin, dangling arms, the slowness of age as he walked. He may have looked a little Swedish, pale-eyed from those mornings of invincible white, mornings of the great Southwest, black coffee in his cup, the day ahead. The ashtrays on the bar were plastic, the clock had the name of a whiskey printed on its face.

It was five-thirty. Billy walked in.

“There he is.”

He ignored them.

“What’ll it be, then?” Gerhart said.

“Beer.”

On the wall was the stuffed head of a bear with a pair of glasses on its nose and a red plaster tongue. Above it hung an American flag with a sign: NO DOGS ALLOWED. Around the middle of the day there were a few people like Wayne Garrich who had the insurance agency, they wore straw rancher’s hats rolled at the sides. Later there were construction workers in T-shirts and sunglasses, gas company men. It was always crowded after five. The ranch hands sat together at the tables with their legs stretched out. They had belt buckles with a gold-plated steerhead on them.

“Be thirty cents,” Gerhart said. “What’re you up to? Still working for old Harry?”

“Yeah, well…” Billy’s voice wandered.

“What’s he paying you?”

He was too embarrassed to tell the truth.

“Two fifty an hour,” Billy said.

“Jesus Christ,” Gerhart said. “I pay that for sweeping floors.”

Billy nodded. He had no reply.

Harry took three dollars an hour himself. There were probably people in town would take more, he said, but that was his rate. He’d pour a foundation for that, he said, take three weeks.

There was not one day of rain. The sun laid on their backs like boards.

Harry got the shovel and hoe from the trunk of his car. He was tall, he carried them in one hand. He turned the wheelbarrow right side up, the bags of cement were piled beneath on a piece of plywood. He flushed out the wheelbarrow with the hose. Then he began mixing the first load of concrete: five shovels of gravel, three of sand, one of cement. Occasionally he’d stop and pick out a twig or piece of grass. The sun beat down like flats of tin. Ten thousand days of it down in Texas and all around. He turned the dry mixture over upon itself again and again, finally he began adding water. He added more water, working it in. The color became a rich, river-gray, the smooth face broken by gravel. Billy stood watching.

“Don’t want it too runny,” the old man said. There was always the feeling he might be talking to himself. He laid down the hoe. “Okey-dokey,” he said.

His shoulders were stooped, they had the set of labor in them. He took the handles of the barrow without straightening up.

“I’ll get it,” Billy said, reaching.

“That’s all right,” Harry muttered. His teeth whistled on the “s.”

He wheeled it himself, the surface now smooth and shifting a little from side to side, and set it down with a jolt near the wooden forms he’d built—Billy had dug the trench. Checking them one last time, he tilted the wheelbarrow and the heavy liquid fell from its lip. He scraped it empty and then moved along the trench with his shovel, jabbing to fill the voids. On the second trip he let Billy push the barrow, naked to the waist, the sun roaring down on his shoulders and back, his muscles jumping as he lifted. The next day he let him shovel.

Billy lived near the Catholic church, in a room on the ground floor. It had a metal shower. He slept without sheets, in the morning he drank milk from the carton. He was going out with a girl named Alma who was a waitress at Daly’s. She had legs with hard calves. She didn’t say much, her complaisance drove him crazy, sometimes she was at Gerhart’s with someone else in a haze of voices, the bark of laughter, famous heavyweights behind her tacked on the wall. There were water stains near the ceiling. The door to the men’s room slammed.

They talked about her. They stood at the bar so they could see her by turning a little. She was a girl in a small town. The television had exhibition football coming from Grand Junction. They were thinking of her legs as they watched the game, she was like an animal they wanted. She smoked a lot, Alma, but her teeth were white. She was flat-faced, like a fighter. She would be living in the trailer park, Billy told her. Her kids would eat white bread in big, soft packages from the Woody Creek Store.

“Oh, yeah?”

She didn’t deny it. She looked away. Like an animal, it didn’t matter how pure they were, how beautiful. They went down the highway in clattering steel trucks, wisps of straw blowing clear as they passed. They were watched by the cold eyes of cowboys. They entered the house of blood, its sudden bone-cleaving blows, its muffled cries. He didn’t spend much money on her—he was saving up. She never mentioned it.

They poured the side of the house that faced Third Street and started along the front. He thought of her in the sunlight that was browning his arms. He lifted the heavy barrow and became strong everywhere, like a tightened cable. When they finished in the evening, Harry washed off everything with the hose, he put the shovel and hoe in the trunk of his car. He sat on the front seat with the door open. He smiled to himself. He lifted his cap and smoothed his hair.

“Say,” he said. There was something he wanted to tell. He looked at the ground. “Ever been West?”

It was a story of California in the thirties. There was a whole bunch of them going from town to town, looking for work. One day they came to a place, he forgot the name, and went into some little restaurant. You could get a whole meal for thirty cents in those days, but when they came to pay the check, the owner told them it would cost a dollar fifty each. If they didn’t like it, he said, there was the state police just down the street. Afterward Harry walked over to the barbershop—he looked like that musician, he had so much hair. The barber put the sheet around him. Haircut, Harry told him. Then, hey, wait a minute, how much will it be? The barber had the scissors in his hand. I see you been eating over to the Greek’s, he said.

He laughed a little, almost shyly. He glanced at Billy, his long teeth showed. They were his own. Billy was buttoning his shirt.

It was hot in the evening. The hottest summer in years, everyone said, the hottest ever. At Gerhart’s they stood around in big, dusty shoes.

“Shit, it’s hot,” they told each other.

“Can’t get much hotter.”

“What’ll it be, then?” Gerhart would ask. His idiot son was rinsing glasses.

“Beer.”

“Hot enough for you?” Gerhart said as he served it.

They stood at the bar, their arms covered with dust. Across the street was the movie house. Up toward the pass, the sand and gravel pit. There was ranching all around, a macadam plant, men like Wayne Garrich who hardly spoke at all, the bitterness had penetrated to the bone. They were deliberate, their habits were polished smooth. They looked out through the big, storelike windows.

“There’s Billy.”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Well, what do you think?” They laid out phrases in low voices, like bets. Their arms were big as firewood on the bar. “Is he going to it or coming from it?”

The foundation was finished at the beginning of September. There was a little sand where the pile had been, a few specks of gravel. The nights were already cold, the first emptiness of winter, not a light on in town. The trees seemed silent, subdued. They would begin to turn suddenly, the big ones going last.

Harry died about three in the morning. He had been leaning on the cart in the supermarket, behind the stacks, struggling for breath. He tried to drink some tea. He sat in his chair. He was between sleep and waking, the kitchen light was on. Suddenly he felt a terrible, a bursting pain. His mouth fell open, his lips were dry.

He left very little, a few clothes, the Chevrolet filled with tools. Everything seemed lifeless and drab. The handle of his hammer was smooth. He had worked all over, built ships in Galveston during the war. There were photographs when he was twenty, the same hooked nose, the hard, country face. He looked like a pharaoh there in the funeral home. They had folded his hands. His cheeks were sunken, his eyelids like paper.

Billy Amstel went to Mexico in a car he and Alma bought for a hundred dollars. They agreed to share expenses. The sun polished the windshield in which they sat going southward. They told each other stories of their life.