The Story of My Wife (45 page)

There was one more thing: he asked not to berate his son, it would do no good; he himself no longer had an opinion about the boy, nor about anything else; people, things—it was all the same to him now. He'd suspended all judgment.

This letter of his, as I say, had a decisive influence on me during the years of silence. The main portion, too, but that postscript in particular. For what a relief it is to be free of a cherished conviction, especially if, at the same time, one would like to hold on to it to the bitter end. In time it can become an unbearable burden. For what
is
one to do with one's conviction. . . ? Finally I did tell him about my plan; I heard he was beginning to get better, and I, too, was getting ready for my return trip. But then, a few days later, on October fifth, he suddenly died.

It's as if my own ill-fated life story were making the selfsame point—that from now on I must live alone. Why, he himself told me as much in his letter: "This is your fate, it seems," he wrote. "Learn to live alone then." And he even added: "Totally, unrelievedly alone."

But what hurts me still is that I spent so little time with him while he was alive—him of all people I neglected. You spend your life troubling yourself with all kinds of riff-raff, and when it comes to the deserving few, you've run out of time. But perhaps that's the way it should be . . . It, too, is part of the overall scheme.

I just had to learn how to lead an idle life, that's all. But where was I going to find the thing that would fill out my days? That's when I started writing these notes, but they are a bother, too . . . Words are a burden, and for that reason alone I can't express myself decently. In short, it isn't easy not having to earn a living or worry about the future . . . especially when you no longer have a future to look forward to. . . . An antiquarian offered me a set of fine old telescopes and suggested that I gaze at the stars; another wanted to sell me a litter of Angora cats, assuring me that they were very quiet pets, virtually voiceless—ideal as companions. Both men had to be gotten rid of, though the star-gazer made me remember something. I always liked chemistry, had even studied it at one time; what is more, I began my second career down south with a small chemical firm. So in place of the telescopes I set up a well-equipped laboratory in my new home, in one of the small upstairs rooms. I had seen something like this once near Naples, in the house of some aristocrat, except I furnished mine much more cleverly, to suit my very own need. And before long I was in there, working.

It seemed right . . . perfect, in fact. Yes, being occupied
is
wonderful; and being like a student is even more splendid. To drift through time with not a care in the world; to be wrapped up in the tiniest tasks . . . But how very strange: it was as if it had only been yesterday that I put down my spoon at the table—as soon as lunch was over, I used to rush back to my room, to do nothing; I said I had to study but instead sneaked a smoke and just whiled away the time. And now it seemed as if I'd always done just that, as if I had idled away my whole life this way. It was surely gone—much of it, anyway.

No matter, I thought to myself, I'll pick up where I left off. That I was born to become a scholar I no longer doubted, it became more self-evident than ever. To be sure, I always knew it, but a wicked little fiend invariably distracted me: first there were all those dreams, then the harsh reality. But now, at last, it was different; studying gave me real pleasure, and everything connected with it: the solitary early-morning hours, that hard but rewarding, self-reliant solitude, when you know beforehand what work lies ahead, and when the time comes, that is precisely what you concentrate on, dismissing everything else. ... In short, things began to look up, but then I was stricken again. It was the same illness that gave me so much trouble down in South America: a chronic respiratory condition, the miserable legacy of my last sea voyage. I had a bad case of it this time, it wore me down completely—there were times I coughed the whole night through. So the same thing happened again, the same wicked devil stepped in: you'd better chuck the whole thing. I really had to; fumes and such were bad for my lungs. But what my esteemed doctors wanted was not to my liking, either. I caught my sickness on the sea; should I now go to the Riviera? Anyway, I don't like to be out on a promenade early in the morning, clutching a walking stick.

But then one of the younger physicians had an excellent idea. Why didn't I visit the country now and then? I was my own man, after all, with all that free time on my hands. I could go anywhere, stay if I so desired or return and go someplace else; I could seek out the very best places. The man was absolutely right. Why shouldn't I roam the world a little? It would do me so much good: new surroundings for my disposition, a change of air for my lungs. And that's just what happened. I woke up one morning and realized I was breathing free again. The
little
doctor was proven right, what do you know . . . But sometimes the assistant does outshine the professor, such things do happen.

