The Story of My Wife (12 page)

"Go on, take a look over there," I yelled to her on one occasion, "look at the size of that dumpling the man is trying to bite into." I was pointing to the signboard of a surburban dining place, at a huge blue figure who stared open-mouthed at a dumpling in front of him, which will remain that way, dangling, tantalizing, to the very end of time.

"The poor devil. It's right under his nose, but he will never sink his teeth into it."

"Too bad," she concurred, shaking her head. "It's terrible being a signboard," she sighed.. . . "Come on, let's go inside, I suddenly feel ravenous." And she pulled me in.

The place seemed like a hangout for foreign workers. We had tripe sprinkled with lemon juice, and oh yes, dumplings too, the very best, and plenty of it. And to wash it down, some robust red wine, which made her eyes throw off sparks.

"See, isn't this wonderful?" I said. "Food to warm the heart and all for less than ten francs."

All that wholesome food did enliven her spirits. She got drunk but was still sweet; actually, she could be captivating in such a state. She nestled her little head in the palm of my hand and left it there. She lay like that in my hand, giddy, her eyes all aglow, winking, and at one point even kissing the palm of my hand.

It's also true that as the wine got the better of her, she could no longer resist and exchanged glances, discreetly but undeniably, with a tall, lean workman who just then got up to stretch. In this regard she was in no need of instruction; when it came to life's gifts she was receptive and open-minded. What could I do? Absolutely nothing.

And after that her darkening eyes had an even fiercer glow.

And so it went. We toured the countryside, wandered about a little, got off the train at unfamiliar stations. It began to feel more and more like spring, and when spring comes, both France and my wife are lovely. She looked as if the sunlight had settled on her eyes. She would stand in some arbor in her pert little hat, her light parasol, her frilly dress covered with rings of sunlight, and she would laugh away, at me, mostly.

"How clumsy you are, how very clumsy," she said to me when I presented her with a bunch of baby roses.

"How can you hold flowers like that?" And she embraced them as if they were her children.

"It's easy for you to talk. Is it my fault that I am such an oaf? You're right, flowers don't look good in my hand, nor anything else that's pretty or refined. A piece of red onion or a cow's leg would be more like it"—I tried to think of things that would make her laugh again, but she didn't she just looked at me timidly, like somebody who wants to please, may even know how, but is afraid to try. Finally she spoke up:

"Is it my fault that I am so bad for you," she said gently, with tears in her eyes.

I am not one to cry; I wasn't brought up that way. (What evil spirit was it, I wonder, that forbade me to cry?) But when I heard her say this, something gripped me, a sudden seizure, I dare say. I am embarrassed to say it but I broke into tears.

There was a wooden fence, and behind it a farmhouse with animals; I remember hearing pigs grunt. The louder they grunted, the more desperately I sobbed. It was on a narrow, grassy path where the unfortunate accident occured. My wife just stood there and didn't say a word. I think she was whimpering herself, she had to be, because when I regained my composure, I saw that her bouquet lay in the grass and her handkerchief was all wet. Even so, she kept squeezing and pressing it to her silent lips.

"Don't cry, Jacques," she said at last, still sniffling. At last she wasn't laughing at me, and that, to me, made all the difference.

I was still in this mellow, vulnerable state when one evening, to my great surprise, I met up with Miss Borton. (Let's just call her by that name; it wouldn't be fair to divulge her real identity.) She was the young lady from the ship, who on the night of the fire, in the most desperate moment, embraced me and said she adored me. We were just coming out of the Opera (we had been looking at the program; why not go there once, I said to myself), and she was walking up the steps, bathed in light. I must say she was beautiful; I recognized her immediately. . . . Indeed, I had once seen an old, old painting of the Virgin Mary, a very childlike virgin, ascending the steps of a church with great aplomb and charm—and the young miss now reminded me of that lovely picture. She was youth herself, light as a cloud. She wore a lacy green dress, with a star over her bosom, and a wide, floppy hat with ribbons that fluttered with every step she took, revealing something of her roving spirit, or maybe the devil-may-care solitude of her being. When she saw me she was so stunned, she could hardly speak.

