The Story of My Wife (4 page)

"Why of course I am; what a question? But why do you refer to her as Madame Koch Number One?"

"You'll find out in a minute, dear sir. Let me just take a piece of paper; I shall draw a picture of three
inammorati,
so as not to mix up the order. Oh yes, there is a fourth, I just remembered. I will moisten my pencil like so, and make a mark next to her, and this will represent Uriel, a clever youngster who I myself am quite fond of."

"Uriel? Who is Uriel? And why moisten the poor dear?"

"In a minute, sir," my landlord said and smiled profusely. "Here is where it gets complicated. The Nordic woman—Gerda was her name—was rather pale to begin with, and during her recuperation she acquired the complexion of an unripened tomato, so it was natural that she should capture the heart of the amiable Anni-bale—the passionate Italian fell madly in love with her. Consequently, the first (now divorced) wife of Herr Koch was obliged to leave the waterfront house. But she didn't leave alone, she had someone with her. . . You guessed it: little Uriel, why of course. . .

"Now I'll just moisten my pencil once more (the old man relished the sarcasm), for I must tell you finally who Uriel is. Our friend, the multifarious Koch, got married a second time, and this nimble-witted boy was the product of that union. But he divorced his second wife, too (which, I am sure, couldn't be helped either, that's just the kind of person Herr Koch was). At any rate, the child didn't stay with his mother—how could he when he lived with her predecessor, Madame Koch Number One? And what that meant was that the boy, too, had to leave the beachfront house.

"I think I am doing quite well," Don Juan now said, puffing contentedly on his cigarette. "By God, sir, show me another man on this cursed island,
en esta maldita isla,
who could recite all of this so well. But to continue: this little boy, Uriel, had a beautiful mother, a delicate little Jewess with a neck as white as an Andalusian mare's. Hanna was her name, and being involved in an affair herself, she did not appear to be interested in a child. She lived with her lover, a German aviator, on the island of Foradade, and theirs too was said to be a harmonious relationship. He operated a hydroplane and frequently took off from the sea. But Koch himself had recently written a letter to Ridolfi in which he complained that things weren't going well for him in Berlin. Consequently, Madame Koch Number One contacted Madame Koch Number Two who, as you know, was the mother of the child, lover of the aviator, living on the island of Foradade. Anyway, Madame Koch Number One suggested that they find a place on the island where Koch could join them, and they could all live together . . . Wouldn't it be wonderful?" My landlord guffawed happily as he said this, and to show just how pleased he was, he even put on his red skullcap.

"But now comes the final balancing act, the denouement, when complications lose heart and wither away. As you may or may not have guessed, this household did come into being, exactly as planned, and in total harmony, too. Five people were now living under the same roof: the Mesdames Koch, Number Two's lover, the child, and Koch from Berlin. And in this salad bowl they all seemed quite happy."

But this was merely the exposition. Only from this point on did my wife-to-be begin to play an active role in the story. As related by my old landlord and others in this gossip-ridden island, she hadn't until then paid much attention to the amiable Signor Ridolfi. At the time there was only one man whom she considered worthy of her affections, and that was Eugene Hornmann, the young flier. I was given to understand that as soon as the couple arrived, my wife lost her little composure. The aviator, it seems, made quite an impression on her. And why not? A young little thing, a language teacher, among all those strangers ... It is only natural that she should be happy to hear someone speak real French. And this Hornmann fellow spoke a number of languages well, though it was rumored that he used his knowledge of languages, his impeccable French pronounciation, and even his skills as an aviator, to carry out delicate, dubious missions—not spy missions exactly, but missions nevertheless, in the service of his native Germany. And though my future wife was not happy to hear these tales, she didn't stop liking him. And right she was: one can't be too finicky, or else one can't make it in this world. It's no good attaching great importance to things that are in fact unimportant. Take me for example: when I was still healthy, I would eat a piece of buttered muffin even if it fell on the floor before my nose. Let's just imagine the situation: I am standing on the upper deck, the sun is beating down on me, and cook has just surprised me with a fresh-baked muffin. I swallow in anticipation. And then, right in front of me, he drops it. So I simply pick it up and eat it. Why? Because if I have him bring me another, it's not as good. I want that first, irreplaceable piece. And so it is with everything; I've learned that lesson many times over. Let the know-it-alls say what they will. All you can do with that second muffin is kick it in the sea.

