Last Night - James Salter [33]
— Gee, a long time.
— You ever go out to Westhampton?
— No, not for years.
— Goldie’s?
— He closed.
— I guess I knew that. Those were wonderful days.
It was the same, the ease of talking to her. He saw her great, winning smile, the well-being of it, her carefree walk.
— I’d love to see you, she said again.
They agreed to meet at the Plaza. She was going to be near there the next day.
He began walking up Fifth a little before five. He felt uncertain but tenderhearted, in the hands of a wondrous fate. The hotel stood before him, immense and vaguely white. He walked up the broad steps. There was a kind of foyer with a large table and flowers, the sound of people talking. As if, like an animal, he could detect the slightest noise, he seemed to make out the clink of cups and spoons.
There were flower boxes with pink flowers, the tall columns with their gilded tops, and in the Palm Court itself, which was crowded, through a glass panel he saw her sitting in a chair. For a moment he was not sure it was her. He moved away. Had she seen him?
He could not go in. He turned instead and went down the corridor to the men’s room. An old man in black pants and a striped vest, the attendant, offered a towel as Arthur looked at himself in the long mirror to see if he had changed that much, too. He saw a man of fifty-five with the same Coney Island face he had always seen, half comic, kind. No worse than that. He gave the attendant a dollar and walked into the Palm Court, where, amid the chattering tables, the mock candelabra, and illuminated ceiling, Noreen was waiting. He was wearing his familiar dog’s smile.
— Arthur, God, you look exactly the same. You haven’t changed a bit, she said enthusiastically. I wish I could say that.
It was hard to believe. She was twenty years older; she had gained weight, even her face showed it. She had been the most beautiful girl.
— You look great, he said. I’d recognize you anywhere.
— Life’s been good to you, she said.
— Well, I can’t complain.
— I guess I can’t either. What happened to everybody?
— What do you mean?
— Morris?
— He died. Five or six years ago.
— That’s too bad.
— They gave him a big dinner before that. He was all smiles.
— You know, I’ve wanted to talk to you so much. I wanted to call you, but I was involved in all this tedious divorce stuff. Anyway, I’m finally free. I should have taken your advice.
— What was that?
— Not to marry him, she said.
— I said that?
— No, but I could see you didn’t like him.
— I was jealous of him.
— Truly?
— Sure. I mean, let’s face it.
She smiled at him.
— Isn’t it funny, she said, five minutes with you and it’s as if none of it ever happened.
Her clothes, he noticed, even her clothes were hiding who she had been.
— Love never dies, he said.
— Do you mean that?
— You know that.
— Listen, can you have dinner?
— Ah, sweetheart, he said, I’d love to, but I can’t. I don’t know if you knew this, but I’m engaged.
— Well, congratulations, she said. I didn’t know.
He had no idea what had made him say it. It was a word he had never used before in his life.
— That’s wonderful, she said straightforwardly, smiling at him with such understanding that he was sure she had seen through him, but he could not imagine them walking into Clarke’s, like an old couple, a couple from time past.
— I figured it’s time to settle down, he said.
— Of course.
She was not looking at him. She was studying her hands. Then she smiled again. She was forgiving him, he felt. That was it. She always understood.
They talked on, but not about much.
He left through the same foyer with its worn mosaic tile and people coming in. It was still light outside, the pure full light before evening, the sun in a thousand windows facing the park. Walking along the street in their heels, alone or together, were girls such as Noreen had been, many of them. They were not really going to meet for lunch sometime. He thought of the love that had filled the great central chamber of his life and how he would not meet anyone like that again.