The Dogs and the Wolves

by Irene Nemirovsky

  ‘But me too,’ she thought. She looked once more at everything around her with curiosity and surprise. The women were beautiful and dazzling, the men elegant, with light, lively voices. Yet, in spite of that, this reception at the Sinners’ home and the afternoon tea dance she had once watched from a distance were as different from each other as reality is to a dream.

  She realised that Harry had come to stand beside her.

  ‘Do you like all this?’ he asked her.

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ She sighed, sadly. ‘Somehow, it was even better seen from below!’

  23

  Ben was on his way back from Brussels. It was the night before a religious holiday and the train was full of priests and children going on a pilgrimage in the north of France. Ben had spent the several hours of the journey in the corridor, sitting on a suitcase that did not belong to him and sleeping soundly, his head knocking against the metal side of the carriage every time the train lurched. He did not feel tiredness any more than he felt fear, hunger or despair. Tiredness never really took hold of him, or rather it over-stimulated him to such an extent that he forgot about his frail body. Certain extreme emotions seemed literally to thrust him outside himself, endowing him with superhuman agility and stamina.

  They were approaching Paris; he woke up. He looked at the people in the neighbouring carriages with scornful curiosity. How slow they were. How heavy. They dragged women, children, packages behind them. Even people like him who had a profession that sent them constantly roaming from city to city, from country to country – travelling salesmen, stallholders, actors on tour – even they looked confused, weighed down, battered, while to him, none of it mattered at all. Everywhere was the same to him; he wandered indifferently from place to place, left each behind with no regrets. Ever since he was a child, he had been taught and made to feel that he belonged to nothing, to no one. Well, fine! They had got what they wanted. (Ben thought of the rest of the world as they, them, not exactly as enemies but not as friends either, simply as incomprehensible creatures.) Yes, they had achieved their goal in turning him into a wonderfully free person, unfettered by any obstacles. It was just as well that nothing meant anything to him because if ever the fever of passion took hold of Ben, it was not easily satisfied, not easily forgotten.

  He could be up and ready in a second, while the others were still fishing around for their tickets, rounding up their children, calling out to their friends, putting the collars on their dogs. He was travelling with no luggage, just a pair of old pyjamas stuffed into his pocket, along with a bit of soap wrapped in newspaper; he needed nothing more. That way, he was always first, always ready to snatch the deal away from his rivals. And how they would complain afterwards. How unfair they were! All they had to do was copy him! Did he waste his time languishing in his wife’s arms, drinking his coffee in bed, stroking the cat, fiddling with the dials on the radio, spending two hours politely eating some slowly cooked meal like the French? Not that he looked down on such habits. Quite the contrary. But they were foreign and incomprehensible to him. He had to hurry, pursue something he wanted, triumph over everyone else, because he knew that once beaten, he might as well be dead. Who cared about Ben? Who would help Ben up if he fell to the ground? Who would dress his wounds? Only Ada . . . and even then, it wouldn’t be out of love – no one loved Ben – it would be out of a bond, out of pity. As for the others . . . Perhaps everything might change now. He was on his way to becoming rich: the wealthy Sinners were taking an interest in him. Oh, they were cautious, haughty towards him . . . but he didn’t care if people respected him or not. When old Salomon, to whom he was related after all, didn’t even ask him to sit down when he went to see him, that didn’t bother him a bit. All he asked was for them to throw him a bone from time to time. He worked tirelessly, for he knew that the two old men were keeping an eye on him. He had sensed it before he’d even met them. Hardened as they were by time and weakened by luxury, they retained enough of their memories to recall their origins, and Ben’s passion, his eagerness, appealed to some very ancient tendency within them, even though they might not be conscious of it, even though they might even be ashamed of it, but one that had more life than their dried-out old bodies. Oh, to manage to go even further, to get inside the business, to see how it worked, discover its secrets! Wasn’t he, Ben, more worthy of being their heir than Harry, that boy he so despised?

  ‘Slow down,’ Ben whispered to himself, ‘slow down.’

  It was like putting a leash on an excited animal. Yet his longing for immediate success, his passion, was both his strength and his weakness. In his mind, he could already see himself sitting at the place of honour, next to Isaac and Salomon, instead of Harry. And so many deals would be possible, so many wonderful triumphs! The world was no longer the same, and in this changing universe, what was the point of prudently saving, sacrificing everything out of concern for the opinion of society and superficial vanity? Pulling off deals quickly, audaciously, snapping up millions overnight and using the money to speculate again, that’s what you had to do! That’s what he, Ben, wanted to do! No swindling, no! Deals. Taking a chance on countries in a state of chaos, in Europe or Asia . . . lending them money and getting mines, oil fields, concessions for building railroads in exchange. That was how to get rich! In his third-class carriage, swaying between the two walls, amid the smoke, the noise, the night, the winter rain, in the train station of a suburb, Ben fantasised about enormous deals, imagined financial schemes just as an artist creates a universe purely from his imagination. He alone understood what he was capable of, what he was worth. He had already conned so many others, known so many different people; he had the experience of an old man. Perhaps his race also played a part? Perhaps he felt, like all Jews, that vague and slightly frightening feeling of carrying within oneself a past that was heavier than the past of most men. At times when someone else might need to learn something, he, Ben, was remembering it – at least, that’s what he believed.

