The Story of My Wife (31 page)

Et sans vigeur,

Et sans pudeur.

Oh yes, that's what she did, had herself a gay old time, what of it? And drank, too,
sans phrase.

I said nothing.

Yes sir, she went on, tonight she had a ball. Met up with this wonderful group in the City, Parisians all of them, on an excursion, turns out they were related to friends of hers, or maybe only acquaintances, who remembers? Anyway, they treated her, bought her champagne . . . (Bought
my
wife champagne.)

"And portugaffe, too, if you want to know everything. I had it, for the first time in my life, and you know what: it's delicious. Though it did make me just a
little
tipsy . . ."

And as she still hadn't received an answer, she took out her dainty cigarette case, lit up, and then fished out a piece of candy from her pocket. And she couldn't resist singing to me again.

"Don, oh Don,"
she began softly,
"where has all your sweetness gone?"
She also informed me that tonight she found out that cigarette smoke and chocolate mixed very well. "I learned this from a young man," she said, flinging her eyes on me, expectantly, brazenly. But her little maneuvers didn't get her very far; after a while she didn't know what to do. And I noticed that too, of course. So she just stood there in the middle of the room, under the light, on one foot, in her flimsy little coat, like a rotten little street urchin.

You are dirty, you are a disgrace, I thought to myself. And you are right, I have no desire to touch your precious untamed nature—I detest it.

But she, as I said, just stood there and began to suck on her candies, and looking for places to hide the silver wrapping paper. One she tried to stick in the table drawer, another in the cupboard.

This woman had no desire to leave this place, no desire whatsoever, she simply changed her mind and returned to her beloved fripperies. I knew it the moment she opened the door . . .

Oh, but how ashamed I was of these thoughts, and of my feelings especially, of the whole Chinese business. ... To think that I fell for her every time, and she could still, even now, drive me to despair. And that I could grieve for her still, could actually grieve for her, even if it
was
for the last time.

"Wait a minute," she suddenly said, "didn't you notice my new hat?" So she bought herself a new hat, too. I didn't get it.
Today
she had to buy a hat, after what's happened? And what's more to the point: did she have to call my attention to it? Was it because she was so embarrassed, or so drunk? Or did she mean to be that provocative? (She
was
wearing a sorry-looking little hat.)

"And how much did that hat cost?" I asked. (These, by the way, were the first words she heard me say since she walked in.) "Where did you get the money to buy it?"

"I asked for it," she said.

"Is that so? And who gave it to you? Who's in the habit of giving you money?"

"Oh just somebody," she said, annoyed, and then hiccuped. "Oh, oh, how am I going to pay him back?" she added for good measure. It all began to sound quite interesting, quite amazing.

Is that what she came back for, a hat? To do a little more shopping?

"And how much was this hat?"

"Oh dear, I feel terrible about it. I can't even bring myself to say it." And she pursed her lips to demonstrate her inability. "Two," came the answer finally.

"Two pounds?" I asked quietly . . .

And that's when I decided to kill her. Right there, on the spot, that very minute, without a moment's grace. I'll just wait for her to turn her head. Now you shall die, I repeated to myself matter-of-factly, as if my mind wished to put its seal of approval on my emotions.

I watched her movements.

And at that moment everything fell apart, broke into little pieces before my eyes. My hands, my feet, my heart assumed lives of their own, nothing made sense any more. But it was my wife's breathing that had the most curious effect on me, I remember that quite vividly. The way her breasts rose and fell under her blouse. As if I had never before noticed how round they were.. . . But my heart, in the meantime, was ice cold, not one drop of affection remained for her, nothing. Only the memory of my sufferings and a cry for retribution.

You'll die—this was the only phrase reverberating in me.

And she still stood there under the light, and now began to count her money meekly, ruefully . . . but also in an offhand sort of way, like crooks do, or streetwalkers, leaning against the table in some joint, before dawn.

"I do spend a lot, it's true," she said. "I hardly have any money left." And she laughed again.

