Dusk and Other Stories - James Salter [18]
He had drawn the curtains but light came in around them. At one point she seemed to tremble, her body shuddered. “Are you all right?” he said.
She had closed her eyes.
Later, standing, he saw himself in the mirror. He seemed to have thickened around the waist. He turned so that it was less noticeable. He got into bed again but was too hasty. “Basta,” she finally said.
They went down later and met Alan in a café. It was hard for him to look at them. He began to talk in a foolish way. What was she studying at school, he asked. For God’s sake, Frank said. Well, what did her father do? She didn’t understand.
“What work does he do?”
“Furniture,” she said.
“He sells it?”
“Restauro.”
“In our country, no restauro,” Alan explained. He made a gesture. “Throw it away.”
“I’ve got to start running again,” Frank decided.
The next day was Saturday. He had the portiere call her number and hand him the phone.
“Hello, Eda? It’s Frank.”
“I know.”
“What are you doing?”
He didn’t understand her reply.
“We’re going to Florence. You want to come to Florence?” he said. There was a silence. “Why don’t you come and spend a few days?”
“No,” she said.
“Why not?”
In a quieter voice she said, “How do I explain?”
“You can think of something.”
At a table across the room children were playing cards while three well-dressed women, their mothers, sat and talked. There were cries of excitement as the cards were thrown down.
“Eda?”
She was still there. “Si,” she said.
In the hills they were burning leaves. The smoke was invisible but they could smell it as they passed through, like the smell from a restaurant or paper mill. It made Frank suddenly remember childhood and country houses, raking the lawn with his father long ago. The green signs began to say Firenze. It started to rain. The wipers swept silently across the glass. Everything was beautiful and dim.
They had dinner in a restaurant of plain rooms, whitewashed, like vaults in a cellar. She looked very young. She looked like a young dog, the white of her eyes was that pure. She said very little and played with a strip of pink paper that had come off the menu.
In the morning they walked aimlessly. The windows displayed things for women who were older, in their thirties at least, silk dresses, bracelets, scarves. In Fendi’s was a beautiful coat, the price beneath in small metal numbers.
“Do you like it?” he asked. “Come on, I’ll buy it for you.”
He wanted to see the coat in the window, he told them inside.
“For the signorina?”
“Yes.”
She seemed uncomprehending. Her face was lost in the fur. He touched her cheek through it.
“You know how much that is?” Alan said. “Four million five hundred thousand.”
“Do you like it?” Frank asked her.
She wore it continually. She watched the football matches on television in it, her legs curled beneath her. The room was in disorder, they hadn’t been out all day.
“What do you say to leaving here?” Alan asked unexpectedly. The announcers were shouting in Italian. “I thought I’d like to see Spoleto.”
“Sure. Where is it?” Frank said. He had his hand on her knee and was rubbing it with the barest movement, as one might a dozing cat.
The countryside was flat and misty. They were leaving the past behind them, unwashed glasses, towels on the bathroom floor. There was a stain on his lapel, Frank noticed in the dining room. He tried to get it off as the headwaiter grated fresh Parmesan over each plate. He dipped the corner of his napkin in water and rubbed the spot. The table was near the doorway, visible from the desk. Eda was fixing an earring.
“Cover it with your napkin,” Alan told him.
“Here, get this off, will you?” he asked Eda.
She scratched at it quickly with her fingernail.
“What am I going to do without her?” Frank said.