The Story of My Wife (26 page)

Actually I also came across a selection from Spinoza's works. It was a brand new book, quite handsome, I slipped it into my pocket. My wife was taking a bath just then; when she came out, I was sitting at the table, ready to eat. Pointing to the Condillac book I said:

"Let
me take this with me, I'd like to study it." And to myself I thought: Maybe I'll find something in that, too.

My wife just stared at me.

"At least I'll have something to read on the train." She didn't know what to make of this. Of my sudden interest in psychology. But she left it at that, she didn't let on. Or perhaps she knew nothing about the confession concealed in the book, she may never have looked at it. Or at the Spinoza, either. That was such a small volume anyway, it wasn't even worth mentioning. I left for the city in a hurry. It was past two o'clock.

Shortly thereafter it came to pass that I cheated on my wife. I find it strange myself that I should dare use that word, that I should even express myself this way—
I
, who long ago forfeited the right to be considered a straight and upright Dutchman by my compatriots.

But man is such a preposterous creature anyway—preposterous by birth as well as by volition. And all the more so if he is helped along by events. The thing itself happened this way:

Gregory Sanders was no longer in town, Miss Borton didn't answer my letters (I'll have more to say about this, about the letters I mean, and the state of mind I was in when I wrote them). Fact is there was no one around, absolutely no one I could talk to. And to be in a constant state of anxiety, wrapped in endless self-doubt—why, I couldn't take that, either. For that, too, is like being in a fog: the more you tried to penetrate it, the denser it got. I had just about enough.

To hell with you, I declared. You are worthless, you are nothing. I said this to myself but while looking at her, hoping she'll get the message, or sense at least just how fed up I was.

We were sitting at the table, having lunch; next to my plate lay the Condillac book. Now I was willing to put up with a great deal, but engaging in small talk over lunch was the limit. What sort of woman was Madame Lagrange, she wanted to know for instance. What was my
feeling
about her? Such were the questions I was supposed to answer. (This woman, by the way, was a friend of hers who recently moved here from Paris. I met her once or twice before, I sort of knew her.)

What was I going to answer her? What did I care about this Madame Lagrange? When a woman, an extraordinary woman, a radiant beauty, was waiting for me just then. A woman who was a hundred times more captivating than both of them put together. I said to her rather abruptly:

"My goodness, it's two o'clock, I am late already." And with that I sprang up from the table and rushed out the door.

Where now? I said to myself once I was outside. I had an hour to kill. To the Brighton first. But once there, I got restless again.

What are you sitting here for? I mumbled to myself. When a woman—and what a woman—is waiting for you, and impatiently too, I imagine. Why waste your time here?

But it's about time I named this rare beauty, whose lovely eyes inspired such rapture in my heart. Let's just call her Mrs. Cobbet (I couldn't possibly reveal her real name); but she was none other than the lady who treated me so very sweetly at the Castle Nachoz, as well as in the back rooms of various other night spots. But why hem and haw? I am talking about Kodor's mistress, of course. In other words, with a single lapse I deceived both wife and friend.

At any rate, my liaison with the lady took the following course: First I didn't really feel like getting involved, for reasons I'd already discussed elsewhere. I had no qualms about it, mind you— a man who is given to entertaining young ladies in night clubs is beyond that, though it goes without saying that a man
is
in a different position when it comes to such things than an innocent young girl. I'd always hated the Biblical Joseph. Why did he have to be so skittish, like some frisky mare? But how
should
a man behave when two such lovely creatures begin caressing his heart? Should he reply, no, no, he'll have none of that? Should he act the saint and say sorry, I am not interested? That is no way for a man to behave.

And still. The we-had-fun-now-good-bye solution didn't please me, either. Yet, as it was, I was up to my neck in entanglements, should I let those two further complicate my life? One of them, Kodor's girl, even scared me somewhat, on account of her passionate nature. Then again, the other was the dreamy sort, and that also spelled trouble. Should I get mixed up with another romantic? No, I'd had enough.

