My Nine Lives

by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

  Trying to keep up with the rest of the party, I too drank more than I should have done. When my aunt saw me refilling my glass, she shook her head and her finger at me. I pretended not to see this warning, but Mann drew attention to it: “Let the little one learn how the big people live!” he shouted. And to me he said, “You like it? Good, ah? Better than school! Just grow up and you’ll see how we eat and drink and do our etceteras!”

  “Tcha, keep your big mouth shut,” La Plume told him, and he bent down to hug her, which she pretended not to like. He was obviously enjoying himself, making the most of the unaccustomed supply of liquor by drinking a lot of it. But he was not in the least drunk—I suppose his size allowed him to absorb it more easily than others. Of course he was loud as usual, with a lot of bad jokes, but that was his style. He appeared to dominate the party as though he were its host; and Marta treated him like one, sending him here and there to fill glasses and open bottles. If he didn’t do it well or fast enough, she called him a donkey.

  The guests overflowed to the landing and through the open door into Kohl’s studio. Some of them were looking at his paintings, making quite free with them. They even turned around those facing the wall, the big canvases he painted at night and never showed anyone. The lawyer with the long hair waved his delicate white fingers at them and interpreted their psychological significance. But where was Kohl? No one seemed to have noticed that he was missing. I only became aware of his absence when I saw the lawyer draw attention to a drawing of myself: “Here we see delight not in a particular person but in Youth with a capital Y.”

  It was Marta who shouted, “What rubbish are you spouting there? . . . And where’s Kohl, the idiot, leaving the place open for every donkey to come and give his opinion. Where is he? Why isn’t he at my party? Go and find him,” she ordered Mann, as though Kohl’s absence were his fault.

  Mann turned to me: “Do you know where he is?”

  “How would she know?” Marta said.

  “Of course she knows. She’s Youth with a capital Y. She inspires him.”

  If I had been a little younger, I would have kicked his shins; anyway, I almost did. But Marta laughed: “Sneaking away from my party, isn’t that just like him. Go and find him if you know where he is,” she now ordered me. “Oh yes, and tell him where the hell is my present?”

  I was glad to leave the party. It was irritating to see people wander freely round Kohl’s studio making comments on his paintings. The lawyer’s explanation of my drawing had been like a violation, not of myself but of Kohl’s work and of my share in it, however passive. And it was not Youth, it was I—I myself—whom no one had ever cared to observe as Kohl did . . . I ran down the stairs furiously and then along the street and round the corner to the little park.

  He was sitting on the bench beside the stream. On his lap was a flat packet wrapped in some paper with designs on it that he must have drawn himself: an elephant holding a sprig of lilac, a hippo in a bathtub. When I asked him if it was for Marta, he nodded gloomily. “She was asking for her present,” I said. He was suddenly angry, his face and ears swelled red, and I added quickly, “It was a joke.”

  “No. No joke. This is her character: to take and take, if she could she would suck the marrow from a man’s soul. From my soul . . . Who’s there with her? All of them? That one with the long hair and lisping like a woman? He thinks he knows about art but all he knows is to lick her feet.”

  It was a lovely summer night, as light as if it were still dusk. How wonderful it was to have these long days after our gloomy winter: to sit outdoors, to enjoy a breeze even though it was still a little cool. It sent a slight shiver over the stream and flickered the remnant of light reflected in the water. During the day two swans glided there, placed by the municipality, but now they must have been asleep and instead there were two stars on the surface of the sky, still pale though later, when it got dark, they would become shining jewels, diamonds. There was fragrance from a lilac bush. I would have liked to have a lover sitting beside me instead of Kohl, so angry with thinking of Marta.

  “Is it true you used to write a poem for her on her birthday?” I said.

  “She remembers, ha?” His anger seemed to fade, maybe he was even smiling under that ugly mustache. “Yes, I wrote poems—not one, not only on her birthday, but a flood. A flood of poems . . . It’s the only way, you see, to relieve the pressure. On the heart; the pressure on the heart.”

  I recognized what he said—having felt that pressure, though in an unspecified way. So far I didn’t quite know what it was about, or even whether it was painful or extremely pleasant.

  “Is he there—that Mann? What a beast. When he’s on the stairs, there is a smell, like a beast in rut. You don’t know what that means.” I knew very well but didn’t say so, for he was wiping his mouth, as though it had been dirtied by these words.

  “Here, you give it to her.” He thrust his packet at me. “She’ll get no more presents from me and no more poems and no more nothing. All that was for a different person . . . I’ll show you.”

  He snatched the packet back, his hands trembled in undoing the knot; but he handled it carefully to avoid tearing the paper, which he—and so far he alone—knew to be valuable. Then he folded it back, revealing the contents. It was a drawing of Marta. He looked from it to me, almost teasing: “You don’t even recognize her.” He held it out to me, not letting me touch it.

  The lamp-posts in the park were designed to resemble toadstools, and the light they shed was not strong enough to overcome what was still left of the day. So it was by a mixture of electric and early evening light that I first saw this drawing of Marta. It was dated 1931—fifteen years younger than she was today on her birthday. Still, I would certainly have recognized her.

