Light Years by James Salter Page B

Nicolai.”
    “That one …”
    “She’s older than the others,” Franca explained.
    He sat on the step. Already there was a slight, bitter smell in the room. A bit of feather floated mysteriously down. Madame Nicolai was sitting as if dumped in a great, warm pile of feathers, brown, beige, becoming paler as it descended to soft tan.
    “She is wiser,” he said.
    “Oh, she’s very wise.”
    “A sage among hens. When do they begin to lay eggs?”
    “Right away.”
    “Aren’t they a little young?” He sat idly on the step watching their careful, measured movements, the jerk of their heads. “Well, if they don’t lay eggs, there are other things. Chicken Kiev …”
    “Papa!”
    “What?”
    “You wouldn’t do that.”
    “They’d understand.”
    “No, they wouldn’t.”
    “Madame Nicolai would understand,” he said.
    She was standing now, apart from the others, looking at him. Her head was in profile, one unblinking eye black with an amber ring.
    “She’s a woman of the world,” he said. “Look at her bosom, look at the expression on her beak.”
    “What expression?”
    “She understands life,” he said.
    “She knows what it is to be a chicken.”
    “Is she your favorite?”
    He was trying to coax her to come to his half-closed hand. “Papa?”
    “I think so,” he murmured. “Yes. She is a hen among hens. A hen’s hen,” he said.
    They were clinging to his arms in happiness and affection. He sat there. The chickens were clucking, making little soft sounds like water boiling. He continued to extol her—she had now turned cautiously away—this adulterer, this helpless man.

5
     
    FRANCA WAS TWELVE. IN THOSE slim dresses that fit a body still without hips one could not easily tell her age. She was perfectly formed, though without even the faint beginning of breasts. Her cheeks were cool. Her expression was that of a woman.
    She made up stories and did drawings for them. Margot was an elephant. Juan was a snail. Margot loved Juan very much, and Juan was mad about her. They used to sit and just look at each other. One day, she said to him, Juan .
    Yes, Margot .
    Juan, you are not very intelligent. I’m not?
    You haven’t seen the world .
    No, Juan said, I don’t have an airplane …
    The writer as a child, solemn, serene. Viri took a photograph of her holding the rabbit in her arms, a white paw resting on her wrist.
    “Don’t move,” he whispered.
    He stepped nearer, focusing. The rabbit was calm, immobile. His eyes, black and gleaming, gave no sense of seeing; they were hypnotized, fixed. His ears lay along his back like wilted celery. Only his nose trembled with life. Slowly Franca put her face to him, her lips to his rich coat. Viri took the picture.
    She was in touch with mystery, like her mother. She knew how to tell tales. The gift had appeared early. It was either a true talent or it was precocious and would fade. She was writing a story called The Queen of Feathers . She sat on the entry step observing the hens. The house was silent. They were aware of her and unable, at the same time, to maintain interest. Their minds wandered, they searched for bits of grain as she patiently acquired their secrets. Suddenly their heads went up. They listened; someone was coming.
    It was Danny. Hadji was with her. As soon as she opened the door he began to bark.
    “Oh God, Danny.”
    “What are you doing?”
    “Nothing. Get him out of here. He’s scaring the chickens.”
    They both shouted at him. The chickens were huddled beneath an iron table filled with plants. The dog was in the doorway, barking. His ears went flat at each bark, his legs were planted firmly.
    “He doesn’t like them,” Danny said.
    “Make him stop.”
    “I can’t. You know you can’t make him stop.”
    “Well, take him away, then.”
    They flew at him with their hands, shooing him down the hallway. He gave ground unwillingly, barking at them, at the room, the unseen chickens.
    “It’s beginning to smell in