“I’ve just broken up with a woman.”
“Broken up? Why? You didn’t love her?”
“We loved each other but we couldn’t stay together. This past year we argued constantly.”
“Why? Why can’t people live in peace? There was a great love between my husband and me, though I must admit I had to give in to him on everything. He bullied me so that I can’t even say no to my own child. Oh, I’m worried. He never stayed away this long. He probably wants you to declare your love for me so that when he comes back everything will be settled between us. He is a child, a wild child. My greatest fear is that he might attempt suicide. He has threatened to.” She uttered these last words in one breath.
“Why? Why?”
“For no reason. Because I dared disagree with him over some trifle. God Almighty, why am I telling you all this? Only because my heart is heavy. Say nothing about it, God forbid!”
The door opened and Mark came in. When he saw me sitting on the sofa, he asked, “Sir, did you take your bath?”
“Yes.”
“It was nice, wasn’t it? You look refreshed. What are you talking about with my mother?”
“Oh, this and that. I told her she’s one of the prettiest women I’ve ever met,” I said, astonished at my words.
“Yes, she is pretty, but she mustn’t remain in Turkey. In the Orient, women age quickly. I once read that an actress of sixty played an eighteen-year-old girl on Broadway. Send us an affidavit and we’ll come to you.”
“Yes, I’ll do that.”
“You may kiss my mother good night.”
I stood up and we kissed. My face grew moist and hot. Mark began to kiss me, too. I said good night and started down the stairs. Again it seemed to me that I was on board ship. The steps were running counter to my feet. I suddenly found myself in the lobby. In my confusion I had gone down an extra floor. It was almost dark here; the desk clerk dozed behind the desk. In a leather chair sat Mrs. Weyerhofer in a robe, legs crossed, veiled in shadow. She was smoking a cigarette.
When she saw me, she said, “Since I don’t sleep anyway, I’d rather spend the night here. A bed is to sleep in or make love in, but when you can’t sleep and have no one to love, a bed becomes a prison. What are you doing here? Can’t you sleep, either?”
She drew the smoke in deeply and the glow of the cigarette temporarily lit up her eyes. They reflected both curiosity and malaise.
She said, “After that kind of bath, a man should be able to sleep soundly instead of wandering around like a lost soul.”
Mark began telling everyone on the bus that his mother and I were engaged. He planned that when the bus came back to Geneva I should ask the American consul for visas for himself and his mother so that all three of us could fly to America together. Mrs. Metalon told him several times that this would be impossible—she had a business appointment in Ankara. I made up the lie that I had to go to Italy on literary business. But Mark argued that his mother and I could postpone our business affairs temporarily. He spoke to me as if I were already his stepfather. He enumerated his mother’s financial assets. His father had arranged a trust fund for him, and he had left the remainder of his estate to his wife. According to Mark’s calculations she was worth no less than two million dollars—maybe more. Mark wanted his mother to liquidate all her holdings in Turkey and transfer her money to America. He would go to America to study even before he graduated from high school. The interest on his mother’s capital would allow us to live in luxury.
Mark had decided that we would settle in Washington. It was childish and silly, but this boy cast a fear over me. I knew that it would be hard to free myself from him. His mother had hinted that another disappointment could drive him to actually attempt suicide. She suggested, “Maybe you’d spend some time with me in Turkey? Turkey is an interesting country. You’d have material to write about for your newspaper. You could spend two or three weeks, then go back to America. Mark wouldn’t want to come along. He will gradually realize that we’re not meant for each other.”
“What would I do in Turkey? No, that’s impossible.”
“If it’s a matter of money, I’ll be glad to cover the expenses. You can even stay with me.”
“No, Mrs. Metalon, it’s out of the question.”
“Well, something is bound to happen. What shall I do with that boy? He’s driving me crazy.”
