The Story of My Wife (36 page)

For one thing, I was quiet, at rest. Of course I felt that way before, in my youth, but that was a dark sort of restfulness. Now I was light and airy.

"You see, now it's you who's calm and kind," my wife had said to me at one point, way before my trip to Bruges. I had to laugh then but said nothing. I no longer expected my feelings to be understood. I cast off my burdens, and what was mine to know I accepted with equanimity.

I now endorsed my fate, I approved of whatever it still had in store for me. It was as if I no longer had to think but simply yield to my own momentum—it was really like being lifted and carried along by a swelling wave.

But then I had to stop short, I was thrown out of kilter, jolted out of my complacency. A word about this: about that afternoon still, when I returned to London from my Belgian escapade.

From the station I went straight to the Brighton to see if I had any mail. Sure enough, I did. A letter asking me to see the general manager of the Blue Rivers Shipping Co. What do you know . . . Sometimes there's nothing for months, and then all at once, a flood. For, interestingly enough, there was also a very sweet letter from Miss Borton. She wanted to know if I felt like going to a masked ball. The theme alone was enticing: "Nights at Lahore." She'll be there, she wrote, with her fiance, who would very much like to meet me since she's told him all about me, and this would be a wonderful opportunity—one couldn't ask for a better one.

And in the entire letter, not a hint of recrimination or resentment for what happened last time. On the contrary, she stressed how she couldn't see herself saying good-bye to me for good, how she hoped we'd find a way to see each other again without ill feelings and so on.

Then some lighter, more frivolous words. (That I was ill she didn't even mention. Hm. Or didn't she know?) She thought of the following costume: long feathers, low-heel shoes (or better yet, slippers), a wrap flung boldy over the shoulder, and pale yellow, silky knickers. She'd come to the ball as Nurjehan, an Oriental beauty. (Why not be immodest for once?). And she suggested that I appear as the Flying Dutchman, with a blue cap, or, if I wanted to be modern, why not as Jack the Ripper?

As I say, it was a perfectly charming letter; she, too, acquiesced in her fate, I thought. And that pleased me . . .

Oh yes, she also mentioned that Madame Poulence, who was giving the ball, was one of Madame Lagrange's patrons, another devotee of sorts, a curious creature who ran a society for the study of Eastern religions. I looked at the invitation—the ball was to be tonight.

Now then, should I go or shouldn't I? With my wife away, should I go gallivanting off to a ball? It
would
seem a bit odd. At the same time, I owed this much to the little miss. Especially after what'd happened, for her fiance's sake, at least, and since she was decent enough to take the initiative. There was no convenient train connection, anyway; I would reach the coast late at night.. . . But why not get to the point? The truth was I wanted to have a bit of a fling. Something was egging me on. Which was kind of strange when you think about it.

At any rate, I decided to go. To the ball, that is. Tonight I'll go there, I thought, and in the morning I'll join my wife. I'll take an early morning train and that's that.

But where do I get hold of a costume? Amazingly enough, the problem was soon solved, it all worked out like a charm. Just as I was leaving the hotel (I thought I'd first go home, whip up something, get some shut-eye while I am at it), I saw this huge black man standing in the service entrance, holding what looked like a harpoon in his hand; like a veritable Neptune he was. And his figure was not unlike mine.

That's providence for you, I laughed. They were just delivering ice to the hotel; he was the iceman. He said he couldn't leave just then, but promised he'd be back with his getup at nine o'clock sharp, he'll even have it cleaned for me, his wife'll take care of it, not to worry.

"And the hook, too?"

"Sure, that's the best part." So we struck a bargain. He was going to drop the package off at the desk and pick up what's coming to him.

I was all set.

Having decided it didn't pay to go home any more, I checked into a room on the fourth floor. I was tired, I wanted to get some rest, though before falling asleep I meditated a bit.

"Philosophers!" The word jolted me out of my sleep. And how amazed I was. That word: how much meaning it had for me just a few months ago! I couldn't stop laughing now for I thought of how grand I will look as an iceman. And I did, I looked captivating, devastating. For just think: I even got hold of a fake red beard from a local barber. I very much wanted to look like the real thing.

