Nightfall (2 page)

3

      In this particular Village place there wasn't much doing. Four men at the far end of the bar were having a quiet discussion concerning horses. A young man and a young woman were taking their time with long, cool drinks and smiling at each other. A short, fat man was sullenly gazing into a glass of beer.
      Vanning turned back to his gin rickey. A peculiar sense of loneliness came upon him, and he knew it was just that and nothing more. He wanted to talk to somebody. About anything. And again he saw himself in a mirror, this time the mirror behind the bar, and he saw in his own eyes the expression of a man without a friend. He felt just a bit sorry for himself. At thirty-three a man ought to have a wife and two or three children. A man ought to have a home. A man shouldn't be standing here alone in a place without meaning, without purpose. There ought to be some really good reason for waking up in the morning. There ought to be some impetus. There ought to be something.
      Again one of those sighs got past his lips, and he recognized it and didn't like it. He was sighing that way too much these days. He finished the drink, downing the last few gulps too fast to get any real taste out of it, and then he ordered another drink and while waiting for it he saw the short, stocky beer drinker looking at him in a hesitant sort of way. It was evident that the fat fellow wanted to strike up a conversation, the fat fellow was lonely, too. Just then the drink arrived, another gin rickey.
      Vanning offered the fat fellow a kindly smile, and the smile was appreciated and returned. Vanning moved his drink down along the bar, holding onto the smile, and said, “Well, this is one way of beating the heat.”
      The fat fellow nodded. “One thing I like about beer,” he said. “It stays cold once it gets in you. Whiskey don't work that way.”
      “I guess whiskey's a winter drink,” Vanning said, and suddenly he realized this was going to be an extremely dull conversation, and if he didn't push the topic onto another track they would be talking about liquor for the rest of the evening. He wondered what they ought to talk about and he considered baseball for a moment but had to discard it because he certainly wasn't up on his baseball. He didn't even know the league standings. It had been a long time since he had last opened a newspaper to the sports page.
      And now, since there was nothing to say and nothing better to do, Vanning went to work on his drink.
      The fat fellow said, “She's giving you the eye.”
      Vanning gulped and got it down. He looked at the fat fellow. He said, “What?”
      “A number just walked in.”
      Vanning leaned far over the bar and studied the glass and its contents. Without fully knowing why, he said nastily, “Numbers are always walking in.”
      “This isn't bad.”
      “None of them are bad,” Vanning said. “They're all wonderful.”
      “I just thought I'd mention it.”
      “Thanks,” Vanning said. “Thanks for mentioning it.”
      The fat fellow shrugged and put some beer down his throat. He was quiet for a little while and then he said, “Too bad you're not interested.”
      “Why?”
      “She is.”
      “That's nice,” Vanning said. “It always builds the ego.”
      “I wish she was looking at me.”
      “Maybe I'm in the way.”
      “Oh, that's all right,” the fat fellow said.
      “No, really.” And Vanning gave a brief, quiet laugh. “I'll move on down the bar. Or I'll take a walk outside. Anything you like.”
      “Don't do that. It wouldn't help me. I'm not her speed.”
      The nastiness cruised away. Vanning turned to the fat fellow and said sympathetically, “Now why carry on like that?”
      “Oh, cut it out,” the fat fellow said morosely. “I'm just a fat slob and I don't have enough brains to make people overlook it.”
      “Glands?”
      “No, not glands. Appetite. I've had six meals already today and the night is still young. I'd have as much chance with that item as Eskimos in the Sahara.”
      “Go on,” Vanning said, a little amused. “It isn't that hopeless. Give it a try. Nothing ventured—”
      “Yes, I know all about that, and if I thought there was one chance in a thousand of getting a hello, I'd start an operation. But if I ever saw a hopeless state of affairs, this is it. I'm not in that league. Take a look at her and you'll see what I mean.”
      “Don't let them scare you,” Vanning said, again lifting the glass. “They're not poison.”
      “Maybe you could sell me on that, but the way you say it, you don't mean it. You've been hurt, brother, you can't kid me. You've been hurt plenty.”
      Vanning's hand tightened around the glass. He put it down. He tapped ten fingers on the surface of the bar and took a deep breath and gazed straight ahead. “All right,” he said. “What about it?”
