The Story of My Wife (39 page)

"Really?" she asked and again blushed. But I took no notice of that.

"There was a falconer, for instance, with a falcon on his arm, and other unlikely characters. But the most interesting of all was still that butcher . . . yes, the butcher, an extraordinarily entertaining fellow, mischievous, good-looking . . . you know the type: nervy but graceful. Paul de Grévy is his name and he is a croupier by profession who also works as a procurer in gambling clubs. His distinguished name and family background comes in handy in that job. But why are you making faces?"

"Oh nothing. Was
he
there?"

"Yes, yes, that's just what I'm telling you. Nothing surprising in that. You know him by any chance? Among his friends he is known as Dedin."

"I know, I know. A disagreeable fellow. He is one of the instructors at Madame Lagrange's language school."

"Language school? Is that what that woman runs? She's really got it made, then. And how long has he been there?"

"A few months, I guess."

"A few months, you say? Strange that nobody told me about this, not even Dedin himself, though he's such a good friend of mine."

"A friend of yours??"

Naturally, I wasn't going to leave it at that.

"But this is very interesting," I continued, almost cheerfully. "That you should know him. How about telling me something about him?" I put the question to her so lightly, my words seemed to take wings. "He's a splendid fellow, isn't he?" The young woman stared at me.

"You don't think so? Well, he is. Ever see his hands? They are quite delicate. I don't know much about these things, but that's what they say. And his lips . . . real puckery, made for kissing. Like a ripped heart they are, don't you agree?" My young miss was quite ill at ease by now.

"You are joking, surely."

"Why should I be joking? I just spent a terrific evening with him."

"With that horrid man?"

"Is that what you think he is? Horrid?" I took her arm and went on:

"What do you really know about him? Or about my wife, for that matter? (She remained quiet.) That she humiliated me and cheapened herself time and again, a hundred times, a thousand times? Do you know that? No need to be embarrassed, I know it, too. And do you have any idea how I feel about it inside? Disgusted. Rotten. But what is it you people want? To forever hang my head in shame? Well, I won't. Though this is something that will never penetrate your little heads. I am honest now, you see, you can be pleased with me.

"You always complained I wasn't. But now you have to put up with my honesty. Did I ever love you? Yes, I did. And her? Her I despised. From the very first, when I saw her cross her leg and nonchalantly light a cigarette. And still. I knew it was going to be this way, I knew everything, but it was worth it. I got as far as realizing this, which is a long way, as you can see ... It was hell but still worth it ... It isn't
my
fault that this glorious world is also a living hell. And now tell me what's on your mind—let me burn up with shame for once."

I was almost hissing by now.

"But don't you see how silly you are being? I
have
come a long way. For don't you know how easily I can crush a man—crush him like a fly? But then why can't I do it to them? What makes them so invulnerable? That woman . . . she is all desire, that's all she has ever been. And me, I see a new face lurking in every corner; and all I want is to wrap my fingers around their neck, oh yes, I want that more than I want my own salvation . . . You are a grown girl, you tell me why I have no power over them. Why is this like a spell, why am I mesmerized by them?"

I never thought the kid was this strong. She took it all, unflinchingly, she stood her ground like a tree in a storm. She didn't protest in the manner of bashful maidens, though
she
was let in on . . . well, ticklish business. Through it all she looked me straight in the eye. We were standing next to a park bench, getting drenched, because in the meantime there was a sudden downpour and nasty gusts of wind. In the end she did open her mouth, to tell me that she could never lie to me.

What I had told her, though it hurt, also made her feel much better, if only because she felt it was the truth. I might not believe her but she knew this about me all along, or at least had sensed it. And until this feeling started fading away, she'd keep on loving me. But after that she'll be relieved and give thanks to the Almighty God . . . And all this was said without tears, sternly almost.

Even if there was a lot of whimsy and foolishness in what she did and said, she went on, and there
was,
she'd be the first to admit it, there were also true feelings—feelings she was not likely to get over; indeed, she couldn't even if she wanted to, they had such a hold on her—she never thought such a thing could ever happen to her. And now she was ready to say good-bye, she was offering her hand . . .

