In Sunlight and in Shadow Read online

  “One.”

  “How many do you know?”

  As he spoke, he counted on his fingers.

  “That many?”

  “All badly, except perhaps English. Unfortunately, I don’t know Turkish.”

  “What a tragedy,” she said. “How can you possibly get around in New York?”

  “I manage, but what I know is nothing. Your song. . . .” He had to stop and start over again. “Your song . . . in its few words. Your enunciation. The way you sang those words, the way you expressed them. Nothing I’ve ever done can compare. I’ve never experienced anything as perfect. Just the caesura in the second stanza is the most extraordinary. . . .”

  “But it’s only a half-note,” she interrupted.

  “It may be only a half-note, but it’s infinitely beautiful and it tells all.” He meant, about you, and although he did not say it, she understood it.

  And she, of great self-possession, could hardly breathe, much less speak, because it was true, because she had not realized it, because of what had been sent to her. Rather than go deeper, she made for the surface. “You heard me?”

  “I did.”

  After turning her eyes toward the tablecloth, a silence, and a few deep breaths, she looked back at him and said, “I majored in music and studied voice. I have a rich midrange. Seems to be expanding. I can’t do opera, yet. I’m barely good enough to sing one song in a careless Broadway musical. No one has said to me, about my singing, what you said.”

  “The director thought it was perfect.”

  “How long were you in the theater?”

  “I got there early and the idiot at the stage door invited me in.”

  “He is an idiot. We’ve got to get a new one. Did you pay him?”

  “No.”

  “Usually, people do. That’s his racket.”

  “He let me in for free.”

  After Harry had said what he had said, she could hardly look at him, and could not believe that her emotions were so strong. It frightened her, so she tried to slow the momentum. “Why didn’t you write that book? What could be more lovely than writing a book about something you love?”

  “I was in England for two years. I spent a lot of time in the Mediterranean and I got an M.Phil., but my father got sick—my mother died a long time ago—and I had to take care of him and the business. I was going to go back, but there were a lot of problems here—he never really got well. And then the war. I enlisted in ’forty-one, before Pearl Harbor.”

  “That was early. A lot of people were waiting to see, even after.”

  “I had an English sense of the war. My father died soon after we breached the Siegfried Line. I got out last year. I’ve been involved with the business since then.”

  “And what business is it that has a leather punch? Oh!” she said, making the connection, if late. He watched as it unfurled, knowing what was coming. “Copeland Leather. You’re Copeland Leather.”

  “Actually, I’m just Harry,” he said, waiting for what he knew she would do.

  She held up her purse as if it were the golden fleece, looking at it in astonishment. “This,” she declared, “is Copeland Leather.”

  “I know.”

  “I was carrying your purse. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I was thinking of other things.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you. So are you.”

  They dipped some bread in oil, and had some water and some wine. They were already in love and both of them knew it, but for both it was too fast. “What’s the greatest mystery of the universe?” he asked.

  All she could do was ask what.

  “That Popeye’s girlfriend is called Olive Oyl. What insanity led to that? Who can ever say? It’s a question that, by its nature, probably can never be answered.”

  “By the way,” she said, “we split this.”

  “I understand.”

  “You said you did, and you may be the only man in New York who does. Why?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Do you think I’m rich?”

  “That would be a short story. And, no, I think you went to Bryn Mawr, you speak magnificently, and you wear very expensive clothes from another era because you may be living in reduced circumstances. Maybe you were rich, but not now. That means you don’t envy the rich or have contempt for the poor, and it means you know a great deal even though you’re young. Maybe it explains the depth of your song. I don’t know. It has to come from someplace, an understanding, a compassion. You see very clearly. You feel deeply. You’re older than your years.”

  “All right,” she said, moving the candle that was dead-set between them to her right, so that nothing was between them, and then leaning forward a bit, “so tell me why I pay.”

  “As I said, it’s a long story.”

  She shrugged, which said, I’m here, I have patience, tell it.

  “When I was in France, in the war—and it seems to me now, as it did when I was a child, that Paris was and is the center of the world, and as if I’m dreaming now and if I wake up that’s where I’ll be—when I was a soldier, I would see women on the street, many of whom were young and attractive. I would make an instant connection with them, through the eyes. When you’re in the army, fighting, you get that way. There are many men who are very crude, and they get cruder. They always thought of women as sort of prey, and in the absence of women, apart from civilian life, apart from civilization, that is, it gets worse, much worse. But, for me, suddenly coming into a city in France or Holland . . . a woman became as beautiful and venerable as. . . . I mean, why were we fighting if not . . . if not to protect. . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “That June, the weather was magnificent. I used to look up at the moon at night, at rest, in battle, wherever I was. It was weightless, satiny, the color of pearl, feminine. It saved me. But, anyway, I would see women on the streets of liberated towns, and because everything had broken down, and for a while there were no supplies, and the soldiers coming in had money, food, and chocolate. . . . Love can’t exist in servitude.”

  “If you bought me dinner it wouldn’t be servitude.”

  “I know. There’s more. I don’t want to talk too much.”

