The Benefactor

by Susan Sontag

  The sunset gun was sounding. We hired a carriage to take us to a shabby wooden building by the harbor which housed a bar where sailors and the more disreputable foreign tourists gathered. The barman, a tall well-built Arab, pressed my hand as I paid for our first round of drinks. The band played javas, flamenco, polkas; we sat at a table and watched the dancers. An hour later, the barman came over and introduced his wife to us. The woman, also Arab, but red-haired as well, put her arm around Frau Anders’ bare shoulder and whispered something in her ear. I noted the sly embarrassed look which my mistress gave the woman, followed by a vacant, slightly smug glance directed at me.

  “They have invited us to have a drink with them after the bar closes, dear Hippolyte. In their apartment above here. Isn’t it delightful?”

  I agreed that it was.

  So after the noise ended and the last chalk sums written on the wooden surface of the barman’s counter were added up and paid for or charged, we retired to the dark lodging upstairs. More drink was offered, which I refused. I did not assist in the seduction of Frau Anders by the barman’s bulky pock-marked wife. It was an easy task. All I did was to give my consent at a crucial moment when my mistress wavered, out of fear, I suppose, that I might be jealous and reproach her with our adventure in the morning. The barman and I sat in the parlor and he recited some poetry to me, accompanying himself on the guitar. I could not give his performance my full attention, my ear being repeatedly diverted by the sounds that I thought came from the adjacent room. Perhaps I was a little jealous, after all.

  Next morning—or rather, afternoon—Frau Anders was claiming a satisfaction with her adventure which I could see was less than sincere. As usual, in moments when she was aspiring to an emotion she did not altogether feel, she thought of her daughter. “Dear Lucrezia,” she began at the narrow hotel writing table. “Love transcends all boundaries. I have long known, and encouraged you to discover for yourself, that the love between two persons of widely differing ages is no barrier to the mutual fulfillment of both. Let me add to that counsel, dearest child, that love knows no boundary of sex either. What is more beautiful than the love of two manly men, or the love of a refined woman of our northern climate for a slim dark girl of the pagan world? Each has much to teach the other. Do not be afraid of such leanings when you find them genuinely in your heart.”

  This letter I burned the next day while Frau Anders was out shopping. I wrote to Jean-Jacques, a letter full of tiresome dissection of my mistress’ character, but thought better of it and tore it up. A letter for a letter. I repented of these fits of censoriousness to which I was subject still, despite all my good resolutions. Once again I tried to think of what was beneficent in Frau Anders’ nature, to herself and to me.

  That she was thriving, there could be no doubt. It even seemed to me that she was more attractive. For a woman of about forty (she would never tell me her exact age) she was good-looking in any case. Now she was blossoming under the southern sun and the heat of her narcotic fantasies, becoming artless in her dress and allowing me to see her without cosmetics. This did not make me desire her more, for I found her compliance to my every whim fatiguing. But I became more fond of her, as my passion depleted itself.

  I thought I would give my passion one last chance by making her privy to my dreams. She listened in lazy silence, and after I had related several of my treasures, I regretted what I had done. “My darling Hippolyte,” she exclaimed. “They are adorable. You are a poet of sex, you know. All your dreams are mystically sexual.”

  “I think,” I said gloomily, “they’re all dreams of shame.”

  “But you have nothing to be ashamed of, darling.”

  “Sometimes I am ashamed that I have these dreams,” I replied. “Otherwise there is nothing I am ashamed of in my life.”

  “You see, darling!” she said affectionately.

  “Prove to me that I may be proud of my dreams.”

  “How?”

  “I shall tell you something,” was my calm answer. “What would you think if I told you that every time I embrace you my care is not for your pleasure, or even for mine, but only for the dreams?”

  “Fantasy is perfectly normal,” she said, trying to conceal her hurt.

  “And what if I told you that my share in the fantasy is no longer enough, that I need your conscious cooperation in my dreams, in order to go on loving you?”

  She agreed to do what I asked of her—had I hoped otherwise?—and I showed her how to enact the scenes from my dreams when we made love. She played the man in the bathing suit, the woman in the second room, herself as the hostess of the unconventional party, the ballet dancer, the priest, the statue of the Virgin, the dead king—all the roles of my dreams. Our sexual life became a dream rehearsal, instead of a dream reprise. But for all my careful instructions and her willingness to please me, something did not work. It was her very willingness, I think; I needed an opponent rather than an accomplice, and Frau Anders did not act toward me with the certainty demanded by my dreams. This theatre of the bedroom did not satisfy me because, while my mistress lent me her body to carry out the varied roles of my fantasies, she no longer knew how to patronize me.

  But can another person ever participate in one’s dreams? Surely this was a foolish, youthful project on my own part, and I cannot blame Frau Anders for its failure. I have also thought since, in reflecting on these events, that in her own way Frau Anders did become engrossed in my preoccupation. It is true she suffered from it—knowing herself loved not as a person but as a persona—yet she did not defend herself by finding me ridiculous. She had come to love me too much. And the fact I was not afraid of her ridicule does not diminish the credit due her for transcending her storehouse of clichés to accept, if not understand, me. Fortunately I am not the kind of man who fears ridicule, at least outside my mysterious dreams; but I know enough of the world to recognize it.

