The Story of My Wife (42 page)

This time
I
almost had a fit.

"There was no man in the car?"

"How should I know? There may have been ... a gentleman, that lady's husband."

I calmed down somewhat. In moments like this it's always better to stay calm. Besides, why badger him about who else was sitting there—I knew it only too well.

I looked around the square and saw several cabs. One of them responded to my whistle. So far so good.

"Here's a cab. Don't you make a move if you know what's good for you . . . Where are we going?"

"Charing Cross Station," he said, utterly defeated.

"That's better."

"To the Dover boat-train," I shouted to the driver. "But hurry, we don't want to miss our train."

I hustled him into the car, too, for who knows what reason. To pry a little more out of him? I couldn't deal with him as it was.

He told me to take him to the nearest church, where he'll swear that he saw "that certain gentleman" only twice in his life, he didn't know him well at all, he never lived in his boarding house— actually, this was the third time, he once saw him in the doorway. Because he, Horrabin Pit, sees and hears everything, I ought to know that by now, and in case I didn't, I should just take his word for it. . . And he remembers everything, too, nothing ever escapes him. And now I should just stop the car and he'll swear on anything I care to hand him.

I had no intention of taking him to any church, but I was able to ascertain that I was right: Miss Borton did apparently tell them something—that she saw me in London or met me on the street. Because my wife left me a letter in his office with word that it be sent to the Brighton in the morning. And no one besides Miss Borton knew I was staying there. Furthermore, they had been packing all night long, all three of them, taking "numerous items" with them, and departing with quite a few pieces of luggage, which—I can take his word for this—surprised him to no end, since they were only supposed to go on a brief vacation.

I didn't need to find out more. Even if he was in on the getaway. Which he probably wasn't. He was more of a simpleton than I thought. Why pester him any further. I let him go.

But not before I made him pay for the cab. This time he mustered up his courage.

"I will press charges against you," he shouted after me rather officiously. "For deprivation of personal liberty and other offenses."

But who heard him? I was off and running. No one can imagine how fast my two feet can take me in a real emergency. True, people helped me out at the ticket office and elsewhere. Besides, men over two hundred pounds are generally given the right of way, that's been my experience.

"To Dover! To Dover!" I shouted with a sudden sense of abandon and exhilaration. People kept pointing and waving, somebody nodded his head. And I did finally manage to board the train. The engine was already in motion.

"In God's name," I said as I got to the corridor and stood there erect, like a matinee idol.

I had to catch my breath first, my heart was beating mighty fast. Then I walked through the train, and after some snooping around, I opened the curtained door of a first-class compartment. With my house key dangling on my finger I said:

"Good morning, folks." And as they didn't return my greeting, I added:

"Have you taken to wearing a lorgnette, my dear?"

She was holding the same lorgnette that I saw at the ball. Quite handsome, too, with a gold frame. She picked it up hurriedly now, to see if it really was me she saw. And I could again watch those eyes grow.

But Paul de Grévy looked quite handsome, too, in a Japanese silk vest, a fine shirt, brown traveling suit . . . quite dashing, actually. Now, after some quick thinking, he was about to jump up, but I knocked him down in short order. Not even with my hand; I kicked him in the shin, which broke, I think, because he fell back in his seat as if he was suddenly sawn in half. And he pursed his sweet little lips with pain.

"Not a word out of you," I said. My heart slowed down a bit by now.

And when he did stir again, I grazed him on the nose, just enough to make it bleed.

At this point I decided to take a closer look at lover boy. Is he really such a pitiful weakling? I would have dearly loved to complete the hangman's job, to put out his eyes at least, and then throw him off the train, right before his lover's eyes. But why rush it? Let's turn our attention to her now.

She sat in her seat, motionless, not uttering a sound, apparently waiting for the next blow which would be aimed at her. And her nemesis—I—rather than quickly deciding what I ought to do, turned to her and said:

"Traveling quite comfortably, aren't you? In first class . . . On my money. What nerve! Let's have those stocks."