I saw all this quite clearly then; only later did I begin to change in this respect, as I will reveal in these notes. But let's proceed. Where was I? Ah yes, my future wife, who wasn't much disturbed by what she heard, and loved Hornmann despite her misgivings about his activities. She couldn't very well blame this man for loving his fatherland—she herself felt the same way about her own native France. And the fact that this Hornmann chap belonged to someone else, another woman, why, that didn't bother her too much, either. My sardonic landlord told me that to avoid the jealous Hanna they used to meet in public squares and cemeteries and on the ramparts, in the early afternoon sunshine, when the whole town was indoors resting . . . Much later I heard an amusing little story about them. It seems that one day Hanna followed them in the sun, and on a hillside terrace saw a lady's hat being blown by the wind. She picked up the hat, recognized it, and struck it with her parasol, but then let it go, let the wind have it. She confined herself to exclaiming, in Spanish, for all the world to hear:

"Oh, the hypocrite, the deceitful hypocrite." Then she went home.

I didn't make a fuss, not even then, though my good friend Don Juan was becoming more sarcastic than ever. And it wasn't because I myself became cynical; I just liked to look at things objectively—then I still could. I never thought, for example, that the universe came into being with me or for me. Or that a woman couldn't have a life of her own before she met me.

When discussing our impending marriage, I told her: "The time has come for you to choose, for a while anyway, between me and your friends; because I surely don't want us to move in to Herr Koch's place as the sixth and seventh guests. I am clearly not as gay and bohemian as these people, but you will admit you can't live that way for very long. One must have some semblance of order, wouldn't you agree?"

My wife did fully agree. She said one did indeed need order in this world. Most definitely. What is more, she herself came to me and asked that we leave this crazy island. For just then a storm was about to erupt, which threatened to destroy the entire Koch commune. What happened was that Madame Koch Number One (the one with spectacles) began to realize what a fool she had been for letting herself be evicted from her lovely seaside home, all on account of a silly appendicitis attack; and she made such a row, the whole island heard it. She'll show them, they'll be sorry, and all the rest. She threatened to move to London. To hell with these patriarchal arrangements, she said. This would have meant trouble indeed, because she at least had some money stashed away, and what's a commune without money?

But let's leave the poor woman (the further details of the affair are in any case unimportant). The main thing was that my wife now expressed a desire to go to Paris with me, even though up until then she wouldn't hear of moving there. Frankly, I got the feeling she didn't care all that much for her native land. But now she couldn't wait to go. "I feel we should leave right away," she said. "Very well," I answered. And in less than a week she wound up her affairs, got her things together and said good-bye to the island. We were in a hurry because she insisted on holding the wedding not in Menorca but in Paris.

In other words, in those days we still agreed on some things, even if not for long. I was inclined to look at this as agreement based on a temporary overlapping of interests. My wife, however, didn't see it that way, and wouldn't hold herself even to this modest accommodation.

What actually happened was that shortly after we left the island, the amiable Annibale Ridolfi, the one who banished Madame Koch Number One from the seashore, turned up in Paris. And it was no coincidence either, I know that for a fact. I heard his name mentioned, and in connection with my wife, too, at a Paris police station (I'll recount the details presently); I was also told, much later, that he had complained to a friend of his that he allowed a sweet little quail (my wife, that is) to slip away in the rye (the rye being me, I suppose). He was sorry, in other words, that he didn't taste the joys of love with this lighthearted French woman. . . .

As I said, I learned about this complaint years later, and quite by accident, and by then I no longer cared. Back in Paris, though, the following surprising thing happened early one morning.

