The Story of My Wife (29 page)

Her books, as before, were strewn all over the apartment, but now they were all love stories—no more philosophical tracts for her. And the pages had lipstick stains—she must have moistened her fingers as she turned the pages. What's more, some of the passages were underlined (and that, too, with lipstick!), but these I didn't feel like going through any more. Neither was I—come to think of it—any longer interested in her friend, Mr. Tannenbaum, though I did receive some information abut him just then. It seems Mr. Tannenbaum was an eager young man, a dedicated student of philosophy with a promising future—this is what my friend Toffy-Ederle wrote about him from Paris. And also that he happened to be the son of the mover in whose warehouse we had stored our furniture before our departure. Now whether she befriended the mover's son during that short time while we were discussing the transaction or whether she knew him before—this I didn't ask. In her books the word
slender
was underlined six times, and it was always used to describe a man. Then, in another place (in a story about a stalwart cattleman, written by one Carl Jensen), the words: "his eyes were radiant" were underlined. I pushed aside her books, if only because I also came across the manuscript of a short story, written by a former friend of hers, Madame de-Cuy, a sixth-rate actress, and in this manuscript the following remarkable passage was marked with exclamation points: "I owe him nothing. I've earned his sacrifices—with some of my own." But this was only the beginning; there was more: "I will not be crippled by you; I will not extinguish, for your sake, that in me which
is
me. I won't let you do violence to my real nature, I will not stand for it. Please know once and for all that I am what I am; you may rant and you may rave, it will not change a thing."

So she is what she is. A clear-cut message, if there ever was one. All right, from now on I'll be myself too. And I'll chuck her and her precious nature so fast, she won't know what hit her.

"Who is your lover right now?" This was the only other thing I would have liked to ask her, not even in anger or bitterness but straight out, without fear or favor. Depravity
does
have something shockingly straightforward about it—has anyone ever thought of that? About how natural sin is, what elemental force it has? Like our dreams. And isn't there something innocent about it, too? If only because it has such a natural place in the human heart . . . Why, the way this woman looked when she came home at night . . .

As though she had descended from some higher sphere where she was enlivened by fresh air and song; as though she was returning from her French home—she exuded gaiety from every pore.

"You are still working?" she'd say to me and light up a cigarette. . . . Her face was flushed and in her eyes there were warm dreams. Yes, sin slumbered in her eyes, behind her half-closed lids, it glimmered like mischief in cats' eyes. I could almost sense those hypnotic, rapturous dreams.

One day, though, she did get somewhat scared. After some initial hesitation she remarked: "Your eyes . . . what's with your eyes?"

"What do you mean my eyes?"

"They are so ... so motionless." And she laughed a bit as she said this. "Are you angry with me by any chance?"

I remember the exact moment. She had just got home, all frosty and ruddy-eared, she didn't even take her coat off, she just stood there in the living room, staring. It was late at night. I even remember her glossy black fur coat and the silence between us, and most of all my own imaginings: that in her ear, next to her tiny earring, music must still be playing, and echoes of whispers. . . . Next to that I must have made quite a drab and prosaic impression, with my five days' growth of beard, engrossed as I was in lists and figures . . . Though it's also possible she was suddenly ashamed herself.

Was I angry with her? she wanted to know.

I assured her I was not. And that was the truth. There was no anger left in me. I just got tired of her spending all that money. And told her so, soon afterwards, the very next morning in fact. I decided it was enough, I wasn't going to give her any more. She found it hard to change her ways? I found it even harder. I was not giving her another penny. Not for pubs and drink bars, anyway. Because we had to contend with that too now, with her not coming home even for lunch, which was pretty idiotic.

"Why don't you eat lunch here at the boarding house?" I asked her calmly. "It's paid for. I'd be a fool for picking up the bill in two places."

At this she smiled. But with what hauteur. Only a French woman could smile like that. And when this smile lasted a bit too long, and the curl of her lips and the shrug of her shoulder got to be too infuriating, I took hold of her ear, quite literally, and pulled it.

