The Story of My Wife (11 page)

"Or I shall go away. I can, you know, just as I did years ago, when I left my parents' house."

She sat there in the dark, perfectly still.

"And as far as the young man is concerned, he's a first class scoundrel, believe me. (I got to this point perfectly composed. I was proud of myself.) He invited us to go to London, you know. (I told her that too. And that he's had it with her, wanted to get rid of her. I told her everything, in other words, the whole pitiful story.)

"But only because I want you to see it for yourself," I said. "You are nothing to him, you understand. No, don't even answer, I know, I am convinced it is so.

"Wouldn't it be better for you to stay with someone who does love you? Think about it. Or does that really make you want to die? Is it such a big crime to love you?"

And then once more, the same question: "Why shouldn't you want to live with me?" And after that, nothing.

"Shouldn't we turn on the light? I asked her a little later. "Oh no, please," she said, terrified.

This wasn't so bad, I thought. And tried to convince myself that I was still quite calm. No damage done. I kept whistling loudly.

Besides, I tried to approach this thing from another angle. It occurred to me that she might be involved in some other mysterious and messy business. Maybe she gambled or played cards —hence her nervous condition. She could be in debt up to her ears and afraid to tell me about it. Could I have misread her signals?

She did sometimes tell me she had no money left. And I could see there was more on her mind.

Also, right around that time she again informed me that 3000 francs were stolen out of her pocket. Once again: a mystery story. Money lost or stolen, probably the latter, she thought. She was ready with a couple of versions. She took off her gloves and suspected that while she did ... A familiar story. And obviously phony from beginning to end. Let's look into it then.

Not because of the money involved. I wanted to know what she spent it on. Because she went through an awful lot of money, an unheard-of sum, considering my circumstances.

She once started telling me about some sort of time payments but I only half listened. It had to do with door-to-door salesmen and how she always fell for their pitch. She'd be standing in the kitchen, over the stove, and they'd be pestering her, she couldn't get rid of them. I also remember her telling me about bills she got from booksellers.

Her books . . . there's another story. We should talk about that, too. My wife, you see, was a rather cultured woman, a high-minded person, really, who loved literature, philosophy, and, in a light-hearted sort of way, even the occult—she didn't believe in it or anything, she just wanted to get a taste of that, too. At one time she bought all kinds of books, rare old editions, journals, too. I don't really know what the hell for. As though there weren't such things as lending libraries. But she never liked things that passed through other hands, she was finicky that way. I let her be, though, I didn't interfere.

Needless to say, I didn't join her in her pursuits—how could I?

Reading requires your heart to be in it, and who had time for that? At most I'd glance at the titles.

"What sort of books are these?" I would sometimes ask her, sounding sarcastic, the way unschooled people do when they want to appear superior about the very things that are beyond their comprehension. Among her books were such titles as
On Human Emotions, The History of Philosophy.
She was especially interested in psychology.

"Yes, what sort of books are these?" I'd ask her casually, pretending to be even more ignorant than I was.

"Tell me the truth, are you really interested in this stuff?"

"Why, of course. I am interested in all that's odd in nature." So there.

What could I do with this woman? I put down the books and didn't discuss them any further. When I asked her the next time what she was reading, she just said:

"Serious literature."

"What for?" I'd ask.

"Because I have a feeling for such things," she would answer.

"And what else do you have a feeling for, you strange creature?"

"I am not about to tell you. Must you know everything? You know too much already." In other words I couldn't delve into her affairs, the better part of her world remained shrouded in mystery.

All this, however, is besides the point. The only reason I mentioned it was to raise a question: How does one reconcile these "finer things" with her lies? The edifying tracts with titles such as "Educating Your Soul" or "Know Your Conscience" with murky uncertainty and the shady affairs involving three thousand francs which, supposedly, was stolen while she took off her gloves. . . . She lied through her teeth, that woman, she lied shamelessly, all the time.

