The Story of My Wife (7 page)

After a time I was able to extricate myself from her embrace. I caressed her hair and—inappropriately enough—began to think how nice it would be to make love to this girl. In no time a fever of desire coursed through my veins . . .

There is madness in all of us, I concluded, and its source is deeper down than we care to reach.

There wasn't much left for me to do. I had the ship's foremast sawn off, lest that, too, come crashing down, and issued a few more orders in anticipation of a final catastrophe. The engine began emitting furious hissing sounds. Ominous grinding noises were coming from the direction of the propeller. And what did I do? I had a sailor arrested for trying to jump ship. I gave one more command, told them to release the steam, to avoid an explosion, after which I headed for my cabin. Once inside, I bolted the door. I was all set to do what that Don Pepe fellow had done just before: move on to the next location, as it were. I was just waiting for the lights to go out. Responsibility be hanged—let them manage as best they can. The first officer was a capable enough man.

I can't even say I was depressed. All I kept mumbling to myself was: enough. Enough! You blew it, you are worthless, so why go on? Not that chucking everything is so commendable—ach, it's awful, despicable, today the mere thought of it makes me shudder with horror and shame. But then I was so utterly broken in spirit, I longed for death, thirsted for it.

Strangely enough, I didn't think of my wife, and even if I had, it wouldn't have been enough to stop me. In any case, I decided she no longer loved me, and therefore dismissed all hope, turned away from a life gone awry. I knew strange things were beginning to happen back home, but I no longer cared to investigate. I was much too tired.

I had to stuff cotton in my ears because the noises from outside—the stamping and crashing and screeching—were becoming fearsome, apocalyptic. All I wanted at the moment was some peace and quiet, a little time to sort things out. But what? Everything I believed in—life, ambition and the rest—seemed like so much foolishness and vanity. The scales fell off my eyes, yes. What was the good of all the drudgery and pain? I may just as well have spent my years whistling on streetcorners—it would have amounted to the same thing. No, I was not sorry to leave anything behind.

But I did wash up, I washed my head and neck in cold water. Why did I do that? Not to clean up for the hereafter, I assure you. I once saw an old man suffering excruciatingly, his eyes ablaze with pain. He was ready to end it all and was just waiting for his deathly sick boy to expire in the next room. But even that boy, in the final minutes of his life, asked for—of all things—two soft-boiled eggs. Why? Because he was hungry. And that's just the point: life goes on till the last breath . . .

My washing up, then, ought to be seen in this light.

In the meantime, there were rumblings outside, followed by loud cries; I didn't even bother to look.

A sailor knows more about chance than anyone else; his whole life, after all, consists of nothing but chance. First I thought we were in for a big storm, and that was actually one of the reasons I locked myself in my cabin. I figured the coming storm would seal our fate—we would all perish.

All the signs were there: strong gusts, a rough sea—it seemed as if some awful underwater demon was churning up the sea. Northeast of us I saw lightning, even rain, but where we were, not a drop. The wind blew the clouds our way but then drove them on; they passed rapidly overhead. And though the barometer kept falling, the chances for rain, precisely because of the wind's velocity, seemed nil. If anything, it seemed to be clearing up, though I was no longer interested. I even drew the curtain over the porthole.

And as I sat there, immersed in thought and pipe smoke, a kind of blessed tranquility came over me, the like of which I had never before experienced. It had to be serenity of a celestial sort, for all my bitterness vanished, I felt light, and my thoughts, too, seemed weightless, evanescent . . .

Is this what death is like? I wondered. But just then I sensed a change, something must have happened out there. But what? It got awfully quiet; I began to listen.

The wind . . . has it stopped? I jumped up, but somebody was already knocking on my door.

"I felt a drop," he said jauntily, and moved on. "Sure looks like rain," said another. I was so shaken by that word, so devastated, I froze. Ah, those fine boys. I had abandoned them, let them down most shamelessly, but they wouldn't dream of doing the same. All night long I'd been a frantic beast, still, they didn't forget me. But that's the way they are. A little blessing from the sky and they think all their troubles are gone.