We had two days in Madrid, a day in Córdoba, and we were on our way to Seville, where we were scheduled to stop for two days. The tour program promised a visit to a nightclub there. Our route was supposed to take us through Málaga, Granada, and Valencia to Barcelona, and from there to Avignon, then back to Geneva.
In Córdoba, Mrs. Weyerhofer delayed the bus for nearly two hours. She vanished from the hotel before our departure and all searching failed to turn her up. On account of her, the passengers had already missed a bullfight. Dr. Weyerhofer pleaded with the driver to go on and leave his lunatic wife alone in Spain as she deserved, but the driver couldn’t bring himself to abandon a woman in a strange country. When she finally showed up loaded down with bundles and packages, Dr. Weyerhofer slapped her twice. Her packages fell to the floor and a vase shattered. “Nazi!” she shrieked. “Homosexual! Sadist!” Dr. Weyerhofer said aloud so that everyone could hear, “Well, thank God, this is the end of my martyrdom.” And he raised his hand to the sky like a pious Jew swearing a vow.
The uproar caused an additional three-quarters of an hour delay. When Mrs. Weyerhofer finally got into the bus, no one would sit next to her, and the driver, who had seen us speaking together a few times, asked me if I would, since there were no single seats. Mark tried to seat me next to his mother and take my place, but Mrs. Metalon shouted at him to stay with her, and he gave in.
For a long while Mrs. Weyerhofer stared out the window and ignored me as if I were the one responsible for her disgrace. Then she turned to me and said, “Give me your address. I want you to be my witness in court.”
“What kind of witness? If it should come to it, the court would find for him, and—if you’ll excuse me—rightly so.”
“Eh? Oh, I understand. Now that you’re preparing to marry the Armenian heiress, you’re already lining up on the side of the anti-Semites.”
“Madam, your own conduct does more harm to Jews than all the anti-Semites.”
“They’re my enemies, mortal enemies. Your madam from Constantinople was glowing with joy when those devils humiliated me. I am again where I was—in a concentration camp. You’re about to convert, I know, but I will turn back to the Jewish God. I am no longer his wife and he is no longer my husband. I’ll leave him everything and flee with my life, as I did in 1945.”
“Why do you keep the bus waiting in every city? This has nothing to do with Jewishness.”
“It’s a plot, I tell you. He organized the whole thing down to the last detail. I don’t sleep the whole night, but comes morning, just as I’m catching a nap he turns back the clock. Your knocking on my door the other night—what was the name of the city?—when you were on your way to take a bath at that Turkish whore’s, was also one of his tricks. It was a conspiracy to let him catch me with a lover. It’s obvious. He wants to drive me out without a shirt on my back, and he has achieved his goal, the sly fox. I won’t be allowed to remain in Switzerland, but who will accept me? Unless I can manage to make my way to Israel. Now I understand everything. You’ll be the witness for him, not for me.”
“I’ll be a witness for no one. Don’t talk nonsense.”
“You obviously think I’m mad. That’s his goal—to commit me to an asylum. For years he’s been talking of this. He’s already tried it. He keeps sending me to psychiatrists. He wanted to poison me, too. Three times he put poison in my food and three times my instinct—or maybe it was God—gave me a warning. By the way, I want you to know that this boy, Mark, who wants so desperately for you to sit next to that Turkish concubine, is not her son.”
“Then who is he?”
“He is her lover, not her son. She sleeps with him.”
“Were you there and saw it?”
“A chambermaid in Madrid told me. She made a mistake and opened the door to their room in the morning and found them in bed together. There are such sick women. One wants a lapdog, and another a young boy. Really, you’re crawling into slime.”
“I’m not crawling anywhere.”
“You’re taking her to America?”
“I’m not taking anyone.”
“Well, I’d better keep my mouth shut.” Mrs. Weyerhofer turned away from me.
I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. I knew well that the woman was paranoid; just the same, her last words had given me a jolt. Who knows? What she told me might have been the truth. Sexual perversion is the answer to many mysteries. I was almost overcome with nausea. Yes, I thought, she is right. I’m crawling into a quagmire.
