The Story of My Wife (35 page)

"Yes, it is." And he looked as dignified as a statue at dawn. Then, somewhat more amiably:

"The only reason we are endowed with intelligence is to be able to see this—to notice that nothing makes any sense. Not what you do nor what you think. Still, the world stands," he averred triumphantly. "And that is a sign of God's special grace, isn't it? Not only does it stand, mind you, it absolutely flourishes. In all its stupidity. England especially." I didn't quite know what he was getting at. He must have have meant English politics, I suppose.

The boozing I still don't understand, I muttered to myself.

You understand nothing, came the answer.

Fine, fine, you don't have to be so severe. I guess I am not such a good judge of character, after all. But is that a failing necessarily? Many people are like that. Besides, she
lets
you misunderstand her, that's the kind of person she is.

No, that's not the kind she is, replied the wheels below.

Yes, she is, I am sure of it now.

You have to get to know her. Like a fine instrument. That was the kind of comment Gregory Sanders would have made; I almost thought I heard his voice.

It seems I carried on an all-night debate with him, wavering back and forth, to the clatter of the moving train. I was on my way to Bruges, you see.

It was a restless journey. Again I was in a kind of fever. I could think of nothing but the past. And it was a shameful series of recollections, I must say.

How was I to look upon myself after all that? After what I'd done to her,
with
her?

I thought of the nicotine business, too, which was the most shameful of all my doings.

You see, you see? Gregory Sanders would have said.

My wife an angelic being? True? False? Nothing doing, I wasn't going to delude myself again. And I knew I was never going to make her take an oath, either, regarding her past, her darkest secrets . . . For who can tell what lies in the human heart, in its very depth? Only the sluggish crawlers of the ocean floor have something of that murkiness.

But let us not forget my old battlecry: I was ready again, for the umpteenth time, to face the same stormy weather. I gave the matter some thought, was clear-headed enough to do so, sober enough to size up the situation. I can't even say I glossed over anything.

But the very idea that she may have wanted to do away with me was plain nonsense, painful nonsense. Didn't she stay up nights for weeks just recently, while I was sick? It was inconceivable, utterly bewildering that not so long ago I was able to imagine such a thing, namely that she had intended to mix nicotine in my tea.

Am I really that callous, that unfeeling?

All the way to Bruges I kept tormenting myself. I
must
be callous, uncaring, oh yes. Just consider: She has a child and I know about it. I find a picture of this child, decide it's hers, in all probability, then calmly put away the picture and don't give it another thought—I simply shake it off.

And that's not all. (For this part of the story one might perhaps understand.) But then what do I demand of this woman? I expect her to be cheerful all the time, to be all smiles, even when her heart is not in it, when it's aching somewhere else. I want her to look happy, to cater to my every whim . . .

And all this never even occurred to me. Though once it did, it drove me wild—I kept pacing up and down in that hotel room.

Maybe that's why she is so unpredictable, I thought. She is scared of me. God only knows what a brute she thinks I am, one who'd be beside himself if he found this out about her. That's it: she is leery of me, she shrinks back from me, which is only natural—this
is
her deepest, darkest secret, one she wouldn't dare confess to anyone.

It explains the stealing, too, it suddenly occurred to me. And I must say that by now I admired her endurance. . . .

But wasn't I like some diligent researcher always willing to reexamine the evidence, always ready to start afresh? For now everything must be seen in a different light: her hat (which didn't cost two guineas of course), the purse-snatching, the clandestine correspondence, as well as all the rest: the duplicity, the secretive-ness, the lying down, the running about, the bouts of depression— it was all on account on her having that child. Was it any wonder that she grew to hate me? Why, she didn't even have money for the girl. . . . And to complete the picture: two rather distant thoughts, her drinking and the story of the child converged in my mind just as I pressed the bell on the door of Mr. De Vries's villa one morning, in one of Bruges's more fashionable suburbs. The rum-drinking, then, was also on account of the child, I decided finally. And perked up as I did. The rays of the early spring sun also had a bracing effect.

