Last Night - James Salter [9]
There’d been some mix-up about the seating that Irene tried vainly to adjust amid the conversation before the meal began. Outside, darkness had come, deep and green. The men were talking about camps they had gone to as boys in piny Maine and about Soros, the financier. Far more interesting was a comment Ardis heard Irene make, in what context she did not know,
— I think there’s such a thing as sleeping with one man too many.
— Did you say “such a thing” or “no such thing”? she heard herself ask.
Irene merely smiled. I must ask her later, Ardis thought. The food was excellent. There was cold soup, duck, and a salad of young vegetables. The coffee had been served and Ardis was distractedly playing with melted wax from the candles when a voice burst out loudly behind her,
— I’m late. Who’s this? Are these the beautiful people?
It was a drunken man in a jacket and dirty white trousers with blood on them, which had come from nicking his lip while shaving two hours before. His hair was damp, his face arrogant. It was the face of a Regency duke, intimidating, spoiled. The irrational flickered from him.
— Do you have anything to drink here? What is this, wine? Very sorry I’m late. I’ve just had seven cognacs and said good-bye to my wife. Deems, you know what that’s like. You’re my only friend, do you know that? The only one.
— There’s some dinner in there, if you like, Deems said, gesturing toward the kitchen.
— No dinner. I’ve had dinner. I’ll just have something to drink. Deems, you’re my friend, but I’ll tell you something, you’ll become my enemy. You know what Oscar Wilde said— my favorite writer, my favorite in all the world. Anyone can choose his friends, but only the wise man can choose his enemies.
He was staring intently at Deems. It was like the grip of a madman, a kind of fury. His mouth had an expression of determination. When he went into the kitchen they could hear him among the bottles. He returned with a dangerous glassful and looked around boldly.
— Where is Beatrice? Deems asked.
— Who?
— Beatrice, your wife.
— Gone, Brennan said.
He searched for a chair.
— To visit her father? Irene asked.
— What makes you think that? Brennan said menacingly. To Ardis’s alarm he sat down next to her.
— He’s been in the hospital, hasn’t he?
— Who knows where he’s been, Brennan said darkly. He’s a swine. Lucre, gain. He’s a slum owner, a criminal. I would hang him myself. In the fashion of Gomez, the dictator, whose daughters are probably wealthy women.
He discovered Ardis and said to her, as if imitating someone, perhaps someone he assumed her to be,
— ’N ’at funny? ’N ’at wonderful?
To her relief he turned away.
— I’m their only hope, he said to Irene. I’m living on their money and it’s ruinous, the end of me. He held out his glass and asked mildly, Can I have just a tiny bit of ice? I adore my wife. To Ardis he confided, Do you know how we met? Unimaginable. She was walking by on the beach. I was unprepared. I saw the ventral, then the dorsal, I imagined the rest. Bang! We came together like planets. Endless fornication. Sometimes I just lie silent and observe her. The black panther lies under his rose-tree, he recited. J’ai eu pitié des autres . . .
He stared at her.
— What is that? she asked tentatively.
— . . . but that the child walk in peace in her basilica, he intoned.
— Is it Wilde?
— You can’t guess? Pound. The sole genius of the century. No, not the sole. I am another: a drunk, a failure, and a great genius. Who are you? he said. Another little housewife?
She felt the blood leave her face and stood to busy herself clearing the table. His hand was on her arm.
— Don’t go. I know who you are, another priceless woman meant to languish. Beautiful figure, he said as she managed to free herself, pretty shoes.
As she carried some plates into the kitchen she could hear him saying,