The Story of My Wife (9 page)

(Aha, he's talking about the hotel.)

"And why not, may I ask?"

"Because he is a scoundrel. He'll trick you, he'll fleece you. Trusting soul that you are." (Is that what I am, a trusting soul?) And he kept harping on my troubled state of mind, my low spirits, my anxieties.

"My anxieties?"

"It's perfectly understandable. Someone who suffered as much, put up with as much as you have these past few months."

"Why, what have I put with? How would you know about that? And what's more to the point, what's it got to do with you?" (But as I said, the man was impervious; that was the secret of his being.)

"Oh let's not make light of it, captain," he said, with some feeling now. "Let's not." He knew exactly what happened on the high seas, how heroically I piloted that boat; he was well-informed on the subject. He even knew I made sure no fee would be paid to any of the rescue services. . . .

This interested me somewhat because it happened to be true— not having to pay special fees, that is. I was rather proud of it, actually. But how on earth did he know about all that? I discussed it with no one; nor do I intend to.

But that's man for you. I felt myself getting warmer. He went on to name the person who had related all this to him, a well-known authority, a maritime specialist, for whom I myself had the highest regard . . . And he said I acted heroically.

That
is
man all over. You start praising him and before long you can slip a ring through his nose. And I am no exception. Especially when it comes to the accident which was still a sore point and will remain that to the end of my days.

"Won't you sit down?" I now said to the young man. I was that interested in finding out if I was a hero or some odious wretch. Alas, you can never be sure. But I have often told myself to let things take their course, not say anything—I might just be vindicated in the end. Maybe they are right; maybe I did do a good job navigating that ship.

"Do sit down, my friend," I said to the bastard. And remembered that I promised him a glass of brandy when I invited him up.

"How about a drink?" I asked, rather embarrassed now.

"Oh yes, please," he said, his face all bright and animated. He was smiling at
me
of course. And I knew why. He got the better of me, he outsmarted me. His intentions? Simple. To get himself out of a tight spot, to take the wind out of my sail. He saw I was a wild animal and treated me as such. He was nobody's fool.

To this day I am ashamed of myself for being so gullible. Then again, I am no different today . . . But we'll leave that for now.

Anyway, he pulled a fast one on me. And there was nothing surprising in this, come to think of it. Doesn't it often happen that elaborate arguments keep running through your mind? The same old story, actually: that maybe I
was
wrong and he
was
a decent fellow, a dear, selfless friend looking after my thoroughly honest wife. It is possible. Such things do happen. Let's remember how unconcealed his admiration was for her, and how very open hers for his. Even that speaks well of the man, damn it, plus the fact that he so graciously returned my wallet.... I once saw a statue, in Italy, of a young hero. With a menacing lion wrapped around his chest, he looked straight ahead, stout, courageous. Believe it or not, I kept thinking of this statue now, for that's how honest and upright this youth seemed to me. What is more, he took a lively interest in my financial affairs. At the moment he was suggesting ways of making money I had never even heard of. Ingenious possibilities, which he was sharing with me. With
me.

"Why, that's a capital idea," I said. "How did you come upon such a capital idea?"

And already we were drawing closer.

"How did I come upon it? I hear things. And I would bet any amount of money that it would be just the thing for you. Made to order. Not that silly hotel venture but this."

Everything he said sounded so bright. I was astonished. An outsider giving advice to an expert, and in shipping matters, to boot—I have never seen anything like it. He was talking about the rescue service. Brought up the accident again. Mentioned my courageous stand and all that.

"Why don't you try to get into one of those companies, the rescue companies?" he suddenly asked. "I can't think of a more suitable place for you." He was right. It
was
a capital idea.

I ought to tell you, I suppose, just what sort of companies these are.

It's simple. They send their ships into dangerous areas and help boats in distress, for a proper fee, of course, for such things are not cheap. On the other hand, they pay their employees handsomely. The work is not easy, but what would suit me better than hard work? As I said, it surprised me to no end that such a simple solution should come from somebody else.