"Captain," she said finally, but as if still sunk in some gorgeous reverie. "Captain, you, here?"

I also had difficulty answering. I certainly would not have expected her to accost me and strike up a conversation, after what happened between us.

"How are you?" I said, quite embarrassed. "Have you, er, quite recovered?" Like that. One inane question after another.

But she got over her embarrassment in a jiffy. In fact, she made the best of the situation. How could she not be well, she said, especially now that she had seen us. No, she was not going to the Opera, she wanted to get tickets for tomorrow, but it can wait. In short, she unloosed her tongue pretty quickly. I almost forgot to introduce her to my wife. But Miss Borton stepped up to her, with great self-assurance turned her sparkling eyes on the little woman, and said:

"The captain's wife, I presume." And in French, too.

She was so beautiful that Lizzy, a great admirer of beauty, forgot to take her eyes off her. She again had flowers in her hand, roses again, and without hesitation gave her the whole bunch.

"Here you are, you lovely, lovely creature."

They hit it off well, I must say. They even kissed each other (which, what with Miss Borton being English and all, I found rather odd). Then, arm in arm, they started walking toward the Avenue de l'Opéra. I trailed after them, quite pleased.

"Ah, Jacques, Jacques," my wife cried out. "Where are you, love? Why, Miss Borton is mad about you." And she was positively beaming.

"What are you saying, Lizzy?" The young lady blushed.

"I am proud of you, I really am," my wife went on, undeterred.

I tried to laugh off the compliment as best I could.

Miss Borton decided not to protest: "Why shouldn't she say it?" she declared. "It's true." And laughing to herself, she embraced my wife again.

"Isn't she sweet?" my wife trilled.

"Oh yes, adorable," I answered.

In other words I got into an absurd situation. What was I to do with this new-won glory? My wife was still beaming at me with puckish delight.

"Miss Borton really envies me," she whispered when we got into a car, intending to spend the evening together. Did it seem so strange to her that I was capable of making a conquest? Or did she really like the idea? Who cared? At least she found out it was possible. Yes, let her hear somebody sing my praises, and not just anybody, but this lovely Irish rose.

I should mention that I did not tell her about my encounter with Miss Borton; her surprise, therefore, must have been all the greater. It seems the young lady told her everything, not only about the big fire, but about the other, smaller ones as well, and with an air of abandon peculiar to sarcastic natures. They kept up their tête-a-tête even after dinner, while I was discussing business with two government officials I chanced to run into at the restaurant where we were dining.

The encounter with Miss Borton had quite an effect on my wife. I saw evidence of that already at dinner. But when we got home, in a strange sort of way, it became even clearer.

She sat up with me for a long time that night listening to me speculate on business matters. I began explaining to her the present state of my affairs, my discussions with the two officials, not leaving out the possibility of my joining a rescue service. Leaning her frizzy head on her tiny fists, she wrinkled her forehead in concentration. And although she kept repeating: yes, yes, she was extremely interested, her thoughts, her soul, were elsewhere. Then, all of a sudden, she surfaced from the deep and her face brightened, as though she'd made a realization.

"Forgive me, Jacques, I just thought of something and I must tell you about it."

I smiled a little: Could she be actually thinking of my business ventures?

"But I'll be honest with you," she continued, "as well I should, as you always are. For as shrewd a man as you are, you are also open-hearted."

Again I smiled. If she keeps this up, she'll get to know me yet. But let's hear what she has to say.

"Well . . ."

"Go on, don't be bashful."

"Do I make you happy?" she asked and looked sadly into my eyes.

"You do in a lot of ways," I quickly answered. And to myself I said: Miss Borton is responsible for this, her sudden appearance.

"I am getting old," she said and her eyes filled with tears. And then the words came pouring out: "What good am I to you? And this girl is so beautiful. Why don't you marry her?" I was still smiling, and tried to make light of it.

"And you? Am I not still married to you?"

"Me? I might as well be dead."

But all this was nothing. I might have expected as much after what happened. I was happy even that she reacted this way. For if a wife gets so upset over the unexpected appearance of a younger woman, one can only rejoice.

