The Story of My Wife (33 page)

To be perfectly honest, I would have liked to tell her more about where I was going, what I was planning to do, but the moment was not at all propitious. Moreover, she wasn't paying attention. She was trying with all her might to free herself, she fought tooth and nail, as is the custom of her sex, and then folded her arm across her chest to prevent me from getting close to her mouth.

"No, no, you may do with me what you like, but I'd rather die first. Oh, I hate my life," she sobbed.

"Same here," I replied.

"But I hate everybody, without exception."

"My sentiments precisely," I shot back.

"I detest my parents, too," she raved, no doubt infuriated by my off-hand replies. And she was bent on drawing out even darker truths, it seemed.

"Oh and how my parents hate you," she challenged me anew. "Don't even try to defend yourself. They do, I mean it. Intensely."

But why? I would have like to ask. What have they got against
me?
Didn't everything happen the way their darling daughter wanted it? But as I say, things got so out of hand, she could no longer be talked to.

"Oh, if I only had a brother who could teach you a lesson . . . who could kill you . . ."

Oh sure. I would punch that precious brother in the nose so hard, he'd roll over in the snow three times . . . (There's a desperate man for you—whatever he can think of is an outrage.)

On the other hand, in between sobs, she blurted out: "You managed to ruin my life, I hope you realize that . . ." Now here was something even an obdurate, heartless man like me should have taken to heart. But I didn't. What did I do to ruin her life? Nothing, I calmly concluded.

"I loved you," she said, wiping her tears. "I didn't deserve to be treated this way ... I loved you for nothing . . ."

I let her go at that point. It
was
all over, I thought. I heard the clasp on her pocketbook click.

"I loved you too," I told her gravely. "And if you don't believe me, that's all right, too. Good-bye, then."

"Stay a while," she said, a
little
gentler this time.

But I had no desire to stay.

"I am expected home for lunch. I have to go, dear ... for now, anyway."

"What do you mean for now?" I let that go.

"You said you were going away; is it true? Are you going far? Can you tell me where you're going?"

The little damsel made me smile. She was itching to find out more, I could tell.

"Go ahead, ask away. Where am I going? To South America. For good? Yes, for good. I have no intention of ever coming back."

"And are you going alone?" she finally asked.

"Yes, yes, alone," I laughed.

"Then it's all right," she said ominously. Yes, ominously, but with relief, too. And she stayed as she was, she didn't move. Only a slight mist covered her eyes still.

But the truth is that this state of affairs wasn't really to my liking, either, as can be imagined. That's not what I wanted ... to treat her so shabbily.

So I wrote to her, yes,
I
did this time. I wouldn't like to part this way, I said; it would pain me. Would she agree to see me one more time? She did, and when we met, we tried very hard, both of us: she was kind and submissive, as never before, and I ... I was so anxious to please her, it almost killed me. But it was no use; attempts like these are bound to fail.

We didn't really know how to proceed.

But it's just as well. It's no good running after something that's already past. I was clumsy. Told her I'll always remember her, and who likes to hear that? And she, for her part, let me go, not very happily, to be sure, but she wasn't going to kill herself over me. And that's not a pleasant thing to realize, either.

For what does the human heart wish for at a time like this? The impossible, I dare say. Its very essence is such; it's in its nature to yearn and pine. It would have me knock down, like a storm, all doubt and fear; it would like me to be the wonderworker of old, so she could again rest her head on my shoulder and say, "This was a glorious afternoon." In fine, I should have told her, "I adore you, I worship you"—again these simple words, and everything would have been forgotten. The present as well as the past.

Instead, I started telling her about the Indians of South America, a foolish thing to do, and how well I knew it.

As absurd as if I'd started going cock-a-doodle-doo all of a sudden. She once told me she'd gladly live on a desert island with me. How nice it would have been to be able to say, "Why don't you follow me?" But what do I do if she takes me seriously? This girl might just have joined me, she was that type.