"But how does one join such an operation?"

"Well," he said warmly, "how about moving on to London?"

"To London?"

He explained: Didn't I know people there? (I did mention this before,
en passant?)
Things were picking up in London, you kept hearing about it. Business was definitely on the upswing. He happened to be right about that.

"But to move there for good?"

"Why not?" asked this kind-hearted young man.

Why not indeed. A short trip wouldn't make much sense, would it?

"You know, you are absolutely right. Why shouldn't I go to
London? What a first-rate idea. What's keeping me here anyway?" And with that I got up and went to my desk for a pencil.

"I'll make a note of it right now. I'll write to a friend of mine in London first thing tomorrow morning."

And this was the moment when something did finally happen in that room.

Nobody should take me for a fool, for I am not. My instincts are
as keen as can be—they haven't failed me yet. So if I say that
something stirred in that room that moment, you must believe
me. What I said to him while casting about for my engagement
calendar was this:

"It's really decent of you to be so concerned about my affairs.
Frankly, I had no idea you had such a feeling for business.

"Only other people's business," Monsieur Dedin replied.
"When it comes to my own affairs, I am not very clever, as you
yourself were good enough to point out."

In other words, he paid me back. For my churlishness first of all. And how artfully, with eyes all agleam.

"Now if you permit me, captain," he went on, "I will also make a note to myself." And he smiled at me shamelessly.

This was the moment when I came to my senses. I shall never
forget it. As surely as I am alive, he wrote down something about me.

Oh, how many times I thought of that scene; how many nights I spent agonizing over it. I would give a lot even today if I could put my hands on that notebook of his.

For there was this strange gleam in his eyes, as I said. Who he
reminded me of, which one of the many scoundrels I came across
in my life, I can't say. What did flash through my mind was that
this man got tired of my poor wife. He was urging us to go to
London because he wanted to get rid of her. Why, of course, of
course . . . how stupid of me.

That's what the note must have been about: that he succeeded
royally in playing me for a fool. One does like to take note of somebody else's stupidity, I've noticed that.... A lot I cared about the quarrel, or my eye injury at that point.

"You see," I would have liked to say to my wife. And already felt a strange pang around my heart. "You see . . . the scoundrel."

Ah, the thought, the very idea that this lovely creature, my bright little star could be that blackguard's slut. . .

To be perfectly frank, I had no idea what to do next.

For life, alas, is adhering to norms. It would have made no sense at all to start raging again, or act indignant, not after you had been kind of chummy with the fellow.

And still. I didn't want to make a fuss. I walked over to him, and putting my hand under his chin, lifted his head, as you would a little girl's, to make her look at you. He turned pale straightaway.

"Enjoy your notation, my friend," I said to him gently. "It's sure to be instructive," I added, just as gently. "But now, go." This was a little more abrupt.

"You mean you are throwing me out?" And he even tried to laugh a little. He couldn't say very much because I was still propping up his chin.

"Yes, I am. You gave me good advice, I think I will take it, but now it's getting late." Though what my eyes were expressing in the meantime was probably this:

I'll let you go this time, but if I get my hands on you again, watch out.

And with that we shook hands. Which was kind of funny. Laughable. And we did laugh a little, believe it or not.

When he finally left, I just stood there, unable to move, weighed down by one thought: So that's what I am up against. But then other thoughts took over: It can't be that bad. I'll write to Kodor in London. Why not? Why shouldn't I go there? Because he suggested it? That shouldn't bother me in the least.

I gave the matter quite a bit of thought after that; I tried to reason it out. If I worked four or five years for one of those outfits, we'd be all right. I would be forty-seven then, which, granted, is not that young, but not terribly old either. We could still have a life. ... I could start a business of my own, or invest my money. Yes, with
a little nest egg
I could do it. I'd come back here and settle down with her . . . put an end to this gypsy life. That, at least, is what I kept turning over in my mind.