I learned one thing that morning: if you are in a good mood, you get what you're after; I hadn't scored such a triumph in a long time. Not only did I get a position, I was given permission to take my wife along, on my first voyage, too.... I didn't count on that at all; the idea of asking occurred to me right there. Why not try it? I thought; it might just work. And it did, by God. The luck of the Dutch, I guess.

As soon as I walked into the office I smelled something funny. What's this? Melons? No, it's linseed oil, I quickly decided, and mentioned it straightaway to Mr. De Vries. And a good thing I did.

"Yes, it
is
linseed oil," the silver-haired Mr. De Vries said with a rueful smile, gently inclining his head forward. "That's exactly what it is. Might you know something about oils, sir?"

Did I ever.

He found out that not only did I know about oil, I also spoke my native tongue beautifully, with neither a French intonation nor with sophomoric pretentiousness, though he did admit that my round letters at first made him think I might be Flemish in origin.

"Flemish? Me?" I said indignantly.

He also learned that I was partial to pea soup, and to the poet William Bilderdijk, and that a better dish than larded cabbage I could not imagine.

"But only if it's well seasoned," the old man said, raising his finger gently. I was all right in his book.

It became quite clear to me that I was talking to one of those lonely, melancholy compatriots who worries more about the homeland than those who stayed home.

"What's to become of that tiny country of ours?" he intoned, "what with her colonies and all . . ."

There were pictures of ships on the wall, fine ships all of them—and all his. A bluish light filtered through the window of the hot house outside—he evidently had a first-class nursery, too. But it was the pea soup that did it; the word itself was magical. It was as if a huge girl snatched him up and set him down on a meadow of yore, amid knolls and hillocks, which had one common name: Youth.

He went on and on about our homeland. And I confess I almost began to cry myself. I rarely thought about my vagrant life, my homelessness, in those days. What good would it have done? But now I was moved. And maybe that is why everything worked out. My heart was tender, full of emotion, I was like a man dreaming. And my dream that hazy morning was ever so odd. Tentative. Maybe the world is not so cruel after all, I mused. Maybe I misjudged my life all along . . .

At any rate, I really liked that old man.

Perhaps the world
is
more considerate to an easygoing man. Sadness brings punishment, cheerfulness is rewarded—that much I knew. Blessing and affliction come in pairs. After we had reached an agreement, at the very last minute in fact, I brought up the business about my wife. This proved to be too much for Mr. De Vries, however, because he said:

"What are you, newlyweds?" When he learned that we weren't, he continued rather bitterly, "Do you enjoy being with her that much, then?" To which I calmly replied, "Yes." Only because the question was so curiously phrased.

This was a mistake, of course; I mean, to say such a thing to a divorced man was not only stupid but inconsiderate. (Mr. De Vries
was
divorced; what's more he was a confirmed woman-hater. I made it my business to find that out before coming here. It never hurts to be well informed.) But as Mr. De Vries was a profoundly unhappy man, he took note not of my gaffe but of his own shortcomings, in the manner of unhappy people everywhere. He looked into my eyes and said ever so sadly: "I am glad to hear you say that. I have so much more trust in people who are blessed with good fortune." And he kept clicking his scissors over his desk, apologetically as it were.

At any rate the man rewarded me in advance. I cannot begin to describe my feeling of triumph as I walked out of that room.

Who would dare say now that I didn't have the capacity for joy. I was just called a lucky man—
I
lucky. Wasn't it a good thing that I stayed put and didn't go running off into the wilderness? I wondered what Kodor woud have said if he knew what I accomplished in an hour what he couldn't finagle with all his tricks.

What finagle? As long as we're on the subject, I might mention that I saw his letters—two in number, letters of introduction, supposedly, that he'd sent here. A few casual lines they were, a cool and lightsome recommendation that didn't amount to much. He didn't knock himself out, in other words. The letters were instructive, though—revealing of people who, after you pinned all your hopes on them, prove they have no intention whatever of taking your troubles seriously.

