He spoke of it to no one, of course, except Nedra. It grew more and more invisible year by year. It vanished from his conversation, though not from his life. It would be there always, until the last, like a great ship rotting in the ways.
He was well-liked. He would have preferred being hated. I am too mild, he said.
“It’s your way,” Nedra told him, “you must use it.”
He respected her ideas. Yes, he thought, I must go on. I must make one building, even if it’s small, that everyone will notice. Then a bigger one. I must ascend by steps.
A perfect day begins in death, in the semblance of death, in deep surrender. The body is soft, the soul has gone forth, all strength, even breath. There is no power for good or evil, the luminous surface of another world is near, enfolding, the branches of the trees tremble outside. Morning, he wakes slowly, as if touched by sun across the legs. He is alone. There is the smell of coffee. The tan coat of his dog drinks the burning light.
For the day to unfold it must in its blueness, its immensity hide the conspiracy he lived on, hide but enclose it, invisible, like stars in the daytime sky.
He wanted one thing, the possibility of one thing: to be famous. He wanted to be central to the human family, what else is there to long for, to hope? Already he walked modestly along the streets, as if certain of what was coming. He had nothing. He had only the carefully laid out luggage of bourgeois life, his scalp beginning to show beneath the hair, his immaculate hands. And the knowledge; yes, he had knowledge. The Sagrada Familia was as familiar to him as a barn to a farmer, the “new towns” of France and England, cathedrals, voussoirs, cornices, quoins. He knew the life of Alberti, of Christopher Wren. He knew that Sullivan was the son of a dancing master, Breuer a doctor in Hungary. But knowledge does not protect one. Life is contemptuous of knowledge; it forces it to sit in the anterooms, to wait outside. Passion, energy, lies: these are what life admires. Still, anything can be endured if all humanity is watching. The martyrs prove it. We live in the attention of others. We turn to it as flowers to the sun.
There is no complete life. There are only fragments. We are born to have nothing, to have it pour through our hands. And yet, this pouring, this flood of encounters, struggles, dreams… one must be unthinking, like a tortoise. One must be resolute, blind. For whatever we do, even whatever we do not do prevents us from doing the opposite. Acts demolish their alternatives, that is the paradox. So that life is a matter of choices, each one final and of little consequence, like dropping stones into the sea. We had children, he thought; we can never be childless. We were moderate, we will never know what it is to spill out our lives…
He was not himself somehow. The faint sound of the radio playing near the draftsmen’s tables was a strange distraction. He could not think, he was vague, adrift.
Arnaud came by in the late afternoon. He sat with his coat belted. He looked like a vintner, a man who owns land.
“What’s wrong?”
“I was just thinking,” Viri murmured.
“I had lunch today at the Toque.”
“Was it good?”
“I’m getting so fat,” Arnaud moaned. “Lunch is not a meal; it’s a profession. It takes your whole life. I had lunch with a very nice girl. You don’t know her.”
“Who?”
“She was so… everything she said was so unexpected. She went to school in a convent. The mattresses were made of straw.”
“Is that unexpected?”
“You know, there’s a kind of education, a kind of upbringing which is ruinous, and yet if you survive it, it’s the best thing in the world. It’s like having been a heroin addict or a thief. We try to save too many people, that’s the trouble. You save them, but what have you got?”
“Tell me more of what she said.”
“It wasn’t only what she said. She ate, that was the thing I liked about her, she ate as much as I did. We were like two peasants striking a bargain. Bread, fish, wine, everything. I began looking at her as something that was going to be served next. And she’s one of these girls who fill their clothes completely. She was—you know how they make those veal and ham pies in England?—she was en croûte. And the most interesting thing: she’s lame.”
“Lame?”
“She can’t walk very well. She limps. You don’t find that often. A lame woman… Louise de La Vallière was lame. Louise de Vilmorin, too. She had tuberculosis of the hip.”
“Did she?”
“I think so. Something else very nice is a woman with slightly crossed eyes.”
“Crossed eyes?”
“Just a little. And teeth. Bad teeth.”
“You like all three?”
“No, no, of course not,” Arnaud said. “Not in the same woman. You can’t have everything.”
There was something hidden in his expression, the smile of someone who should not reveal it. “It’s terrible,” he sighed.
“What?”
“I can’t do this to Eve. I can’t be unfaithful for a…”
“A bad leg.”
“It just isn’t right,” Arnaud said. “I mean, she cooks meals for me. She has a wonderful sense of humor.”
“And her teeth aren’t that good.”
“They’re passable. They’re not really bad.”
He shifted in the chair slightly, and found a new position. His clothing was somewhat tight on him.
“It’s so easy to be distracted,” he said. “Eve is good for me.”
“She loves you.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“Me?” He looked about as if for something to involve him. “I love everyone. It’s your daughters I love, Viri. I’m serious.”
“Well, it’s reciprocated.”
“I’m jealous of them. I’m jealous of your life. It’s a sensible life. It’s harmonious, that’s what I’m trying to say, and most important, it’s intimately connected with the future because of your children. I mean, I’m sure you realize it, but what moment that gives to each day.”
“Why don’t you have children?”
“Yes. Well, first, I would say, I need a wife. And unfortunately, you also have the wife I like. Nedra doesn’t have a sister, does she?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad. I’d like to marry her sister. It would really be an act of adultery.” There was no insult in his voice. “No, you’re very fortunate,” he said. “But you know that. Well, if anything should happen…”
Viri smiled.
“No, I mean it. If anything happened to you… your wife, your children, I would take care of them. I would continue your love.”
“I don’t think anything’s going to happen.”
“Well, you never know,” Arnaud said cheerfully.
“Listen,” Viri said, “why don’t you come out this weekend and have dinner?”
“Wonderful.”
“You and Eve.”
“I forgot something,” Arnaud said suddenly. He was searching in his pocket. “I have a present for Franca. I bought it at Azuma, it’s a frog ring.”
“Why don’t you give it to her?”
“No, take it with you. I want her to have it tonight.”
“I’ll tell her it’s from you.”
“Tell her it’s from Yassir Rashid, the king of the desert. Tell her if she is ever in danger to show it and she will be safe in the heart of the tribes.”
“Listen, Yassir, what would you think of a little Scotch before you disappear?”
“There are three things in the desert which cannot be hidden,” Arnaud said. “A camel, smoke and… you know something? We see too many movies.”
“On the rocks?” Viri asked.
“They kill the imagination. You’ve heard of blind storytellers. It’s in darkness that myths are born. The cinema can’t do that. Did I tell you about the girl I took to lunch? She was really okay. You know, in a sense it’s that way with her. She can never dance. That’s why the real grace, the real music is in her.”