{"id":13734,"date":"2011-03-30T12:52:23","date_gmt":"2011-03-30T16:52:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=13734"},"modified":"2011-03-30T13:05:11","modified_gmt":"2011-03-30T17:05:11","slug":"the-last-night","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2011\/03\/30\/the-last-night\/","title":{"rendered":"The Last Night"},"content":{"rendered":"

Our Spring Revel<\/a> is on April 12. In anticipation of the event, The Daily is featuring a series of essays<\/a> celebrating James Salter, who is being honored this year with <\/em>The Paris Review\u2019s Hadada Prize<\/a>. If you\u2019re interested in purchasing tickets to the Revel, click here<\/a>.
\n <\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>Walter Such, the man at the center of James Salter\u2019s short story \u201cLast Night<\/a>,\u201d which was first published in The New Yorker<\/em> in 2002, is a particular, exacting man. He is a translator who, Salter writes, \u201ccould recite lines of Blok in Russian and then give Rilke\u2019s translation of them in German, pointing out their beauty.\u201d He has a stutter; he and his wife, Marit, have no children; he uses a pen \u201calmost as if his hand were a mechanical device.\u201d He is an unremarkable bourgeois intellectual; as a translator, he has spent his life reinterpreting and reworking the literary output of others.<\/p>\n

The story hinges on what is literally the last night of Marit\u2019s life. She is terminally ill with cancer, and she and Walter are about to go out for the final dinner of Marit\u2019s existence, after which they will come home and Walter will inject Marit with a lethal drug cocktail that will kill her. \u201cYou look re-really nice,\u201d Walter stutters to Marit when she comes downstairs in a red silk dress \u201cin which she had always been seductive.\u201d Here is a man who still thinks his wife, who is about to die, looks beautiful, and at this moment, Walter is overwhelmingly sympathetic. But it’s sympathy tinged with guilt, because Walter is a pathetic man.<\/p>\n

The Such\u2019s have invited their younger friend along for the meal: Susanna, who is wearing a short skirt and whom Salter describes as looking like the \u201cslightly errant daughter of a professor or banker.\u201d At dinner, Walter orders two bottles of $575 Cheval-Blanc, a splurge. \u201cWe don\u2019t usually order wine this good,\u201d says Merit. They have never ordered a bottle that cost more than $35.<\/p>\n

The mood at the meal is not grim, despite the fact that Marit already seems half dead: \u201cher skin, pallid, seemed to emanate a darkness \u2026 She had a face that was now for the afterlife and those she would meet there.\u201d Susanna feels uncomfortable, and Marit dimly perceives their differences: \u201cSusanna\u2019s long hair and freshness meant something, though she was not sure what.\u201d After the meal, back at home, Walter is almost unable to do the deed; he cringes at the sight of the sharp syringe in the refrigerator. Who would have the strength or presence of mind to do what he is about to do? Who could kill their most beloved, even if it were because they were in unmitigated pain? <\/p>\n

Marit is consoling and unselfish. She tells Walter, \u201cThis is the right thing \u2026 I\u2019ve loved you as much as I\u2019ve ever loved anyone in the world,\u201d and asks, \u201cDid you love me?\u201d Walter\u2019s stomach \u201cchurn[s] in despair,\u201d and the needle wavers; he can hardly breathe, but he injects the poison into her vein, and as the syringe empties, he notices that the house \u201chad fallen into silence, the silence of a fatal act.\u201d But then Salter brings the story to a devastating place: Walter comes downstairs, and even though Susanna had said she was leaving, she is, in fact, outside, sitting in her car. She asks, \u201cDid she really want me to come?\u201d And Walter responds, \u201cDarling, she <\/em>suggested it. She didn\u2019t know a thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

That remark\u2014that darling<\/em>\u2014turns the story one more time, into something even darker, into a tale about betrayal, secrets, and lies. One is forced to reconsider Walter. Now his exactitude seems controlling, his orchestrations manipulative, his actions horribly selfish. He goes from being an angel of mercy to being an angel of death. And then, to Susanna: \u201cI need you,\u201d he says, and unbuttons her shirt. She tries to stop him, but he takes off her bra, and, Salter writes, \u201cShe tried to speak again, but he put his hand over her mouth and pushed her down. He devoured her.\u201d Walter Such\u2014translator, quoter of Rilke\u2014is a monster, a murderer, a rapist.<\/p>\n

Salter is not done twisting the knife. In the morning, as Walter and Susanna sit at the kitchen table drinking coffee, \u201ccomplicit, not long risen, and not regarding one another too closely,\u201d Walter does not allow himself to think about the calls that must be made to notify their friends and relatives about his dead wife (whose body, after all, is still upstairs in the matrimonial bed, almost literally still warm); instead, he is thinking only of Susanna and \u201cmornings to come.\u201d It is then that Marit comes downstairs, and one\u2019s heart jumps: The injection didn\u2019t work! She is still alive! \u201cI thought you were going to help me,\u201d she says pleadingly to Walter, and starts to cry. Then: \u201cI have to do it all over.\u201d She doesn\u2019t seem to process, or want to process, what has happened with Susanna, who silently gathers her clothes and leaves.<\/p>\n

The full meaning of the story\u2019s title now becomes cruelly clear: it was the last night that Walter and Susanna<\/em> would spend together, not the last night between him and his wife. For even though Susanna agrees to see him two or three more times (\u201cat his insistence\u201d), things are not the same: \u201cWhatever holds people together was gone.\u201d And we are left to wonder whether we can ever really know anyone, at all.<\/p>\n

Doree Shafrir is a senior editor at RollingStone.com and has\u00a0contributed to <\/em>New York Magazine,<\/em> The New Yorker,\u00a0The Awl, and <\/em>The New\u00a0York Observer.<\/p>\n

To read Geoff Dyer on <\/em>The Hunter and Louisa Thomas on <\/em>The Skiing Life, click here<\/a>. <\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Our Spring Revel is on April 12. In anticipation of the event, The Daily is featuring a series of essays celebrating James Salter, who is being honored this year with The Paris Review\u2019s Hadada Prize. If you\u2019re interested in purchasing tickets to the Revel, click here. Walter Such, the man at the center of James […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":147,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2013],"tags":[369,2069,40,2068],"class_list":["post-13734","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-james-salter-month","tag-james-salter","tag-the-last-night","tag-the-new-yorker","tag-the-spring-revel"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Last Night by Doree Shafrir<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"March 30, 2011 \u2013 Our Spring Revel is on April 12. 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