  “I want you to talk to me,” she told him. “I really do.”

  “It’s a long story to make a point you already understand.”

  “What I’m saying to you,” she said, “is that you can read me the telephone book if you want. And I would be perfectly happy.”

  “How about the Yellow Pages?”

  “I prefer the White.”

  Smoke from the fire circled them like a veil. For a moment they sat in silence, but then he continued. “It was worse in Germany, much worse, although there were relatively peaceful islands in the war. We were southeast of Munich, pressing up toward the Alps in a country full of lakes and long roads through uninhabited stands of pine. I was with a guy who had been born in Germany and spoke German fluently. We had a jeep, and were supposed to make a reconnaissance all the way to the Swiss border. They wanted to know what was going on in the forests. G2 was obsessed with forests after the Ardennes, the Bulge, the Hürtgen. Who could blame them? And after Market Garden they put less faith in aerial reconnaissance, so they sent us and others through the allées in the pines.

  “But there was nothing there, the forests were empty. This was one of those pockets that, except for a scarcity of goods, had been untouched by the war. You live for that, for the time you have when you pass through places like that, and there are lots of them, much more than people imagine. You find them in clearings and copses, and little groves of trees, and sometimes over a whole plain as far as you can see.

  “It was the first really warm day in spring, and we were riding down what seemed to be an endless dirt road. Though we could have been shot at from the trees at any moment, we were happy. The air was a pleasure. I remember thinking how insistent it was. Most of the time it let
s you forget it’s there, but on that day the breeze embraced us. And you could smell the pine needles. They exhaled everything they had held on to during the winter. It was sweet like you can’t believe.

  “As we were driving between huge ranks of pines, we saw two figures up ahead. Off go the safeties, we slow, we go back to war—but they were girls. Who knows how old? Late teens? Early twenties? They had that peculiar charm. . . .” He looked at her, and smiled. She knew. “That explosive, happy, embarrassed charm that only a young woman can have.

  “We offered them a ride. When they understood that we would not hurt them, that we would treat them with great deference and politeness, they were shocked and relieved. They were going to Munich, although they didn’t tell us at the time. Munich was still in enemy hands, and we were alone, relatively nearby, but it was almost as if we were in Switzerland: no feeling of war, no tension.

  “We came to a restaurant and hotel in the middle of the forest, on a hillside that overlooked a reservoir and the fast stream that filled it. I’ve always loved rivers. . . .”

  “I know,” she said. “You told me. And so have I. I don’t know why anyone leaves them, but they do. I don’t know why I leave them, because they’ve always made me very happy. Go on.”

  “We were the first Americans they had seen since the beginning of the war. The place was filled with refugees who were trying to get into Switzerland. Switzerland was close, but they weren’t going to get in.

  “There was a main dining room, with tablecloths and silver, and ninety-year-old waiters in black jackets like French waiters in a bistro, and then there was a bar in another room overlooking the river. In the disturbance created by the arrival of two armed American officers, the girls disappeared into the bar. We were led ceremoniously into the dining room, where everyone tried not to look at us, and the waiter came to take our order as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

  “All they had was chicken, soup, and bread, which, then, was a lot. They had wine, too, but we couldn’t have more than half a glass. We didn’t know who would be around there. The German army could still shoot, we were in Germany, and the other half glass of wine was not worth dying for.

  “After we ordered, my friend said, ‘Where are the girls? Why don’t we ask them to eat with us? The food will be better here, if it’s not poisoned.’ I jumped up. ‘Bitte, essen mit uns,’ I said to my friend, to see if it was correct and if it would do, and I left before he replied, because I knew it would.

  “I passed through the dining room, saying ‘Bitte, essen mit uns, Bitte, essen mit uns,’ and then through curtained glass doors into the bar overlooking the river. The girls were sitting at a wooden table, alone because the bar was closed. They didn’t have enough money to get anything to eat. When I looked at them, I loved them for what they were, what they had been through, and what they were going to go through. One of them had been badly scarred on one side of her face. I mentioned her when we met.”

  “Yes.”

  “It didn’t matter. She still had the charm of youth. They were happy to eat with us, to eat at all. I remember how amused they were when I asked them in my rudimentary German to join us. And I remember how the sun sparkled on the river, blinding me and warming the room. The river grew shallow just before plunging into the reservoir, and rushed over a bed of small, rounded rocks with the color and blur of a school of fish. Polyhedrons of light backlit the girls, backlit their hair.

  “We could have been killed so easily, because at dinner we forgot everything. The four of us together, with my friend interpreting and me speaking fractured German, and the girls speaking fractured English, and everybody speaking bad French. . . . They would consult on a word and then sally forth; we would consult on a word and then sally forth. It meant the end of the war, the restoration of everything . . . the restoration, to their rightful place, of love and kindness.

  “Naturally, we had to pay for them, and they were in our debt. We were conquering—and I really mean conquering—their country. We were taking them on the road, feeding them, carrying them under our protection. When the waiter came and we paid him, in dollars that he took so eagerly it was a sure sign they had lost the war, I glanced at the girls, and the expression they had was that now the bill had come due. All the lightness I had felt suddenly drained.

