The Story of My Wife (32 page)

But if that's the way it is, I guess it cannot be otherwise. One should be light and airy, indeed weightless, especially with someone one loves very very much.. . . There, I might even learn to be this way. If I should ever want to live with somebody again, that is . . .

Whatever ails one should also be concealed, along with everything else that is part of one's true self. If you don't burden them too much, their heart opens up. As long as you keep to yourself, they will say: What a pleasant man. And they'll be ever so pleased with you.

Let them be pleased, then, I thought, and stood up to get the presents. There they sat in the soft glow of the table lamp, warm and snug, clucking away like contented hens, totally relaxed and full. Their eyes were misty from the rum, and everything untoward seemed to vanish from their hearts. But how quickly they perked up now. Madame Lagrange got three lovely lace-trimmed handkerchiefs. My wife got lace, too, an even more exquisite kind.

And a fine woolen stole—soft and yellow. Oh, what sheen it had, what luster, as I held it up to the light and ruffled it before their eyes. It spilled out of the box, undulating like rich yellow liquid . . .

"Don't you love me anymore?" she asked me the next day, proving just how clever she was—coming up with a question like that after such a lovely evening.

"Of course I do," I answered, "why shouldn't I?" But that's all I said, nothing more—nothing that might have been more convincing. Naturally, it wasn't enough for her, how could it be? I who had loved her so much had nothing more to say? "You may have been the right woman for me," I remarked on another occasion, "but I am not right for you." And I laughed as I said it, and walked away, walked out of the room. In short, I was through, I had nothing further to say to her, and was never going to desire her or pine after her ever again. This is what I felt, and what I wished for—the strength to say no, the firmness of negation, something I thought I could never attain as long as I was with her.

As it was, she could no longer get to me—not with the circles under her eyes, nor with her distant brooding at dusk. The old fire went out, the grand passion gave way (that that's what it had been I knew of course, and knew, too, that it was the greatest force in the world, greater than anything else I could acquire).

Still, I preferred it this way. For wouldn't it be an utter disgrace if I were incapable of learning
anything?
You can't always follow your heart, I reasoned; you are bound to come to grief if you do. A tree, too, has its protective bark, I told myself the other day while walking in a park. And took a good look at a tree. Or consider this: there are dangerous waters somewhere, yet the devil in you keeps steering you there—should you let it? Again and again? Even if the place
did
hold a peculiar fascination for you. Whatever it was that made me be that way, I was done with it, I wanted out.

And seriously set about the task of making myself scarce, vanishing into thin air. These were my plans:

I had a very dear friend once, a sea captain named Gerard Bist. He was a good kid, a fantastic glutton, just like me, though he had to stop. The poor chap died, you see, completely and irreversibly— the victim of a freak of accident. The man who weathered many a storm slipped in his room—he wanted to crush a moth—and broke his neck. Fate does stage such comedies sometimes. What I decided now was to get all his papers from his mother, a very poor old woman whom I happened to like a great deal. (Now and then I even sent her a little something, and always looked her up when I passed that way.) She lived in Antwerp.

But of course—that's why I wanted to go there; or didn't I mention that before? If not, I'll do it now. I figured I won't have any problem getting the old lady to go along with my plan—there was no reason she shouldn't. And I could certainly make use of my friend's papers, somewhere—anywhere—in some other world perhaps that those around here never even dreamed of.

How nice that would be. I found the idea altogether pleasing. And it seemed so simple: From now on I'll be Gerard Bist. And since I liked the boy a lot, his name suited me fine.

My wife could stay right here where she was so happy. And we can keep the whole thing quiet. For a while—at least until I board a ship—I'll be sending her her allowance. I also decided that out there—since no one will know me and will not expect me to be the same person I was yesterday—I shall become a man of few words. Over here the babel of voices, especially my own
{and
the futile gestures, the meaningless struggles), became an impenetrable jumble. My only desire was not to utter another word as long as I lived.

