The Story of My Wife (24 page)

I felt like drawing out this curiosity of his, and produced all sorts of items from my trunk.

"What are you up to?" my wife inquired.

"I want to get rid of all this useless stuff. All it is is extra weight; I may be able to get something for them here. Miss Borton said she might sell it for us ... if we are lucky." (But where was little Miss Borton by then?)

My wife, though, as soon as she heard her name, fell silent. And that suited me just fine. I didn't want her snooping in my affairs.

So I took out a miniature Chinese silkscreen, a lantern, a delicate oriental eyeglass case, the kind mandarins tuck away in the folds of their robe, a Dayak dagger called a "parang," and other trifles and knick-knacks one has the urge to pick up while traveling.

I was anxious to learn what the boy would have to say about all this stuff when he shows up in the morning with the fresh laundry.

Now it was late afternoon, he had no business coming up at this time of the day. But should my wife still want to see him, for, as she kept saying, "It's so nice to look at him" (sure, why not?)—in short, if the boy came up after all, then tomorrow morning I will notice it on him—he won't be all that surprised to see the wonderful toys. That was my train of thought, my strategy. And right afterwards I decided to go out. Decided to take a little walk.

"So long, my pet," I called to my wife. "I am going into town. Don't expect me before dinner. I have too many things to do."

And as soon as I stepped out on the street . . .

Why, it was most strange, unreal almost. Rarely have I experienced anything like it. First there was only stillness and an overcast sky. As if the whole world moved underwater, turning opaque and silent.

The colors are unearthly at such moments. The city suddenly turned a deep, exotic brown. But just as suddenly it got blinding white. A storm was upon us, unleashing all its fury; I was shaken up, tossed about, like an empty vessel.

The people on the pavement ran for cover, car-horns were bleating like sheep.

Oh no, I thought, this is how Harry Barbon, my chemistry teacher, died. And that, too, happened in the heart of London, for only here do you get such unexpected downpours. The shower was icy cold and abundant, I got splashed generously in the face, in the neck. But I didn't even try to dry myself—why not let my shirt soak through, why not be at the storm's mercy? Now if I also had a beard—and the thought made me rejoice—that too would be sopping wet . . .

That's how it started. I had to go on about it because rarely before had I felt such elation. ... At any rate, I wound up in some out-of-the-way hole, a tiny room covered in red felt, which for this reason alone looked like a secluded spot in a brothel. . . . Well, in this empty little nook I drank a bottle of port.

There wasn't another soul in that tiny place, and ghostly silence reigned inside me as well; I was empty and dumb . . . Only after too much strain can one feel so vacant.

There was a painting on the wall—that's what I kept staring at. It showed a donkey carrying buckets of water, led by a man in a wide-brimmed straw hat. ... I thought I heard the water sloshing in those buckets, and smelled the sweet fragrance of grapes ripening in the hills. A vast, blue expanse opened before my eyes, and I could swear I was singing. In Spanish yet, which was odd. But sang I did, a sunny Spanish song I picked up who knows where. Though the strangest thing was that I never could speak Spanish well, not way back then, anyway.

Next morning the delivery boy went wild over that dagger from Borneo. I could see; I was there, waiting, when he brought in the fresh clothes.

Well, let us then look into some other possibilities; her correspondence, for instance. Maybe that will provide us with some fresh clues. In this connection I must report the following:

In Paris I had bought her a neat little folder with some fine stationery, which for a long time remained untouched. But now, just now, marks began to appear on the blotter, which meant she had been writing letters. Let's pursue the matter then. Whom could she be writing to? Not her mother, that didn't seem plausible—she didn't care for her all that much. Not her relatives—they were all peasants living in or around Clermont—she wasn't close to them, cither. Her old girl friends maybe? We shall see. In any case, I began my investigation.

I left the inkblot as it was, and in one of the better paint shops bought a preparation called Corbusta (it was probably nothing more than ammonium nitrate), and mixed it with the ink. When held over a flame, this stuff burns up faster than other substances, so anything written with it shows through on paper, even on a blotter. I tried it out beforehand and obtained a perfectly legible copy of a text.