The wind changed direction, the storm grew more intense; it felt almost like a hurricane. And moments later: a thunderclap and then a downpour—we were in the eye of a life-saving electrical storm. While lightning flashed all around us, our boat began hissing and steaming.

By then, naturally, I was up on deck somewhere, cautious like a convalescent, though by no means happy. Still cold, I wrapped my coat tightly around me. It felt good to shiver, though to be alive did not. And oh yes: I saw the little miss again, if only for an instant. She looked fine to me, quite normal, and not one bit embarrassed.

"Oh Captain," she cooed, and blushed just a little as she fixed her tear-stained eyes on me. Caressing her face ever so gently, I took another good look—she
was
beautiful.

A day and a half later, we limped into Alexandria.

"Fire and water are bad masters," my officer said the following day, somewhat meekly, as if trying to defuse something in me.

"And we're not even liable for damages," I quipped as we looked over our still steaming boat. We kept dousing the old girl generously, inside she was still hot as hell.

It was around this time that my wife fell in love with one Paul de Grévy, a man of noble birth, related to counts supposedly, a descendant of the Latour de Pin clan, a "historical" family. The young man's friends called him Dedin, and now in company that's how my wife began to call him.

That she adored him I knew from the start. For one thing her whole being seemed thoroughly worked over; she was soft now, receptive, eager. She didn't look at him all that much, but when she did, her look conveyed blissful fellow feeling, transcendent loyalty. When she introduced him to me, she said:

"This is my
dearest
friend . . . after you, of course." Why did she have to add that? Better yet, why did she have to be so honest?

I was on to her, naturally. Her openness was meant to allay my fears. If she tells me what's in her heart, I can't possibly think of the worst. But I did. She could say what she liked, a woman in love has a certain glow, a halo almost—and she had it.

This wasn't anything like the silly Ridolfi affair, oh this was far more serious. This time she was in love. Very well, I decided, we'll keep an unobtrusive eye on them, and just bide our time. For the young man didn't seem to be in love, not just yet.

With his sporty mustache and casual airs, he looked like a self-assured chap. His mouth had a sweet and sensuous curve, but his face also expressed boredom—this man was not at all anxious to please. And his attire complemented that look: a sloppy but expensive jacket, extremely baggy trousers, a tiny, silly-looking hat, and what I took to be mountain-climbing boots—I swear he looked like he was going off on a hunt. And his arms flopped about, as though enervated by his own boredom.

Must be his aristocratic origin, I thought. That sort of thing does count for something.

Still, there was a glint in his eyes, an impudent glow, every time he saw me. As though he were letting me know:

Your face may launch ships, but in my eyes you are still an ox.

Come to think of it, he called me a sea dog the first time he saw me. "You old sea dog," he said. To which I replied:

"I am no more a sea dog, sir, than you a landlocked rat." Or some such thing. And gave him a friendly smile. I smiled at him constantly after that, curious to see how he'd respond. Will he notice that I detest him? (If only because he insisted on trying out his maritime expressions on me.) He did know something about ships and sailing, hence his insufferable expressions. And oh yes: when I first met him, I immediately thought of Don Julio carrying off his dead brother's things that dreadful night on the Daphne. He definitely reminded me of that Spaniard, not only his off-hand dignity but also his mustache that looked as if he waxed it with honey—that's how soft and shiny it was. With red, fleshy lips to match.

I thought of asking my wife when we were alone:

"What does this man do for a living?"

"Oh, he is a writer."

"A writer?"

"He also has a rich uncle," she said demurely.

"A parasite, in other words." I never did like beating around the bush.

She got very frightened. A sight to behold.

"You mean you don't like him?" she purred. "Not at all? Not even a little?" This was one of those rare moments when I truly detested her. For being so dense. What was there to like, for God's sake? And for her to beg so? . . . What was I, a kindly old uncle who was going to protect her lovers? What did she want, some friendly advice, a monthly allowance perhaps?

"Please, please, Jacques," she pleaded, "do love him, I beg of you; he is so very nice to me." This was strange, passing strange. Until then we rarely talked about things like marital fidelity; I just don't care to discuss such topics. But now I asked her:

"You'd have me love your boyfriend, Lizzy?" And burst out laughing. My wife, on the other hand, blushed.