And oddly enough, I did.

Three

WHILE STILL IN THE HOTEL LOBBY, I BUMPED INTO A DOOR,
and where I come from that's considered a bad omen. But fortunately nothing happened, I was fine.

In fact I began to feel a bit warm under my skin, as when you've just had a full, satisfying meal.

But what followed
was
a remarkable experience. You leave behind the dirt and grime of London and find yourself first in lovely woodlands; then you enter the vaulted doorway of a stately mansion, flooded with light, and in the light you see a most curious procession of doll-like human creatures. Saracen kings carrying ripe lemons, Oriental acrobats in red and black, an Eastern wiseman, as well as Negroes, Arabs, Chinamen—a curious bunch, in short, all agape. You get so excited your heart, too, begins to kick and bounce. And why? Partly because you realize how foolish, impish this world is, and also because you like the scene, enormously. I looked at myself in a mirror and burst out laughing. My apron, the iceman's apron, was splendid, I must say. And the hook, too! And my beard, let's not forget my beard.

It suddenly occurred to me that this is how I'll go to my wife in the morning. What would my sweetheart say? I wondered. Would she get scared? Would she laugh?

And then, I discovered an old friend, Nicholas Hoshkin, leaning against a marble column. A dear man he was and an excellent sea captain.

"Nick," I cried and poked him with my hook. "Nicholas, old chap." And I stared right into his eyes. (He was also wearing some sort of Indian getup.) "Don't tell me you can't recognize me like this? Don't you know who I am?"

"Of course I do, you old growler," he answered. "It seems only yesterday that we were in school together. But just give me a second, I am after someone . . ." And he winked at me.

"Still the old rascal, aren't you," I laughed.

"Run along, I'll catch up with you. But now I must wait for my ladylove ... In a moment I shall know true bliss," he enthused, and began walking toward the music.

A band was playing in the middle of the room and all around people were swaying and whirling, bending toward each other and toward the empty space, it seemed to me; now and then fire-kings and fauns in shimmering turquoise and slender water nymphs would step out of this mad swirl, and like I did before, look at themselves in the mirror, adjust their costume, and even scratch a little.

Oh, what was there not to like here? Dear God, I thought; could the joy of make-believe be this pervasive? In my country, in the homes of rich folk, this is the expression you see on the paintings of long-dead ancestors. Like giant beetles they were, interrogating each and every guest: How do I look in this dress? Yet, they've been dead for ages. That's how these people struck me now; they churned up fantasies, they took pleasure in toying with them.

Now and then Nicholas Hoshkin turned up and whispered: "Not yet, she hasn't appeared yet . . . Until she does, I'll cruise some more."

Only then did it occur to me that I was also waiting for someone, and she was nowhere to be seen, either. I walked around the room several times, even looked into the small chambers off to the side, but there was no trace of Miss Borton.

Just as well, I thought; this place is interesting enough without her, and not just the people, either. In one of those small rooms, for example, a separate little world opened before me, a curious little world. Aside from mystical drawings of a king named Petasois, there were all kinds of enigmatic exhortations and mottos on the wall, by such people as Saint Benedict the Bridge Builder, Bonaventura, Prudentius Clemens, Johanna Southcott. I noted down a few of these, though I didn't quite understand them. To this day I don't know who the "The People of Benjamin" are supposed to be. But that's who the inscriptions were addressed to; and they also kept mentioning "The New Jerusalem." Among the admonitions I found this, for instance:

"He who defies joy defies God." (We know that every five hundred years or so this idea makes the rounds, but to no avail.) Diametrically opposed to this notion was a little prophecy from a book of esoterica by Philo of Alexander:

"The fire was out before they arrived." (An illustration went with this one, showing a fiery red figure, a late arrival, obviously, before whom the glowing embers had just stopped glowing. And all around there was winter, a hopelessly bleak, dusky landscape.)

And there were other curiosities, other theosophic fancies as well. For example, I got acquainted with two little old men; like a pair of buzzing twins they were, dressed up as senators. And there was talk of honey in the comb, and of people with a weakness for honey, and of a naughty fellow parading as a conquistador, who kept disappearing with some actress in one of the upstairs rooms, or studios, as they were called here.

