James Salter - A Sport and a Pastime

THE RELICS OF LOVE: the title of a page in his notebook. Many entries make no sense. There’s a code, of course. Every diarist invents one. When I die, he writes, I would like it to be in a city like Nancy.

Under Ideas he has:

And there is a long list of towns, some with a star (Bourges, Montargis). After Malène is written: long summer. Names of many cheeses.

The relics of love. His phrases appear spontaneously among mine. Of course I am aware of it, but one must know when to appropriate. He doesn’t need them, and for me they are essential. Walls—I mean foundations—would literally crumble without them. For the want of them, entire structures might disappear.

They considered many summer towns. Eze and La Baule. Le Zoute. Arcachon. Finally they decide to drive the Loire. A hot afternoon. It is not yet dark. In the cool of her room they lie like fish in the shadows of a bank. Dean unfolds the map. The shutters are drawn. Some workmen are fixing the rain gutters outside. The sound of their tools, their casual voices close by, is alarming, as if they might suddenly open the room like a tin can and discover the occupants. Dean is completely dressed, but she is almost naked. Her flesh seems polished. The pale nipples look soft as fraises des bois.

Yes, the Loire. They are talking in whispers. He smooths out a crease in the map. The great châteaux loom blue as peaks along the silent river. They will go in May, late in the month. Chambord rises from its forest. Chenonceaux is a bridge of sun-filled rooms. One looks down from the iron balconies of Amboise a thousand feet above the town, balconies from which the Protestants were hung. They will drive to Angers and then on to the sea.

“I think he must love me,” Anne-Marie tells her mother.

They are alone in the kitchen. The mother is not sure. Perhaps. Perhaps not.

“Si,” her daughter insists.

“Perhaps.”

It’s irritating to Anne-Marie. She’s very proud. To the mother it is unsettling. One should not believe too strongly in a life which can easily vanish. There are many things to fear, things her daughter may tell her about if she remains patient, if she is wise enough not to ask.

“Well, I think he may love you…”

“Oui,” Anne-Marie insists.

“…but will there be any reason left for him to want to marry you?”

Anne-Marie shrugs.

“There are reasons,” she finally says without conviction.

“He doesn’t work…”

“So…his father is rich.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Then it’s not the same,” Anne-Marie says, impatient.

Her mother reaches across to touch her hand, but she has risen and is looking at herself in the mirror. There she finds all she needs. She turns her face a little this way, then that. The sea will appear before them, washed in sunlight. They will walk along the rocks. The white birds rise up lazily as they approach. All the hotels of the coast beckon with their white façades, plum, oyster, dove blue.

Chambord, built by François I, a great, bearded king with eyes small as a boar’s. He loved to hunt. He went there with his mistresses and walked up and down in the firelit rooms with his long hair, his rich, dark beard… Dean puts a circle around it. The workmen have gone. The sky is a last, clear blue. The air is calm. It’s the hour for dinner. Tables are set. In the restaurants the waiters stand quietly near the bar. The monuments, the buildings disappear. There is not long to wait before the first, solitary star.

They descend into evening. The small alleys are darkening now. Old women appear in the entrances in their shapeless, black dress. Cats move along close to the wall, pause, and then hurry off as Dean closes the car door. The full voice of the engine. Through a twilight as calm, as enormous as a night at sea, they pass. The villages are still. The buildings are anchored like ships.

In a café she happens to meet a boy who knew her. He is amazed. You’ve changed a hundred per cent, he tells her. She smiles. Afterwards Dean asks,

“Who was that?”

The brother of a girl she knew. Dean is looking towards the door as if he might return. It annoys him.

The evening is warm. The place reminds her of the one where, all that summer, she went to dance. They must go there sometime, she says. There were two waiters who liked her. One was Italian. The other was very young and sent her flowers, but he was shy. She never went out with him. She never even thought of him until now, this evening, by chance. It was the Italian with whom she spent those noisy hours, who had her for the first time. But the young waiter, how well I know him. He saves his money. His clothes are neat. He walks quietly through town, his eyes lowered. Sometimes at night he stands in the crowd. He sees her smile and his heart falls out of him. Among the dancers turning in the orange light his eyes can find her in an instant. He knows her calves, the shape of her body better than her lover, and those high-heeled shoes with their thin straps, as they move around the floor they are ripping his dreams.