Nice and slow, the way you'd pull a mischievous kid's ear. After that I couldn't see myself telling her about the true state of my affairs. Anybody else, yes, but not her.

"If you go on like this, I'll be ruined. And I have no desire to be ruined." That's what I said. And one thing more: "Money doesn't grow in my pocket; and right now I have no job, either." Considering what just happened, I still managed to present my case succinctly, reasonably.

It was no use, of course. The ear pulling made her eyes gleam with fury. She was like an enraged cat ruffling its fur. But then she thought better of it.

"All right; it's just as well," she said, rapidly, unthinkingly. "Besides, I couldn't care less about your business affairs."

"That's good to know," I answered. "When you won't be interested in my money either, I'll give you more."

Actually, this was a first; I had never before raised a hand against her, never. And I didn't deny her anything, either, not for a long, long time. Offhand, I can't remember a single instance.

"All right," she repeated, and this sounded like a threat. As though she could get money someplace else, and plenty of it.

And she started walking toward the door; her hand was already on the knob when she stopped and turned around. She looked as though she still had something to say, her face turned quite pale, her lips trembled. And then, suddenly, she began to rave.

She threw herself on the floor and kept tearing at herself; and when I tried to pick her up, she lunged at my eye. But I grabbed her hand in time.

"Easy, easy," I said; "better be careful, or I'll really let you have it."

"Get out!" she screamed, writhing in my hands. "Get out, you brute. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"What's that?" I shot back, and calmly put her down. "
I
should get out?" And smashed a flower pot against the mirror so hard it broke into a thousand pieces, the pot
and
the mirror. There was soil and rubble all over the floor.

"I
ought to be ashamed of myself?" And the next second I overturned the bookstand with all her junk; one of her precious mugs missed her head by a few inches.

And I was ecstatic, I must say, I melted with pleasure, as if honey were flowing through my veins. The mere thought that I no longer had to keep quiet or bow in reverence before her fancy philosophy was simply delicious.

"You are what you are, eh?" I roared. "Well then, my pet, I'll also be what I am." Ashamed indeed. Should I be ashamed in front of a rotten little worm? And she
never
has to be ashamed?

Like a thunderbolt now, the chandelier came crashing down. I yanked that out, too. Dragged it down and smashed it.

At that moment, though, I pulled back. And I must say something about the sudden shift.

For in the end my wife did open her mouth. Not that she got scared, oh no; she remained uncommonly calm and serene. The destruction of her potted plants she withstood quite well. She lay on her ear amid the shards, calmly as can be, as though her only concern was to make herself as comfortable as possible in that position. Like a sweet little baby who watches quietly as the world around it comes tumbling down. But when it was her brand new disgusting red cups' turn to break, she did begin to stir, and even sat up.

"Have you gone completely mad?" she asked. "What's this playacting for? Or is this how you amuse yourself now?"

Well, this was the word that made me put down my spoon, as the peasants in our parts usually put it. And what I am going to say now is an attempt to describe what might be called delirium. I know I am compromising myself, but that's exactly what I want to do. What was it I said before? That I was in ecstasy, in seventh heaven. Yes, that's how I felt, no question about it. I was excessively happy, suspiciously pleased with myself.

My wife was right then, after all. For what
did
I want from her anyway? Nothing, nothing whatsoever. But then, why was I carrying on this way?

I realized the futility of it all. I felt as empty as a discarded sardine can; I was nowhere as dangerous as I appeared to be. And I had nothing further to say, it was all a charade, empty and false.

Yes, nothing but useless bluster, I felt it acutely. And that wasn't the worst of it. I also became aware of a certain amount of caution on my part, which was even more interesting—and loathsome. I realized that I threw
her
things at her with the greatest of pleasure, but was amazingly careful not to pick up my fine little traveling clock, for example, or
anything
of mine, really. Yes, let's just put that down too, for it's the truth . . . But that's man for you, all over.