  “Look at her,” he said, though holding it up for himself rather than for me. “Look at her eyes: not the same person at all.”

  But they were the same eyes. It was a pencil drawing, but you could tell their color was green. Green, and glinting—with daring, hunger, even greed in them, or passion as greed. At that time I couldn’t formulate any of this but I did recognize that green glint as typically Marta’s. And her small cheeky nose; and her hair—even in the drawing one could tell it was red. He had drawn a few loose strands of it flitting against her cheek, the way he always did mine. Just the edge of her small pointed teeth was showing and a tip of tongue between them: roguish, eager, challenging, the way she still was. But her cheeks were more rounded than they were now, and her mouth had a less knowing expression, as if at that time it hadn’t yet tasted as much as it had in the intervening years.

  He covered the drawing again, taking care of it and its wrapping, sunk in thoughts that did not seem to include me at this moment; and when he had finished tying the string, he failed to give the packet back to me but kept it on his lap. I reminded him that we had to leave, since they would soon be locking up the park for the night.

  When we got to the gate, it had been locked. It was not difficult for me to find a foothold and to vault over, avoiding the row of spikes on top. He remained hesitating on the other side, clutching his drawing. I showed him where the foothold was and asked him to pass the drawing to me through the bars. He didn’t want to do either but had no choice. With me helping him, he managed to get over, but at the last moment the back of his pants got caught on one of the spikes. The first thing he did when we were reunited was to relieve me of the drawing; the second was to stretch backward to see the rip in his pants. It was hardly visible, I lied; anyway, it was dark by now, and if we met people on the road, they would hardly bother about his torn seat. Nevertheless, he made me walk behind to shield him; every time we passed a lamp-post he looked back at me anxiously: “Does it show?”

  Near our house, we could see that the party was still in progress. Lights and voices streamed out into the street and the shadows of people were moving against the windows. But inside we found that my aunt had left the party and was banging about in the
basement kitchen, grumbling to herself: ”Why don’t they go home instead of turning my house into God knows what.”

  It was impossible for Kohl with his torn pants to return to his studio, which was full of people he didn’t like. “Take them off,” La Plume said, “I’ll sew them for you . . . Go on, you think I haven’t seen anything like what you hide in there?” But when he stepped out of them, she shook her head: “What does she do all day that she can’t wash her husband’s underpants?”

  I fetched a blanket for him to wrap around his legs, which were very white, unsunned. They trembled slightly, not used to being naked and ashamed of it. Looking back now, I’m glad I got the blanket and do not have to remember that great artist the way he was at that moment, trouserless in our kitchen.

  When footsteps sounded on the basement stairs, he sat down quickly with his legs under the table where La Plume was sewing his pants. It was Mann who entered, to borrow more glasses for the party. “Cups will do,” he said and began to collect the few we had from our shelves. “And I’m not even asking for saucers.”

  “Thank you very much,” La Plume said, “so in the morning we can drink our coffee from the saucer like cats and dogs.”

  “Be a sport, Mummy,” he said.

  “Who’s your Mummy! And where do you get that sport business, as if you’d been to Eton and Oxford?”

  “Better than Eton and Oxford, I’ve attended the School of Life,” he teased her—they were always on such easy terms.

  “Yes, in the gutters of Cologne,” Kohl put in—not in a teasing way.

  It was only then that Mann became aware of him: “So there you are. Everyone is asking for you: where is the husband, the famous artist?” Next moment his attention shifted to the packet lying on the table: “Ah, her present that she’s been asking for all day. I’ll take it to her—I’ll tell her you’re busy down here, flirting with two ladies.”

  Kohl instantly placed his hand on the packet, and wild-eyed, cornered, he glared up at Mann. Mann—a big man but a coward—retreated quickly with our cups held against his chest.

  “Take care you bring them back washed, you lazy devil!” La Plume shouted after him. But when he had gone, she said, “He’s not a bad sort though he gets on everyone’s nerves. They say he was a great idealist and gave wonderful speeches to the workers at their rallies.”

  “We’ve heard all about those wonderful speeches—from him. From no one else,” Kohl sneered. “And when the police came, he ran faster than anyone. It’s only here he plays the great hero.”

  “Ah well,” sighed La Plume, “everyone lives as best they can.” This was her motto. “Here—I wouldn’t get very high marks for sewing, but they’ll do.” She handed him his trousers and he got up to step into them—just in time, for while he was still buttoning them, Marta was heard calling from the stairs.

  I had noticed that, whenever Marta came into a room, the air somehow shifted. I don’t know if this was due to other people’s reaction to her, or to some particular power in her of which she herself was unaware. I might mention here that she had a peculiar, very sweet smell—not of perfume, more of a fruit, ripe and juicy, not quite fresh.

  “So where’s my present? Mann says you have my present!” Her eager eyes were already fixed on it, but when Kohl held on to it, “Give,” she wheedled, “it’s mine.”

  He shook his head in refusal, while secretly smiling again. But when she began to tug at it—“Give, give”—he shouted, “Be careful!” and let go, so that it remained in her hands.