This was unexpected, even for me. Until that moment I swear I didn't even think of it. I did have some Cincinatti Railway shares left to me by my father, which I had removed from the bank recently, just before I left for Bruges, to be precise, intending to take them with me, though in the end I didn't. Now it suddenly occurred to me that they must have stolen it. And it looked as if they really did.

It's not even the value that bothered me. But that I should pay for their pleasure trip . . .

"What stocks?" my wife asked as stonily as if she were already dead.

"You just hold on, my sweet," I said, because I noticed that she began to eye the emergency brake. And Dedin stirred, too, holding a bloody handkerchief to his mouth. His foot must have hurt, too.

"Let's do this with as little fuss as possible," I warned, and raised my finger, the one with the key on it. "I thought out very carefully what I am about to do. I have my reasons."

And then I looked into her eyes. Until now we tried to avoid that. Besides, I had the feeling she couldn't see very well. Her eyes had a glazed, blank look. She herself was pale, but the white of her eyes was actually more red than white. And she stared at me as hesitantly and vacantly as blind people do.

But the moment I caught her eyes, something did seem to stir inside her. It did finally dawn on her that it was me standing there. She got up, and from that point on she was as docile as a child. With the result that everything after that went quite smoothly and pleasantly, just as I ordered it.

The train, in the meantime, clattered on.

Silently, she took down her suitcase, fished out her keys, and before long I had the shares in my hand. Still, it must have been terribly embarrassing to take them out and hand them over, to admit with that gesture that in this, too, she grossly and shamelessly abused my trust. So even in her present daze, she said:

"Here are the stocks . . . Please don't be angry with me." And she quickly turned around, away from me, away, so she wouldn't have to look at me, not ever again.

But for me this was enough. That for once in her life she was overcome with shame; that I lived to see the day. I really had nothing more to say.

Anyway, she looked kind of plump, kind of chubby . . . disappointingly so. Must have put on quite a few pounds. Or was this the old delusion? How many times it happened before. . . ? Whenever she filled my imagination for too long, I didn't want her any more. And that's how it was now.

For a moment I had this absurd notion that maybe this person isn't even my wife. Oh yes, I went that far.

"The fire was out when they arrived," read one of the posters at the ball. That's what I am reminded of as I write these lines. That I am a man accursed from birth . . . Oh, I must be, or else how am I to explain that satisfaction invariably eludes me. It must be my fate to be forever thirsting and never finding relief.

Did she deceive me? Yes? No? What difference does it make? Let us suppose she didn't, she just loved that rotter more than she loved me. But how petty all this was—a French woman who loves another man. How many thousands of times has that happened before? Oh, God . . .

But then I took out my pen and on the stub of one of the shares I had her write this:

"With the help of my lover I stole these shares from you. But you repossessed them on such and such date, on the Dover Express."

"I need this for the divorce proceedings," I said to her. "No alimony for you, my dear."

At that point she broke down and began to cry, intensely but quietly. I watched the tears roll down her face. Obviously it couldn't have been very pleasant for her to put her name to such a deposition.

I myself in the meantime stretched out quite comfortably in the firmly padded seat and took another good look at Monsieur De Grevy.

He leaned back, his eyes closed, like a suffering Onegin. His foot must have still bothered him.

And I kept thinking: Is that it, is that all there is to him? Good God. And I must say I felt terribly ashamed of myself, ashamed of my anxieties, ashamed of my whole life. Even at the ball he cut a better figure.

And this is the man I should now finish off? This worm, this nothing? I won't do it, by God . . . Let the wretch live. I got up from my seat.

"Good-bye, Lizzy," I said. "We won't see each other again. And this gentleman here had better marry you, I am warning him . . . because that still matters to me. I will not stand for my former wife becoming a whore. (I said this straight out.) But I have no desire to support the two of you after what's happened. Whatever money I have I need for myself."

"Did you hear me, Monsieur De Grevy?" I yelled over to the corner.

Monsieur De Grevy obediently nodded his head. And I accepted this nod, as satisfaction for a lifetime.