And one more thing: thirty-one and five make thirty-six—she wouldn't be that young by then, either; women do calm down at that age, hopefully. In any case, I decided I would definitely try to join one of those firms, if only for the money.

That note Dedin made in his book did have an effect on me, indeed such an effect, that I went out and bought myself a little notebook, too, in which I jotted down my thoughts and plans, including the one just mentioned. Although now I can only find this one brief note pertaining to it:

"Five years forced labor. Only way to look at it." As brief as that.

About Dedin, nothing. And no wonder: he disappeared. See how fast he ran? I would have liked to say to my wife. See how scared he got? For obviously, a little gloating is on order at such times. Now at least you see the young man for what he is, I would have liked to say to her.

I have to admit, though, that the girl got sick over the affair. It was plain to see: she was wilting right before my eyes, this business was making her pine away with grief. And all out in the open, too. After taking to her bed that time, she didn't feel like getting up again. Her voice grew weak and thin, like children's voices after they've had the whooping cough. And her face got all puffy, as though she had a terrible case of the flu, or as though she'd been crying on the sly.

Now she's really learned to hate me, I thought. And getting ready perhaps to do something about it. For this wasn't the first time I scared off such questionable gentlemen. There was a young whippersnapper right after the fire, a drawing teacher with ambitions of becoming a movie director. But he was an easy target. All I had to do then was show him how I could rip apart fifty-two playing cards with a flick of my wrist, or how to break a horseshoe in half without even propping up my elbow, and the next day he was gone. And there was a doctor, a specialist in heat cures. With him it was enough to display my bulging biceps and dare him to put his scalpel to it, and then see it bounce off my skin. (And it did bounce, by God, at that time it really did.) True, as a send-off, I also told him how a mulatto sailor broke his jaw when my hand happened to land on his face once. The fools ... As though weakness could not be as deadly as brute strength. But these chaps, as soon as they smell danger, get cold feet and run.

I must say, though, that my wife was not overly upset about them. But now she was, this time she was crushed. And I could feel her hatred for me: it was smoldering in her eyes, in her flushed face, in every move she made. She loved this fop, what more proof did I need?

But why, why must a wonderful girl love a heel? The thought tormented me night after night. I realize it's ridiculous for a man to be choosy about his wife's paramours, but that's the human heart for you. Sad. And no amount of sorrowing, or wisdom, can change it. We all know that perfectly reasonable men can go crazy over mere hussies—waitresses, ballet students and such. Still, you say to yourself: If only she fell in love with a man of distinction, a professor . . . That would be pretty awful, too, but I could understand it at least. But what did she see in this good-for-nothing croupier? (For I looked into it: Monsieur Dedin had even worked as a croupier in his time, and in a very questionable club, at that.)

Still and all, I felt sorry for the woman. And why shouldn't one feel sorry for a love-sick person, especially one so frail, who could hardly stand on her feet. Indeed, my wife appeared to grow younger, more timid and childlike with each passing day. It broke my heart to know that she wasn't as brazen as before. I may have mentioned already that we lived near a large square. My wife always liked the open sky, the broad view from the window. She would quietly concentrate on her reading during the day, but at sunset, she'd rise and gaze at the world below. And at such moments she did look like a flower, a rose perhaps, still in bloom but already touched by blight. And what if it's true, I thought to myself sadly; what if that blight was really me?

But that's when my time came, my "moment of enchantment" as I would later call it, when I'd invoke the power of imagination. I would walk over to her, help her out of bed and into her robe, take her by the hand, and walk up and down, pretending it was spring and we were strolling in the garden. (It was nice and warm in the flat, and outside spring
was
in the air.)

"Just look at those gorgeous birds on the lawn, at that shimmering lake, oh look at the clouds." In short, I began to lull her unquiet soul, naturally with things out of reach. For I know, how well I know, that they always work better than reality.