So the idea wasn't bad, but I didn't get very far with it. All I could make out on the blotter was one insignificant word:
caractère,
and even that with great difficulty. What's more, the following day the ink was gone; my wife bought a fresh bottle. In other words, she knew by then, or at least suspected, that I had been watching her. But I wasn't going to give up that easily. If it's games you want, I muttered to myself, it's games you shall have. I will catch you in the end. And went on working.

Sure enough, things began to fall into place. It was November nineteenth—I still remember the date because the night before was one of the most excruciating nights of my life. I was all set to jump out of our third-story window; the depths below beckoned me with such force, I thought I'd have to tie myself to a chair. (It was a moment of utter weakness, a truly loathsome moment, I regret it deeply.) My wife was fast asleep at the time, so I was all alone when these magnetic, hypnotic forces began to assail me . . . (There are indeed such forces, I am convinced of that, we should talk about it, though not now.)

I am not saying it was that silly writing pad caused my frantic state, though it did have something to do with it. For on a brand new blotter I was able to make out with unmistakable clarity, even without the aid of the chemical, the following two words:
"Mon cher."
In other words she wrote this to a man, there could be no doubt of that. This was my first significant discovery.

The second came when I happened to reach into some drawer and from the jumble of odds and ends which was to be found everywhere in our house, I fished out an identification card bearing her photo, authorizing her to pick up mail addressed to her and held at such and such post office in Paris. Now I have no idea why certain things—classified ads or mail held at the post offices—have such a disquieting effect on me. But for hours afterwards I was sick to my stomach. That's when I opened the window, for some fresh air, and experienced that mesmerizing spell, which I thought I would not be able to fight off.

And from that point on I often got dizzy or grew weak in the knee when I crossed bridges or leaned out of tall buildings. In other words this thing got to me where it really hurt, it undermined my very livelihood. For when a seaman starts having dizzy spells, he is finished.

I even wrote letters that night, letters to myself, discussing all sorts of non-existent business propositions. I didn't want to waste any more time. True, I had everything all prepared; from a printer I received business stationery with various letterheads (I had told them I was ready to order, but wanted to see samples first). One firm I still remember:
Litterton & Co. Brokers.
That's what I used for my first letter, in which I was requested to visit their offices at my earliest convenience to discuss one of Mr. Gregory Sanders's proposals. Then I typed another letter, and another, I kept churning them out—the only thing I was afraid of was that all that racket might wake her up. Every once in a while I tiptoed over to the bedroom door and listened.

What purpose this sudden flurry of correspondence served I can't really explain. It was nothing more than groping in the dark, I am afraid. I must have figured that here she was, writing letters, getting answers, receiving them at this very address, and I knew nothing at all about it. When did she get them, and how? There must be some secret understanding. But who with? No doubt, our rascally landlord, Mr. Horrabin Pit, had something to do with this, too. This line of reasoning must have led me to some shadowy conclusion. . . . The thing was that I didn't get any mail at the boarding house, I made arrangements to have it sent to the Brighton Hotel—when I had no permanent address, I always had my letters forwarded to a central location. Now I was hoping that since I would be getting letters here, too, I'll get to see some of hers. One day they might get the letters mixed up . . .

And the ploy worked, this one did. Life
is
extraordinary, isn't it? Sometimes the silliest ruses lead to surprising results . . .

Oh yes: I sent that ID card immediately to a friend of mine in Paris, a senior civil servant named Toffy-Ederle, and asked him to forward any mail still held at that post office. Actually, I was busy all night. In the morning I mailed the letter to Paris, express, and the following evening posted the first one, addressed to me, special delivery. I wanted to make sure it would arrive in the morning.

And later, when I knew I would be home in the afternoon, I posted one in the morning as well. I played around this way for a while. Actually, we'd be awakened early in the morning, because, as I said, I mailed most of the correspondence special delivery.

Sometimes I even mailed money to myself; I thought: why not try that too?

"You get so many letters these days," remarked my wife.

And I was again tempted to answer her: "Yes, I do; I've gone stark raving mad, you see."