I had but one wish now—to get off this bus as quickly as possible. It occurred to me that for all my intimacy with Mrs. Metalon and Mark, so far I hadn’t given them my address.
I dozed, and when I opened my eyes Mark informed me that we were in Seville. I had slept over three hours.
Despite our late start, we still had time for a fast meal. I had sat as usual with Mrs. Metalon and Mark. Mark had ordered a bottle of Malaga and I had drunk a good half of it. Vapors of intoxication flowed from my stomach to my brain.
The topic of conversation at the tables was Dr. and Mrs. Weyerhofer. All the women concluded that Dr. Weyerhofer was a saint to put up with such a horror.
Mrs. Metalon said, “I’d like to think that this is her end. Even a saint’s patience has to burst sometime. He is a banker and a handsome man. He won’t be alone for long.”
“I wouldn’t want him for a father,” Mark said.
Mrs. Metalon smiled and winked at me. “Why not, my son?”
“Because I want to live and study in America, not in Switzerland. Switzerland is only good for mountain climbing and skiing.”
“Don’t worry, there’s no danger of it.”
As she spoke, Mrs. Metalon did something she had never done before—she pressed her knee against mine.
Coaches waited in front of the hotel to take us to a cabaret. Candles flickered in their head lanterns, casting mysterious designs of light and shadow. I hadn’t ridden in a horse-drawn carriage since leaving Warsaw. The whole evening was like a magic spell—the ride from the hotel to the cabaret with Mrs. Metalon and Mark, and later the performance. Inside the carriage, driving through the poorly lit Seville streets Mrs. Metalon held my hand. Mark sat facing us and his eyes gleamed like some night bird’s. The air was balmy, dense with the scents of wine, olive oil, and gardenias. Mrs. Metalon kept on exclaiming, “What a splendid night! Look at the sky, so full of stars!”
I touched her breast, and she trembled and squeezed my knee. We were both drunk, not so much from wine as from fatigue. Again I felt the heat of her body.
When we got out of the coach Mark walked a few paces in front and Mrs. Metalon whispered, “I’d like to have another child.”
“By whom?” I asked.
“Try to guess,” she said.
I cannot know whether the actors and actresses and the music and the dancing were as masterly as I thought, but everything I saw and heard that evening enraptured me—the semi-Arabic music, the almost Hasidic way the dancers stamped their feet, their meaningful clicking of the castanets, their bizarre costumes. Melodies supposed to be erotic reminded me of liturgies sung on the night of Kol Nidre. Mark found an unoccupied seat close to the stage and left us alone. We began to kiss with the ardor of long-parted lovers. Between one kiss and the next, Mrs. Metalon (she had told me to call her Annette) insisted that I accompany her to Ankara. She was even ready to visit America. I had scored one of those victories I could never explain except by the fact that in the duel of love the victim is sometimes as eager to surrender as the attacker is to conquer. This woman had lived alone for a number of years. She was accustomed to the embraces of an elderly man. As I thought these things, I warned myself that Mark would not allow our relationship to remain an affair.
From time to time he glanced back at us searchingly. I didn’t believe Mrs. Weyerhofer’s slanderous tale of mother and son, but it was obvious that Mark was capable of killing anyone he considered to be dishonoring her. The woman’s words about wanting another child portended danger. However strong my urge for her body, I knew that I had no spiritual ties with her, that after a while misunderstandings, boredom, and regrets would take over. Besides, I had always been afraid of Turks. As a child, I had heard in detail of Abdul-Hamid’s savageries. Later, I read about the pogroms against the Armenians. There in faraway Ankara they could easily fabricate an accusation against me, take away my American passport, and throw me in prison, from which I would not emerge alive. How strange, but when I was a boy in cheder I dreamed of lying in a Turkish prison bound with heavy ropes, and for some reason I had never forgotten this dream.