At the same time, after what'd happened between us I had certain obligations. The morning after—and what a lovely morning it was, I was riding on a cloud—I went into the hotel florist shop (that one stays open all night), and sent each of them a beautiful bouquet, making sure it would be waiting for them by the time they got home. They were truly gorgeous, impartially selected identical bouquets of long-stemmed Riviera roses, all of them a rich, deep red, the kind that almost looks black. I owe them this much, I thought, but then: Adieu. And to Kodor's girl, in a moment of weakness, I even added the words "Sweet to the sweet," which, I realized the next day, was pretty stupid, as it's a phrase Shakespeare has someone say at a funeral. But what did it matter? (Actually, to the other one I wrote something better: "Flowers that pale in thy presence." With her I waxed biblical.) I wrote both messages on calling cards that said
Hotel Brighton, London
under my name—no other address. I figured it was better if they don't reply. But in case they do . . . why then, I am no longer there, I left, I can't be tracked down. Anything can happen to a guest in a hotel.

And for a while, there was no answer, which was fine with me. Let oblivion take over . . . But as long as I am thinking of these two right now, let me bid farewell to at least one of them, the one with the sweet smile, the timid one, whose eyes forever ranged over dreamland. I never saw her again, and never inquired, either, which, I admit, was not very nice. But I did think of her often. Even her name—Winny—I found captivating. Years and years later, on different continents, I still found myself mumbling her name. Why? Who knows? Maybe because I was always grateful to women who were good to me. And she was. We didn't spend much time together, but enough for me to have the feeling that she was a good woman. When I think of her now, her memory is like that of a fine wine: light, fleeting, but evoking very pleasant sensations. But let's leave the effusions for another time. The truth is one always likes to daydream about people one didn't get to know very well, and about affairs that were not destined to last.

The other lady, however—Kodor's black beauty—did answer, even if rather late. And she didn't seem to take offense at my inane message. A week later one of the bellboys presented me with a large lavender-colored note on a silver tray. All it said, in a script that seemed deliberately disguised, was:

"Now I am alone." (Also from
Hamlet,
no doubt.) And though it wasn't signed, it was easy to guess, from the quotation alone, that it came from her. The simple postscript read: "Tonight at seven." By George. I looked at the date: it was yesterday.

What could I say about this combination of caution and daring? About the disguised handwriting, which left no doubt as to what she meant: that at seven o'clock there'll be no one home, only she, she and I, that is, just the two of us, all alone.

Enough to make you dizzy.

I even took a whiff of the letter. It had a heavy scent. "Musk," I mumbled to myself. Musk for sure, it can be nothing else. (I even knew how that's done, how paper can be chemically treated— somebody once explained it to me.) Needless to say, the fragrance began working on me. And the paper, to complement the scent, was heavy and dark, and royal in size. I was quite taken by that, too.

Nevertheless, I resisted. One can be so heroic at times. I still kept saying to myself: Do I need all this? And besides, I still looked upon myself as a melancholy individual. So I wrote her another note, for some foolish reason still sticking to Shakespeare (perhaps to make up for that gauche first line), and this time consulting a book of Shakespearean quotations):

We are such stuff

As dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.

After which I added that her letter had overwhelmed me, like the strangest dreams do, which make one roam about, dazed, ignited, like some distant, off-course planet. ... In the same bombastic vein I asked her if it was ever possible to get to the bottom of such reactions, or of enchanting invitations such as hers. If I lived to be a hundred, and kept trying to guess all that time, I still couldn't perceive its true meaning ... So much for the rapturous portion of the letter. Then, in a more matter-of-fact tone, I told her I was quite unhappy that I got her letter late, but I no longer resided at the Brighton (let her think I once did), though I still had my letters sent there (I muddied the water more than necessary). Thus, lest I again fall victim to such a mix-up, would she mind letting me know a few days in advance when she could receive me. And I hoped of course that I would have the pleasure of seeing her very soon. Hopefully there is enough pining in this, I thought, as I read it over. Now all it needs is a little postscript saying that right now I have to leave on business but that I will definitely be back. And if along with the letter I send her another bouquet (a smaller one this time), the matter is settled, put off, that is. For by the time I get back from my make-believe trip, it's no longer pressing or timely; I make a few more half-hearted gestures and the whole thing peters out.