' "The kind of studio, my dear sir—someone informed me— which is ideally suited for loveplay." Very well, I thought; as long as we're here, we'll have a look. I couldn't help feeling of course that I got myself mixed up with a mighty strange group of people, a crazy, eccentric bunch. I bet they must all be dying to have honey straight from the comb; God only knows what brought them together. Not just these mystical disciplines, that was fairly obvious, not simply Bonaventura.

I note this because my suspicions were confirmed by what was to follow.

"Who is
that
queer-looking character?" I exclaimed around midnight, somewhat alarmed, and stared at one of the new arrivals. A whole group of butchers walked in just then, equipped with meatsaws and knives, led by a burly master butcher. They were all French and seemed to have a head start on the merrymaking—quite uninhibited they were, especially their leader, a particularly jovial young man. I could tell immediately he wasn't a member of this set, though a number of people knew him.

"Hey, no slip-ups now, do you hear?" they shouted. And: "Look, here's the brigadier general." "Ah, the billy-goat, well hello." and other such niceties.

But he paid them no heed, he just laughed as he passed them. He was a handsome man and he laughed rather attractively; he had nice teeth. And such drive, he seemed ready to take on the world.

"I am looking for new kicks," he declared unabashedly, and before long he pounced on the Queen of the Night. (She was some kind of a doctor, this enchantress; her real name was Dox, Nox, something like that.) The butchers were hard on his heels, but like savages, their untrimmed sidewhiskers all aflutter.

But who
was
that bloke? Where did I know him from?

What he said to that heavenly creature I had no way of knowing. Most probably that he adored her, for the lady laughed and even waved her fan at him, mock-menacingly. While he, disregarding her gestures, simply nodded and moved on.

"Well? Well?" the others quickly inquired.

"It's not her," he said, on his way to his next victim. Now it was he who smiled broadly. (This new lady looked positively Roman, like a fugitive from Pompey she was, though extraordinary just the same.)

"I wouldn't mind taking a bite out of
her"
he declared with no less relish than before. But then, quite abruptly, he stopped.

"Who is this one?" he asked sternly.

I should have mentioned that the music had stopped some time ago, refreshments were being served, the buzz of conversation could be heard all around. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine yourself in some Parisian park, with the birds chirping away. But now the buzzing died down . . .

A servant girl entered the room. Actually she was no ordinary servant, but the personal maid of Madame Poulence, the lady of the house, her protégé, it was rumored, an orphan girl living in very difficult circumstances. But she was a bright little thing—not even in King Petasios's garden could such a flower be found. I don't know if others have ever noticed it, but there are human beings who seem to epitomize youth; the gleam in their eyes, the smile on their lips, every buoyant move they make seems to proclaim: I am young, I am a delight. And it's as if they keep asking you: Is
anything
else worth paying attention to?

Well, that's the kind of creature this chambermaid was. A little freckled, but that made her even more exciting. (In youthful beauty such as hers, even a flaw can be a source of radiance. For perfection we admire; tiny imperfections we love with a passion.) Her hair was flaming red, and such women know that green, deep sea-green, goes well with those flames. She was wearing a green dress and on it a tiny, tiny lace apron—next to such simplicity, the above-mentioned nymph-like woman, vastly, scientifically beautiful, did not have a chance. In her tiny hands she carried a trayful of cold drinks, and even that lent her face a silvery glow—looking at her, you felt both hot and cold.

When she walked past Mrs. Bagpiper, a millionairess, she cast her eyes down, but when stood before the Queen of the Night, she raised them again, and the words slipped out of her mouth like tiny birds.

"A drink, Madame?" she chirped. The lady took the proferred glass and said: "My, you're charming." Others smiled and whispered "thank you" or a simple "oh," but they were all obviously taken by her beauty. A man with stooped shoulders who apparently was fond of philosophy had this to say to the person standing next to me:

"How is it that the Creator places such enticements, such wonders, on externals? Life's essence lies on the surface—would I have believed that when I was schooled in logic?"