Housebroken (16 page)

When the woman left, the barber opened the door and stepped outside with her. Her arms were wrapped around the bag, which filled the air with buttery smells mingled with peppermint and soap. The barber took the umbrella from under her armpit, opened it over her head, and placed the wooden handle in her hand. Then he went back inside and began sweeping up the black hair scattered over the floor. He gathered it in his hands and threw it into the garbage can, and suddenly he was filled with sadness at the thought that he might never have another opportunity to cut a woman's hair.

At the hotel the man was in a foul mood. He kept at her all day long. He had never tried so hard to insult her, to undermine her confidence, and he had never failed so completely. The more he insulted her haircut, the more she liked it; the more she saw how hard he was working to cover up the injury of her desertion the more she deserted him, and the rest of their vacation turned into a series of dozens of little desertions.

All week the woman looked at the man sleeping curled up on his side, his thumb touching his lips, and suddenly, on their last day in Paris, she panicked. She thought: Perhaps I've gone too far. Perhaps it's already too late. She had never seen him so lifeless, so defeated, and, above all, so silent. On the last night they went to an expensive restaurant. The food was bad, but the man, uncharacteristically, said nothing. He didn't even bother to remind her that the restaurant was her choice, that he had been against it from the beginning. Afterward they wandered the streets a little. It was the first night without rain. The man looked around him and swung the furled umbrella back and forth. The woman prayed for him to say something insulting, to criticize her, to say that he wanted to go back to the hotel, but the man was silent. The next morning when they packed their bags in silence, it occurred to her that perhaps she had killed something in the man. They sat in the airport cafeteria and drank coffee from paper cups, and when the woman talked, trying to sum up with him their shared impressions of the trip, even though she knew there were no shared impressions, the man smiled with bitter commiseration, as if to say: I'm sorry that you've lost me.

30

In August, a month after they had returned from Paris, the man and the woman talked for the first time about splitting up. The woman raised the subject, and she did it gently and compassionately. You're not happy with me, she said to the man one night and turned off the television, which he had been staring at all evening with empty eyes.

He looked at her in surprise.

“Yes,” said the woman, “I know you're not happy with me. And you're right. I'm not good to you.”

He went on looking at her, and then turned his eyes back to the blank screen.

“I want us to talk,” she said. “I've been thinking about it a lot lately. Actually, it's almost the only thing I think about.”

“What else do you think about?” asked the man.

“Why do you ask?” she said.

“No particular reason,” he said. “It's just that we haven't talked much lately. I'd be interested to know.”

She said: “About myself. I think about myself. I think,” she whispered, “that maybe I'm not happy with you.”

“You're not happy with me?”

“No.” The woman panicked. “I didn't say that. I said that I think about myself in the context of our relationship. And that perhaps, I'm not always happy with you. I don't know. I don't know what I think,” she said. “What do you think?”

“About what?” said the man.

“I don't know. About us. About everything.”

“You're asking me if I want to break up?”

“No,” said the woman. “Of course not! I'm just asking, in general, because we haven't been talking to each other lately, as you said.”

“And before that we did talk?”

“Yes,” said the woman. “I think that we used to talk. Not exactly heart-to-heart. Somehow we never had those. Things happened naturally. We didn't feel the need to talk. Do you think that's a bad thing?”

“I don't know,” said the man. “I never thought about it.”

“No,” said the woman. “Neither did I.”

“You're playing games,” said the man.

“No I'm not,” said the woman. “I'm trying to have a conversation.”

“You're not trying to talk,” said the man. “You're trying to make me say that I want to break up. To make it easy for you.”

They both looked at the dog, lying between them on the sofa.

“Look at him,” said the man. “Look how ugly he's grown.”

“He isn't ugly,” said the woman. “Don't say that.”

“But it's true,” said the man. “You remember how cute he was when we found him?”

“Yes,” said the woman and looked nostalgically at the dog.

“Did you think he'd grow up to be such a monster?”

“He's not a monster,” said the woman. “Maybe he's a little ugly, but he's not a monster.”

“Did you ever think that one day you'd hate him?”

“I don't hate him. Why on earth should I hate him?”

“I do,” said the man.

“That's not true. You love him,” said the woman.

“I love him and I hate him,” said the man.

“And me too.”

“Yes,” said the man. “Right now I do.”

“And was there ever a time when you only loved me? Without hate?” she asked.

“I think so,” he said. “At the beginning.”

“And when did you start hating me?”

“In Paris,” said the man.

“I thought so,” said the woman.

“And you?” asked the man, and felt tears welling up in his eyes—the tears of Paris that had not yet completely ripened.

“What about me?”

“When did you begin to hate me?”

“I don't know,” said the woman, and the man burst into tears. The woman tried to put her arms around him, but he shook her off, rose from the sofa, and went to stand next to the window. The outburst of weeping was short. The woman lit a cigarette and leaned back and threw the match into the ashtray. The man sniffed and raised his arm to his face and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his T-shirt. Then he took a deep breath and looked out of the window. The woman put out her cigarette, stood up, and went to stand behind him. She put her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his back, and felt an insulted little jerk of rejection. Afterward she rubbed her chin in the hollow between his shoulder blades, kissed the fabric of his shirt, which was warm and damp with sweat, and stood next to him, groping with her hand for his, which was pushed deep in his jeans pocket.

They both stood at the window. They looked at the ugly apartment buildings. Some of the windows were already completely dark; in some the lights were still on, especially in the kitchens. Then they looked at the dog who was sleeping on the sofa.

“If we break up,” said the man, “who'll take him?”

“But we're not splitting up,” said the woman.