If she said she was going one place, she'd be sure to go to another; if she said she had no cigarettes with her, she did. It was all so baffling. Why should she go through contortions even over such petty things? She even went so far as intimating that she may be the daughter of a Turkish major—she actually made a statement to that effect one day.

"What was that? What are you saying?" I mean, this was too much. She was lying on the sofa, staring into the air. Daydreaming with her eyes open. And this is precisely what was—and is, even today—so alien to me. But I guess it was in her blood, all this romantic nonsense. Or should I call it plain childishness?

I realize now that I should have spoken about this earlier. It is strange, after all, that she never answered my questions. All those searching questions about the meaning of life and never an answer. And I just let it go. But why did I? Because I wouldn't have believed her anyway. With her I could never escape the feeling that it was all play-acting, all make-believe, and it was her wild fantasies that did it. After a while I couldn't even believe what I saw with my own eyes. For all I knew, her wanting to drink poison may also have been mere play and illusion. And when she sank into silence, perhaps all she wanted to do was torment me, to pretend she no longer loved me but loved someone else, and couldn't care less about my probing questions.

Come to think of it, it took some daring to dish up the story about being robbed—twice. It took impudence, come to think of it, and skill. She'd have me believe that if the same happened to her again, it must have happened the first time, too.

But it didn't, not the first time and not later. And now I was determined to get to the bottom of it, at least of the three thousand. Was it cards, after all? Or the races? I even thought of drugs. I went through her books again, the latest shipment, and her clothes, too, to see if she didn't have a fur coat or an evening gown stashed away someplace—anything that might suggest extravagance. But I found nothing. And as far as cards were concerned, she didn't know the first thing about them; I discovered that several times. Just then I began to teach her
trente-et-quarante
and another game,
meine-deine,
favored by sailors.

"Take it, it's your winnings," I reminded her during a game— she obviously wasn't paying attention.

"Yes, yes," she said, and yawned. A blind alley, clearly. I had to find a different lead. One day I went into the kitchen where our maid, Äubchen Marie, a good-natured, obese old woman, was doing her chores. (We called her Äubchen Marie because whenever she saw a child, she called it Äubchen, or little bonnet—who knows where she may have picked up that German word..) I put a practical question to her, though using a approach that was the opposite of my usual strategy.

"Last winter we spent altogether too much money on electricity, isn't it so Marie? I am about to pay the bill and I want to know how come?"

"Madame spends the whole night reading, that must use up a lot of electricity."

"All she does is read?"

"All the time."

"She's always home then . . . But do you let her? She is supposed to be in your care. At the rate she is going, she'll ruin her health, she'll just waste away." (I scolded her, just to be on the safe side.) But Marie's smile was guileless, genuine.

"She doesn't go out much," she now said, and turned a little sad. "She is rarely in the mood."

"Not much, you say, that's all right. But where does she go when she does go out? Among interesting, entertaining people, I hope."

Marie gave her finger a lick and tested the iron she was about to use.

"Where?" she reflected. "To see silly women, I would say. She always lets me know exactly where she will be. She'd say to me: 'I'll be at Madame Lagrange's' or 'I am going to Mrs. Pigal's.' Aren't they kind of silly? Next to madame, I mean? They are not good enough for her," said our very own dairymaid, and lapsing into blessed docility, she continued ironing.

"Of course they are not good enough for her," I said. "That's just it. But what about her? Does anyone ever come here? Women I mean, friends . . . you know . . . Does she ever have parties here?"

"Not really,
mon colonel"
she answered (as a rule she called me colonel, though I explained to her more than once that I wasn't one). "These are the people who come to the house: Madame Casa, but she comes seldom. (This was a Dutch lady who married rich but then went broke.) Madame Lagrange (a very religious lady against whom I had no objections . . . then.) And sometimes Mademoiselle Sanchi." I had to agree with Marie; they were all rather stupid females.

"All right. And what about men?"

Marie immediately became defensive.