      “Nothing,” the beer drinker said. “I've been hurt too.”
      “That's a shame. Should we start crying on each other's shoulder or do you think maybe it's a good idea to skip the whole thing? Have another beer?”
      “She sure is looking at you.”
      “All right, then,” Vanning said, “don't have another beer. And do me a favor. Don't give me a play-by-play of what's taking place at the end of the bar.”
      “I bet I know what's the matter.” And the fat fellow wore a gleeful, shrewd little smile. “You're one of those bashful guys. I bet you're afraid.”
      “Afraid?”
      “That's what I said.”
      “Afraid,” Vanning murmured. He gripped the rounded edge of the bar. “Afraid. I'm afraid.”
      The beer drinker waited a while, and then he said, “I beg your pardon, friend, but would you mind telling me what the hell is wrong with you?”
      “I'm afraid,” Vanning said.
      “I'm going out for a sandwich,” the fat fellow said. “Food settles all my problems, and yet my biggest problem is food itself. That's the way it goes, my friend, and I tell you it's a vicious circle, it certainly is.”
      “I guess so,” Vanning said.
      The fat fellow was paying his check, turning away from the bar, walking toward the door. Vanning watched him, and then Vanning's eyes hopped away and to the side and toward that part of the bar where she was standing alone in a yellow dress. Her figure was on the buxom side. Voluptuous, but in a quiet, wholesome way.
      She was about twenty-six, Vanning estimated while he looked at her and while she looked directly back at him. And then the first coherent thought that entered his head was the idea that she didn't belong in this place, she ought to be home reading a good book, and tomorrow morning she ought to be in the park wheeling a baby carriage. And all that was in his eyes as he stood there looking at her, and agreement with all that was in her eyes as she looked at him.
      Even at this distance he could see there was no paint on her face except for some lipstick. But all the same there was color in her face, quite a bit of it aside from a beach tan, and it was deep rose all over her cheeks. He didn't think he was causing that. The deep rose was probably a permanent condition in her face. It was definitely a face, and it went along with the rest of her, and he knew why the fat fellow had retreated from the situation. The shining blond hair, loose and wispy and lovely around her shoulders, was some thing else that must have given the fat fellow a bad time.
      She kept on looking at Vanning, and he kept on looking at her, and finally he told himself it was curiosity and nothing else that was making him pick up his drink, walk toward her.
      Going toward her, it was more as though she were coming toward him, and the effect of her was something tremendous. He couldn't understand that, because along with it there was something uncanny, made all the more uncanny by the fact that she looked to be anything but uncanny or hard to figure out. He asked himself to stop trying to understand it.
      He said, “Think you know me?”
      “No.”
      “Then why are you looking at me?”
      “Can't I look?”
      He frowned and glanced at her with his head inclined a little. She stood there and looked at him. He had a feeling that she was a few strides ahead of him and he didn't like that.
      “I guess you can look if you want to,” he said. “I don't know what you expect to see.”
      “I'm not sure either.”
      “If you have a pencil and paper,” Vanning said, “I'll be glad to write a short autobiography.”
      “That won't be necessary. But you can tell me what you do.”
      He laughed. It was a way to pass some time, anyway. That was what he told himself. He wasn't able to tell himself the truth. But the truth was there, inside him, and the truth was that a female in a few startling, swift moments, had gotten a hold on him and he had no inclination to free himself.
      He said, “I paint.”
      “Houses?”
      “Houses, horses, fountain pens, anything they want.”
      “Oh,” she said, “then you're an artist.”
      “With apologies to Rembrandt.”
      “I didn't expect you'd be an artist. I thought—”
      “Truck driver, longshoreman, heavyweight wrestler.”
      “Something along those lines.”
      “Disappointed?”
      “Oh, no. Aren't artists glamorous?”
      “I'm a commercial artist,” Vanning said. “That means I'm a salesman, I'm part of a big selling job, and I actually get paid for painting pretty pictures.”
      “It sounds like a nice way to earn a living.”
      “It has its advantages,” Vanning said. “But I do it all day long and at night I like to get away from it.”
      “I'm sorry.”
      “Don't be sorry. Talk to me. That's why I came in here.”
