Illusions of Love (12 page)

He went to the bathroom, turned on the shower as hot as he could stand, and let the water pelt his body. Then he turned on the cold until he shivered. Getting out, he stared at the full-length mirror as he towelled himself vigorously. My God, it’s like looking into the eyes of a stranger, he thought. Perhaps it was the surroundings of home that made him realize how much he had changed. He dressed hurriedly and made his way back downstairs to dinner.

He was glad that his mother had not made his homecoming a gala affair, inviting only Sylvia and her mother and father. As he looked around the table in the oak-panelled dining room, he realized that here nothing had changed. Conversation still revolved around politics would Eisenhower try for the Republican ticket? -and the usual local gossip. Dinner, too, was the same formal affair. As he sat observing, Martin felt strangely alien.

As he lifted his napkin from his lap, Martin felt Sylvia’s hand on his.

He was chilled with guilt at her touch. He didn’t love her in that way and he had no idea how he was going to be able to break away from her without hurting her. How could he do that to someone as tender and decent as Sylvia? And how could he not if only for her own sake? If only he hadn’t gotten carried away that last night home.

If Sylvia was disappointed in his reaction to seeing her, she kept her thoughts to herself. She knew she had been too demonstrative when she’d welcomed him today. But how else could she have acted? She’d lived for that moment for four years.

When dinner was over, Martin and Sylvia walked out to the terrace and stood looking out at the gardens. Silently she turned and regarded his face. She was troubled by the haunted look in his eyes. She knew that he’d been through hell. If only he would allow her to reach out to him, to hold him. Finally she asked, “What are you thinking about?”

Martin sighed.

“The past. We’ve changed, haven’t we?”

“Yes.”

“Sylvia, I don’t want to hurt you and yet I don’t know how else to say this ” Just be honest, Martin. “

“Yes, but the truth can be cruel.”

“So can deception. Martin, I’m going to make this easy for you. I know you love me, but you’re not in love with me, and that makes the difference between friends and lovers. I have no regrets about that night. Please believe me. If I had it to do over again, I would.”

During the past four years she’d scarcely thought about anything except how she would make Martin fall in love with her. She had spent her days and nights fantasizing, but tonight she realized that to have Martin without his love was not worth it.

She knew Martin’s vulnerability: his sense of loyalty and honour. She knew that if she pursued him now she could goad him into marriage. But she also knew that if she did she would ultimately lose even his friendship and she’d be left with nothing.

“Do you have a cigarette?”

she said at last, deciding to let go gracefully.

He lit one for her, then one for himself.

“My parents didn’t mention it at dinner, but I’ll be going abroad. I’m tired of filling my time with silly charity work. There’s a Jewish orphanage in London where they have brought many of the camp survivors. I’ve taken a job there.”

Martin knew he was responsible for this choice of selfimposed exile, yet he felt helpless to do anything about it. If he asked her to stay, what could he give her?

“When did you make up your mind about this, Sylvia?”

“Some time ago when I was waiting for the war to be over,” she listened to herself lie. She’d only made up her mind that moment, although she had known about the organization for several months.

The look in her eyes touched him so deeply that all the logic was replaced with pity. He reached out to her.

“Stay, Sylvia. Don’t go.”

“For what?”

“I’ve just come home, Sylvia. Maybe after I’ve had a chance to reorganize my life, you and I can … ” Work something out? Don’t be silly, Martin. “

“Well, what you’re doing may not work either … because it’s for all the wrong reasons.”

“And you, dear Martin, want me to stay for all the wrong reasons. You think that maybe if you feel guilty enough it’ll give you the courage to ask me to marry you. Well, that would be terrible, Martin. I love you too much for that.”

Martin took her hand and said, “You’re too special not to find someone who will really adore you.”

Tears flooded her eyes.

“Thank you very much for being that concerned about my future.” She turned, but Martin grabbed her arm.

“Sylvia, don’t be upset. It’s just such a difficult time … please, let’s try.”