Still, your typical loser bows down before them, for no good reason, only because they
are
fortune's minions. The poor wretch is quick to humble himself; nothing is being done for him but there he is bowing and scraping, perhaps in the hope that he'll get a little something out of it—a little bit of the glitter and the wealth. But he gets absolutely nothing—and that's what people ought to finally realize, the unlucky, bitter ones, that is.

It's no good bowing your head. Not only is humility distasteful—it's utterly useless. And though it's never been my strong point, I'll probably succumb to it too one day. . . .

But no more of that... I handed Kodor's letters back to Mr. De Vries.

And now the thing was to get home as quickly as possible. My God, I had so much to tell her. What shall I talk about first? The weather? The crazy and marvelous spring? (The weather was indeed crazy. Rain, brilliant sunshine, then light snow—one was tempted to believe the rest of one's life will be as improbable.)

A slight chill was still likely to touch your face, but the crisp air had fragrance, texture; you could say to yourself: this is spring. Or rather, not yet, but you knew it already left its secret feeding ground.

She and I will be sailing toward Java—incredible, isn't it? Who would have imagined it even a month ago? And I have eight weeks until we sail—I could do so much in that time. I'll write to the photographer. That's the first thing. To find out about the child. I could locate her address.

And then? I have to think this over carefully. I can't just bring her home one day. It could be disastrous—nice but disastrous. Fine, there was no need to rush it, I had time.

When I arrived at Charing Cross Station, my wife wasn't in town to greet me. Things went so well in Bruges, I got back two days before the date she and I agreed upon.

What happened was that while I was away, she, too, left town. Why should she stay home all alone? she had argued. Madame Lagrange was about to
visit
her sick child, and with her she'd be at the seashore at least. It wouldn't cost much, either.

"What, her again?" I had told her then. "The Lagrange woman?"

Whereupon she walked away.

"You never take anything seriously," she shot back angrily. We had a little fight about this, actually. It tickled me to know I could torment her now with impunity.

"Madame Lagrange . . . what a silly goose." And I began to whistle a tune. "They don't come any sillier. Her face is a blank. . . make that fifty blanks." And as she didn't respond, I continued:

"Wasn't she a midwife at one time?"

"What the hell do you mean by that?" she snapped and sat down, deeply offended. And for a while she just sat by the window, crestfallen.

And I kept on humming, and calmly began packing my suitcase. When I was all set to leave, and with my coat flung over my shoulder seemed to be waiting only for the final train whistle, I walked over to her:

"Have a very pleasant stay on that island resort," I said with a broad smile. "Enjoy yourself, have a wonderful time. And remember me to that . . ."

I wanted to say something real coarse, but she looked me straight into the eye, like a little tiger. And even sank her nail into my flesh.

But she also kissed me good-bye.

On the train coming home, however, the sinister feeling that something may have happened to her gave me no peace. I forgot to tell her not to smoke in bed. (Just then somebody near us got burnt this way.)

I did call the boarding house while still at the station, and was told she was out of town. ... So she did leave after all. I was relieved.

But listening to an instinct, I didn't give my name, didn't say who it was wanted to talk to her. Why should I have? I was going to go after her anyway. That very night, if there was a train.

"What's new?" she'd be sure to ask.

To which I'd respond casually: "Nothing."

"What do you mean nothing?" she'd say.

"I lost half my money playing cards."

"Oh yes?" she'd answer, walk over to the window and sit down, offended again. There'd be complete silence, not a word would be spoken. Then, during supper, I might say:

"Madame, wouldn't you like to come with us? We'll be sailing toward Batavia." I would address these words to Madame Lagrange of course, and to my wife I'd say:

"You'd better go home and pack
ma petite,
we'll be leaving any time now."

"Leave? What are you blabbering about?" And then: "Stop it, Jacques, or I'll throw something at you." Whereupon I would reach into my pocket, take out a picture of my ship, the Ardjuno, and ask her gently:

"So? You like my little boat?"

One thing is certain: rarely in my life was I as calm and hopeful as that afternoon when I hung up the receiver at the railroad station. But let me quickly recap that brief period, and describe how I felt just then.