      “To see if you could meet a girl?”
      “To see if I could find someone interesting to talk to.”
      “That's very strange,” she said.
      “How come?”
      “I had the same idea.”
      “I don't think so,” Vanning said. He got his eyes away from her and he watched his fingers rolling back and forth along the smooth roundness of the highball glass. “I think you came in here because you're an unhappy person, desperately unhappy and very disappointed with men, and probably disillusioned but not disillusioned to the extent that you're ready to throw all men aside. Do I hear the sound of a click?”
      “Go on. Talk.”
      “Well”—Vanning went on playing with the glass—“I think you came in here a little on the frantic side, as if you're giving yourself a few last chances to meet someone worthwhile. Or maybe this was the final try. And you saw me standing there and you told yourself it was a bull's-eye if you could only attract my attention.”
      “Do all artists know this much about human nature?”
      “I couldn't say. I don't hang around with other artists— Suppose we take one thing at a time. Suppose we talk about me after we get through with you. Is that all right?”
      “If it isn't all right we'll do it anyway,” she said. “Because you have your heart set on it. You're getting pleasure out of it.”
      “Not exactly what you'd call pleasure. But I think it would do us both some good if we skip the jockeying around. I mean come right out at the beginning and put it all on the table. That saves a lot of time. Sometimes it saves a lot of grief later on.”
      “What makes you think there will be a later on?”
      “I didn't say there would be. What I'm really trying to do is catch up with you. I'm sure you're mature enough not to take offense at that.”
      She smiled. “My name is Martha.”
      “Jim.”
      “Hello, Jim.”
      “Hello. Have another drink?”
      “I've had enough, thanks. Too much, I guess, on an empty stomach.”
      “We can fix that,” Vanning said. “Come to think of it, all I had tonight was a sandwich and a malted.”
      He paid for the drinks and they walked out of the bar. Now it seemed that the heat was letting up a bit and the Hudson was sending over a breeze. Going toward midnight, the streets were quieting down and it was the bars and night clubs that were getting all the play.
      Vanning looked at her. He said, “Got any special place in mind?”
      “There's a little restaurant off Fourth Street. I don't know if it's still open.”
      “We'll try it.”
      The place was well off Fourth Street, and the weak yellow light from its window was the only light on the narrow street. Vanning took her in there and they sat at a small table near the window. They were alone in the place. It was very small. Their waiter was the proprietor, and he was a man who looked as if one of his own meals would do him a lot of good. He was trying to be friendly, but weariness prevented him from getting it across. He took their order and went away.
      “All right,” Vanning said, and he leaned toward her. “Now tell me.”
      “Yes, I've been married. Divorced. No children. I'm a buyer in a department store. Glassware. I live alone in a two-and-a-half here in the Village.”
      “I'll want that address. And the telephone number.”
      “Now?”
      “Here's why. There's a slight possibility I might have to leave you in a hurry. Don't ask me to explain, but just on the chance that things work out that way, I'll want to see you again.”
      She opened a handbag, took out a pencil and a small pad. She did some writing and handed him the slip of paper. Without looking at it, he folded it and put it in his wallet.
      “Now,” she said, “what about you?”
      “Never been married. I come from Detroit and I took engineering at Minnesota. If you like the rah-rah, I was an All-Western Conference guard. Then I was in Central America and we were showing them some new stunts with electricity and water power and so forth. While I was down there I began painting. For relaxation. Someone told me I could paint and I took him up on it. I did a lot of painting down there. Wind-up was engineering played second fiddle and I came back to the States and enrolled at an art school in Chicago. If there'd been a lot of money I would have gone in for the fine arts. But there was very little money and I had to go commercial. Things were breaking very nicely and the luck stayed with me all through those years and all through the war. I wasn't even scratched.”
      “Doing what?”
      “Navy. I was a damage-control officer on a battleship.”
      A dull tone had crept into his voice and he wanted to get rid of it, he wanted to be amusing, diverting. He wanted to show her a nice time. He told himself this was a good thing, this thing happening to him now. She was something clean and refreshing; he felt sure this was the something he had sensed was going to happen tonight. He was glad, and yet there was a certain uneasy feeling along with that gladness, and he couldn't figure it out.