Part 14 (1/2)

- Any time we like.

- Let's go, then.

It was in the uterus and had travelled from there to the lungs. In the end, she had accepted it. Above the square neck-line of her dress the skin, pallid, seemed to emanate a darkness. She no longer resembled herself. What she had been was gone; it had been taken from her. The change was fearful, especially in her face. She had a face now that was for the afterlife and those she would meet there. It was hard for Walter to remember how she had once been. She was almost a different woman from the one to whom he had made a solemn promise to help when the time came.

Susanna sat in the back as they drove. The roads were empty. They pa.s.sed houses showing a s.h.i.+fting, bluish light downstairs. Marit sat silent. She felt sadness but also a kind of confusion. She was trying to imagine all of it tomorrow, without her being here to see it. She could not imagine it. It was difficult to think the world would still be there.

At the hotel, they waited near the bar, which was noisy. Men without jackets, girls talking or laughing loudly, girls who knew nothing. On the walls were large French posters, old lithographs, in darkened frames.

- I don't recognize anyone, Marit commented. Luckily, she added.

Walter had seen a talkative couple they knew, the Apthalls.

- Don't look, he said. They haven't seen us. I'll get a table in the other room.

- Did they see us? Marit asked as they were seated. I don't feel like talking to anyone.

- We're all right, he said.

The waiter was wearing a white ap.r.o.n and black bow tie. He handed them the menu and a wine list.

- Can I get you something to drink?

- Yes, definitely, Walter said.

He was looking at the list, on which the prices were in roughly ascending order. There was a Cheval Blanc for five hundred and seventy-five dollars.

- This Cheval Blanc, do you have this?

- The 1989? the waiter asked.

- Bring us a bottle of that.

- What is Cheval Blanc? Is it a white? Susanna asked when the waiter had gone.

- No, it's a red, Walter said.

- You know, it was very nice of you to join us tonight, Marit said to Susanna. It's quite a special evening.

- Yes.

- We don't usually order wine this good, she explained.

The two of them had often eaten here, usually near the bar, with its gleaming rows of bottles. They had never ordered wine that cost more than thirty-five dollars.

How was she feeling, Walter asked while they waited. Was she feeling OK?

- I don't know how to express how I'm feeling. I'm taking morphine, Marit told Susanna. It's doing the job, but . . . she stopped. There are a lot of things that shouldn't happen to you, she said.

Dinner was quiet. It was difficult to talk casually. They had two bottles of the wine, however. He would never drink this well again, Walter could not help thinking. He poured the last of the second bottle into Susanna's gla.s.s.

- No, you should drink it, she said. It's really for you.

- He's had enough, Marit said. It was good, though, wasn't it?

- Fabulously good.

- Makes you realize there are things . . . oh, I don't know, various things. It would be nice to have always drunk it. She said it in a way that was enormously touching.

They were all feeling better. They sat for a while and finally made their way out. The bar was still noisy.

Marit stared out the window as they drove. She was tired. They were going home now. The wind was moving in the tops of the shadowy trees. In the night sky there were brilliant blue clouds, s.h.i.+ning as if in daylight.

- It's very beautiful tonight, isn't it? Marit said. I'm struck by that. Am I mistaken?

- No. Walter cleared his throat. It is beautiful.

- Have you noticed it? she asked Susanna. I'm sure you have. How old are you? I forget.

- Twenty-nine.

- Twenty-nine, Marit said. She was silent for a few moments. We never had children, she said. Do you wish you had children?

- Oh, sometimes, I suppose. I haven't thought about it too much. It's one of those things you have to be married to really think about.

- You'll be married.

- Yes, perhaps.

- You could be married in a minute, Marit said.

She was tired when they reached the house. They sat together in the living room as if they had come from a big party but were not quite ready for bed. Walter was thinking of what lay ahead, the light that would come on in the refrigerator when the door was opened. The needle of the syringe was sharp, the stainless-steel point cut at an angle and like a razor. He was going to have to insert it into her vein. He tried not to dwell on it. He would manage somehow. He was becoming more and more nervous.

- I remember my mother, Marit said. She wanted to tell me things at the end, things that had happened when I was young. Rae Mahin had gone to bed with Teddy Hudner. Anne Herring had, too. They were married women. Teddy Hudner wasn't married. He worked in advertising and was always playing golf. My mother went on like that, who slept with whom. That's what she wanted to tell me, finally. Of course, at the time, Rae Mahin was really something.

Then Marit said, - I think I'll go upstairs.

She stood up.

- I'm all right, she told her husband. Don't come up just yet. Good night, Susanna.

When there were just the two of them, Susanna said, - I have to go.

- No, don't. Please don't go. Stay here.

She shook her head.

- I can't, she said.

- Please, you have to. I'm going to go upstairs in a little while, but when I come down I can't be alone. Please.