The room had the bareness of tables in closed restaurants. It was an invalid’s room, the rugs worn, cold. It was a room in which objects began, in isolation, to radiate an absurdity. A book, a spoon, a toothbrush seemed as strange as a sofa in the snow. She had dressed this barren space with her clothes, with lipsticks, sunglasses, belts, maps of the ski lifts, but nothing had dented the coldness. Only in the first, clear light of early morning did she feel secure, or when it stormed.
She prepared her eyes in the mirror. She examined herself, turning her head slowly from side to side. She did not want to grow old. She was reading Madame de Staël. The courage to live when the best days were past. Yes, it was there, but still she could not think of it without confusion. The rooms in hotels when one is alone, when the telephone is silent and voices from the street are like gusts of music—these were things she had already decided she would not endure. She had her teeth still, she had her eyes. Drink, it’s the last of it, she thought.
She stepped back. How to re-create that tall young woman whose laugh turned people’s heads, whose dazzling smile fell on gatherings like money on restaurant tables, snow on country houses, morning at sea? She took up her implements, eye pencil, cucumber cream, lipstick the color of isinglass… Finally she was satisfied. In a certain light, with the right background, the right clothes, a beautiful coat… yes, and she had her smile, it was all that was left from the early days, it was hers, she would have it always, the way one always remembers how to swim.
He arrived at the door unexpectedly with a bottle of champagne. “I’ve had this on ice for weeks,” he said, “waiting for an occasion.”
The champagne poured over his hand when he opened it and fell to the floor in long, foaming gouts. He paid no attention. He smelled the glasses in the bathroom, they were clean.
“You’re married,” he announced.
“No.”
“You’ve been married.” He handed her a glass. “I can see it. Women become dry if they live alone. I don’t think it needs explaining. It’s demonstrable. Even if it’s not a good marriage, it keeps them from dehydrating. They’re like the fruit flies in Franklin’s wine. You know that story? Incredible. One of the great stories of all time—I mean, even if you know it, it’s still amazing, it never disappoints you, it’s like a trick. And I believe Franklin; he was our last, great, honest man. Well, Walt Whitman, maybe. No, forget about Whitman.”
He took a large swallow of champagne.
“This is like youth,” he said. “Nothing is sweeter, even though I hardly remember it. Well, I remember some things. Certain houses people lived in. Latin class. I don’t think they even have Latin classes any more. It’s all like a suit that’s been pressed too much, nothing left but the spots.
“The flies—listen to this—the flies had been drowned in the wine, they were at the bottom of the bottle with a little sediment, the dirt that tells you things are real. That’s what’s missing in American life, the sediment. Anyway, Franklin saw these little drowned flies, they were fruit flies, they’re always hovering over peaches and pears, and he put them on a plate in the sunlight to let them dry. You know what happened?”
“No.”
“They came back to life.”
“How could they?”
“I told you it was incredible. This was wine that had come all the way from France. It was at least a year old. You can say that’s the power of French wine, but the story is true. So that’s my plan. If it works for flies, why not for primates?”
“Well…”
“Well what?”
“That’s been tried many times,” she said.
At dinner they had a good table, he was clearly at home, there were flowers, the wineglasses were large. The young headwaiter in his high collar and striped pants came over to talk.
“How are you, Mr. Pall?” he said.
“Bring us a bottle of Dole,” Pall told him.
A fire crackling. Dry Swiss wine. It disappeared rapidly into the glasses.
“So what are your plans?” he asked. “You’re not staying in Davos? You should come here. It’s very comfortable. I’ll talk to the owner; I’ll see if I can get you a room.”
“I love the restaurant.”
“Consider it done. This is the place for you. Do you like the wine?”
“It’s delicious.”
“You don’t drink very much,” he said. “You have a great economy of act. I admire that. Tell me about your life.”
“Which one?”
“You have many, eh?”
“Only two,” she said.
“Are you going to spend the winter here?”
“I don’t know. That depends.”
“Naturally,” Pall said. He drank some wine. He had ordered dinner for them without looking at the menu. “Naturally. Well, I have friends here you should meet. I used to have a lot of them, but during the divorce you split everything, and my wife took half of them when she left—some of the best ones, unfortunately. They were really hers, anyway. I always liked her friends. That was one of the problems.” He laughed. “One or two of them I liked a little too much.”
He ordered more wine.
“The best friend I ever had—you never heard of him—was a writer named Gordon Eddy. You know him?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Wonderful guy.”
There were beads of saliva in the corners of his mouth. His movements were loose, his hands waved freely. Solid, generous, practical, he was all hull; he had no keel. The rudder was small, the compass drifting.
“He was the friend of my life. You know, you only have one friend like that, there can’t be two. He had no money—I’m talking about a certain period after the war. He was living with us. I’d give him some money and he’d go right down and lose it at the casino. He’d bring back girls who’d stay for a day or two. Naturally, my wife didn’t like him: the girls, and he’d leave cigarette ashes around and come downstairs with his fly open. What she remembers most about France, she says, is Gordon’s fly being open. So finally she said either he went or she did. I should have said, All right, you. I knew nothing then.”
The dinner was served on large, warm plates: sliced steak and rosti, raspberries in cream for dessert. He was emptying the second bottle of wine. Outside it was cold, the small streets dark, the snow creaking underfoot. His eyes were glazed. He was like a beaten boxer waiting in his corner. He could still smile and speak, his embrace of life was not loosened, but he was spent. When people stopped to talk to him, he did not rise, he could not, but he remembered Nedra’s name.
“Let’s have a brandy,” he said. He called to the waitress. “Rémy Martin. Zwei. Rémy Martin is good,” he advised Nedra. “Martell is good, but I know Martell. I mean personally. He’s rich enough as it is.”
“You seem to know a lot of people. What do you do?”
“I’m an owner. I used to be in banking, but I retired. Now I’m having a little fun. I don’t have any responsibilities. I can do everything by telephone. I’ve gotten rid of my problems.”
“Such as?”
“Such as everything,” he said. “I’m thinking of going to India.”
“I’d love to go to India. I’ve studied with Indians.”
“I’d be willing to bet you don’t know anything about it.”