  “What can I say?” He hesitated and looked away, and then back at Catherine. “When you love someone, even if it’s only infatuation, even if it’s only immense respect, the last thing you want is subservience, obligation, dread, payment. I thought to myself that I never wanted to see that expression again. Never.”

  “So you don’t mind if I pick up my half of the check?”

  “I’d prefer it, although it’s hard to explain to someone who assumes I’ll follow the custom.”

  “I think you’ve explained it quite well. They didn’t pay the bill, did they?”

  “No. They expected to, but we weren’t like that. My friend ended up marrying the one whose face had been disfigured—in a bombing raid, one of our bombs, or a British bomb. She was sixteen when it happened. He loves her, he really loves her. . . .” He couldn’t finish.

  Harry was apprehensive that he had spoken too much, that he had fallen too fast, that he had been too suggestive, too forward. Although he sensed that she was attracted to him, she moved on tides that he could not read. As comfortable and warm as she became, she was at times reserved, distressed, almost disdainful. She used the expression “Oh please,” which he did not, and which he now realized was a class marker with the power to freeze him cold. It was the language and enunciation of someone who either needed nothing or had come from a society in which the norm was to need nothing. It was dismissive yet charming. It stunned him, almost frightened him, and at the same time made her infinitely desirable. For the way she said it was rich in intonation and expression—like her song. Of course, he was in love, even with the way she brushed her hair back from her face. Like her speech and diction, her emotions, hot and cold, were held in magnificent balance.

  He thought he saw what was coming, and was determined to get through it successfully. It was like watching a big wave moving dangerously fast right at him. She looked down, gently clenched her left fist, closed her eyes, and shook her head very rapidly from side to side. “I shouldn’t be here,” she said. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this to Victor.”

  “Victor,” he repeated.

  “Yes, Victor.”

  “I hope it’s a cat.”

  She tried hard and in vain not to laugh, and then said, resolutely, “It’s a man,” which made her laugh again.

  “Oh,” he said. “I’m not surprised that his name is Victor. Everyone I’ve ever known by that name has been able to beat me at one thing or another. It’s as if there’s something they know that I don’t. I think it may be more than just coincidence, but rather that their parents gave them that name as part of or a prelude to a mad program of education in winning. Wouldn’t you think that someone who cared about winning would name his child Victor? I see the Victors at age five being solemnly—desperately—instructed in how to cheat at tennis, how to play a sharp hand of poker, flatter a teacher, dress perfectly, and, above all, assume that they’re going to win, and that they have no other choice, as it is their destiny. Winning is what they do, and all they can do. It stops there. Never have I failed to have been beaten by a Victor, even at chess, where, throughout the whole game, they smile like Cheshire cats.

  “And yet, what victories have Victors achieved? Napoleon wasn’t named Victor. It wasn’t Victor the Great who conquered the known world, or Victor Caesar. For that matter, it wasn’t Victor Nelson or Victor Wellington, Washington, Eisenhower, Montgomery, or Grant. Nor do we have Victor Shakespeare, Victor Einstein, Victor the Baptist, or Victor Christ. Victors are in fact in short supply as victors, except that they always make more money than I do, beat me at games, and get the girl. . . . But maybe not this time.”

  “You stun me,” she said. “You
drive me crazy.”

  “And you, me,” he returned. “So Victor isn’t a cat?”

  “No,” she said, “he isn’t a cat.”

  “If he’s not a cat, why are you laughing?”

  “I shouldn’t be. He’s my fiancé. Victor Marrow.”

  “Victor Marrow?”

  She nodded, no longer laughing but almost crying.

  “That’s a name?”

  “Yes. He’s a Mellon.”

  “He’s a melon,” said Harry, deadpan.

  Again, she nodded, and even sniffled.

  “What kind of melon?”

  “A Pittsburgh Mellon.”

  “Is that like a watermelon, or a cantaloupe?”

  “No, you idiot,” she said, with more affection than she could bear absent an immediate embrace, which could not and did not materialize.

  “I thought his last name was Marrow?”

  “His mother’s a Mellon.”

  “Well, if his mother’s a Mellon and his father’s a Marrow, how can he tell if he’s a watermelon or a squash? He must have had a very difficult childhood.” He looked at her. “It’s not something to laugh about.”

  This made her laugh more.

  “What does he look like?”

  She came to and assessed Harry straight on. Then she drew in a breath both pleased and resigned, and said, “You’re much handsomer, damn you, and he went to Yale.”

  “I’m glad you got that right, about Yale.”

  “He wouldn’t agree.”

  “Deep down he would. They know.”

  “Yes,” she said, “they do. I’ve noticed it myself. It’s as if they know they can never catch up,” and then she looked away. “Can I,” she asked, “can I . . . take a break? Can we just not talk for a while, and maybe eat. There’s too much, too much going on. I’ll be all right, but I just need a . . . a minute.”

  “I myself need a week,” he told her.

  “You don’t have a week,” she said. Then she took a long drink of water. As she raised her glass, he could see her heart beating against the silk of her blouse.