Light Years by James Salter Page A

comedy?—and then, still another. He was fifty; he looked like a lawyer.
    He sat in the office unable to think. His draftsmen were arriving. Are you all right, they asked. Yes. Their wide, flat tables were already spilling sunlight. They hung up their coats. It seemed that the white telephones, the chrome and leather chairs, the sharpened pencils, had lost their significance; they were like objects in a store that has closed. His gaze passed over them in ringing silence, a silence that could not be penetrated though he spoke in it, nodded, heard conversation.
    At ten she came in. “Please, I can’t talk,” she said.
    She wore a slim, ribbed sweater the color of shipping cartons; her face was white. As she walked through the room he was conscious of her legs, the sound of her heels on the floor, the bones of her wrists. He could not look at her, everything about her he had known, had access to, was fading.
    He left before noon for a meeting. He called her as soon as he was outside. Pages were torn from the directory in the phone booth. The door would not close.
    “Kaya,” he said. “Please. What do you mean, you can’t talk?”
    She seemed helpless.
    “I need you,” he said. “I can’t do anything without you. Oh, God,” he breathed. His eyes were filling with tears. He could not tell her what he felt. He was like a fugitive. “Oh, God, I know this girl …”
    “Stop.”
    “I’ve gone to prison for her, my ribs are showing. I’ve given up my life …”
    “How did I know you were coming?” she said. “Why didn’t you call me?” She began to weep. “Don’t you have any brains?” she cried.
    He hung up. He knew perfectly well that talking was useless, that there had been a moment when he should have slapped her with all his strength. But he was not that sort of man. His hatred was weak, pallid, it could not even darken the blood.
    Ten minutes later he excused himself from his client and rushed to call her again. He tried to be calm, unfrightened.
    “Kaya.”
    “Yes.”
    “Meet me this evening.”
    “I can’t.”
    “Tomorrow, then.”
    “Maybe tomorrow.”
    “Please, promise me.”
    She would not answer. He begged her.
    “Yes, all right,” she finally said.
    He could not go back to work. He went instead to her apartment and rang the bell. No answer. He let himself in. A chill had come over him, a deep chill like the shock that follows an accident. The sun was shining. The radio gave the weather, the news.
    The bed was unmade, he could not approach it. In the kitchen were dirty glasses, a tray of ice that now held only water. He went to the closet. Her things surrounded him, they seemed flimsy, without substance. His hand trembling, he somehow cut the heart out of a tumbling, dark dress, the most beautiful one she owned. He was afraid she might come back as he was doing it; he had no explanation, no way to turn. Afterwards he sat by the window. His breath was shallow, like that of a newt. He sat motionless; the emptiness, the tranquillity of the rooms began to calm him. She lay in the gray light of morning, her back smooth and luminous, her legs weak. She was barelimbed, unthinking. He parted her knees. Never.
    Nedra was happy that evening. She seemed pleased with herself.
    “Are you all right?” she asked.
    “What? Yes, it’s been a long day.”
    “We’re going to have our own eggs,” she announced.
    The children were ecstatic. “Come and see!” they cried.
    They pulled him by the hand to the solarium with its floor of gravel. The chickens ran for the corners, then along the wall. Danny managed to catch one at last.
    “Look at him, Papa, don’t you love him?”
    The hen sat panicked within her arms, its small eyes blinking.
    “Her,” Viri said.
    “Do you want to know their names?” Franca asked.
    He nodded vaguely.
    “Papa?”
    “Yes,” he said. “Where did you get them?”
    “That’s Janet …”
    “Janet.”
    “Dorothy.”
    “Yes.”
    “And that one is Madame