“But if we do?”

“I don't know,” said the woman.

“Because I don't think I'll want him.”

“No,” said the woman, “neither do I.”

“It would complicate my life,” said the man. “My life's complicated enough as it is.”

“Let's not think about it now,” said the woman gently.

“Let's be on our own for a while,” said the man. “Like we were in the beginning. I don't feel like having dinners and going out all the time. I'm sick of everybody.”

“So am I,” said the woman.

“Let's hide in the house,” said the man and turned his face to her, and the woman looked into his eyes which were still wet.

“Okay,” she said and kissed him on the lips.

They kissed, and in the middle of the kiss he went on mumbling: “Let's be on our own for a while.”

The phone rang and they disengaged themselves. They couldn't decide whether to answer. After six rings the dog raised his head in surprise. The man picked up the phone.

“They want us to come to the bar for a drink,” he said to the woman. “You want to go?”

“It's late,” she said. “Isn't it too late?”

“It's a bit late,” said the man and covered the mouthpiece with his hand, “but still, we could drop by for an hour.”

“But you just said that you don't want to see friends anymore, that you want us to stay at home for a while.”

“I know,” he said.

“I don't mind going,” she said, “if that's what you want.”

“Whatever you like.”

“All right,” she said. “I don't mind.”

“I think it wouldn't do us any harm to go out tonight, even if it is late, just for an hour. Okay?” said the man and sniffed again.

“Okay,” said the woman. “If you feel like it.”

When they came home at three o'clock in the morning the man was drunk. The woman had to drive home. She hated driving and she was angry with him, but when she looked at him sitting next to her, strapped in the seat belt which she had fastened for him, staring out of the window and singing children's songs, she burst out laughing and bent over to kiss him on the cheek. The man, she thought, was at his best when he was helpless. When they went upstairs she supported him. The man climbed up one step and down two, loudly singing “Three Blind Mice,” changing the words of the refrain to “I love you.”

She put him to bed, took off his shoes, stripped him of his shirt and jeans, and covered him with the blanket. “I feel nauseous,” he said, and let his head fall to the side.

“You want to go to the bathroom? You want to throw up?”

“No,” he mumbled, “I just feel sick.”

“Should I make you a cup of tea?”

“No. Did you hear what I sang to you?”

“When?”

“On the stairs.”

“Yes,” said the woman. “I heard. So did the neighbors.”

“And what do you think?”

“About your singing?”

“No,” the man mumbled into the pillow. “You know about what.”

“I think you're drunk, and I'm glad you love me. I've been waiting a long time for you to say it. Ever since we came back from Paris I've been waiting for you to say it.”

The man tried to get out of bed. He didn't know what he wanted to do: to embrace the woman standing in front of the open closet and looking for a T-shirt, or to go to the bathroom and throw up. He began lurching in the direction of the door, emerged into the hallway, and stood there for a moment, swaying and holding on to the walls. He looked down at the dog lying on his rug, and suddenly he felt dizzy. He called the woman. She came out into the hall and looked at him, standing with his legs apart, his hands leaning on the walls, and the sleepy dog looking up at him from below.

“He's growling at me,” said the man.

“No, he isn't. Come to the bathroom.”

“You didn't hear him,” said the man. “A minute ago he growled, he bared his teeth at me and growled.”

“Come on,” she said gently, “come to the bathroom with me.”

“I don't want to go to the bathroom,” said the man, “I want him out of here. Take him away. He's dangerous. He's going to attack me.”

“Stop it,” said the woman. “You're totally drunk. You're talking nonsense. If you don't want to go to the bathroom, then come to bed.”

“No,” said the man. “I want him out of here. I don't want him here. He scares me.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Get him out of here.”

“Where to?”

“I don't know. Just take him away from me.”

“I'll put him out on the landing,” she said. “Go to bed. I'll take him out. Don't worry. He won't hurt you.” She went up to the dog and stroked his head. The dog rolled over onto his back. He raised his bent legs in the air and his ears fell back onto the mat. The woman was surprised. She had never seen him lying like this before. It was a position most dogs liked, but not this one. The fur on his stomach was soft and pleasant to the touch. She tickled him and giggled when she saw one of his hind legs beginning to dance in the air. His eyes were closed and his nose was wrinkled, and from his dark gums his teeth stuck out. He seemed to be smiling.

She took hold of his collar and pulled him to his feet. He shook himself and followed her to the front door. The woman went out to the landing with the dog behind her. He looked at her curiously as she pointed to the straw doormat. She stood there in her panties and T-shirt and pointed. “Get down!” she said and retreated into the apartment. For a moment longer she stood there looking at him looking at her, and then the light went off on the landing and the door closed. When she returned to the bedroom she found the man lying on his side on the bed and calling her in a low voice. He had vomited on the floor. She brought a rag from the kitchen porch and cleaned up the mess, and then she held the rag with the tips of her fingers and threw it into the pail standing in the bathroom, and filled the pail with water.

31

In autumn the dog's appearance changed. His hindquarters sagged and his walk turned into a kind of crawl. The man and the woman took him to the vet, and the vet said it was a problem with the pelvic bones. “Our little Anonymous is suffering from a genetic disease,” he said. But the doctor was wrong.

The dog spent most of his days and nights on the doormat. After recovering from the insult, he found something consoling in it. Twice a day the man and the woman would open the door and he would go inside, drink a little water, eat the dog food in his bowl quickly and efficiently, making a crunching noise which broke the silence in the house. Then he would go out to the landing again, with the residents going up and down the stairs, the children who bent down to pat him, and the solitary old lady from the top floor who felt sorry for him.