Her first impulse was to run, but she wanted Martin so badly, wanted to believe he needed her. Softly, she said, “Are you sure, Martin?”

“I’m sure.”

She looked at him and then ever so slowly reached up, put her arms around him, and kissed him.

Martin responded. He hadn’t kissed a woman in a long time.

“I want you, Martin,” she whispered.

“Please … let’s wait.”

Bess looked up as they entered the drawing room.

“Did you have a nice walk?”

“Lovely, simply lovely,” Sylvia answered.

Then Bess turned to Martin.

“You looked tired.”

“I am. I hope you’ll forgive me if I go to bed.”

“Of course, darling.”

That night neither Martin nor Sylvia slept much. Lying in his old room, Martin tossed and turned until almost dawn. He simply couldn’t make sense of his life. He wondered what had forced him to ask Sylvia to stay. Why did he feel such great guilt where she was concerned?

Forget that he had slept with her once. This was the twentieth century. Lots of girls had lost their virginity during the war. No, the real guilt, the real feelings he sustained for Sylvia stemmed from a much earlier time, from their shared childhood. It was as if she too were part of Ephraim’s legacy. He asked her to stay, quite simply, because he felt an obligation to protect her. He suddenly realized that Sylvia mattered to him more than anyone else. He began to wonder where affection for her ended and love began. Entwined with those thoughts was the love he felt for his mother. If he married Sylvia, his mother’s joy would be supreme. Sylvia’s devotion to her during his absence had been stressed by both his parents. Of course, he felt grateful, but gratitude after all wasn’t love . or was it? Too weary to sort out these thoughts, he finally fell asleep.

Sylvia lay in her bed with thoughts much the same as Martin’s. Martin could have let her go without so much as a word, but he had asked her to stay. Wasn’t that a commitment? She knew that he loved her in his fashion, and suddenly the realization came to her that if she loved him, she had to make him aware that she was a grown woman and not the frenzied girl he’d left four years before.

Trembling, she slipped out of bed and put on her peignoir. Quietly opening her door, she padded softly down the hall to Martin’s room.

She opened his door and locked it behind her.

Martin bolted up in bed and called out, “Who is it ” Shhh . it’s only me, darling. “Quickly she was in his arms, holding him, caressing him, pouring out her need and love for him.

But something in her ardour overwhelmed him. Without thinking he got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and looked at himself in the mirror. The man who stared back might have been a hundred years old.

He knew that he had to go back to her. That he had wounded her cruelly.

Summoning the courage, he walked back and sat on the edge of the bed.

Taking her hand, he said gently, “I’m sorry. This has nothing to do with you. Coming home today was more than I was prepared for.”

The anger Sylvia felt was for herself. She had pushed Martin when he asked her to wait. Why hadn’t she listened?

“I understand, Martin.

Believe me, I understand. Can you forgive me? “

He was grateful the room was in darkness so she couldn’t see his face.

“I’m not good for you, Sylvia. Something terrible happened to me in Germany and I haven’t been able to come to terms with it.”

She started to cry.

“And I caused you to be more unsure of yourself than you were before. I really understand, Martin, and I’m sorry.”

“I’m not deserving of anyone like you.”

Sylvia got up, kissed him tenderly and, without a word, left the room.

In the morning, Bess was bewildered.

“I can’t make any sense out of this at all,” she said as they sat at the breakfast table.

“Here, Martin, read Sylvia’s note.”

He knew what was in it before she even handed it to him. Sylvia was leaving. It was her only salvation and Martin had never felt more self-hatred than he did at that moment.

Over the next few months Martin tried his best to readjust to civilian life. He went back to work at the brokerage firm and put in long hours, frequently coming home well after dinner. He found it too painful to face his mother across the table. She couldn’t understand why he had let Sylvia leave after she had waited for him so patiently through the long war years. Martin couldn’t explain any more than he could explain his occasional need for a night with one of the newly liberated girls he met. They had jobs, they had apartments, and many were happy to invite Martin to stay over. Good God, he deserved a little fun. But his mother’s reproachful face tortured him.