She also asked me to please calm down because, truth to tell, she was terribly afraid she, too, was at fault somehow. There was such sadness in my eyes, such profound sadness, it made her think I might try to do something . . . oh, perish the thought . . . And then petulantly, almost like a child, she added that she didn't think my wife was worth all that suffering. If I really wanted to know the truth, she thought she was a heartless woman.

"You mean to say she doesn't love me?" I asked.

"Yes."

"But that's where you are wrong. Even if she told you that herself, it's still not true."

Miss Borton blushed to the roots of her hair.

"She told me no such thing. What she did was ask me to love you." And she blushed again, deeply, and this time there were tears in her eyes.

"As far as that gentleman is concerned," she declared, "whatever is said of him is none of my concern. What I had told her in Paris was simply this: 'I want to be an honest girl, Lizzy ..." In other words, I told her I loved you, but that I would soon disappear for good. Why would I want to disappear? she wanted to know. And her saying this made me so happy, I embraced her. 'You are so generous,' I said to her. (I was such a child then.)

"But she didn't want me to embrace her. 'Stop it, you silly,' she said, but with a hard edge in her voice. 'I am not all that generous.' (And she laughed a bit too strenuously.) 'You got it all wrong, girl; I am not generous at all. What I am,' she said, 'is a bad woman.' And that's when I woke up finally."

That night I had a beautiful dream. But before going into that, let me talk about some other matters, above all about that interminable night. I was sitting on my bed for a time, in a thoughtless daze, when something seemed to stir next to me. I looked up and my glance fell on my old diary.

Well, well, what have we here? I reached for it and began to peruse it. Let us just see what thoughts I had at the other end of an endless reach of time.

This is what it said on the first page: "Be sure to remember that he [Dedin, that is] made a note to himself. Do not forget."

That was when he urged us, my wife and me, to go to London. Oh yes, it was he who persuaded us to come. And didn't I have the feeling right away there was something fishy about his suggestion? Didn't I immediately think of
him
when I found those violets?

You do perceive these things, with your senses, your soul. I made no mistake. They knew already then they were going to come over—first Madame Lagrange, then Dedin. But then what
did
he jot down in his notebook that time? I mean if everything worked out so perfectly, and I, like a complete fool, agreed to move here?

"A perfect dupe" is what he must have written down. They treated me like a dumb animal, in other words. And you don't do that to a human being, no matter how inferior I may have appeared in their eyes. It was cruel and indecent of them—no
way
did I deserve to be treated like an animal. . . .

"I'll follow you, don't worry," he must have told his lover, precisely as I'd imagined it more than once. And he told her to calm me down, to humor me, to treat me with kid gloves ... it won't be long. Who knows where, in what far-off danger zone I'll be by the time he comes? Because he recommended that, too, that blasted rescue service—remember? It was no joke, either. Maybe he'll drop dead by then—that may have occured to them too. But it's all right; it's all been duly noted.

But then again, I went along with everything, in defiance of my deepest instincts. And this is what's so inexplicable, so stupefying. Can anyone be this submissive? Like a vision now, Madame Lagrange stood before me, that flaming-eyed slut, that nirvana-craving fraud, the woman I spent Christmas eve with this year.

"Isn't my wife an absolute darling?" I asked her once in a fit of tenderness. And she just stared at me with her burning, vacant eyes. As if she was surprised; as if such stubborn devotion really stunned her.

Only now do I understand that smile of hers. And realize how very hard I tried, until the very end . . . And as for my reward for all my patience . . .

Oh, but no matter, I wrote everything down in my little notebook—
I
did this time, so as not to forget. For as a rule, one does forget. There is an ebb and flow in one's heart, and come next morning, everything changes. But this was the night to clarify things. And carefully note the date. Until three o'clock in the morning I did nothing but record facts.

First of all, the names of all the theosophists: my landlord (an ideal person from their point of view) was evidently chosen well in advance; and then there was Madame Lagrange and Madame Poulence—wasn't this a single tightly-knit group? The realization hit me so suddenly, I nearly cried out. Especially since I also remembered Mr. Tannenbaum, whom I hadn't thought about much any more. I am not at all sure why, but I had great disdain for that man.

