The Story of My Wife (37 page)

"Right you are," nodded a plump, sad-looking woman, "and goodness lurks in the depths"—though her intonation suggested she could easily go on about this.

What impertinence, I thought, that someone should want this miracle all for himself. And closing my eyes, I thought about my own sorry lot. Nicholas Hoshkin was standing not too far from me, and I knew that the same thing was eating him; actually, he looked quite drunk, his eyeballs were ready to pop out.

"Ask her for some lemon squash, why don't you?" the butchers were urging their leader in the meantime, though he—mark that in his favor—didn't make a move. He just stood there with a timid look in his eyes—he, too, was overwhelmed by this vision of a girl.

"Dedin is crazy," I heard his friends grumble. "He's been hypnotized." "Since when is he such a ninny?" blurted out one of the men close to me, but so loud, I thought he was talking to me.

First I looked at this man, then at the chief butcher ... It
was
him. Paul de Grévy. Known to his close friends as Dedin.

But why didn't I recognize him right away? I haven't the foggiest. Because of his sidewhiskers? Not bloody likely.

Perhaps I
didn't
remember him all that well; maybe I never did take a good look at him . . .

Anyway, there he was. And after that I couldn't think of anything, silence descended, the wheels stopped turning.

Actually, there was something, a faint ringing in my ear, a strange and distant call, which lasted but for a few seconds.

"So he is here, too," I mumbled to myself. I should have known. And I tried very hard to keep my balance.. . . Slowly, very slowly I left the room.

I hung about for a while outside.

It was chilly in the garden, and I didn't have my coat on—no wonder I was shivering. Early spring: a cold and bleak season, when nothing stirs, and there is no sign leading you to believe that someone, somewhere is watching over you. The night was massive, immovable, indifferent. And above the trees, the slow swirling of mist and light: London's nocturnal wreath.

How pleasant this city is, I now said to an unseen party, though what I was really saying to him was: Just what am I supposed to do now? The man I was addressing was in all likelihood the old Dutchman, my shipowner. In that moment I felt so much affection for him—overflowing affection, unjustified affection. Or maybe what I liked was not him so much as doddering old age, and death . . . Oh I was so flustered, so troubled; blustering fool that I was.

Otherwise I was empty of feeling. Yet, like someone on the look-out, I was watching, listening . . . The night was dark, starless; now and then I looked up. It seemed I was yielding to some outside power, I let it do with me what it wished.

"Francesco," someone shouted across the garden. Before long I caught up with the fellow.

"Is there a studio anywhere in that house?" I asked him, in Italian. He was pleased by my question, he even touched my arm. Actually, he came out for a smoke. He was a youngish man.

We proceeded through the bowels of the mansion, through corridors and a huge kitchen, toward the mysteries of the "studio." It was I who wanted to take that route; I had no desire to go back to that noisy reception hall. Along the way we got some strange looks; the cooks and kitchen maids were lolling about, yawning— it was that late.

"Good evening," I greeted them as we passed their posts.

"Good morning," they replied with English precision; I felt their sardonic smiles on my back. I must have looked a sight: a man in outlandish costume amidst all the pots and pans.

I kept seeing my Dutchman's eyes before me. I have seen white ones, dark ones, his eyes seemed to be saying; and some of them were quite interesting. But I've had enough. And what is it
you
are after, dear sir? Oh, nothing, I replied. Just keeping busy, I suppose.

I stood outside the door for while. Applause could be heard, but I couldn't go in—a performance was in progress.

"What's going on in there?" I asked the boy.

He didn't really know. "Some sort of dance recital."

"Dance recital? When there's a big party downstairs?"

"Yes, yes, this is something else, a school of some sort." Which struck me as rather strange. Mightn't it be a sink of corruption, a den of vice? This was my first thought. But the answer was much simpler, as I later found out. The mistress of the house had a sister, an impoverished society queen, a pathetic has-been, who held lectures here on art, capitalizing on Madame Poulence's considerable social connections. But how was one to know this while one stood before a closed door and heard applause, whispers. . . ? I wouldn't have been all that surprised if there were naked girls dancing inside.

