Light Years Read Free

days on his feet, however, fishing for Gauloises from a crumpled package. He had a gallery.
    “That’s how I won Catherine,” he said. “I took her fishing. Actually, I took her reading; she sat on the bank with a book while I fished for trout. Did I ever tell you the story about fishing in England? I went to a little river, perfect. It wasn’t the Test, that’s the famous one presided over for so many years by a man named Lunn. Marvelous old man, typically English. There’s a wonderful photograph of him with tweezers, sorting out insects. He’s a legend.
    “This was near an inn, one of the oldest in England. It’s called the Old Bell. I came to this absolutely beautiful spot, and there were two men sitting on the bank, not too happy to have someone else appear, but of course, being English, they acted as if they hadn’t even seen me.”
    “Peter, pardon me,” Nedra said. “Have some more.”
    He served himself.
    “Anyway, I said, ‘How is it?’ ‘Lovely day,’ one of them said. ‘I mean, how is the fishing?’ Long silence. Finally one of them said, ‘Trout here.’ More silence. ‘One over by that rock,’ he said. ‘Really?’ ‘I saw him about an hour ago,’ he said. Long silence again. ‘Big bugger, too.’ ”
    “Did you catch it?” she asked.
    “Oh, no. This was a trout they knew. You know how it is; you’ve been to England.”
    “I’ve never been anywhere.”
    “Come on.”
    “But I’ve done everything,” she said. “That’s more important.” A wide smile over her wineglass. “Oh, Viri,” she said, “the wine is marvelous.”
    “It is good, isn’t it? You know, there are some small shops—it’s surprising—where you can get quite good wines, and not expensively.”
    “Where did you get this?” Peter asked.
    “Well, you know Fifty-sixth Street …”
    “Next to Carnegie Hall.”
    “That’s it.”
    “On the corner there.”
    “They have some very good wines.”
    “Yes, I know. Who is the salesman again? There’s one particular salesman …”
    “Yes, he’s bald.”
    “It’s not only that he knows wines; he knows the poetry of them.”
    “He’s terrific. His name is Jack.”
    “That’s right,” Peter said. “Nice man.”
    “Viri, tell that conversation you overheard,” Nedra said.
    “That wasn’t in there.”
    “I know.”
    “It was in the bookstore.”
    “Come on, Viri,” she said.
    “It’s just something I overheard,” he explained. “I was looking for a book, and there were these two men. One said to the other,” his imitation was lisping and perfect, “ ‘Sartre was right, you know.’
    “ ‘Oh, yeah?’ ” He imitated the other. “ ‘About what?’
    “ ‘Genet’s a saint,’ he said. ‘The man’s a saint. ’ ”
    Nedra laughed. She had a rich, naked laugh. “You do that so well,” she told him.
    “No,” he protested vaguely.
    “You do it perfectly,” she said.
    Country dinners, the table dense with glasses, flowers, all the food one can eat, dinners ending in tobacco smoke, a feeling of ease. Leisurely dinners. The conversation never lapses. Their life is special, devout, they prefer to spend time with their children, they have only a few friends.
    “You know, I’m addicted to a number of things,” Peter began.
    “Such as?” Nedra said.
    “Well, the lives of painters,” he said. “I love to read them.” He thought for a moment. “Women who drink.”
    “Really?”
    “Irish women. I’m very fond of them.”
    “Do they drink?”
    “Drink? All Irish drink. I’ve been to dinners with Catherine where great ladies of Ireland have pitched forward into their plates, dead drunk.”
    “Peter, I don’t believe it.”
    “The butlers ignore them,” he said. “It’s known as the weakness. The Countess of—who was it, darling? The one we had such trouble with—drunk at ten in the morning. Rather a dark lady, suspiciously dark. A number of them are like that.”
    “What do you mean, dark