  Since she had consented to take my dreams seriously, I thought it only just to repay her in kind. But I must confess that I could not match her naive seriousness; my own efforts to convert her fantasies into deeds made me laugh sometimes. I cannot excuse the morbid levity that possessed me then. You must understand that I did not mean to be cruel, though my acts might be so interpreted.

  We began, largely at the initiative of Frau Anders, to spend our evenings in the native quarter. It was now summer, and even an afternoon at the wide handsome beaches which adorned the city did not keep us cool through the evening. Since my mistress dispensed money lavishly at bars and cafés, we were always warmly received. She continued to occupy her days with the erotic good-naturedness induced by kif and with her exuberant letters to Lucrezia, who was now having an affair with the Negro ballet dancer, and presiding over her mother’s salon with a success she only modestly hinted at in her own letters. Frau Anders was not that out of touch that she was incapable of being piqued at the news, and it seemed to make her restless and occasionally irritable.

  I decided it would be good for her to taste more fully the exotic passions she rhapsodized over. There was a merchant who accosted me one evening as I was returning to the hotel with a new purchase of kif.

  “Your wife, monsieur?” he began. “My son has greatly admired her. He will not touch a morsel of food.”

  “My wife would be delighted,” I said somewhat nervously. The man’s candor—a quality which I admire above all others—disarmed me, but his utter lack of ceremony suggested an unseemly impatience which hinted at violence should his wish be thwarted.

  “How much?” he said.

  “Sixteen thousand francs,” I said, having no idea of an appropriate figure. The reader must think of the value of the franc as it was thirty years ago.

  “Oh, no, monsieur,” he replied, backing away and gesticulating eloquently. “That is too much, much too much. You Europeans set too high a value on your women. And besides, I make no commitment as to how long my son wishes to enjoy the company of your wife.”

  I decided it w
as well to adopt the firmest tone, since it was impossible not to bargain with these people. “I must tell you,” I said, “that in exactly one week I intend to leave this city to return to my country. Should I depart without my wife, I shall count the eight, thousand francs which you shall pay me tonight, when my wife and I visit your house, as a down payment on the balance of eight thousand which you shall pay me one week from today.”

  He drew me into a white doorway. “Five thousand now—and—perhaps—if all goes well—another five thousand in a week.”

  “Seven thousand now, and the same—if all goes well,” I replied, pulling my arm from his grasp.

  We settled at seven thousand that night, and six thousand in a week. It seemed to me fair that a week or less with my mistress should be more expensive, being less tiresome, than the indefinite purchase of her person. Nevertheless I protested gallantly that her worth was far greater than this insignificant sum.

  “Assure me that you will make your son promise not to hurt her.”

  “I promise,” he said genially.

  It seemed to me obvious at the time that there was no son at all. My merchant friend was merely being gallant himself; seeing my attractive but aging mistress in the company of a reasonably good-looking young man, he wished to assure me that she would not be making a disadvantageous exchange. I, however, thought it improbable that a young Arab would desire an expensive middle-aged European woman, no matter how earnestly his dark flesh yearned to triumph over white. I assumed, then, that the stout greying merchant wanted her for himself. Why was I so sure? The month of abstinence being over, who knows what strange fantasies demanded to be executed. I already knew well there is no predicting sexual tastes: had I not wanted Frau Anders myself? Had she not proved attractive to as unlikely a person as the barman’s wife? So it was that on the boat home I decided that it was a virile white-toothed Arab youth who desired Frau Anders, and that she had yielded with joy, relieved to be rid of her tiresome Hippolyte with his dreams and dissatisfactions. At least I hoped so. I did not like to think that there might have been violence and terror and rape and mutilation of that ever-hopeful body.

  When she did not return to our city immediately after my own return, I liked to think that she was happy—there is later evidence for this—and that she learned the truth of the brash sentiments in her letters to Lucrezia. For nothing that she wrote was untrue. But Frau Anders had the ability to make truths untrue when she said them. Her letters were rhetoric; I had enabled her to act.

  Perfumed and in ignorance of her destiny, I delivered her to the merchant’s door. She stepped in before me, and the door closed silently behind her. I wondered if this would prove a lesson to her as to the true worth of those ceremonial courtesies to women which falsify the relationships of European men and women. If men preceded women through doorways, or if there were no order of precedence, it would not have been so simple.

  I waited on the cobblestoned street before the house. In a half-hour the merchant came out bearing a discreet-looking envelope containing the seven thousand francs and kissed me on both cheeks. I lingered a few moments after he went in again. There was no sound.

  Apparently, all went well. In a week my friend was at the dock with another envelope, more kisses, reassurance as to Frau Anders’ health and contentment, and poetic compliments to her person.

  I sailed directly for home.

