The Story of My Wife (46 page)

By then I was really getting ready to leave. In a wink of an eye, in a flash, I decided so much ... I will relate only the essentials.

I must never ever see her again; I mustn't even think of the possibility of meeting her. I had resolved this before, but now I felt stronger about it, more adamant. Or rather . . . but this is precisely what I have trouble expressing.

It's true I had made up my mind long ago not to see her again; yet the hope in me could never be extinguished that this would only be temporary, and that one day we would talk again. If not here, then in another life. I had a gentle feeling about this, a feeling that promised great calm, ultimate calm.

So when this strange plump woman entered, this other Lizzy, I got so depressed, I said to myself:

Why don't you look her up? So you travel a day to get there and another to return—half hour is all you would need.

And hence the new vow. Because this momentary weakness, this faltering, was frightful. And this is the thing I couldn't possibly explain. But why try even? My sufferings are mine alone; whatever I learn from them are lessons only for me. The justice inherent in suffering can be known only by he who
must
know, who's experienced it. I may protest again and again that I shall be stronger, but words remain words, and I've had enough of them.

Only this much I knew: neither here nor in the hereafter; never again.

Remember those morning soldier boys, I instructed myself. And only I could say what lay at the bottom of that instruction.

And thus my adventures came to an end. I forced myself to go on traveling a while longer, but the old thrill was gone. Before long I returned to Paris for good.

Let me backtrack a little now, for I just realized I had completely forgotten about something. While still in London it occurred to me that as long as I was there I might as well have another look at the place where my life took such a radical turn—the house where they had that ball. Let's just see how it looks in broad daylight, I said. And who knows: under some pretext or other I might even be able to make my way into the salon. Well, it worked. I found Madame Poulence in the telephone book—the address was still the same . . .

Only thing was I got there too early. I have this habit, you see, of getting up at the crack of dawn and as a result I misjudge things— eight or nine o'clock for me is not nearly as early as it is for many other people. But I realized of course that it's bad manners to ring somebody's bell at that early hour.

But no matter . . . Let me just retrace my steps. I had other plans that morning, actually; I wanted to see other things as well. As long as I came this far, I decided, why not follow the same route—the one I took going home after the ball?

And this, too, turned out better than I expected. The sun began to shine gloriously, and I, too, was urged on by some fortuitous instinct. Of course at times like these one is also guided by certain associations and inferences, like where did I walk past a theatre, where exactly did a sidestreet join a thoroughfare, on which side did I spot the dome of St. Paul's, and so on. It so happened I remembered all the details—remembered them so precisely, in fact, so sharply, I was quite surprised myself. For apart from minor slip-ups, I found everything I was looking for: the pillared gateway where I tore off my beard, that tiny street where I slipped and almost broke my foot—except the square where ill fate had me confront that cabdriver, that I couldn't find, not for the life of me. It seems to have vanished, or been swallowed up by this huge city. Or was the square built up? Is it possible? I tried in vain to explain to people that there was a church somewhere nearby—I clearly remembered the flickering lights in the windows, and faint organ music floating through the mist (at the time I was even surprised at that: a mass with music at this hour? or was somebody practicing?). At any rate, I was walking up and down now for hours, the midday bells had already been rung, but nothing. The square seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

I felt badly about this. And although it wasn't feelings of melancholy or grief or anything like that made me come here, I did in the course of time develop a kind of attachment to that old man. Not only did I feel sorry for him, his sad fate rather interested me—the odd happenstance, for example, that brought us together.. . . Why did he have to die? My rage at that time sprang from quite a different source, yet I went ahead and broke his neck—wasn't that a monstrous deed? To make him the victim and myself the instrument of that rage?

In spite of all that, however, I was neither agitated nor sad, really; I contemplated these scenes of past turmoil rather indifferently. Though not when finally
the
door opened before me, and I walked through the same Gothic archway once again. By then my stomach had risen all the way to my heart.

For this
was
different, you see. It was the place where my life had suddenly turned around . . . For ever since then—let's come out with it finally—I am not really alive any more . . . Oh, I go through the motions, I eat, I run around, still I am not at all convinced I am alive. Could
anybody
be that fatally important to a serious and mature person? Least of all a two-legged caterwauler in a skirt. . . ? These are the sort of questions I used to amuse myself with. For needless to say, I refused to believe it could actually be so, except when I walked through that pseudo-Gothic entranceway.

Though the extraordinary impact of that moment could also have another explanation. Some of our memories we put to rest. We do not recall them, we never wish to evoke them, they seem to run their own course in the heart. The yesterday of such memories is not the real yesterday but the last time we contemplated them. I myself have never thought about this house; the cabdriver was often on my mind, but never the house. The fateful, tragic events of my life I keep quiet about. Their memories reside within me, lodged there like a bullet, sentenced to utter silence.

You were sitting right here in this garden, I said to myself. And it did seem like yesterday that I was here; that garden seemed so close. I was only going home to change or something . . .

I hadn't bothered to go back to the ballroom downstairs, I just didn't have the strength. When I came down from the studio I said to myself: Enough.

Actually, there was nothing special about that studio—it was an informal acting school, that is all, a preparatory course for film-acting, something like that—big cities are full of them. As I later learned, Mme. Poulence set it up for her older sister who was sick or something. A retired ballerina she was, that's it . . . She not only gave dancing lessons but taught you how to move gracefully, and oh yes, how to court, how to love . . .

There were expensive cars parked in front of the house, young men in top hats darted to and fro in the hallway . . . From under their half-closed lids their eyes glistened coldly, like water. These privileged gentlemen are so cool, they never let you know they noticed you.