But there were no naked girls. The same group was dancing as did in the salon downstairs. (I forgot to mention before that they were there too; in colorful head-dresses and with little bells on their ankles, they performed some kind of pious Oriental dance— in keeping with the tenets propagated in this house.)

On the whole, I saw nothing out of the ordinary, either upstairs or downstairs. However, I did find what I was looking for, what I came here for, in the first place.. . . Sitting in the first row in that studio was my wife.

Correction: not in the first row but even closer to the stage, in one of the chairs placed sideways under the proscenium. She had a powdered wig on and held a lorgnette in her hand. Naturally, she looked kind of strange this way, at first I didn't want to believe it was her. Could it all be a dream? I wondered. (Indeed, there are moments even today when I am not at all sure if it wasn't.) Yet, it was her all right. She began to wet her lips and then I was quite sure. I inched my way closer, slowly, along the wall, and soon I could see for myself how fast pupils could dilate.

For at one point she did notice me, raised her lorgnette, and that's when her eyes began to grow under the glass, expressing sudden horror, no doubt, at seeing me. She must have thought: God, he looks just like my husband. And her heart must have skipped a beat, surely. But then she got over it, it seems.

(Only now as I write this do I begin to wonder about what actually happened. For instance, why didn't she come down to the large hall, why did she stay in the studio? She had a premonition—yes, that's what it was, I am sure of it now—that look gave it all away.)

Later, though, she probably decided: No, that can't be my husband. In other words she didn't recognize me after all, that became fairly obvious, too, if only because she began to wet her lips again. All of which seemed again like a bad dream. For just at that moment the lights dimmed, the next attraction was about to begin; I slipped out through a side door. I had enough of the show, enough of that house.

Once more I hung about in the garden for a while, and again thought I heard those distant calls.

I ought to have my blood thinned, I decided once I was on the street; that's what does it to me. . . too much blood. And just then, swift, soothing images passed before my eyes: a sunny deck, gentle splashing, pitter-patter, happy boredom, real peace . . . and old sailors pressing cupping glasses on each other's backs under the burning sun, in the shade. I was still young then.

"Twenty cuppings every spring and all's well," said the old timers, the ones with brass rings in their ears. And who's to say they weren't right? They seemed hearty enough. And wasn't it also smart of them to punch holes in their ears? Human nature is inscrutable, after all.

But even now I didn't feel any different. I didn't do much thinking either, hardly any, and even that only in faint images, the way animals are supposed to think. I let myself rest for a change— rest and drift . . . my soul too.

True, I thought about that certain scalesman, but I brushed him aside, as I did Gregory Sanders and that oracular psychoanalyst— all of them, in short, the whole lot. Who the hell needed them? They made me sick; their wise counsel—now amiable, now stern—turned my stomach . . .

Idiots! They all wanted to explain my own life to me. Well, right now I could give them a pointer or two; they'd be pretty surprised, those fine gentlemen, it would sure as hell put a stop to their jabber.

I had an overwhelming desire to demonstrate to them how very stupid they were, forcing their passions and prejudices down another man's throat—and brain.

On and on I went, from nothing to nothing. But sometimes even that can be refreshing. I roamed the city for hours, entangled in futile debates.

I thought I'd stop, but no, there was more, and more roaming, too; actually the fresh air felt nice. I thought I'd walk a little more, then head for the Brighton and get some sleep before doing anything else. Mustn't forget about our health, right? Besides, I wasn't in London yet, I was still in Bruges. At any rate, I started walking in the direction of the hotel, which wasn't too smart, either. Who the hell can find his way around in a town this size? To boot, there was a shift in the weather, fog shrouded the streets again. I found myself near a large square; I turned around.

A car had been following me for some time; I'd noticed it but tried to ignore it.

"Cab, sir?" the driver said gently, courteously, as if certain I wanted a ride. He drove slowly, staying close behind. His headlights cut through the fog and picked me out as I turned the corner; I still remember those two shafts of refracted light. But his little game got to be annoying; it lasted too long.