Finally he decided that even though it would hurt his parents he had to get his own place in the city. He was right to have returned to San Francisco, to his family, and family business, but he never should have returned to the family home. He had made the break once and now would have to do it again. As gently as he could he told his mother he’d taken a furnished apartment at the end of Lombard Street on Russian Hill. It was in the Italian neighbourhood called North Beach, and Bess most vehemently disapproved, not because of the ethnic mix the area bordered on Chinatown but because it was incomprehensible that Martin could settle for something so outlandishly Bohemian.

As far as she was concerned, it made no sense even though Martin hadn’t lived at home before Pearl Harbor. It was as though his years away had made his mother’s possessiveness wax instead of wane; she almost cried when she saw ‘that dreadful little cell’ he had taken while they still owned the palatial apartment on Nob Hill.

“It’s yours, Martin. Why don’t you use that?” she said.

“Because it’s not mine.”

“What do you mean by that? Of course it’s yours.”

“Not really, Mother.

It belongs to you and Dad. ” Bess was dumbfounded.

“You must forgive me, Martin, but whatever your father and I have is yours. Can’t you understand that? I wouldn’t think I’d have to explain. This

whole thing is ludicrous. “

But it wasn’t ludicrous from Martin’s point of view. His parents’ wealth made him uncomfortable. He could not forget the thousands of homeless still roaming Europe or forced to live in displaced persons camps. He couldn’t reconcile their meagre circumstances with his own lavish ones. It was impossible for Martin to explain to his parents, but their lifestyle was too much for him. Martin could only say he needed his own place and Bess stopped arguing after he moved the last of his things from Woodside.

Martin hoped moving would help him pick up the pieces of his life, but he discovered that all he had changed was his address. He still worked for his father and in his mind was accepted by Julian only because he was his father’s son. He had not earned his place in the world. He was a parasite, really. Everything had been handed to him on a silver platter. Unlike Dominic, he had never had a chance to find out what he could do on his own.

He lost the ability to evaluate his contributions realistically

Anyone else would have had to put in twenty years to achieve his salary. As the weeks passed, Martin became obsessed with his own unworthiness. The pressures became so great that he simply had to reach out.

Impulsively, he picked up the phone one day and called Dominic.

“What did I do to deserve this call?” Dominic asked.

“Well, I’m having some problems.”

“Really? I’d never have guessed from your letters.”

“I suppose I was trying to convince myself all I needed was time.

That’s why I didn’t mention anything. “

“Okay. Well, what is wrong?”

Martin lit a cigarette.

“I don’t know where to begin, so much has happened.”

“The beginning’s always a good place.”

“This could take a long time … Martin said, trying to figure out exactly when things had started to go wrong.

“It’s your dime. I’ve got all afternoon.”

“Thanks. Remember the night we sat at the Yale Club?”

“Right.”

“Well, I’m more confused about things now than I was then.”

“In what way?”

“Well, I feel like an automaton.”

“That doesn’t tell me much. Is it possible you’re fooling yourself, refusing to look at the problem and face it?”

There was a long silence.

“You’re right. But I can’t seem to articulate it. I keep swaying back and forth between obligations, love and loyalty. That’s what makes all this so tough. I just can’t seem to find the answers.”

“Okay, sort out the pieces. I mean, what’s happened since?”

“Well, I think when I first got home I just needed to crawl back into the womb. I was glad to be living with my parents, working for my father. But for the last few months I seem to be getting more and more depressed.”

“I can hear that … go on.”

“Well, I sit in my huge plush office going through the motions, but nothing makes any sense. What I’m saying is, I never built any of it.

It’s all been handed to me. Do you see what I mean? “

“Up to a point, yes. Except, when Papa’s a great success, he usually wants to pass that success on to his son.”

“I know. That’s exactly the point. I don’t feel comfortable with the idea. I don’t really know what the hell I’m trying to say. Jesus, maybe I need a psychiatrist.”

“No, you don’t, old buddy. Your feelings are understandable after what you’ve been through.”