"For if that doesn't come to pass, dear sir, you will be in for a very rude awakening." And with these words I stepped back toward the door.

My wife still stood there, motionless, staring at me, intently, as if I were some exotic waxwork. Though her eyes were still bleary. And filled with tears.

And as I considered the matter satisfactorily settled, and had nothing further to say, I left the compartment. And heard not a murmur from inside.

Well done, I said to myself as I stepped off the train. This thing turned out just right. For who wants to be like that scalesman? Who wants to be his wife's hangman?

(Here was the evidence: you never leave off brooding and rationalizing—you keep at it until you pop off. Then you stop.)

Nothing hurt any more. Or I should say, one word still did: the word Lizzy. When I uttered it—this funny bauble of a name—one more time. I shouldn't have.

Nevertheless, I kept whistling.

It happened to be a beautiful morning, quite springlike again, with brisk winds and brilliant, penetrating sunshine.

"I am free," I said. "At last... I belong to no one; I cast off my burdens." And what a pleasant feeling that was. Indeed, I felt as vast, as solitary, as the open sky.

While most other people (I would have liked to tell Gregory Sanders) were hopelessly bound to one another—the victims of a foul obsession.

And the thought that but a few days ago I was still indescribably happy with her—why, that thought melted away like fog, turned into a vague, unknowable dream . . . But why be happy, anyway? For all we know, happiness could be our stubbornest obsession.

I no longer yearned for it; all I wished for now was peace of mind. I very much hoped I would attain it, that it would be mine, soon. It felt good to gaze after that disappearing train.

Did it come? Were my hopes fulfilled. . . ? Let's rest a little. I will talk about it in the next chapters.

Four

ACTUALLY, I HAVE VERY LITTLE MORE TO SAY. I worked for a while for the firm of Mischang and Nadoldy, especially for Mr. Martin Nadoldy, supplying him with chemicals: paraffin and such, plying many a sea route in the process; I also struck a couple of good deals with a Hungarian named Carolli . . . But why go into such details?

Suffice it to say that I was again able to put away a little something, though I was still not pleased with myself. I couldn't rest, I was after big money, I threw myself into my work like a fiend. Actually, I never could stand idleness of mind. Andy perhaps for this very reason the old routine, the trivial chores associated with minor transactions could no longer satisfy me. Neither could the sea. Which didn't surprise me, of course.

After all, one does change over the years, especially if one spends a long enough time on land. I was no longer the seafaring man of old, that's certain; but being a sailor is so improbable a condition anyway, it could never be understood by anyone who's never tried it. Just to give one example: A man like that hasn't got anything he can call his own; fact is he hardly knows what the word ownership means, not in the sense it's used around here, at any rate. If he is asked, "Is this yours?" and he answers straight from the heart, he should say: "What do I know?" For whatever he does have is his only temporarily. It's swept away by the first wave, pinched by his best buddy, or snatched from him by the devil in a smoky dive. But after it's gone, he appears again with the most curious of smiles, saying he'd like to serve again, start from scratch, that is, and again finish last.

Oh, the hours I spent trying to figure him out!

What makes such men go on, anyway? To be stuck for months on end on an old windjammer, say, with nothing to look forward to but hard work, atrocious food, and no family, no women, until you end up snarling at your buddy like dogs—what's there to like in all that? Or take those never-ending storms . . . But who can see into men's hearts? What do they really like—that unquenchable thirst, the scurvy they can never get over, the bouts of depression, the boredom?

I was getting restless, the ground under me scorched my feet, and besides, I couldn't keep up the pace over here, though at times all you do on land is tread water.

Or is it possible that I wasn't such a great sailor even in the old days? I guess it is possible. But never mind, I said to myself. Let's do something else, let's start from the beginning.

My health wasn't what it used to be, let's not forget that, either. the old wear and tear, you know. The wind forever blowing outside made me uncommonly edgy, and what's worse, it cut through me like ice, especially in the early morning hours. What ended up happening was that my joints began to hurt.