Solo Faces by James Salter Read Free Book Online Page B

in a certain way. She was about thirty, with a narrow face that had something hidden in it, like a woman who has ruined herself for love. He watched her boredom and absence of expression as she counted thickets of hundred-franc notes for a young businessman. When Rand stepped forward she raised her eyes for a moment. He was prepared for it. It was as if he had caught her by the arm. Sometimes he saw her from the street through the iron-barred window. She was married, he knew. He had seen the gold band on her finger.
    The days grew colder, the first snows fell. It was beautiful, even glamorous, with the darkness settling and snow drifting down. He felt he would journey through the winter easily, but as weeks passed he began to see how much he had been mistaken. He had ventured too far. It was like a drive across desolate country in a tiny car. The ice was on the windshield, the horizon white. If the engine failed, if he somehow happened to run off the road …
    He had not counted on the loneliness, the terrible cold. He felt he had made a desperate error. He was stranded. The shutters of the houses were closed at night. The room was unheated, he was never really warm. Over the radio came announcements of girls who had disappeared from home—these were among the first things he was able to understand. … Seize ans, mince, longeur un metre quatre-vingt, yeux verts, cheveux longs, châtains. Téléphonez 53.36.39, etc. Sometimes he caught a few words of the news.
    It was as if the battle had moved on and he had somehow been left behind in a foreign town. Everyone had gone, the camp was abandoned, he was wintering alone.
    He found some illegal work—he had no permit—sweeping up in a machine shop on the road toward Geneva. It was behind the Hôtel Roma, the lighted windows and parked cars taunted him as he passed in the evening on the way home.
    He thought almost every day of Louise. Yes, come, come at once, he wrote sitting in a bare café filling sheet after sheet of paper. He read them over slowly and sent a postcard instead. On and on came tremendous snowfalls, mountains gleaming above the town and ragged ten-franc notes received on Saturdays as pay. There is no easy way into another world.
    One night on a corner he saw the teller from the bank reading the movie posters. She was alone. His heart jumped. He stood beside her.
    “Bonsoir.”
    She did not answer. She turned and looked at him as if judging him coldly.
    The first time she had seen him she felt herself tremble. She was susceptible to certain men, she handed her life over to them. His eyes, his burnished face—he was the type she threw everything away for, she had already done it twice.
    He did not know this. He could hardly speak to her because of the language, and she seemed reluctant to talk. She had a bare, defiant face. Her husband was away somewhere visiting his parents. She had a child.
    They walked by the river, the water was rattling past. He felt an almost physical pain being near her, the desire was so great. He wanted to look at her, regard her openly, see her smoke a cigarette, remove her stockings.
    He managed to kiss her in a doorway. She would not tell him where she lived. She stood as if she had taken her last step on crippling heels. She put her face against his chest and allowed him to touch her breasts.
    He saw her in the bank the next morning. She was not the sort of woman to smile. He didn’t know how to proceed—he couldn’t come in every day. Also her husband was coming back. They had exchanged a passionate signal, but as it turned out he was not able to meet her again. Her name was Nicole Vix.
    The winter passed. It was difficult to remember what became of the days, they faded like those of school, the first year, the hardest. You could not tell from looking at him that he had been lonely, that he had stood at society’s edge envying its light and warmth, wanting to be part of it, determined not to be; none of this was in his