As far as my spirits were concerned, I felt renewed. All the more as I'd never before had the luxury of traveling about without set plans or schedules. I had always been in a hurry, always full of anxieties; and whatever I did want to see, I had to squeeze in quickly. Not this time, though. I had nothing particular in mind. Whatever came my way I looked at, what didn't, I left without regret. And I dare say this was like being buffeted and bathed by the spring wind.

When I arrived in a new place I didn't hit the streets, as before, or the market where there is always such a racket. I went up to my room to rest a bit, that's how I started now, or ensconsed myself in tiny out-of-the-way inns, hiding behind dark glass partitions or plants, preferring places high up from where I could take in the whole town. And sit motionless, like a statue. And what caught my attention at such times? Mere nothings, most probably. The wind or the rain; a trayful of cheese cake put in a window to cool; a man who may be the mayor; a bunch of girls . . . All these goings-on never did seem as strange as now. As if I had just tumbled down from a distant star. And couldn't stop laughing.

What's more, it seemed like an innocuous, neutral kind of laugh, neither sarcastic nor supercilious, God only knows exactly what kind—soulless perhaps. But this, too, felt so good; for the first time in my life I had a real rest. And let's add one more thing: I traveled without luggage. The first time I saw anything like this was in Sweden. I met up with an American millionaire who—and this is God's honest truth—arrived there hatless with only an attache case in his hand. I couldn't get over it, and decided then and there that if I ever became rich I'd do what he did. Just think, how very comfortable it is to step off the train like that, not having to worry about anything. If I am cold, or if I need something, I just buy it as I go along. And when I have no more use for it, I simply leave it in the hotel—let the chambermaids rejoice.

Let me add just one more thought: happiness is the highest expression of self-love, its greatest fulfillment, yet it can't be conceived of without obliviousness, without abandon. Actually, this is one of the reasons why I quoted at such length from Gregory Sanders's letter just before—because he, too, comments on this, on what it means to let go, to be free of ourselves. Well, that is exactly how I lived then. It was almost as if I wasn't on this earth any more. I was truly happy.

Only once in a great while did dreams, born of selfishness, appear before my eyes, and even then, quite faintly, hesitantly, in the following form, for instance:

I roam the French countryside until I spot a young maiden . . . Ah, how clever an invention it is in the ancient Jacob story to have him catch sight of that girl quite suddenly, near a well, and learn that they are distantly related. That's what I would need, I say to myself, someone who would not need any explanation about myself, who would know all there was to know. She'd know
me,
God only knows how or from where, from which secret recess of forgotten time.

There was this sign in the café window—I still remember the two names: Los Vivienos and Carricada, Spanish musical clowns, and underneath it in big letters: DODOFÉ. But all of that was long gone, the café was empty, only a few glass lamps flickered inside— it's true it was almost three o'clock in the morning, yet very much nighttime, totally dark, and stormy, too.

Actually it was a beautiful winter storm, the kind in which oversized snowflakes swirl hypnotically about, like so many cherubs, in the great blackness.

All the murdered children, I thought . . . Who the hell knows what was going through my mind?

I had just gotten off the train and thought I'd sit out the night in this café. I have always liked such places with their papier-mache roses on the wall and the mirror. A nice fire was still crackling in the stove, so I sat down nearby. Behind me there was a wall-hanging, also made of paper, with painted swans swimming in some lake.

It was quiet in the place, quiet all around, with only a single waiter on duty, and even he was pretty sleepy, though after a while he perked up. When I ordered a bottle of champagne and some brandy to go with it, that's when.

But the room itself seemed to stir in response to my voice, I somehow sensed attentiveness in the air. Actually, it started earlier. From the beginning I had the distinct impression somebody was standing behind that wall-hanging, possible more than one person, and they were all listening. And—what do you know—I was right.