"What do you mean men?" she said, no longer very docile. Even her cheeks turned red, like a shiny apple, and her eyes clouded over. I was quite surprised. But wasn't it amazing? That she mesmerized everybody, even this love-starved old spinster to whom jealousy came naturally? That even
she
was willing to back her up? And now got all worked up because I dared to utter the word men in connection with my wife?

Should I insist then that I was a crazy fool?

Because to top it off, she didn't have one real friend, which was odd, to say the least. So she was cooped up in these rooms for months by herself, reading up on the role of the inner voice, the conscience. Isn't it quite understandable that such a woman would one day find herself desperately in love with the very first man to come along?

If there was no one around her except the likes of a Dedin?

There couldn't be any other explanation. I had to assume that most of my money, not just the three thousand but much more, ended up in his pocket. There was no uncle, that's for sure—my wife must have invented him on the spur of the moment, in desperation. Come to think of it, the poor woman must have invented quite a few things—an uncle here, a pickpocket there. Childish nonsense, all of it.

She was neither shrewd nor sneaky, but quite, quite gullible, an easy prey, I tell you, an easy prey, for all her machinations. Just imagine, then: if such a muddle-headed little romantic, at Madame Pigal's or some other place, where the common bond, supposedly, was a belief in some highfalutin brand of mysticism—if in such an environment, under such circumstances, she met a languid-eyed hunter who gave her fancy books to read, filled her head with claptrap, and even had her believe she could be an actress one day, wouldn't it be fair to surmise that the young man's plaid suits and ample overcoats and smart hats were bought with money he got from this poor creature?

But then, all these thoughts vanished, the clouds lifted from my heart. My wife recovered. One morning she woke up in good spirits, her gloom had vanished, she knew how to laugh again. Did she really get over that love of hers? Did she finally realize that the man simply walked out on her? Which he did, of course, vanishing without a trace.

You see, I would have liked to say to her: Who is it but I who sticks by you no matter what? (I deluded myself with the hope that she would realize this herself.) That no one was as concerned about you as I. That I devoted my whole life to you, neglecting practically everything else. . . .

What followed were happy, peaceful days—days that were like the fading sun: weak but still warm. This was our real honeymoon, happier even than the time we spent in Granada. We roamed the city and did quite a bit of shopping. I knew how much she loved to shop, so I let her splurge. Ah, the excitement, the anticipation of it . . . she was beside herself with joy. May she have that, too? Really? Maybe she shouldn't. She realized we couldn't spend so much, but still. We happened to be discussing a snakeskin portfolio. She was dying to get it.

"It is a handsome portfolio," I said.

"You like it too?"

"I do, very much. I've been meaning to get one for myself," I added slyly.

"This, then, is for you, all right?" She was trying a new tack.

"Very good." And I won't deny it, my heart was glad. After all, she was once a poor girl. To this day I don't know how she, a peasant's daughter, made it as a school teacher. She never had a thing, this girl. Why even now, when she saw ordinary candy, her eyes lit up. So I bought it by the bagful, and always those brightly colored ones, fiery reds, deep greens.

"Look at the little devil's eyes," I said to her. She may be a grown woman, she still looked in the bag. And her smile retained some of that childish wonder. And why not? I knew myself what childhood memories were like. Why shouldn't she crave for pretty things?

"Isn't it beautiful, though?" she exclaimed ecstatically when we got home. "Isn't it?" (She meant the portfolio.)

"It is, it is," I said and then added: "It's funny when you think about it. You first say to someone: you are beautiful; and then you say: I love you." She knew right away what I was getting at.

"A man doesn't have to look beautiful," she said, crestfallen.

"Oh yes," I said and gently caressed her face.

I had to teach her how to eat again. We munched hot donuts in department store snack bars, and feasted on tiny crabs in crowded diners. I dragged her to bakeries for a whiff of fresh-baked bread, and even to make-shift barbecues. I like places like that. "It's no good being so particular," I explained to her, "for who can tell in advance when or where you will have the time of his life?"