He, too, was a philosopher, wasn't he?

But I was also driven by another impulse. I obviously wanted proof, for future reference; I was hoping that the tangle of facts and details, so incomprehensible at first, would fall into place, make a precise pattern, a reliable construct, like a clockwork. Which then would start ticking.

. On a separate page, I put down the words of my one-time scalesman—words addressed to his judges at his trial: "I am right in more ways than I can say. May God have mercy on my soul. And on yours, too, Your Honors."

I made these entries and went to bed. But I kept waking up, even after taking two sleeping pills. Around four a.m. I was still up, so I took another pill.

Late next morning I heard knocking on the door. My room looked cheerful, sunny, but also unfamiliar—at first I didn't know where I was.

But then everything came back: the cab driver, the attack, everything.

Must be the police, I thought. But it wasn't, only an urgent message from Mr. De Vries, asking me to go at once to the docks at Cuxhaven—there were things to take care of: my ship was already at the dockyard undergoing repairs. I didn't even finish reading the note. Why bother?

1 wasn't going anywhere any more . . .

Only then did I think of the beautiful dream I had, though to recall it now would be kind of difficult.

It was so slight, next to nothing, yet indescribably sweet, like a glimpse of heaven. Someone bent down close to me, in the dark, and held a lamp to my face. She also drew aside the curtains, like an attentive, good-natured maid, and then asked:

"Why are you always in the dark?" And that was it.

I thought I knew exactly what she meant, and wanted to answer her quickly, but she disappeared, slipped away, like water through your fingers. Her smile, though, was real, the gleam in her eye reassuring, like the light of the moon when it suddenly appears at the edge of the sky on a restless night, with a flickering, sleepy smile. . . .

How gladly I would have pondered this little vision, and contemplated womanly virtues, which I believed this dream came to announce, lest I forget it still exists. . . . But I fell asleep, and as happens after such an experience, my sleep was long and deep. When I awoke—it was like rising from the dead—I saw darkness outside.

Actually it was fog, but so dense it shone. I sat up in bed.

Now the fog seemed to take on a reddish hue, as though fueled by flames.

Another storm is brewing, I surmised, and gave a shudder. And then kept staring out the window, as though I had never in my life seen such a sight. But then I jumped out of bed. After having slept for nearly eighteen hours.

I washed up in cold water, quickly got into some clothes and hurried downstairs.

Once I hit the stairs I felt better, relieved. Here everything sparkled, the lights were so much friendlier—God only knows why hotel rooms are so dingy and flat. Oh, and after my first sip of port . . .

The English are right; port
is
the best medicine around.

For as soon as I felt its warmth spreading inside me, tears came to my eyes, as though I were putting the crowning touch on this mysterious rebirth of mine. Life itself felt so wonderful, I was almost ashamed of myself. I mean there it all was: the lights, the warmth, the drink, my growing appetite . . . And other things: the soft carpet, the buzzing in the lobby, the clinking and clattering at the tables. I was like a man who just came down from a frozen mountain top. My face burned and these light noises echoed in my ear.

Oh and the tiny trills of laughter. And the darting waiters. And the stillness. And the new arrivals stepping on the soft carpet, with wreaths of fresh snow sticking to their coats ... all this was sheer enchantment for me. As though I had never awakened from my drug-induced sleep.

But should I be ashamed of writing all this down? Embarrassed that I,
I
of all people could actually be happy about something? No no, I have no intention of glossing over, or belittling, what I felt. It was real. And no wonder: when something shakes you to the very core of your being, you stand completely exposed, naked, your soul does. All petty annoyances and aggravations are swept away, as in a fierce storm, and the joy of existence, unsuspected, wondrous, peeks through like the morning sun. You keep marvelling at being alive. Wasn't this what I felt when my ship was on fire? Then, too, and at the worst possible moment, I drank a glass of lemonade. And my skin tingled with pleasure, as if prickled by the rays of the sun.