Light Years by James Salter Page B

did not know why—she was crossing the wide avenue alone—all his uncertainty fled. He began to run and caught up to her on the steps.
    “I decided to go with you,” he said. His voice was uneven; he managed to calm his breath. “There’s a room of Egyptian jewelry, a beautiful room, I wanted to show it to you. Do you know who Isis is?”
    “A goddess,” she said.
    “Yes. Another one.”
    She lowered her head in a gesture of profound contentment. She looked at him and smiled. “So she’s one too, eh? You know them all.”
    He could feel her love plainly. She was his, he understood it. He had never felt happier, more sure.
    “There’s a lot I want to show you.”
    She followed him into the great galleries. He guided her by the elbow, touching her often, her shoulder, the small of her back. In the end she would forget him; that was how she would win.
    He drove home in a luminous twilight. The closing prices of shares were being given, the trees held the remnants of day.
    Nedra was sitting at a table in the living room, notes spread around her. She was writing something.
    “A story,” she said. “Was the traffic bad?”
    “Not very.”
    “You have to illustrate it for me.” She had a certain, strange elation. Near her elbow was a San Raphael. She glanced up. “Would you like one?”
    “I’ll have a sip of yours. No, on second thought, I will have one.”
    She seemed calm, secure; she knew nothing, he was certain of it. She went to prepare the drink. He felt relief. He was like a hare, safe in his form at last. He had a glimpse of her crossing the hall and a feeling of great warmth came over him, affection for her hips, her hair, the bracelets on her wrist. In some way he was suddenly equal to her; his love did not depend on her alone, it was more vast, a love for women, largely ungratified, an unattainable love focused for him in this one wilful, mysterious creature, but not only this one. He had divided his agony; it was cleaved at last.
    She returned with his drink and sat in a comfortable chair. “Did you work hard today?”
    “Well, yes.” He sipped the drink. “This is delicious. Thank you.”
    “And did it go well?”
    “More or less.”
    “Um.”
    She knew nothing. She knew everything, the thought flashed, she was too wise to speak.
    “What have you done today?” he asked.
    “I’ve had a marvelous day, I really have. I’m writing the story of the eel for Franca and Danny. I don’t like the books they give them in school. I want to do my own. Let me read it to you. I’ll get it.” She smiled at him before she rose, a wide, understanding smile.
    “The eel …” he said.
    “Yes.”
    “That’s very Freudian.”
    “I know, but Viri, I don’t believe in all that. I think it’s quite narrow.”
    “Narrow. Well, definitely narrow, but the symbolism is very clear.”
    “What symbolism?”
    “I mean, it’s clearly a cock,” he said.
    “I hate that word.”
    “It’s inoffensive.”
    “No, it isn’t.”
    “Well, I mean, there are worse.”
    “I just don’t like it.”
    “What one do you like?”
    “What word?”
    “Yes.”
    “Inimitable,” she said.
    “Inimitable?”
    “Yes.” She began to laugh. “He had a big inimitable. Listen to what I’ve written.”
    She showed him a drawing she had done. It was just to give an idea; his would be better. “Oh, Nedra,” he said, “it’s beautiful.”
    A strange, snakelike creature of elegant lines lay adorned in flowers.
    “What kind of pen did you do it with?” he said.
    “A sensational pen. Look. I bought it.”
    He was examining it.
    “You can use different points,” she explained.
    “It’s a wonderful eel.”
    “For centuries, Viri,” she said, “no one knew anything about them. They were an absolute mystery. Aristotle wrote that they had no sex, no eggs, no semen. He said they rose, already grown, from out of the sea. For thousands of years people believed that.”
    “But don’t they lay eggs?”
    “I’m