I was truly ready; I had it out both with myself, and with the world, and my leavetaking, I thought, would be peaceful. For let's just recall what that psychoanalyst tried to make me understand: One must learn to die.

Let's suppose my time
has
come; why then, this will simply be a short excursion, which I will spend the best way I know how.

Putting it another way: whatever I had, I lost, and what I did retain was to be my bonus. I was no longer responsible for what happened, I was light, unencumbered. I had severed time and was glad. Why should I be concerned with such grandiose issues: Does she love me or doesn't she? From now on I'll worry about more trivial matters.

So I had my trunks fixed, picked up some travel items, as well as things I might need, or profitably use, out there: a couple of fine navigational instruments, for instance. . . . My passport was in order, I even obtained some foreign currency when, one day, in the lobby of the Brighton, I was handed a letter from Miss Borton. She wanted to see me, she wrote. Now that
was
a surprise.

Especially considering how that young lady treated me.

Three times I wrote to her—she didn't bother to respond. When I called her on the telephone, she was always out. I went to the music school where she took piano lessons and found she no longer played the piano. I hung about in front of her house—need I say more? I even called up her milliner. All this happened at the time I was grappling with the Tannenbaum letters and other phantoms. And when after all that she still didn't show, I gave up on her, I let her go. Now and then I thought of her, especially of the times when I crept past lit-up hotel windows; and when I did, I had to smile. Was I really such a meek little fellow back then? It's hard to imagine. I certainly wouldn't do it today, wouldn't for the life of me creep under any window.

At the same time I was sure she would show up one day; I had this feeling. I knew the young lady pretty well, you see.

And now she was here. What could she want from me?

She had to see me, she wrote, for reasons that were quite peculiar, and she underscored the word "peculiar." I had to laugh at that too. I was long past making distinctions between the peculiar and the ordinary. I was no longer so subtle in my ways.

First I wasn't even going to respond. This one time I won't, I thought. But just then I saw her coming towards me on the street.

She looked rather pale, and said in fact she had been working hard lately. "What at?" I inquired. She mentioned some crafts shop or other and said she was quite happy with the job—she'd had enough of doing nothing. In addition she was taking French lessons from Madame Lagrange.

"What's that? From Madame Lagrange, of all people?"

"That's right. . . somebody recommended her. Interesting, isn't it?" And she blushed a little. "Quite a coincidence, don't you agree?" She just heard that this lady and my wife were good friends actually. Was this true?

I said yes it was, and added, just to say something: "What sort of woman is this Madame Lagrange?"

"Oh nothing special," she replied somewhat contemptuously. But what did it matter if this impudent little judge of character thought Madame L. was nothing special? And what if she was? What did I care?

The point I am really trying to make is that seeing her did not impress me any more than did her letter. And our conversation was entirely without significance—we didn't
talk
about anything. I didn't even mention the letter; nor did I inquire about her "peculiar" reasons for wanting to see me. And as she didn't bring up the matter either, I decided it was just as well. Evidently she changed her mind. She walked with me for a while, then left. And that was it.

But the next day she again stood on the same street corner. This time I was a little put off. I ought to have mentioned that around that time I spent my afternoons in the library of a maritime club, working on a modest assignment. How on earth did she know I frequented this place? She must know, or else why would she come back? I simply had to find out.

"Was it Madame Lagrange who told you I had business here?" I asked.

"Uh-huh."

Now I was even more annoyed. How very well informed these women are. . . . But what she wanted to talk to me about was a letter I had written—except she didn't know how to begin.

"Anyway you like," I said. At this, she raised her head slightly.

To be perfectly honest, she began, she didn't know for a long time what to make of the letter or how to answer it. There was no denying that it had a curious effect on her.

"It
was
a strange letter, wasn't it, miss?"

I shouldn't misunderstand her, she went on. What I wrote . . . she found it quite unsettling. I did know, didn't I, what she was referring to—which particular letter.

