Last Night - James Salter [40]
Marit gazed at things in the room, the photographs with their silver frames, the lamps, the large books on Surrealism, landscape design, or country houses that she had always meant to sit down with and read, the chairs, even the rug with its beautiful faded color. She looked at it all as if she were somehow noting it, when in fact it all meant nothing. Susanna’s long hair and freshness meant something, though she was not sure what.
Certain memories are what you long to take with you, she thought, memories from even before Walter, from when she was a girl. Home, not this one but the original one with her childhood bed, the window on the landing out of which she had watched the swirling storms of long-ago winters, her father bending over her to say good night, the lamplight in which her mother was holding out a wrist, trying to fasten a bracelet.
That home. The rest was less dense. The rest was a long novel so like your life; you were going through it without thinking and then one morning it ended: there were bloodstains.
— I’ve had a lot of these, Marit reflected.
— The drink? Susanna said.
— Yes.
— Over the years, you mean.
— Yes, over the years. What time is it getting to be?
— Quarter to eight, her husband said.
— Shall we go?
— Whenever you like, he said. No need to hurry.
— I don’t want to hurry.
She had, in fact, little desire to go. It was one step closer.
— What time is the reservation? she asked.
— Any time we like.
— Let’s go, then.
It was in the uterus and had travelled from there to the lungs. In the end, she had accepted it. Above the square neck-line of her dress the skin, pallid, seemed to emanate a darkness. She no longer resembled herself. What she had been was gone; it had been taken from her. The change was fearful, especially in her face. She had a face now that was for the afterlife and those she would meet there. It was hard for Walter to remember how she had once been. She was almost a different woman from the one to whom he had made a solemn promise to help when the time came.
Susanna sat in the back as they drove. The roads were empty. They passed houses showing a shifting, bluish light downstairs. Marit sat silent. She felt sadness but also a kind of confusion. She was trying to imagine all of it tomorrow, without her being here to see it. She could not imagine it. It was difficult to think the world would still be there.
At the hotel, they waited near the bar, which was noisy. Men without jackets, girls talking or laughing loudly, girls who knew nothing. On the walls were large French posters, old lithographs, in darkened frames.
— I don’t recognize anyone, Marit commented. Luckily, she added.
Walter had seen a talkative couple they knew, the Apthalls.
— Don’t look, he said. They haven’t seen us. I’ll get a table in the other room.
— Did they see us? Marit asked as they were seated. I don’t feel like talking to anyone.
— We’re all right, he said.
The waiter was wearing a white apron and black bow tie. He handed them the menu and a wine list.
— Can I get you something to drink?
— Yes, definitely, Walter said.
He was looking at the list, on which the prices were in roughly ascending order. There was a Cheval Blanc for five hundred and seventy-five dollars.
— This Cheval Blanc, do you have this?
— The 1989? the waiter asked.
— Bring us a bottle of that.
— What is Cheval Blanc? Is it a white? Susanna asked when the waiter had gone.
— No, it’s a red, Walter said.
— You know, it was very nice of you to join us tonight, Marit said to Susanna. It’s quite a special evening.
— Yes.
— We don’t usually order wine this good, she explained.
The two of them had often eaten here, usually near the bar, with its gleaming rows of bottles. They had never ordered wine that cost more than thirty-five dollars.
How was she feeling, Walter asked while they waited. Was she feeling OK?
— I don’t know how to express how I’m feeling. I’m taking morphine, Marit told Susanna. It’s doing the job, but . . . she stopped. There are a lot