Fact is I didn't add that postscript and didn't send a bouquet of flowers, either. And for a simple reason. The human soul, as is well known, is a dangerously double-edged instrument. It need not be believed, its laments can be disregarded. More often than not it does things for sport.

But why did this woman frighten me so? I kept saying no to myself, and kept insisting, heroically, that I didn't want her. And also, naturally, that I did. I decided not to say anything about a trip; it seemed unnecessary. Tomorrow
I'll
have a post card mailed to her from Paris, that should be enough. It will simply say I am in Paris. I'll write it here, send it to Toffy-Ederle air mail and ask him to post it from there. And with that the thing is settled.

Except that I kept putting this off, too, I just didn't get around to it. And a few days later I did receive another invitation, and this was indeed shocking—it seemed to justify my secret fears. She said: "We await you, noble Macbeth." Now why would she call me Macbeth, what was she trying to say? That I should kill Kodor maybe? I was so perplexed, I even thought of that.

I should add that all of this happened at a time when, out of all the curiosities of this world, my attention was drawn to the philosopher Spinoza. Or to be more precise, first to Shakespeare and then, thanks to my wife, to Spinoza.

Ah, those poor, disgraced masters, I thought, and almost felt like laughing. Never would I have imagined that my own crooked doings would shed light on my wife's affairs. Yet there it was: if Shakespeare had special meaning for me, Spinoza became highly significant for her.

But let's return to the scene at the Brighton. I was still sitting there, not knowing what to do next. This second invitation of hers was for three-fifteen; I could still send her a telegram, I suppose . . .

What the hell am I dilly-dallying here for? I said to myself quite suddenly. And stormed out of the hotel without so much as glancing back. Indeed, I was in such a rush, I dropped the Condillac book on the bus.

You have her post office ID and the letter about the slippers in your pocket, I berated myself, and still you have misgivings? What else, what
more
do you want? How long will you go on being a French floozy's Dutch dupe?

What I really want to note in connection with the incident, however, is this: The more troubled your conscience, the greater the promise of pleasure. How I ran that afternoon, my God. Turning up my collar, I was ready to assault the world. I had a few glasses of rosolio at the Brighton, and after getting off the bus, I stopped in at a little bar and poured down nine gins, straight. I was overpowered at once.

Now I am ready, I said to myself; come what may. I expected some stormy weather, but strangely enough, after all that booze there was only silence in my ear. My heart and my head were like two balloons, my feet felt leaden, when I rang the bell at Mrs. Cobbet's. It happened to be quiet inside her flat as well.

"These walls are very thin," she whispered right away. She had opened the door herself, which made me realize again that we were indeed completely alone. And she kept whispering, like Lady Macbeth on stage, imploring me not to raise my voice. I meant to ask why not, but the truth is I could barely utter a sound myself, I was so excited. My heart was pounding in my throat, the back of my neck felt damp. . . . Mrs. Cobbet was wearing a little black skirt, quite straight and so short it barely reached her knee. As though she were on her way to grammar school. This in itself was no mean sight to anyone interested in such things. And add to this that her hair, like a sweet little girl's, was smoothed back, but her lips, very unlike a little girl's, were flaming red . . . Only her lips, though, her complexion was otherwise rather sallow.

But why go into so much detail? I am a hot-blooded man, and I can't always account for my actions. And perhaps she was, too, who knows? Suffice it to say that we shot up like two flames and fell upon each other with such fury we fairly shivered with excitement.

And at this point we were only kissing, right there in the hall. But how frantically we kissed, endlessly, I especially. I did that, too, like everything else, with utter dedication and resolve, wanting somehow to partake of her, to finish her off. . . What else is there to say? It happened.