(And what was that supposed to mean? It sounded almost like an apology.)

"But from now on I won't buy myself a thing, that hat was my last purchase." And with that she turned her starry-blue eyes on me. And there was a hint of pleading, entreaty even, in her smile.

What are we to do with this brazen hussy, those eyes of hers asked. At any rate, she knew pretty well what I was up to, I am convinced of that. And it was as though she, too, was seeking my advice: should she be sentenced to death?

That's it, I am not waiting any longer, I thought, and may even have made my move in that dark room. But then suddenly she spoke up:

"Where is my letter? One letter is missing."

"What letter?"

"Letter number nineteen."

"What nineteen, what are you talking about? You are in the habit of numbering your letters?"

"Yes."

"Yes? But why?"

She
didn't do it, she said; somebody else did.

"And who is that somebody?" No answer.

"Who
is
that somebody else?" I again asked, and one more time everything went black. "You correspond with men now, do you?"

"What men?" she said, and laughed into my eyes.

"Look here, my dear Jacques, I can't tell you everything, you know that. I couldn't even if I wanted to . . . You don't, either.

For a while there was silence in the room.

But then she continued, telling me that if I had shown any interest in her affairs, I would know that she wanted to pass one more exam back home, and for that she had to beef up on psychology. And the young man who was writing her these letters was a very decent fellow who had promised her in Paris that he would help her over these last hurdles. . . . Did I think it was so easy for her to begin studying again . . .?
Now
did I understand why she could never explain everything?

It got quiet again. I didn't answer. All I felt was exhaustion; it came on suddenly, like everything else in those days. My heart grew tired, literally, I could feel it. And that I was at the end of my tether.

But at that moment it was also clear that she got the better of me.

"Oncle Douc Douc," she said, as though nothing had happened, "you listen to me: Give me that letter, do me that kindness, and everything will be all right. I am willing to make up."

"You
are willing?"

"Yes. And I'll forgive you, too, how about it?" And with the amazing slyness and self-assurance of people who drank too much, she came up to me, quite close, offering up her neck as it were, and pressing her breast against my arm, as was her wont.

"Well, what do you say? And will you stop being mean to me? It doesn't become you, it really doesn't. I'll have you know that I came back because I felt sorry for you. Do you believe me at all?"

Well,
putain,
I should have said, what about letter nineteen, eh? Who is it you're corresponding with? And who did you drink with tonight? Won't you tell me for once who you drank with? Who it was bought you the champagne? Or that blasted hat? Or do you suppose you can just tell me how
much
it was and I'll take your word for it? Is that what you take me for—that big an idiot, that unmitigated a fool . . .? That's what I should have told her.

But I didn't . . .

Perhaps that is what these notes are for: to somehow compensate for the many things I failed to do in life. For I never said or did anything when and where they would have made sense. And there wasn't a thing I could do to change it.

Two things did become clear, however, as a result of this incident. One was that I would never be able to kill her, or even break that snub nose of hers—something I wanted to do so many times. But if I didn't do it now, I would never do it. It was no use alluding to the hot-tempered scalesman who served on one of my ships. It seems I always want to do something dreadful but am never up to it. Either I can't lose my head completely, or perhaps my emotions are not that overwhelming. But if that's the way it is, I'd better accept it and act accordingly.

The other realization was that something did change between us over the years. There was a time when the more we fought, the more I desired her afterwards. I'd go crazy, I'd burst with passion. But now it was different. All I said to her was:

"Go to sleep; we'll talk about it in the morning." And that was it.

From that day on I slept on the sofa in the other room, though otherwise I was quite friendly, affable even, a veritable joker, which proved more than anything else that I was improving. For instance, I'd call her
ma petite brute,
which wasn't all that witty but I loved it just the same—it seemed to suit her so well. Or these words:
ma petite bibi
and
bibiche,
which even made her laugh since it also described her hat, her little two-pound leather hat.