Something did happen to me, that seemed fairly clear. To
me,
who'd always valued trust above all else. How on earth did I end up this way? Somebody had better explain it to me, and fast.

She is a sweet, gentle, lovely woman, Gregory Sanders would've probably said, had he known her. And he'd have added, I don't know what you want. She is an angel . . . What would you do, I wonder, if I proved to you that she
is
an angel—an angel besmirched by your sordid imagination ? Yes, what
would
you do? Blow your brains out maybe? The errand boy, you say. The mailman, you say. Good Lord, man, aren't you ashamed of yourself? That's what Gregory Sanders would have said, in all probability.

Let's try it, then, let's tell him everything. I couldn't be any worse off than I already was. But then out with everything, even if it kills me. Yes, the errand boy, too,
and
the mailman . . . And having listened to it all, and understood and appreciated it too, would he please tell me what I ought to do? Advise me for pity's sake on how to cure myself, how to restore faith in my heart? For surely, her writing
"Mon cher"
to some stranger, or having her mail held at a French post office will not do it.

I wanted to tell all this to her too, in a letter—I spent a whole night composing it. But when I looked at her in the morning, I tore it up, and said to myself: I can't. Not any more.

And that's where I left it.

There was nothing to be done; nothing. Two stones can't open up to each other, or two sticks of wood, or two whatevers that are no longer close.

In the meantime Toffy-Ederle answered my letter with a one-word telegram:
"Rien,"
meaning there was nothing in that post office.

In that case we must push on. And push on I did.

One morning the mail was again delivered very early. This time my wife got very annoyed. Will they ever let her get some sleep, she fumed. Anyway, why didn't I let someone have power of attorney, or why not have my business correspondence sent to the Brighton, as I had done before.

"I had a fight with the people at the Brighton," I said rather sadly.

"Oh, you wind up fighting with everyone," she said. Frankly, I was getting tired of the whole thing myself. What's more, there was a new twist now: they didn't bother to bring up the mail, I had to go down to the office and get it myself. A further insult.

"There, you have two pieces of mail this morning," my land-lord, Mr. Horrabin Pit, explained gently. "A registered letter and a money order."

I completely forgot about the money. I had sent myself twenty-five guineas the day before yesterday. Yes, that's precisely what I did.

But then, even madness must have its limits.

"Can't you have the mail sent up?" I asked the landlord darkly.

"It's a new mailman, you see, and you must identify yourself."

That was true, too, everything was; and the mailman was a swarthy, slimy character with sidewhiskers. . . . God, was I bristling, was I ever sick of my life? For just imagine: I had to go and get those absolutely meaningless letters which I had written myself, to myself—letters which didn't interest me in the least. And the money! It came out of my pocket, for God's sake. And for this they had to wake me from my pleasant stupor. Oh, I was so very bitter. If they had tossed my heart to the dogs just then, they would have surely spat it out in disgust. And to boot, the old man stopped me, he again stood in my way.

"Who created you, may I ask?" he asked in his insufferable, childlike manner, and went as far as caressing my coat sleeve. There I stood in that beat-up office, shivering, thinking to myself, I'll end up sick, I'll catch my death of cold. And sure enough, I sneezed. (I
was
very cold, all I had on was my robe and my socks.) My whole being railed at this indignity.

"Who created you, then?" he asked again, almost victoriously, as if he sensed he got me this time. The man had a voice like a schoolboy, which I really hate in people.

"Was it you?" he asked sarcastically, "you created yourself?" (His reasoning must have been: If I didn't believe in higher intelligence, I didn't believe in creation, either. But then how did I get to be so smart? Just like that, by myself? Hahaha.)

"Maybe there isn't even such a thing as creation," I answered without hesitation. "There just isn't. And I'll tell you why not."

"Oh, please do," the old fool gushed.

"Just look at the hair growing in your ear," I said to him, for I had a terrific desire to insult the old man. "Or in my ear, for that matter," I added, grudgingly. "Those hairs keep sprouting, right? With age they become thicker, denser, and while they proliferate, your brain atrophies. So much for your notion of creative evolution.