So
what I began talking about was how strange that world was, where I was now going. It wasn't for everybody, I told her. (I was being cautious, no doubt: it may not be the place for her, only for me.) I had her believe that I always had my heart set on South America. (It's true, I often thought about the people living in that part of the world, as I had before about the Malayans and their frantic zest for life. But it was all rubbish of course. What is so special about that place? If you're homeless, you're homeless—you won't find your place anywhere; life is nothing but bitterness. And if you return home, you no longer
feel
at home: the feeling of strangeness stays with you.) Still, I maintain that I had indeed thought a great deal about that place, I did want to settle there.

"Just think of our lives and the lives of those Indians down there," I said to this poor, dear girl. And I regaled her, this angel, with my thoughts on voluptuous forgetfulness. Told her how glorious, luminous, naked life must still be to these people . . . How they are capable of sitting outside their walls all afternoon, in the shade, entrusting their souls to the play of light, to clouds, to things that glimmer and fade . . . While we kept wondering what, if anything, makes them smile all the time? Are their heads stuffed with that many dreams?

"Yet, this is how one ought to live," I declared. "For what do you have here, just look around. Hear the rumble? Feel the tension? The windows in this town sparkle, right? But people have to work very hard to keep those windows clean.

"And the trains?" I asked, pleading almost. "Ah, it's all duty and drudgery here, can't you see? People no longer know what enjoying life means . . ." There was more, but I'd rather not repeat
all
the rubbish I dished out to her.

But was it all rubbish, I now wonder. There had to be something to it, surely. But why, in God's name, was I explaining it to this girl, who wanted to hear me say something else, not this. Indeed, she walked away from me, and began to quicken her pace, the poor
girl.

"We're not mountain-dwellers here, you know," she called back.

And: "All I really care about is my homeland." And she kept on running.

And I after her. I wanted to grab hold of her arm, stop her, tell her to please listen, for God's sake. Now how does one account for such behavior . . .? I am reminded of bright, bright sunshine. "Hey, where are you going?" some old crones shouted after me in a open meadow. I was a young boy wearing a velvet collar. "Careful, you'll fall," they cried. But I didn't listen. With complete self-assurance, and a haughty smile, I continued walking through the lush grass, with the crones following close behind. There was a drop not far ahead, you see; and sure enough, I soon found myself in a mill-stream—I walked right into it in my beautiful velvet collar.

It was the same now. I was like a sleep-walker. It does happen sometimes that you're simply unable to stop. As if you were adrift, only half alive. I was telling her about the marble quarriers' strong lungs, about the fine, rainbow dust in spinneries, and all along I had the feeling, it wasn't me talking, the words came out of my grandfather's gray beard. And one of the melancholy old willows seemed to fully agree. (We were at the edge of the park now, wandered inside, drifted out again.) It was only natural that I got more and more distracted, befuddled. I had the feeling my lips were askew, my tongue didn't move right—I wanted to say A and it came out B. For example, I wanted to instruct her in the pleasures of a nonchalant attitude and wound up divulging family secrets—was actually letting her in on intimate details.

Told her what a hellish thing it is, what infernal racket it makes, to have two people continue their endless grappling in you, in your soul—your mother and father: an always anxious, tensely ambitious clatterer, forever busying herself around the fireplace, and a lazy and sarcastic smirker . . . But fortunately, at such times something in you always calls a halt.

But it's no good, it's just no damn good, I thought, more despondent than ever. What does the lady want me to do, anyway? Amuse her, bring down the moon for her from the sky? The state I was in then, I couldn't lift a pebble.

"Watch out, fella," some loaders shouted from a nearby van.

"Watch out yourself," I shouted back from the vicinity of a shop window which in my daze I almost ran into.

"And I won't have anything to do with the new Russia, either," my little miss now declared.

"But I will," I shot back. To my basic tenets I was going to remain faithful, oh yes, unto death, if need be. That this was not living I would always maintain. "Just what do you think people here are after?" I asked. "More coal mines, more obligations? Besides, is that what the world needs—more things, more people?" These were the questions I put to this frightened little rabbit, to this child. It was also my last cry, my very last appeal to her heart. Did she hear me? I never did find out. For at that moment a beggar stood in my way; our unhappy race around Regents Park came to an end. I'd just delved into my pocket for some change, looked up, and saw my wife standing before me.

