Franca he was in love with, but Nedra he revered. Their world had a mysterious pull. It was more vivid, more passionate than other worlds. To be with them was like being in a boat, they floated along their own course. They invented their life.
The three of them met in the Russian Tea Room. The headwaiter knew Nedra; they were given one of the booths near the bar. It was one she liked. Nureyev had once sat nearby. “At that table there,” she said.
“All alone?”
“No. Have you ever seen him?” she said. “He’s the most beautiful man on earth. You simply can’t believe it. When he got up to leave, he went over to the mirror and buttoned his coat, tied the belt. The waiters were watching, they were standing in adoration, like schoolgirls.”
“He comes from a little town, isn’t that right?” Franca said. “They knew he was very talented. They thought he should go to Moscow to school, but he was too poor to ride the train. He waited six years to be able to buy a ticket.”
“I don’t know if it’s true,” Nedra said, “but it fits him. How old are you, Mark?”
“Nineteen,” he said.
She knew what that meant, what acts were burning within him, what discoveries were ordained. He had been to Italy on a year of exchange and inspired in Franca a desire to do the same. Imagine a boy of eighteen landing in Southampton. He looked at a map and saw that Salisbury was not far. Salisbury, he suddenly thought, the painting of its cathedral by Constable came to his mind, a painting he knew and admired, and here was the name on a map. He was overwhelmed by the coincidence, as if the one word he knew in a foreign language had brought him success. He took the train, he had a compartment all to himself, he was delighted, the countryside was ravishing, he was alone, traveling the world, and then, across a valley, the cathedral appeared. It was late afternoon, the sun was falling upon it. He was so deeply moved he applauded, he said.
Viri arrived and sat down. He was urbane; in that room, at that hour, he seemed the age one longs to be, the age of accomplishments, of acceptance, the age we never achieve. He saw before him his wife and a young couple. Franca was surely a woman, he knew it suddenly. He had somehow missed the moment it had happened, but the fact was clear to him. Her real face had emerged from the young, sympathetic face it had been and in an hour become more passionate, mortal. It was a face he was in awe of. He heard her voice saying, “Yeah, yeah,” eagerly in response to Mark, the years of her girlhood vanished before his eyes. She would take off her clothes, live in Mexico, find life.
“Don’t you want a drink, Viri?”
“A drink? Yes, what’s that you have?”
“It’s called White Nights.”
“Let me taste it,” he said. “What’s in it?”
“Vodka and Pernod.”
“Is that all?”
“A lot of ice.”
“I was coming down in the elevator today, you’ll never guess who got on: Philip Johnson.”
“Really?”
“He looked fantastic. I said hello to him. He had on a terrific hat.”
Mark said, “Is this Philip Johnson, the…”
“Architect.”
“Why was he wearing the hat?” Franca asked.
“Ah, well. Why does a rooster wear his feathers?”
“You’re as talented as he is,” Nedra said.
“It didn’t seem to worry him.”
“I’m going to buy you a marvelous hat.”
“A hat isn’t going to help that much.”
“A big, doe-colored velour hat,” she said.
“The kind that pimps wear.”
“I think I’ve somehow given you the wrong impression.”
“If Philip Johnson has a hat, you can have a hat.”
“It’s like the joke about the actor who dropped dead on the stage,” Viri said. “Do you know that story?” He turned to Mark. It was one of Arnaud’s, pungent, homely. “It was in the Yiddish theater. I think he was playing Macbeth.”
“They dropped the curtain, but everyone could see there was something wrong,” Nedra said. “Finally the manager came out and told them: it was a terrible thing, terrible, he was dead.”
“But a woman in the balcony keeps calling, ‘Give him some tsicken soup. Give him some tsicken soup!’ And the manager is standing there next to the body, and finally he calls out, ‘Look, you don’t understand. He’s dead! Tsicken soup couldn’t help him, lady!’ ‘It couldn’t hoit,’ she says.”
They told it together as fondly as they had once joined lives. No one knew Nedra as well as Viri. They were the owners of a vast, disordered merchandise; together they had faced it all. When he undressed at night, he was like a diplomat or judge. A white body, gentle and powerless, emerged from his clothes, his position in the world lay tumbled on the floor, fallen from his ankles; he was clement, he was froglike, a touch of melancholy in his smile.
He buttoned his pajamas, brushed his hair.
“Do you approve of him?” Nedra asked.
“Mark?”
“I’m sure they’ve made love.”
The coolness of it stung him. “Oh. Why?”
“Wouldn’t you?” she asked. “Well, maybe you wouldn’t.”
“I think it’s very important that she knows what to do.”
“Oh, she knows. I’ve given her everything she needs.”
“What do you mean, pills?”
“She didn’t want to take pills,” Nedra said.
“I see.”
“I agreed with her. She didn’t want chemicals in her body.”
His thoughts suddenly rushed to his daughter. She was not far away, she was in her room, the music on softly, her dresses neatly hung. He thought of her innocence, of the prodigality of life as if it had surprised him, like a sudden, unheard wave that catches a stroller on the beach, soaking his pants, his hair. And yet now, struck by that wave, a sense of acceptance, even pleasure, came over him. He had been touched by the sea, that greatest of earthly elements, as a man is touched by the hand of God. The need to fear such things was ended.
That night he dreamed of a seashore silver with wind. Kaya came to him. They were in a vast room, alone, there was a convention going on outside. He did not know how he persuaded her, but she said, “Yes, all right.” She slipped from her clothes. “But I like it in the evening too.”
Her hips were so real, so dazzling, that he hardly felt shame when his mother walked by, pretending not to see. She would tell Nedra, she would not tell Nedra, he could not decide, he tried not to worry. Then he lost this shining woman in a crowd, near a theater. She vanished. Empty rooms, corridors in which old classmates were standing, absorbed in conversation. He walked past them, conspicuously alone.
In the morning he looked at Franca more closely, concealing it, trying to be natural. He saw nothing. She seemed the same, if anything more affectionate, more in harmony with the day, the air, the invisible stars.
“How are things going at school?” he asked.
“Oh, I love school,” she said. “This year is the best.”
“That’s good. What do you like most?”
“Well, of everything…”
“Yes?”
“Biology.” She was tapping at the crown of a soft-boiled egg, dressed neatly, her face clear.
“And next to that?” he said.
“I don’t know. I guess French.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice to spend a year of college there?”
“In Paris?”
“Paris, Grenoble. There are a lot of places.”
“Yes. Well, I’m not sure I want to go to college.”
“What do you mean?”
“Now, don’t get excited,” she said. “I only mean I might want to go to art school or something.”
“Well, it’s true you paint beautifully,” he admitted.
“I haven’t decided.” She smiled like her mother, mysterious, assured. “We’ll have to see.”