Last Night - James Salter [28]
— What an incredible, what a pompous statement. No, she won’t.
— Yes, she will. I’ve taken care of that.
He was not to see or speak to her again, without explanation or any farewell.
— I don’t believe it, Brian said.
He did not stay. He pushed back his chair, dropped his napkin on the table, and, excusing himself, left. Brule continued with lunch. He told the waiter to cancel the other order.
The earrings were still in his pocket. He set them in front of him and tried to call. She was away from her desk, her voice said. Please leave a message. He hung up. He felt a terrifying urgency; every minute was unbearable. He thought of going to her office but it would be difficult to talk to her there. She was away from her desk, in someone else’s office. Even that caused him unhappiness and envy. He thought of the hotel bar. In she had come in a short black skirt and high heels, on her white neck an opaque, blue necklace. With Brule it could not have been anything but sordid, some suggestion in that low voice, some clumsy act on a couch. What could it have been on her part except resignation, finally? He called again, and three or four more times during the afternoon, leaving the message to please call back, it was important.
At six, he somehow made his way home. It was one of those evenings like the beginning of a marvelous performance in which everyone somehow had a role. Lights had come on in the windows, the sidewalk restaurants were filling, children were running home late from playing in the park, the promise of fulfillment was everywhere. In the elevator a pretty woman he did not recognize was carrying a large bunch of flowers somewhere upstairs. She avoided looking at him.
He let himself into his apartment and immediately felt its emptiness. The furniture stood silently. The kitchen seemed cold, as if it had never known use. He walked around aimlessly and dropped into a chair. It was six-thirty. She would be home by now, he decided. She wasn’t. He made a drink and sat with it, sipping and thinking or rather letting the same helpless thoughts eat deeper, unalterable, as evening slowly filled the room. He turned on some lights and called her again.
The anguish was unbearable. She had been annoyed, but surely that was only at the moment. It could not be that. She had been frightened by Brule somehow. She was not the sort of person to be easily frightened. He made another drink and continued to call. Sometime after ten—his heart leapt—she answered.
— Oh, God, he said, I’ve been calling you all day. Where have you been? I’ve been frantic to talk to you. I had to have lunch with Brule; it was disgusting. I walked out. Has he talked to you?
— Yes, she said.
— I was afraid so. What did he say?
— It’s not that.
— Of course it’s that. He made some threats. Look, I’m coming over.
— No, don’t.
— Then you come here.
— I can’t, she said.
— Of course you can. You can do anything you want. I feel so terrible. He wanted to prevent me from talking to you. Listen, darling. This may take a little time to work out. We’ll have to lie a little low. You know I’m crazy about you. You know no one in the world has ever meant more to me. Whatever he said, nothing can affect that.
— I suppose.
He felt something then, a crack, a fissure. He had the sense of something impending and unbearable.
— It’s not you suppose. You know it. Tell me something, tell me the truth. When did it happen between you and him? I just want to know. Before?
— I don’t want to talk about it now, she said.
— Just tell me.
Suddenly something he hadn’t thought of came to him. He suddenly understood why she was so hesitant.
— Tell me one thing, he said. Does he want to keep seeing you?
— No.
— Is that the truth? You’re telling me the truth?
Sitting in a chair near her, legs sprawled like a lord, was Tahar with a bored look of patience.
— Yes, it’s the truth, she said.
— I don’t know what the solution is, but I know there is