On the way back from the nightclub, both mother and son asked if I had a bathtub in my room. I told them no, and at once they invited me to bathe in their suite. Mark added that he was going to take a stroll through town. The fact that we were scheduled to stay in Seville through the following night meant that we did not have to get up early the next morning.
Mrs. Metalon and Mark had been assigned a suite of three rooms. I promised to come by and Mrs. Metalon said, “Don’t be too late. The hot water may cool soon.” Her words seemed to carry a symbolic meaning, as if they were out of a parable.
I went to my room, which was just under the roof. It exuded a scorching heat. The sun had lain on it all day and I switched on the ceiling lamp and stood for a long time, stupefied from the heat and the day’s experiences. I had a feeling that soon flames would come shooting from all sides and the room would flare up like a paper lantern. On a brass bed lay a huge pillow and a red blanket full of stains. I needed to stretch out, but the sheet seemed dirty. I imagined I could smell the sperm that who knows how many tourists had spilled here. My bathrobe and pajamas were packed away in my valise, and I hadn’t the strength to open it. Well, and what good would it do to bathe if soon afterward I had to lie down in this dirty bed?
In the coach and in the cabaret everything within me had seethed with passion. Now that I had a chance to be alone with the woman, the passion evaporated. Instead, I grew angry against this rich Turkish widow and her pampered son. I made sure that Mark wouldn’t wake me. I locked the door with the heavy key and bolted it besides. I put out the light and lay down in my clothes on the sprung mattress, determined to resist all temptation.
The hotel was situated in a noisy neighborhood. Young men shouted and girls laughed wantonly. From time to time, I detected a man’s cry followed by a sigh. Was it outside? In another room? Had someone been murdered here? Tortured? Who knows, remnants of the Inquisition might still linger here. I felt bites and scratched. Sweat oozed from me but I made no effort to wipe it away. “This trip was sheer insanity,” I told myself. “The whole situation is filled with menace.”
I fell asleep and this time Mark did not come to wake me. By dawn it turned cold and I covered myself with the same blanket that a few hours earlier had filled me with such disgust. When I awoke, the sun was already burning. I washed myself in lukewarm water from the pitcher on the stand and wiped myself with a rusty towel. I seemed to have resolved everything in my sleep. Riding in the carriage through the city the night before, I had noticed branches of Cook’s Tours and American Express. I had a return ticket to America, an American passport, and traveler’s checks.
When I went down with my valise to the lobby, they told me that I had missed breakfast. The passengers had all gone off to visit churches, a Moorish palace, a museum. Thank God, I had avoided running into Mrs. Metalon and her son and having to justify myself to them. I left a tip for the bus driver with the hotel cashier and went straight to Cook’s. I was afraid of com
plications, but they cashed my checks and sold me a train ticket to Geneva. I would lose some two hundred dollars to the bus company, but that was my fault, not theirs.
Everything went smoothly. A train was leaving soon for Biarritz. I had booked a bedroom in a Pullman car. I got on and began correcting a manuscript as if nothing had happened.
Toward evening, I felt hungry and the conductor showed me the way to the diner. All the second-class cars were empty. I glanced into the diner. There, at a table near the door, sat Celina Weyerhofer struggling with a pullet.
We stared at each other in silence for a long while; then Mrs. Weyerhofer said, “If this is possible, then even the Messiah can come. On the other hand, I knew that we’d meet again.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“My good husband simply drove me away. God knows I’ve had it up to here with this trip.” She pointed to her throat.
She proposed that I join her, and she served as my interpreter to order a vegetarian meal. She seemed more sane and subdued than I had seen her before. She even appeared younger in her black dress. She said, “You ran away, eh? You did right. You would have been caught in a trap you would never have freed yourself from. She suited you as much as Dr. Weyerhofer suited me.”
The Collected Stories of Isaac Bashevis Singer Page 75