We even spent a cozy Christmas Eve together—the last one, as it turned out. I was in high spirits, and the presents were nice. Madame Lagrange got one too, for she was also invited. She was terribly worried about her sick child and showed up alone, her husband having gone to see the child in some winter health resort. But she had a nice enough time with us.

"Thank you for making me forget my troubles," she said to me early in the morning, before she left. "You are a kind and generous man." But even my wife was pleased with me.

"Tonight you were really sweet," she said ruefully when we were at last alone.

Maybe I
was
sweet, who the hell knows? I was in good form, that's for sure, for a while I felt quite carefree. I even said to myself: Here are these two idle females. What wouldn't I have given in my youth to have had a chance to spend a holiday dinner with them, enveloped in warmth, in fine fragances, with a fresh walnut roll beckoning from the table, and just listening to them chatter away. Who knows if
I'll
ever again be part of such an evening?

Ah, the things they were capable of, the wild mood changes . . . My wife we need not go into. But I couldn't figure out Madame Lagrange, either. Right now she was on fire. She was talking about spiritual essence, but with such intimacy, as if she'd spent the night with it. She shuddered as she blurted out her insights in the dark.

For in the meantime I turned off the light; rum was burning on the table . . .

Those bluish flames can have quite an effect on mystics, and she
was
a mystic, oh yes—a student of arcane philosophies that the world was full of just then.

"Consider the following paradox," she began. "If we have the capacity for love and compassion, and intelligent thought, too, which enables us to view the world critically, how can we say that these are not also present in that which summoned us into being?" Thus spoke Madame Lagrange, the silent one. (She was indeed taciturn ordinarily, but that night she talked a blue streak— maybe it had something to do with her sick child.)

"Could it be," she went on pleading her case, "that Essence does not possess the qualities we do?" And though at that time I couldn't care less about such things as Essence and Spirit, I felt like asking her if falsity and deception were also part of this Essence, as they were of human nature. But I didn't say anything. Let the poor woman believe that creation implies compassion, and that her child will soon get well.

At any rate, all this talk was as a hollow as a scooped-out gourd. Her incredible fervor—what good was it? And her great big eyes blazing with excitement—was there anything behind all that fire?

I didn't inquire. Instead, I cranked up the little silver gramophone, prepared some grog, made it nice and strong (let the two girls really come alive), and after turning down the lights, I again ignited the rum in the glazed decanter, and said:

"Ladies, it's dark again, and my heart belongs to the first taker ... So if anyone feels like stealing a few kisses . . ."

And I even began to sing a little, some bawdy chanson, as I recall. Which elicited a few squeals.

"Can I give him a little kiss," exclaimed Madame Lagrange, "can I, Lizzy?"

For this she was pinched under the table.

"Ouch, not with your nail . . . But he is so sweet," Madame L. gushed. (… sweet . . .?)

"Well, all right," said my wife. "But wait, I'll close my eyes first."

"Oh," countered Miss Flaming-Eyes, "you are a true friend after all." And she pointed to her temple; that's where I should kiss her.

So I kissed her on the ear . . .

And that's how it went that Christmas Eve.

The agent Gregory Sanders once told me (I say agent because that's what he was: he never rose higher in the world, though as far as I am concerned he was wiser than John Stuart Mill. Even if I never did agree with everything he said.) ... At any rate, he once told me that one's woes cut deep into the heart, which then cries for more, the gash has to be filled with new grief. There are people, in other words, who are forever denied peace of mind.

I realized that this had been the story of my life.. . . But not any more, something happened: as if I were learning new ways to move, new melodies. "I'll stay around a while longer"—this was a new melody. As a result, I became less demanding, began to feel better about myself, decided, in fact, that I was in fine shape.

"What tiny ears you have, Madame," I told our friend, "and what big eyes ... If it were the other way around, it wouldn't be nearly as nice, would it?"

"Tee-hee-hee," came the response. I could have said anything, the most monumental piece of idiocy, the response still would have been: "Tee-hee-hee."