“Is Mark going to stay in school?”
“He doesn’t know, either,” she said. “It depends.”
“I see.”
There was such reason in her voice.
5
IN THE FALL—IT WAS OCTOBER, A windy day—she drove to Jivan’s for lunch. The river was a brilliant gray, the sunlight looked like scales.
He had moved. He had bought the small, stone cottage at the end of a rutted drive, a long drive that crossed a brook. The trees were everywhere, the sun spilled through them. She was in a white dress, cool as fruit.
The brightness of Asia Minor filled the room when she opened the door. There was a silver-legged table that bore, like a catalog, perfect unused objects: art books, sculpture, pebbles, bowls of beads. On the walls were paintings. It was she who had been responsible for the decoration; her touch was everywhere. The chairs were filled with cushions of beautiful colors—lemon, magenta, tan.
Jivan came forward. He was polite. “Nedra,” he greeted her, extending his arms.
“What a beautiful day.”
“How is your family?”
“All well.”
There was a man in a business suit sitting quietly whom she had not noticed.
“This is André Orlosky,” Jivan said.
A pale face and prominent jawbones. He wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses, also a vest. There was a strange disharmony between his person and his clothes, as if he had dressed for a photograph or borrowed a suit. An impassive face, the face of a fanatic.
“André is a poet.”
“I just gave a ride to a poet,” Nedra said.
She had seen a white-haired man loping along the road. “Where are you going,” she had asked, slowing down. He told her. It was about a mile further on. He was gardening there. And why was he running? He lived in Nanuet; he’d run from there.
“He was old, but he had a wonderful face, all tanned.”
“And very strong legs.”
“Really, he was interesting. He came from California. He recited one of his poems for me. It was about the astronauts. It wasn’t very good,” she admitted.
Jivan brought her a glass of wine.
“It was his courage I admired,” Nedra said. She smiled that stunning, wide smile. She looked at André. “Do you know what I mean?”
“How have you been?” Jivan asked.
“We’re going to Europe,” she announced.
“When?” he said, a little weakly.
“We’re going to Paris, next spring, I hope.”
“Next spring.”
“We’re going to rent a car and then drive everywhere. I want to see it all.”
“How long will you stay?”
“At least three weeks. I want to go to Chartres and Mont-Saint-Michel. After all, this is the first time.”
“But Viri has been there.”
“So he says.”
“André knows Europe.”
“Is that right?”
“I went to school there,” André said. He had to clear his throat.
“Oh, yes? Where?”
“Near Geneva.”
“It’s funny,” Jivan said, “I don’t have any desire to go to Europe. I’d like to go and see my mother, but for me this is the land of marvels. Whatever there is in Europe, there’s more here.”
“But you’ve been there,” Nedra pointed out.
“You’ll see.”
She sipped her wine. Jivan had laid out an elaborate cold meal. He was serving as they talked. “Europe…” he continued.
“No more,” she said.
“No meat?”
“No more about Europe. I don’t want you to spoil it.” She opened her napkin and accepted a plate. “I love lunch,” she said. “It’s so good to have it with friends.”
“That’s true,” André said.
“People suspect you for it, though.”
He made a vague motion with his head.
“Do you live in the city?” she asked.
“Yes.”
In the city and alone. That was very interesting to her, she said, the idea of living alone. What was it like?
“Luxurious,” he said.
“You get used to it,” Jivan added.
“It depends so much on who you ask, doesn’t it?” she said. “If you don’t have a woman you must have some other passion,” Jivan said. “One or the other.”
“But not both,” André muttered.
He said little and said it mildly, almost indifferently. He ate very little. Instead he smoked a cigarette and drank the wine. The aroma of tobacco in the sunlit room was faint and delicious. Jivan brought out small dishes of candied grapes sent to him by his mother, and beside them placed tiny silver spoons. He poured coffee. The cigarette of the poet blued the air.
“What have you written?” Nedra asked.
“These bbones in bbed.” He spelt it out.
“Is that a poem?”
“It’s a poem and a book.”
She sipped the coffee. “I’d love to read it,” she said. She liked the way he was dressed, like a businessman. The small cup in her hand, the clearness of her voice, the white of her clothing—it was she who was central to the room, her movements, her smiles. Beneath their brilliance women have a power as stars have gravity. In the bottom of her cup lay the warm, rich silt.
“More coffee?” Jivan asked. “Please.”
He poured the black liquid as he had so many times, Turkish, dense, it made no sound. “You know, in all my time in America,” he said, “I count it as one long day, I’ve never been able to like the coffee. And friends. I’ve made very few friends.”
“You’ve made a lot of them.”
“No. I know everyone, but that’s not a friend. A friend is someone you can really talk to—cry with, if necessary. I’ve made very few. One.”
“More than that.”
“No.”
“Well,” Nedra said, “I think you find them as you need them.”
“You’re so American. You believe everything is possible, everything will come. I know differently.”
He was like a seller who has lost a deal. There was something resigned in him; his appearance was the same, his gestures, but somehow the energy had gone. Beside him, thoughtful, like a divinity student, a vaulter, she could not characterize him, she would have liked to stare at him and memorize his face, sat a man of—she tried to guess—thirty-two, thirty-four? Their glances met briefly. She was beautiful, she knew it, her neck, her wide mouth, she felt it as one feels strength. She had been swimming aimlessly, resigned to vanishing in the sea, and suddenly she was at a sunlit meal, the light occasionally gleaming on his glasses.
When she left, Jivan walked with her outside.
“It was like the lunches we used to have,” she said.
“Yes. Somewhat.”
“I like your friend.”
“Nedra, I must see you.”
“Well, wasn’t this very pleasant?”
“I miss you terribly.”
She looked at him. His eyes were black, uncertain. She kissed his cheek.
She drove through the autumn sunlight. The horses she passed were at peace, straying, bathed by a day more brilliant than any of the year. The trees were calm, sentient. The sky seemed endlessly deep, teeming with light.
She sat in the white chair reading. Abandoned cities far up the Amazon, cities with opera houses, great European vessels beached in the green. She imagined herself traveling there, a guest at the old hotels. She walked in the early morning when the streets were cool, her heels struck the pavement like the clap of hands. The city was gray and silver, the river dark. At mirrors which had never seen her face she sat before dinner, preparing herself. There were automobiles without tires running on the railroad tracks, mosaic sidewalks, whores like Eve at twenty in the dim cafés. She flew to Brazil as light flies, as the words of a song go to the heart. She was wearing the white dress she had worn to lunch, she had taken off her shoes. The winter of the year was coming, the winter of her life. There it was summer. One crossed an invisible line and everything was reversed. The sun poured down, her arms were tanned. She was a woman from a far country, already part legend, unknown.