Last Night - James Salter [17]
Kathrin had drunk a lot of wine in the restaurant and a cocktail before that. Her lips glistened.
— What was her name? Jane asked.
— Enid.
— Oh, beautiful name.
— So, anyway, he and I went off—this was before we were married. We had this room with nothing in it but a window and a bed. That’s when I was introduced to it.
— To what? Leslie said.
— In the ass.
— And?
— I liked it.
Jane was suddenly filled with admiration for her, admiration and embarrassment. This was not like the thing she had made up, it was actual. Why couldn’t I ever admit something like that? she thought.
— But you got divorced, she said.
— Well, there’s a lot beside that in life. We got divorced because I got tired of him chasing around. He was always covering stories in one place or another, but one time in London the phone rang at two in the morning and he went into the next room to talk. That’s when I found out. Of course, she was just one of them.
— You’re not drinking, Leslie said to Jane.
— Yes, I am.
— Anyway, we got divorced, Kathrin went on. So, now it’ll be both of us, she said to Leslie. Join the club.
— Are you really getting divorced? Jane asked.
— It’ll be a relief.
— How long has it been? Six years?
— Seven.
— That’s a long time.
— A very long time.
— How did you meet? Jane said.
— How did we meet? Through bad luck, Leslie said—she was pouring more scotch into her glass. Actually, we met when he fell off a boat. I was going out with his cousin at the time. We were sailing, and Bunning claimed he had to do it to get my attention.
— That’s so funny.
— Later, he changed his story and said he fell and it had to be somewhere.
Bunning’s first name was actually Arthur, Arthur Bunning Hasset, but he hated the Arthur. Everyone liked him. His family owned a button factory and a big house in Bedford called Ha Ha, where he was brought up. In theory he wrote plays, at least one of which was close to being a success and had an off-Broadway run, but after that things became difficult. He had a secretary named Robin—she was called his assistant—who found him incredible and unpredictable, not to mention hilarious, and Leslie herself had always been amused by him, at least for several years, but then the drinking started.
The end had come a week or so before. They were invited to an opening night by a theatrical lawyer and his wife. First there was dinner, and at the restaurant, Bunning, who had started drinking at the apartment, ordered a martini.
— Don’t, Leslie said.
He ignored her and was entertaining for a while but then sat silent and drinking while Leslie and the couple went on with the conversation. Suddenly Bunning said in a clear voice,
— Who are these people?
There was a silence.
— Really, who are they? Bunning asked again.
The lawyer coughed a little.
— We’re their guests, Leslie said coldly.
Bunning’s thoughts seemed to pass to something else and a few moments later he got up to go to the men’s room. Half an hour passed. Finally Leslie saw him at the bar. He was drinking another martini. His expression was unfocused and childlike.
— Where’ve you been? he asked. I’ve been looking all over for you.
She was infuriated.
— This is the end, she said.
— No, really, where have you been? he insisted.
She began to cry.
— I’m going home, he decided.
Still, she remembered the summer mornings in New England when they were first married. Outside the window the squirrels were running down the trunk of a great tree, headfirst, curling to the unseen side of it, their wonderful bushy tails. She remembered driving to little summer theaters, the old iron bridges, cows lying in the wide doorway of a barn, cut cornfields, the smooth slow look of nameless rivers, the beautiful, calm countryside—how happy one is.
— You know, she said, Marge is crazy