He rants, he simpers . . . God, he's awful. That's why I never trusted human nature, or that of monkeys, either . . . because they enjoy themselves so shamelessly, so self-consciously. Even in moments of grand passion. Especially then. As soon as they notice their hands or feet and what they are doing with them.

But this whole business has another facet which should also be mentioned. When they are caught in the act, when their fakeries are exposed, then they turn serious. And that's when they become dangerous.

This is what happened to me, I think. I am playacting, my wife said. At that moment I felt something stirring in me, with a kind of bovine sluggishness, but threateningly, too. Because what she said was the truth. I don't dare imagine what might have happened if we'd carried on, for I felt my side quivering, and that's always an ominous sign with me. But just then there was a knock on the door . . . two knocks. Something must have happened to the bell.

My landlord stood before me.

Now try and imagine the scene: my wife was lying inside on her ear amid broken flower pots, and here was the old man trying to collect some neckties from me. I did promise last time that I'd give him a few, didn't I? He could use one now, he was on his way out to see friends.

What was I going to do? The truth was I did promise to give him neckties, two brand new ones, as a matter of fact. The old codger was smiling already, all set for a little intellectual stimulation. This is what he came out with:

"Ah, my dearest captain, guess what? I managed to solve the puzzle of Jacob's ladder." And he began talking about the mystery of Jacob's dream, which under different circumstances would not even have been that uninteresting.

But I must relate how this unexpected pleasure came about.

It was quite simple, really. One day, when my problems appeared particularly intractable, I got this idea of paying the old man a visit. Why not talk to him a little? I thought. I'll try to win him over, get him to warm up to me—maybe I'll be able to squeeze something out of him. One little slip, that's all I needed. There wasn't a thing he could say which ... At any rate, I was convinced it would work.

Except that in that cold, godawful room of his you couldn't really talk. And as the subject of Jacob's ladder couldn't fire me up sufficiently, I happened to mention to him, in a thoughtless moment, that he should come up to my place one afternoon when my wife wasn't home and then we could go over some of these mystical concepts. And to entice him further, I told him I'd give him two neckties.

And now he was here, though he quickly added it wasn't really the neckties he was interested in. But last time he didn't express himself properly, not by any means. Actually, there was nothing wrong with Jacob's ladder, for he always believed in these "literal visions," as he put it. What he couldn't believe in was that somebody should descend on Mount Horeb or wherever it was, to tell the Jews what they could and could not eat. "These things I tend to make light of," he declared rather solemnly. "I doubt them, in other words. But shouldn't one consider even this blasphemy? To doubt anything set down in the sacred book?" And he was seething with emotion air zzz rming to his subject right there on the landing, in front of the slightly opened door.

I had a little time to think.

"Look here, let me bring you those ties," I said, for openers. Then, suddenly:

"I can't do it now, how could I, my wife is not well."

"Oh dear," he cried, "she's not going to have a baby, is she?"

"No, she is not," I assured him, "she is out of sorts, that's all. . . She is definitely not having a baby."

"Shouldn't I still run and fetch a doctor?"

"For the love of God, don't run," I pleaded. But it wasn't so easy to
get
rid of him. He just stood there on the doorstep, letting me know how very surprised he would have been if she had indeed been ready to give birth. Very much surprised, really. Especially since there was nothing to suggest the "thing" might be imminent. But if a baby was indeed on its way—for argument's sake let's just say it was—what would be the nicest name for it? If it should be a boy, he might be named Abimelech, and if it was a girl, Nelly would be nice. It would go very well with my name, he'd already given this some thought . . . Well?

Thank goodness he left soon afterwards. I can't begin to tell you what a pleasant effect this sudden interlude had on me. That and the coolness of the staircase.

What is the matter with me? you ask yourself. I am alive, aren't I? And you suddenly remember that there
are
other things in the world. Besides, minutes after the blood rushes to your head, you can be so refreshed. It's a heavenly feeling, you seem rejuvenated.