Oh, I know how magical, how delicious it could be to neck with some Persephone in a darkened studio, while a play is in progress, with the young lady herself still panting, still affected by those classical passions. Idle gentlemen in every age are given to such diversions. But to think that the one I once loved could come
here,
could find pleasure in
this . . .

This was merely one side of the coin, though; the other side was this:

At times like these the notion of near and far plays tricks on your nerves. For all this seemed to have happened only yesterday, yet where was that yesterday. . . ? In the unreachable distance, as far removed as the dead. Impenetrable fog, cries, gestures, confusion separated us . . . And what lay behind all that were clearly those sleepless nights when I endlessly tossed and turned in bed, or those afternoons, when I walked down the agave-lined promenade with the already mentioned young lady, whose tress was as beautiful as her demeanor, and tipped my hat to the gentlemen passing by in their light runabouts. How very strange human life can be! How fleeting, how insubstantial. Perhaps it's best expressed by a mere sigh. Who would ever believe, for instance, that I even wore a beard in South America? That I kept lovers there— this or that mysterious Italian or other foreign lady? It's these things that are truly far away.

And still, although so much had come between us, so much time, she herself lived in me unchanged. Wrapped in a kind of enchanted, crystallized silence, she remained next to my heart, in another room as it were, which you just had to enter and there she was, immersed in silence, reading one of her odd books. That this was really so I only now realized; all these years I was unaware of it, or what is perhaps more likely: unwilling to recall it. But now how I would have loved to walk into the Brighton, sit at my usual corner table, lean against the wall, and from there go home and spread out my notes and lists under the table lamp's warm glow.

This, then, is the reason I had to relate the events of that day.

For her nearness that afternoon
was
portentous. In this town, I realized, I was in her hands. Hadn't she once snatched me from death's clutches? Of course she did. The same image kept going through my mind—something I hadn't thought of in all this time: I am sick and pretending to be asleep . . . yes, pretending because I want her to get some rest, too. But just the same, she leans over and looks at me—her face is all flushed, her eyes filled with anxiety.

In other words she still loved me—that is what I wanted to prove to myself of course, and as ardently as I could. At this point I had to stop on the street. I was overcome with bliss, a sweet, sweet feeling; a radiance seemed to envelop my heart.

All because of that momentary hope that she did love me after all.

But wasn't this terrible! That the mere thought could still cheer me up?

Oh the little chatterbox ... I kept muttering, trying to brush it all away.

To no avail, for as I said, I would have given anything to be able to go home as in the old days. That
is
where I wanted to go, nowhere else. Back to those despised rooftops, where at dawn white pigeons take to the sky.

And now that early morning encounter with a strange Lizzy in a wretched café . . . But that's when I realized I had to lock the door to that other room ... for good.

I can hardly remember the color of her eyes, try as hard as I might. I said blue before but that may not be so. They were jade-colored, I believe, which grew deeper and darkened into blue as her emotions grew more intense, or as the weather turned gloomy.

Furthermore: Was she sweet-natured or dull? Pretty or homely? Nowadays when I see her face it's usually heavy with sleep, her hair is messed up . . . And she looks lovely.

And that about does it, too; that's the extent of my early-morning woolgathering; I indulge myself a little. This much luxury I must allow myself. For if you are the kind of person who won't take morphine or cocaine, what will you do for an addiction? What
will
I end up with if, having abandoned all hopes of a future, I also renounce my past? What should I be contemplating at the breakfast table—the pipetta I happen to be holding in my hand?

Besides, I realized something during my early-morning ruminations, namely that you cannot ever get to the bottom of things. I may turn them inside out, still I will never truly comprehend them. Life cannot be lived through, it seems, not totally, not fully, we merely skim the surface, dip into foam.

For if this were not so, how do I account for the doubts I sometimes have as to whether things I desperately try to pin down had ever actually occurred? I confess I am not entirely certain they did. They are always ready to vanish, melt into air; memory releases them so easily . . . But then, how
does
it all work? Is our soul like air or water that the tempests inside can disappear without a trace?

But looking at it another way: if I
was
able to comprehend everything that happened, how do I then explain the fact that I can rehash it even today and discover new elements every time . . . and that the memories sometimes seem sweet and sometimes bitter . . . Eh, I won't pursue it further—it leads nowhere, to endless brooding at most. It's enough if I occasionally take the trouble to be with her, the early-morning darkness is just the right time for it. I wrap myself in my blanket and wait for a glimmer of light, in me and outside. It just makes me feel good—though the feeling would surely get the better of me if I were not my own master. But I am. It is like a spiritual exercise: half hour of daydreaming is permitted, after which I jump up and start the day. For let's face it: the best antidote to this sort of addiction is still unceasing activity. And while we are on the subject of activities, let me briefly recount my more recent Parisian exploits. Let us begin with the most important: I entered the university.

Not as a regular student, of course, only as an auditor. How did this happen? Why did I decide to do it? Well, by myself I wasn't getting anywhere with the chemistry, so I hired a tutor. But then he left, got a job abroad somewhere. And since he had already brought me to the university a few times, to demonstrate things in the laboratory (he was an assistant in the Chemistry Department), when he left I didn't bother to hire another tutor but registered myself.

And that was it.

With that simple act I overcame all the anxiety that was inspired in me by the halls of science ever since I was a child—an anxiety exacerbated by my advancing years. I no longer belong there, I kept telling myself. . . Except now I saw that nobody gave a damn about me, so I got an even greater urge to go through with it, was all fired up about being a student.

And I did indeed work a great deal, from morning to night, no student could work harder. Had my nose in my books all the time. To be sure, there were things here and there that annoyed me, but I got over them quickly enough. To name just one: I found the young people of today quite strange, I didn't know what to make of them.