"How can you be so vulgar, Jacques" she said indignantly, contemptuously. "He is not my boyfriend, he is not, how will I make you understand?" She was up in arms, a regular rebel; she even hit the table with her fist. "He is not a boyfriend, all right? He is a dear old friend whom I've known a long time and whom I now met quite by accident. You, Jacques, must be completely out of your mind."

I am out of my mind—that's rich.

"You can't deceive my eyes," I shot back, and quickly thought of a comparison. "Why, you are like a hen about to hatch an
egg."
I laughed again and just kept on laughing.

"Look at you, you're all hot and bothered. . . Do you know what I once saw in a village? A farmer's wife who didn't want her hens to hatch their eggs simply dunked them in a bucket of cold water. That's what I'd like to do with you right now."

She gave me a dumbfounded look. "You are comparing me to a hen?"

"Yes, I am. For now only to a hen, and you had better appreciate that."

"For now?"

"Yes, for now."

"Are you threatening me?"

"You've guessed it." And with that I got up and went into the other room. I was gasping for air, I noticed.

But she came after me and touching my arm with her finger, said:

"How you've changed . . . How nasty you've become." That's all she said and left the room.

Have I really become nasty? Could be. Irritable? Entirely possible. I was even willing to concede that my wife was innocent. (She did have such an innocent and offended air about her.) It was all in my mind, right? Women are such romantics—he was just an admirer. But what did that make me?

Actually, she had no idea what's been going on. She didn't read about my misfortune on the high seas, she missed it, and by the time people showed her the newspapers, it was all over, everyone was fine, nothing more to worry about.

"You had a fire?" she squealed when she found out. "Oh no! Was it dangerous?" Like that she started carrying on. What was I going to say? Start in, like her? Pant and hang out my tongue and show how my insides were ready to come out?

I did nothing of the sort. Even her voice annoyed me.

"Yes, I had a fire." And that was it. I really didn't need anyone to sympathize with me, or relive my troubles, which is impossible anyway. I don't expect any appreciation, either, it means nothing to me. Whatever happened happened, case closed.

I was somewhat agitated, I said before. She did have a way of stirring me up. And when in company, I felt even more of a stranger. What they found amusing, I found pointless; even their calm irritated me. I almost attacked a waiter once because he wasn't polite enough with my wife. And had a run-in with an old woman who . . . But what's the use? The truth is a sailor always feels edgy and offended on land. On sea I am somebody, if only a seaman. Here I am nothing, I turn into nothing. And contend with the filth and smut of the big city. It can be dirty aboard a ship also, but there I can have the crew clean up, can have their souls scrubbed down, if need be, until everything sparkles in the bright sun. Here what am I going to scrub down, the air? Might as well: it's pretty dirty. And people look pallid and sickly in the city, as if shut up in old mildewy attics, especially on winter mornings when they are still sleepy, and wheeze and hawk on crowded streetcars.

I am saying all this to demonstrate once again that for men like us it's no good being out of our element. We lose our aim, we stagnate, I especially, after what I've been through. Buried deep inside an endless, horrible night, unable to break loose. I often felt I was still on that lovely, graceful boat as it kept plowing the waves, all ablaze, its engines rattling and whining, struggling as if alive, refusing to yield. That whole night was like a huge void, a vast, dark expanse, and in that vastness, the flaming ship was ... I don't know how else to say this . . . my own living soul. For a long time I'd wake up in the middle of the night, screaming, drenched.

And all my wife could say even then is: "What's wrong? What's wrong?" And sit up in her bed and fret. But I'd say nothing to her; I would rather talk to myself. On the street or in a train, I would launch into endless monologues.

Here is a sample: She may be lovesick but I am not.

Or: I won't ever set foot on land again. If it means anything to you, follow me, come aboard my ship, for that's where I belong. Other times I said just the opposite: I'll never go out to sea again; it's a good life but no longer for me. In short, I, too, experienced that wretched state when you no longer know what to think and the opposite seems just as reasonable. ... I was almost sorry I didn't shoot myself that night.