What does this fellow want? I wondered, and stopped on the sidewalk. He must have gotten tired of it just then because he, too, stopped, alongside of me.

"Cab, sir?" he again asked, and as he did, I noticed his beady little eyes. Peering inside, I also noticed a gun in his hand, and that gleamed, too, the little handgun actually sparkled.

That's all I needed . . . But whatever he was up to, I knew I wasn't going to let him off lightly.

"What is it you wish, sir," I asked politely (if only because I saw he was an older man). "What can I do for you?"

Whereupon he made the mistake of getting out of the car.

A mistake, I say, because if he remained inside, what could I do? Faced with a loaded gun, I would've done as he said. But like this I had a chance, and I knew it.

"Some money, sir," he said, friendly like, with a touch of sadness in his eyes. Must be a novice, the poor devil. Some of them act tough but are scared stiff. A novice, for sure. But in such hands a gun can go off that much faster; I had better watch my every move.

"Hands up," he said rather quaintly.

"How much?" I asked.

"All you got." He meant business, apparently.

Now then, I've been around, I have seen plenty—dark and rundown seaports, and dives where there is so much rough stuff, so much white-faced terror, a knife, as they say, stops in mid-air. But I liked these places. Once, in Bremenhafen I had to jump in the water when a couple of nice boys gave me chase just after I'd gone ashore. But why enumerate? In Palermo one night, under an ancient bridge, I struck a fellow so hard, I heard his bones crack. And I never did find out what happened to him after that, and didn't much care, either; I simply continued on my way. In other words I hadn't had much trouble of this kind until now, I always scraped by. But this time it was different. I
knew
it was serious— my legs began to shake.

God damn it, I got old. This thought crossed my mind as he relieved me of my watch, my wallet—the bastard even took my fountain pen. Then he leaned over real close, almost brushing my cheek, and reached into my shirt—on my instructions, it's true; I told him myself not to waste time fumbling about. (I usually have a pocket sewn on the inside of my shirt, and when I have a great deal of money on me, that's where I put it. And now I took just about everything I had with me, in case I needed it in Bruges—you can never tell.)

So I told him that that's where it all was. Which meant I had nothing left. The thought made my insides shiver. Damn this crazy world,
now
this had to happen? I hadn't a penny to my name, I was strapped. What was I to do, run around and try to
raise
money? Who would give me any?

And already I felt the blood rush to my head, and thought I'd crush his blasted revolver with my bare hand.

There was a large open space behind me and a roadway in front; we stood at the edge of a park (somewhere in Kensington, as I found out the next day), in the gray of early morning, a time when streetlamps don't give much light but the sun is still too pale. Yet, I took in so much during these moments, I saw entire processions through the haze—workers returning from the night shift, errand boys making early deliveries, a woman running after someone, a cyclist passing right by, though heaven forbid that one of them should look at me. Could it be that none of them saw me? Maybe it was just as well. At times it's better if they torment you with their indifference. It takes your mind off your real misery.

So I began conversing with the man, and what a laugh that was. But to stand there helplessly like a moron with your hands in the air was also pretty awful. Or did I simply want to distract him?

"Where are you from?" I asked.

And amazingly enough, he told me: "Shetterland."

"And what did you do before this?" (An unusually stupid question.)

"Shut up," he answered. Quite rightly. Though he also got me angry.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing? Don't take my scarf, it's cold. Can't you see how flimsy my coat is?"

But he wanted that too, he even took my cigars, and flung my iceman's pick on the grass, quite far . . . And that about wrapped it up.

He began backing up slowly, towards the car, watching my eyes as he did.

But that was a fatal mistake.

For I was looking not at his eyes but at the gun, to see if it quivered in his hand. And it did, by Jove. After he took his first step it tilted a little; he was aware of it himself and tried to straighten it out immediately. But he did it too neatly, too selfconsciously, and that's when I knew I had him, that was the moment I was waiting for—in a second I was upon him. On his head, to be more precise.