She smiled broadly, pretending to be quite happy about the chance encounter. "You great big captain, you," she said and poked me with her finger.

And she asked me to accompany her to a gentleman named De Mercier. He was having a small party ... a few cups of punch, some fresh walnuts—a new shipment arrived from Southern France, from their village, in fact. Why couldn't I join her for once.

Did she notice the young miss? I have no idea. Perhaps she did. For though she was nearsighted, her eyes gleamed, suggesting somehow that she itching for a fight.

And for a moment the girl's burning eyes also flashed before me. She waited at the corner, and when she noticed my wife she looked at me.

And what her eyes told me was not: You great big captain; not at all. Poor, poor captain was more like it.

After walking but a few feet, I stopped and turned to her:

"Listen, do we really have to go to this place? How about spending a night on the town?"

It was a strange suggestion, I admit. But that woman still had such an effect on me, I couldn't resist.

"Not a bad idea," she quickly answered. "Let's go dancing," she added saucily.

What can I say about all this now? This was the voice, the voice I knew so well. There was no mistaking it, no need for explanations, certainly—she knew me and I knew her. In a word, it was like coming home after a long tiring journey. It was also odd meeting her like this, like meeting a stranger, quite different from seeing her at home. She was prettier. (Actually, I discovered this once before, in Paris, when I spotted her on the bustling Avenue de Tourville—I remember the exact moment.)

"Come along then," I said to her and took a good look at her, looked over my own wife.

And she looked spiffy, I must say: a smart pigskin handbag, neat little overshoes (it was still slushy out, even snowed a bit), a little fur here and there, and the crowning touch: a plum-colored scarf across her chest, which was truly beautiful, I almost felt like taking a dip in it, it was so blue, and so soft, she clearly enjoyed brushing her chin against it. And to top it off, she pranced down that sidewalk as if to say, "Look everyone: I am small but I am here."

And I thought: Why not go on a spree, one last time? At this point it won't make any difference.

And as she stepped into a telephone booth, to call up Madame Lagrange, I looked her over one more time: What a brash little thing she was. Utterly poised. And I thought of all the stuff this woman kept collecting in her closets . . . Who'd ever believe it?

"Hello," she said . . . "Just tell him I have a cold and I can't go. You won't believe it: I am off on an adventure." And she gave a titillating laugh. (I opened the door of the booth—I just had to find out what the laughter was all about.) "Well, can you guess who it is? A big hulking chap, broad-shouldered, tall . . . like one of those German opera singers.

"No, no, he has no beard," she added naughtily, "no beard at all, what
are
you talking about? Am I not an honorable woman. . . ? Well, still can't guess?"

The rest I couldn't hear; I thought of something else, so I closed the door.

"Come on, behave yourself," she said as she stepped out of the phone booth. "Where did he go . . . good grief, what
are
you doing?"

All I did was prance around the booth and play peekaboo, so she couldn't catch me. Then I let out a few loud whistles, like I did long ago, when summoning my birds, and slipped out of sight at the corner. She began walking alone, quite annoyed.

"Madam, will you allow me to walk with you?" I now said as I stepped up to her, lifting my hat. She looked angrily into my eyes.

"I don't mean to trouble you, Ma'm; my intentions are honorable, I assure you. I'd be a brief escort; brief and passing. Why wouldn't you agree? Nowadays people get acquainted in dance halls even."

"Well then, go to a dance hall. Good day, sir." She turned away, and then even took the trouble of crossing over to the other side of the street. As for me, my heart gave a leap—I really began to like this game.

"Madam," I accosted her again. "You are such an attractive creature, really, your smile alone tells me you are French . . . And your walk. Permit me to say that all of my life I've been an admirer of French women."

"Go to Paris, then. There you can admire them all you like." And she turned away again.