So I didn't try very hard to calm her and perhaps that was a mistake. I was too relaxed, not convincing enough. I left her with her doubts.

"Come, come," I said to her in my best off-hand manner. "She's a mere child. How foolish can you be? Silly little girls never interested me." (How untrue.) But all along what I really wanted to do was put my arms around her. But I couldn't. She wouldn't let me.

"No, don't even touch me," she said bitterly, turning crimson. "Or kiss me, either. I don't want you to, not now or ever."

"What are you talking about?" I said, somewhat startled. "Listen, Lizzy, don't be a fool; I have nothing to do with that girl."

"Nothing to do with her? Oh God. You think I am jealous, don't you? Well, I am not." She was shrieking by now, and her eyes turned ugly. I had never seen her like that. It was as if she was unleashing anger that had been building up in her heart for years.

"What's the matter with you?" I asked her again.

"Nothing, nothing at all. It's just that I find all this ... oh life itself, so very strange." Her words almost sounded like a song now. And what followed then were such tense moments that I tremble even now as I try to describe them. The realization suddenly hit me that this was nothing short of rebellion. But still I tried to smile; I still did.

"You are convinced I don't love you, and still you want to stay with me. How come? Oh, I just don't understand it. But help me, I beg of you.... To be so unconcerned. . . are you that timid or that cruel? It should make your blood boil. What kind of blood do you have?"

This made me perk up. Damn it, she must misunderstand my silence. Should I really show her what kind of blood is in me?

I began to talk, too, and God only knows what came pouring out of me. Such things you cannot reconstruct.

"Why do I stay with you, you ask. For that there's no explanation. (This was still said on the quiet side.) I can neither understand nor explain. I don't know myself why I am still here, and even if I were to crack open this blasted skull of mine . . ."

"Don't squeeze my hand so hard," my wife cried. That's when I realized I had grabbed her hand and began gasping for air myself.

"There is no adequate explanation for suffering, for self-degradation, none whatsoever. Anyway, you should feel flattered that there is a girl who loves me."

"But that's just what I am trying to say . . ."

"Don't talk, don't breathe a word," I panted, and began hitting the back of a chair. "You don't suppose that all this time I hadn't thought of leaving you."

"So you see," she said, although much quieter. It seems she did get scared a little bit.

"Once in a while a thought does turn up in my thick skull. Give me some credit."

She turned pale and her hands began to shake. She picked up a cup, then put it down. It seemed the look in my eyes had quite an effect on her. But no matter, I thought; I'll giver her a little whirl while I am at it. I won't let her off that easy. We'll just face up to things.

"You know what? If you want a divorce, I won't say no. (At this point I stopped pacing, though my heart was still pounding.) I have no intention of keeping you in bondage, no intention of shackling your soul. (I sat down beside her.) But give the matter some thought, that's my advice to you. Because I can't predict all the consequences. Even if we do get a divorce, you understand.. . . But just listen to this story ... I once had a scalemaster, a decent, clever chap who also used to hire longshoremen for me, stevedores, the English call them. As my trusted friend, he boarded my ship often and traveled with me from port to port. Well, this man one day was cruelly cheated by his wife, or rather he found out that she had cheated on him ... So much for the exposition. (Here I paused and rolled myself a cigarette.)

"How my scalemaster held up after that I don't know, suffice it to say that one day he divorced his wife, broke with her completely. But it didn't help. He was a fidgety man—there is no help, alas, for the unhappy sort—and he got even more excitable. Until one day he decided to return home after all. And though at first he sat down and even took a cup of tea from her, right afterwards, he strangled her." I paused again.

"Why are you telling me all this?" she asked quietly. "Is it some sort of parable?"

"What if it is? Make of it what you will."

Oh but I was so far gone by then, I thought my heart would burst. I no longer cared about anything. My mind darkened, my temples were throbbing, but all the while I could see that her eyes were fixed on me. She watched my every move, and it was a good thing she did.

An ill-timed word out of her, and I could easily imagine myself destroying the whole apartment, and her and myself with it. That's why I must never reach my breaking point, must never utter final words. I know my own true nature.