  She untied it, the tip of her tongue slightly protruding. The paper came off and the drawing was revealed. She held it and looked at it: looked at herself looking out of it, and as she did so, he watched her, the expression on his face becoming anxious, like one waiting for a verdict.

  At last she said, “Not bad.”

  “Not bad!” he echoed indignantly.

  “I mean me not you.” Her eyes darted to him with the same expression as in the drawing. She held it at another angle for careful study: “Yes,” was her verdict, “no wonder you fell madly in love with me.”

  “I with you! Who was it chased me all over town, from café to café, from studio to studio, like a madwoman, and everyone laughing at both of us?”

  “Me running after him?” She turned to La Plume: “Me in love with him? Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous in all your life?”

  “No, not with me. With my fame.”

  He spoke with dignity and pride, and then she too became proud. “Oh yes,” she said, “he was famous all right, and I wasn’t the only one to run after him. Naturally: a famous artist.” She returned to the drawing, to his gift to her, and now she appeared to be studying not herself as before, but his work.

  “So?” he asked, valuing her opinion and awaiting her compliment.

  This compliment seemed to be hovering on her lips—when Mann came storming into our kitchen, followed by some other guests. As with one gesture, Kohl and Marta seized the wrapping paper to conceal the drawing—but Mann had already seen it: “So that’s the present he’s been hiding!”

  “Don’t touch!” Marta ordered, but she held it out, not only for him but high enough for others to see. They crowded forward, there were admiring cries, and Mann whistled. It was a gratifying moment for both Kohl and Marta. La Plume glowed too, and so did I; we were proud to have an artist in our house.

  The lawyer spoiled it. He peered at the drawing through his rimless glasses, thrusting out his white fingers to point out beauties, the way he had done with my portrait. He may even have said something similar about Youth with a capital Y, but Marta cut him short: “You really are a donkey,” and at once she wrapped up the drawing.

  “You know what, children?” said La Plume. “It’s long past my bedtime, and if you don’t clear out, I’m going to miss my beauty sleep.”

  Everyone clamored for Kohl to join them. Marta too said: “Come and drink champagne with us. He brought it, so he’s good for something.” She pointed at the lawyer, who cheered up again briefly, but she had already returned to Kohl. She laid her hand on his shoulder in a familiar gesture we had never witnessed between them: “Come on—only don’t give away any secrets. You’re the only one who knows how old I am today.”

  “We all know,” Mann said. “It’s eighteen.” No one heard him. Marta still had her hand on Kohl’s shoulder: “You used to like to drink,” she reminded him, “often a bit too much, both of us . . .”

  “Maybe,” he said; he shook her hand off. “But next morning I was up at five, working, and you lay in bed till noon, sleeping it off.”

  “I never had a hangover.”

  “No, it’s true—when you got up, you were fresh and fit and ready to start making my life a misery again.”

  *

  Marta may never have had a hangover, but there were days when she suffered a mysterious ailment about which she and La Plume whispered together. My aunt didn’t want me to know about it, but when she wasn’t there, Marta spoke to me as freely as she did to her. It was something very private to do with her womb—I really would have preferred not to know, these were matters I wanted to keep buried and pretend they had nothing to do with me. Marta went into unwelcome detail, though she always warned me, “For God’s sake, don’t tell Kohl. He can’t stand women being ill.”

  She did however confide in Mann and the lawyer and probably everyone else too. She even told all of us that her trouble was due to an abortion brought about by herself when she was married to Kohl. “I was nineteen years old, what did I know? With a knitting needle, can you believe it? As if I’d ever knitted a thing.” When we asked if she had told Kohl—“Are you crazy? He’d have run off very fast on his fat little legs. We were bohemians, for heaven’s sake, not parents.”

  Although she spoke this last sentence proudly, Mann stroked her hair with his big hand and said, “My poor little one.”

  She jerked her head away from him: “Don’t be a sentimental idiot. I wasn’t going t
o ruin my career. I was on my way—listen, I’d already been an extra three times, the casting director at UFA was taking a tremendous interest in me, his name was Rosenbaum and he’d promised me a real part in the next production. And then of course he was fired.” She made the face—one of scorn and disdain—with which she looked back on that part of their past.

  She was not the only one deprived of her future. The lawyer had had his own practice in Dresden; Mann, who was a trained engineer, had been a union leader and a delegate at an international labor conference. In England they were earning their living in a humbler way, but Marta was never able to get started on anything. She said it was because her English was not good enough, but Kohl said it was because she was a lazy lump who couldn’t get out of bed in the mornings. It was true that she usually slept late and had her first cup of coffee at noon.

  It may have been her waiflike quality that made people want to serve her, but there was also something imperious in her personality that blurred the line between wishes and commands. During the day, I was often the only person available, and as soon as she heard me come home from school, she called down for me. She said she was too sick to get out of bed, she was starving, and though she had called and called, no one had answered. She wasn’t sulky, just pathetic, so that I apologized for having been at school and my aunt on a shopping trip a tube-ride away where prices were cheaper. But there had been Kohl just across the landing—hadn’t he heard her? She laughed at that: “Kohl! I could be screaming in my death agony, he’d stuff up his ears and not hear a thing.” But again she was not reproachful, only amused.