I took a closer look and saw there was a little hole near the edge of that drapery, and in that hole I could discern the gleam of a human eye.

Well, well, I thought to myself, something's going to happen here, after all. There is no denying that until now I'd been crisscrossing France, this wicked land, as though it were some garden paradise. And I couldn't be more light-hearted and carefree doing it. In spite of the stories one kept hearing. A foreign professor disappeared without a trace. (So what? He probably didn't weigh two hundred-fifty pounds.) An Egyptian lady was slain on the train. (Poor dear; what a cheerless death.) ... I could go on.

This time, though, I was a bit startled. To see that eye in the hole
was
rather disconcerting. And I happened to have quite a lot of money in my pocket.

So, the next few minutes were sheer agony, as if the passing seconds were moving across my taut nerves in the manner of tightrope-walkers. But then all that passed, dissolved into something amazing.

A young man emerged from someplace, an incredibly young man, all dressed up in silks. He was so white, his tunic so sheer and sleek, I hardly dared to look . . . This man was Dodofé.

A regular little chap otherwise, with modest sidewhiskers and bright rosy cheeks. All in all, a modest chap, truly—he very politely nodded towards me, even bowed when he saw the champagne. Then he stretched, walked around for a bit, looked outside at the snowfall, acting like a man who had been sleeping in some corner and just awakened. Finally, he asked where Lizzy was— asked the waiter, that is, not me.

"Lizzy," he cried cheerfully.

At that point I put down my glass.

It all seemed like a vision. A man wrapped in silk, the paper flowers and all . . . and that weird storm outside . . .

Is this where she ended up? I asked myself. Is it possible??

Yet, how can I ever describe the effect a single word can have on the human heart. Lizzy, he said.

Once, long ago, I also said Lizzy. It wasn't even that long ago; it
seems
like yesterday. In all that time, though, the name never once passed my lips.

Must be a rare name. I never once heard it since then.

Oh God,
did
she end up in this place?

I never would have believed it . . . though I could imagine her doing plenty of strange things. But the mere thought that this is why she went to Spain, to do this, and that same road should lead her back here . . .

Then again, that's what she wanted to be: an actress . . . always.

At any rate, I had this absurd feeling that she was right here with me in this room. It was more than a feeling, it was certain knowledge. I was caught up in a mad whirlgig by now . . . She
was
there, I would have staked my life on it. And quite close, too, no more than a few paces away.

Why of course she was here, she even saw me just before, why sure . . . The one staring at me, that was her . . . that's why she's afraid to show herself.

"The bill please," I called to the waiter. But then . . . then all the blood rushed to my heart.

I'll wait for her, I suddenly decided.

Why not? What's the sense of running away? Maybe this is what's been foreordained for us: that we shall each roam the world, on our own, until one day in such and such location, in this very dive, we shall accidentally meet. But then why should I run away? Why couldn't we meet and talk for a while?

Why couldn't I just see her for an instant. . . ?

As I was saying, I couldn't adequately describe the pressure I felt in my heart. Nor the terrible and melancholy longing, which then found all sorts of expression, revolting expression, too, let's be totally honest about it.

An early morning fling was what I was really after, and with the person I had once loved so much. It was an intriguing and utterly shameless feeling. But you see, it was lightness I wanted, pleasure without consequences, without soul; I wanted to pretend I had never seen her before. And that is why my heart was racing so . . .

But then it passed. This Lizzy person turned up; it seems she had been sleeping, too—another sleepyhead. She was a heavy, sluggish, disheveled-looking woman with matted hair. Presently, she threw a black robe over her husband's shoulder—these folks from the south must shiver in this snowy weather . . . And by then, what I took to be a vision melted away.

But I remained seated for a while longer; I was tired.

Just then soldier boys streamed into the café, soldiers on morning duty. Not even young officers but ordinary conscripts. And what seemed amazing was that they overran the place, like mice, in a matter of minutes. I had no idea where they were coming from.