  SEVEN

  After returning from the city of Arabs, I thought only of how best to make use of my freedom. I wished for a powerful desire or fantasy, which could be fulfilled as I had fulfilled that of Frau Anders. I wanted to shed my skin. In a way I had done this, by disposing of my mistress; but I had accomplished more for her good than for my own. The sale of Frau Anders was, perhaps, my only altruistic act. And as with all altruisms, I suffered from certain twinges of guilt. Was the act correct? I asked myself. Was it well-performed? Did I not have some secret, self-serving motive?

  I thought of resuming my old diversions with Jean-Jacques. We met, and he inquired, “What has happened to our amiable hostess?” I had made the mistake of confiding in him before my departure, but I was determined not to repeat the error. He received my silence playfully. “You surprise me, Hippolyte. I would have predicted it would be Frau Anders who would return, and you who would stay.” I did not allow myself to be provoked into explanations. “Will you share with me none of the fruits of your southern journey?” he said finally. His irony troubled me. I dreaded our incipient intimacy.

  Fortunately, the following dream intervened.

  I dreamed I was at a garden party. The grade of the hill on which the party was being held made the tables and chairs stand somewhat crooked. I remember best an extremely small wizened old man who sat in an infant’s high chair, drinking tea out of an earthenware jug, spilling it on his shirt, and mumbling inaudibly.

  I asked someone who the old man was, and learned that he was R., the multimillionaire tobacco king. I wondered how he had become so small.

  Later I was told the old man wanted to see me. Someone guided me up the hill, through the stone gates, down a gravel path, and into a side entrance of the large house. I was led through a series of deserted basement passageways. The only person we encountered was a servant stationed by a door which interrupted a long, wide, institutional-looking corridor. He wore a green vizor and sat reading at a small table, which held a lamp and some magazines. As we approached him, he jumped to his feet and opened the door for us with a bow. The door was not heavy nor was it locked.

  I was impressed with this ostentation, and envied the luxuries which the old man’s fortune could provide for his family. We entered the old man’s room, which had all the trappings of a sick-room. I stood at the foot of his bed, in an attitude of respect, thinking of the bequest which he might make me when he died.

  “Send him around the world,” he said to the youth standing beside me, the one who had led me into the house, and who I now understood was his son. “It will do him good.”

  The son beckoned to me. I thanked the old man profusely and followed the son out into the garden where he told me to wait, and left. I stood there alone for a while, not in the least impatient, for I was relishing the sense of being cared for, of being deployed by some benevolent power. I thought of Frau Anders, and that I would tell her, if I met her on my travels, how well I had been understood by the old man.

  A grey cat came by, which I picked up in my arms and fondled. I was repelled by the cat’s strong odor. I flung it on the ground but it remained by my side, so I picked it up again and put it in my pocket, thinking I would wait until I found a place to dispose of it.

  A score of people had collected near me, and I joined them. We were all waiting for a doctor to arrive, who was to question us. “We do this every Sunday afternoon,” one of the party explained to me. The doctor came down the slope, and we sat down on the grass in a circle. He passed around sheets of paper for each of us to fill out—name, identity card number, weekly earnings, profession—and to sign. I was dismayed at this requirement, for I did not have my papers with me, and I had neither profession nor salary. Watching the others busily filling out their forms, I realized my presence was illegal. I was sorry to miss whatever was to happen, but I was afraid of being detained or perhaps even refused a passport. I left the group.

  I decided to return to the house and was heading in that direction when I met the millionaire’s son. He told me to adjust the large bath towel which I realized was all I was wearing, and led me to another part of the garden where I was given a shovel and told to dig. I began earnestly enough, though the towel which was knotted around my waist kept coming loose. The ground was hard and the digging strenuous. And when I had dug a fair-sized trench, water began seeping into it. Soon the trench was half filled with muddy water. There seemed no point in continuing, so I stopped digging and threw the cat in.

  Somehow, though, I seem to have kept the cat with me and carried it from the garden. Then I met Jean-Jacques
and gave him the cat which he tossed away in disgust. “Dogs!” he shouted at me.

  “Don’t be angry,” I answered.

  “Have you forgotten it’s time for your operation?” he said. I became afraid, for I now did recall something about an operation, though it seemed to come from a previous dream.

  “Everything is too heavy,” I said, to distract him. “Besides,” I added ingratiatingly, “I’m asleep.”

  “Shark balls!” he said, and laughed coarsely.

  I could not understand how I was continuing to provoke him. “There’s nothing unhealthy about that,” I continued. “I get up very early.”

  “Go on your trip and leave me alone,” he said.

  But instead of leaving me, as I expected, Jean-Jacques became very large, and I faced an enormous pair of feet and could barely see the head which soared above me. Alarmed and perplexed, I considered how I might cajole him to return to normal size. I threw a rock at his ankle. There was no response. Then I looked up at the giant, and saw he was no longer Jean-Jacques but a malevolent stranger who might step on me, and I did not dare continue trying to attract his attention.