Did I ever. I had a hearty laugh over this.

"Listen, my sweet, we are long past that stage." And quickly added: "You are late."

As simple as that. It happened to be the truth, too. What
was
in that darn letter, one may well ask. All sorts of things one doesn't like to recall. Anyway, you can't respond late to a cry for help. It's like somebody saying, I am dying, and then the next he is asked if he's all right. The chap has to laugh, if only because he's still there,
still alive . . .

And this is what the young miss felt like discussing with me?

"My dear girl, it is like munching on a day-old roll," I said to her. I came up with regular little parables now, intending to demonstrate what is timely and what is not. For instance, how long did she think a thirsty man can wait for a drink? There comes a moment when he no longer needs it—did she ever think about that?

I offered further examples along these lines, though through it all I felt myself becoming more relaxed. My indignation, my rage—where were they now? Gone, the moment for them long past. Still, at times like these, you keep trying, you talk and talk, attempting to refuel your anger somehow, while the other person listens quietly and smiles. What could she be thinking of? Maybe you
are
wrong, all wrong.

At any rate, I did ask her to try and imagine what it was like for me to wait for an answer, for some sign—anything. A word, a message would have been enough. (What message? An initial or—I don't know—an applecore, as long as I knew it came from her.)

"But it just wasn't in you people to do that," I said, but again quite simply. "What possible explanation can be given for not answering letters like mine? After that what
can
one expect from you people?

"Or
did
you have a special reason?" It occurred to me just then that she may have had one.

"Finally," she said with a cheerful smile, "you finally thought of it." And her eyes flashed with anticipation. "You were not miserable because of me, yet it was me you turned to. What could I have answered? Besides, there were a thousand reasons why I didn't answer . . . though only one special reason."

"And that is?"

"I got engaged," she said demurely. And how demurely, like some little flower.

In fact, she looked so very sweet, I had to laugh.

"That's really something," I said. "You can imagine how heartily I congratulate you. Please accept my entirely good wishes. And who is the happy and altogether fortunate young man, the . . . heavenly suitor, who is he?"

She again lifted her head. "He is no heavenly suitor," she said darkly. And then with much more emotion: "My intended is a gentleman, what's more he is of noble birth. And to talk about him as you do is neither customary nor proper, I assure you."

"Oh really?" I laughed, "just don't tell him then." I could hardly wait for us to get to the nearest tree; once there I covered her pretty little face with kisses, while saying to myself: What will the Irish nobility have to say about this? It was a rotten thing to do, I admit, a vile and heartless thing—let me emphasize that for the benefit of those who like contrition. Yes, yes, I was being heartless, beastly . . . But even if I was, so what?

In the meantime the girl was crying ... As for me, instead of being moved to pity, all I kept noticing was how nicely she cried. Let's face it: it was a pretty sight. . . Come to think of it, is there anything more splendid than a lovely young creature weeping? The tears just welling up, or trickling on end like quiet, steady raindrops? Frankly, even the way she blew her nose I found beautiful.

I just had to embrace her, to which she responded with a slap. We kept wrestling with each other under the protection of that wintry tree, with me still laughing. . . . These women do like to lash out at me, don't they? And they all go for my eye—my wife did, and now her. Funny, isn't it?

"You are crushing my hat. Ouch! Oh go to the devil, why don't you?" she hissed with fervid bitterness. "My father doesn't have the money to buy me a new hat every day, you know."

Her father? This made me look up. What about the air of preeminence and refinement? Or was that all make-believe? Probably. This strange girl let her fancy—and her feet—roam freely, I knew that pretty well.

"Do go to hell," she hissed again, all breathless.

"I'm on my way, don't worry," I assured her candidly. And then, in the same vein:

"You tell me: is this nice what you're doing? One little kiss you won't give me? A parting kiss? You're getting married and I'm going to hell. Just as you wished. You'll never see me again ... at any rate, it's highly unlikely."