Sophie's Choice - William Styron [132]
“Did you notice something very peculiar in his eyes?” I murmured to Sophie. “Do you think he might have taken too much of that aspirin you got for him, or something?” The innocence of such a question was, I now realize, almost inconceivable, given what was eventually to be revealed to me as the cause for those dilated pupils, the size of dimes; but then, I was learning a lot of new things in those days.
Nathan returned with the opened bottle of wine and sat down. A waiter brought glasses and set them before the three of us. I was relieved to see that the expression on Nathan’s face had softened somewhat, no longer quite the rancorous mask it had been only moments before. But the fierce strait-jacketed tension remained in the muscles of the cheek and neck and also the sweat poured forth: it stood out on his brow in droplets, matching in appearance—I noted irrelevantly—the mosaic of cool dewdrops on the bottle of Chablis. And then I caught sight for the first time of the great crescents of soaked white fabric underneath his arms. He poured wine in our glasses, and although I shrank from looking at Sophie’s face, I saw that her hand, holding the outstretched glass, was quivering. I had committed the major mistake of keeping unfolded on the table beneath my elbow the copy of the Post, with its page turned to the photograph of Bilbo. I saw Nathan glance at the picture and make what appeared to be a smirk full of enormous and wicked self-satisfaction.
“I read that article just a while ago on the subway,” he said, raising his glass. “I propose a toast to the slow, protracted, agonizing death of the Senator from Mississippi, Mushmouth Bilbo.”
I was silent for a moment. Nor did I raise my glass as Sophie did. She lifted hers out of nothing at this point, I was sure, but dumb reflexive obedience. Finally I said as casually as I was able, “Nathan, I want to propose a toast to your success, to your great discovery, whatever it is. To this wonderful thing you’ve been working on that Sophie’s told me about. Congratulations.” I reached forward and lightly, affectionately tapped the back of his arm. “Now let’s cut all this ugly shit”—I tried to inject a jovial, conciliatory note—“and let’s all relax while you tell us, for Christ’s sake, just tell us exactly what the hell it is we’re going to celebrate! Man, tonight we want to make all the toasts to you!”
A disagreeable chill went through me as I felt the brusque deliberateness with which he pulled his arm away from my hand. “That will be impossible,” he said, glaring at me, “my mood of triumph has been seriously compromised if not totally deflated by treachery at the hands of someone I used to love.” Still unable to glance at her, I heard Sophie give a single hoarse sob. “There will be no toast this evening to victorious Hygeia.” He was holding his glass aloft, elbow propped on the table. “We will toast instead the painful demise of Senator Bilbo.”
“You will, Nathan,” I said, “not I. I’m not going to toast anyone’s death—painful or not painful—and neither should you. You of all people should know better. Aren’t you in the healing business? This is not a very funny joke, you know: It’s fucking obscene to toast death.” My sudden pontifical tone was something I seemed unable to repress. I raised my own glass. “To life,” I proposed, “to your life, ours“—I made a gesture which included Sophie—“to health. To your great discovery.” I sensed a note of pleading in my voice, but Nathan remained immobile and grim-faced, refusing to drink. Stymied, feeling a spasm of desperation, I slowly lowered my glass. I also, for the first time, felt a touch of warm rage churning in the region of my abdomen; it was a slow conglomerate anger, directed in equal parts at Nathan’s hateful