We hadn't been there for more than a few months (I was just opening some newly arrived packages in the hallway), when the bell rang and I was handed a police summons made out to my wife. I found it somewhat strange. What business could my wife have with the police? I looked at the note: it said she was to appear in a few days.

"Look what came for you just now," I said to her and handed her the piece of paper. To repeat: it didn't mention what it was in reference to—
pour l'affaire vous concernant
was all it said. She too perused the note, and then burst out laughing.

"What is this all about?" I asked.

"Must you know everything,
Jacopo mio"
she said, still laughing. And though her laughter wasn't exactly offensive, there was something impertinent about it. Why shouldn't I find out if she got into some sort of trouble? But I kept my mouth shut.

We were still living in town then, on the Place Saint Sulpice, thrown together with all sorts of people, hawkers of religious articles and such. In her most voluble manner she now replied that a few days ago, on her way home, while she cut across the square in front of the church, someone snatched her purse. But until now she was too scared to tell me about it.

"Now I don't have a purse," she said, laughing, and opened her wardrobe door wide. "No purse, it's gone, see?" she repeated sweetly, like a child. This was too much: lying to my face like that was simply too much. I decided to go to the police myself.

And I did, that very morning.

But you have to know about the French. Not only are they tough, they are not easily fooled, either. I was lucky, though, because I wound up with a dullard of a clerk. On his door the sign said: "Motor Vehicles Bureau. Traffic Violations Unit." What traffic? What violation?

"Fenders broken, two injuries, two pre-trial interrogations," the clerk recited.

"You don't say," I said quietly.

"And I can also tell you why. You were parked illegally, on the wrong side of the street."

"
I
was?" I said and smiled in his face, which may have been a little disingenuous. The man became suspicious.

"Who are you, may I ask? A lawyer perhaps?" He looked in the file, searched the text and stopped his finger on a line. I took a peek and was able to fish out three characters from a sea of letters: RID. Who was Rid? I didn't have to wonder long. "Do you happen to be Monsieur Ridolfi?" asked this blockhead. Needless to say, I was stunned. I didn't expect to hear about, or meet, this man ever again, let alone in this place. But then I became talkative and felt a strange and sad melody spring up in my heart.

"I am no lawyer, and neither am I Monsieur Ridolfi, my dear sir. I am just a foolish sailor; an inquirer." The only thing I forgot to tell him was that I was my wife's husband.

"You are not a lawyer, then?"

"No, I am not."

"And you have no power of attorney? Then I have nothing further to discuss with you. (He was shouting by now.) I provide information to interested parties only. Good-bye and good luck."

But why was he so angry? I wondered. Unless it dawned on him that he did a stupid thing by letting the name of that man slip out. I was clumsy too, of course, though it hardly matters now. I could have hired a lawyer, I suppose, even then, but what for? Didn't this incident say enough? A young woman, married only a few months, goes out for a ride with a stranger, and they have a little accident because he stopped in the wrong place. But why did he stop, why did they go out, what did this strange man have to do with her anyway? All this did give me a bit of a jolt. And then that clerk: why did he get so scared? On account of a twisted fender? Not very likely. But then . . . Perhaps there were other things in that file which I should have tried to pry out of him.

Oh and finally: what could a young woman hope to achieve with her phony story? Attacked and robbed on the street, indeed. I thought it odd even then, and more so later on. But she stuck to her story, and a few days later even produced some sort of official paper which mentioned stolen pocketbooks, though as everyone knows, such papers could be easily gotten. But that's not even the point; what
is
noteworthy is that a similar thing, an adventure with robbers, did happen again. I will have more to say about it in due course.

Couldn't this easily become a hopeless morass? I was confronted with that question already then.

But I brushed it aside, and did so again and again. And this is what I don't understand, it has preyed on my mind on many a sleepless night since then. Why was I so lax? Was it lethargy, melancholy? What? Did my senses fail me? It did seem very strange that I should let something slip away, something I already had in my hand: to watch the little bird take wing, as if I was a sluggard, a man without mettle, without character.