The theatre is half empty. It’s a white building cold as a meat plant. Inside, the ceiling is blue, the walls are hung with pleated cloth, like a skirt. The floor is tilted backwards. Everybody sits in back, staring at advertisements on the drop that covers the screen. Suddenly, having come down the aisle, a man mounts the stage. He has a small beard, like Lincoln. His voice is alarming and clear.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins. “It’s with great pleasure that we are able to present to you tonight one of the most remarkable women in Europe. She is able—I promise this without exception or hesitation—to read the mind of anyone in this room, to describe them without seeing them, to answer questions she cannot hear, to reveal secret longings. Don’t be afraid. There is nothing embarrassing, nothing unnecessary. It is a demonstration of a unique mental power, a communication known to the Hindus, to the peoples of the East. I present to you: Yolande!”

He summons her. She comes up on the stage and stands beside him in a black, Spanish hat, a gold dress, her hair in little ringlets. She bows. The audience is too stunned to applaud, too cautious. She turns to face the screen. Her partner walks back to where the first row of people are sitting. He begins to ask her questions which she answers with her back turned.

“This person…”

“Monsieur…”

“Is it a man or a woman?”

“A man.”

“The color of his hair?”

“Brown.”

“His suit…”

“Grey.”

“His shoes…”

“Black.”

“Voilà!” he says.

He moves on.

“These first three…” He leans over and whispers to them. Their heads are close together. He nods, nods, then stands erect once more. “Can you give me their names?”

Her voice is curiously mechanical. It’s as if she is reading a list.

“Robert. Gilbert. Jean-Paul.”

“Their occupations, please. In order.”

“Teacher. Clerk. Mechanic.”

“Is that right?” he asks them.

They nod. He takes the wrist of a man behind them. He holds it up.

“And here…?”

“A watch.”

“The make?”

“Intra.”

“Is that right?” he asks the man. Yes. A nod. “And now, please, Yolande, the exact time…”

“Eleven minutes after nine.”

“The seconds?”

“Thirty-five.”

He allows the owner to look.

“Voilà!” he cries.

Some applause. It’s just the beginning. She reads the serial number on franc notes, identifies objects in people’s hands, perceives missing buttons, tells dates of birth, hours. The dialogue is sharp and fast.

“This gentleman…”

“Monsieur…” she cries.

“Is holding …”

“A ticket.”

“Yes?”

“A railroad ticket.”

“To where?”

“To Chalons!”

“Voilà!”

The audience is whispering. He strides back to the stage, arm extended in triumph, fingers curved. Now Yolande herself turns around. She is prepared, she announces, to answer, individually and privately, all questions.

“Your most secret questions,” she says as she coolly straps on a leather belt that has a purse attached. For two francs, she will give a personal response. She begins to circulate, asking only the first name before she selects, with great speed, an envelope from the basket she carries. Her partner walks ahead, encouraging people to concentrate on the question they want answered.

“Can I ask her?” Anne-Marie says.

“Go ahead.”

He sorts out his change. She raises her hand. Yolande sees her immediately.

“Mademoiselle…”

“Oui.”

“Your first name.”

“Anne-Marie.”

“Born,” Yolande says, holding out her arm, indicating one moment, “born…in the month of October. Correct?”

Anne-Marie smiles dazedly. She nods.

“Voilà!” the man cries. He moves ahead. “Who else? Raise your hands, please.”

It’s a pale blue envelope, unsealed. Inside is a single sheet of paper, numbered 7. In the top corner, a constellation. At the bottom, a red star. Some of the phrases are underlined in red. She begins reading it quickly.

“Let me see,” he says.

There’s no answer to any question. It’s printed in a style to look like handwriting.