  Paris, at last! He jumped off the train. The station was heaving with people; he was the first to get outside because he knew how to slip in between the hurrying crowds, how to find the weak spot in a barrier, push through it, instinctively working out the shortest route. He wore an old hat and shabby raincoat. His hair fell in thick, dark little curls over his forehead. He had an unpleasant face: he’d always known that. Not that he was ugly, but his face was so thin that his features seemed to merge, as if there was not enough room for them all. His fine, reddish eyebrows met above his nose; his pinched, animated nostrils almost touched his upper lip; his mouth and chin were crowded together, and his straight teeth were set almost one on top of each other. His face never looked at peace. It quivered constantly, like rippling water. When he spoke, ten gestures accompanied each word, and each movement was the manifestation of an emotion pushed to the extreme: anger, joy, curiosity, anxiety – none of these was ever exhibited as they were by other people, in large waves of emotion, but rather by short little passionate ripples, which made his features look perpetually in conflict over a thousand contradictory thoughts. He was forced to stop for a moment; he had crossed the street and gone down into the metro. But the doors had just shut in front of him. That moment of forced stillness seemed to cause him to suffer. He blushed, went white, bit his nails, took off his hat, twisted it, put it back on his head, and finally rushed towards the second-class carriage as if his life depended on it.

  He said nothing, but his lips were moving; he tapped his agile fingers on his knees and against the dark window of the train. He leapt out on to the platform. He was home. He checked the time: past midnight. He went into the lodging house and opened the door to his rooms. ‘Ada!’ he called out. No one replied, but someone was stretched out on the settee in the studio. When she had pulled herself up into a sitting position, he recognised Madame Mimi’s white hair, set in old-fashioned little curlers.

  ‘Where’s Ada?’

  She was wearing a silk dressing gown with leaves on
it over her nightclothes; she modestly closed it around her thin legs. She would never have agreed, not for anything in the world, to be seen in her nightdress; even her curlers were artistically arranged and set with little orange ribbons.

  ‘You gave me quite a shock, my dear boy,’ she sighed. Her eyes, which age had begun to cloud over but which were still often very perceptive, studied Ben with a look that was simultaneously shrewd and uncertain, as if she were reluctant to speak before she had read his expression.

  ‘Are you sleeping here now?’

  ‘Yes. Is that all right with you? Ada was all alone . . .’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Madame Mimi stood up and switched on the lamp.

  ‘Have you had any dinner? I’m afraid there isn’t much here . . .’

  ‘I asked you where Ada is.’

  ‘At a concert, my dear.’

  He didn’t ask ‘With whom?’ He threw his hat on to a chair and sat down.

  ‘Have you had any dinner?’ Madame Mimi asked again.

  ‘I had a sandwich and a beer.’

  ‘Ah, you never change, not you . . . Always being chased by the devil! I’ll heat up some soup for you.’

  ‘All right . . . no, I’m not hungry . . . if you want to,’ he murmured.

  She went out. He noticed that the room was filled with the smell of roses. He turned around: yes, there was a bouquet. Never had he seen such beautiful flowers. He tried to find the card that must have come with the delivery. Nothing. A look of savage, painful irony came across his face. Such cruel mockery, directed inwards: no one could inflict it better than he himself. It mixed with his insol-ence and pride in a strange way. In a flash, he could call up a thousand poisoned arrows that ripped through him, one by one. He walked over to the flowers and touched them shyly; they fascinated him. Such an intoxicating perfume! He leaned his burning cheek in towards one of them and sighed with pleasure at the feel of the tightly closed, firm little rose against his skin.

  Madame Mimi came into the room carrying a tray. ‘Leave the flowers alone, Ben,’ she cried.

  He moved away, looking at her with a sly, stubborn expression, like a child who’s been beaten.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ he grunted.

  ‘Then go to bed.’

  He sat down again without replying.

  She took the soup he hadn’t touched and began slowly to drink it, peering over the top of the cup and flashing him a look that was as quick and piercing as a dart.

  ‘They’re beautiful flowers, aren’t they? In the past, deep red roses were my favourites. In the past, the Prince . . . But what am I saying? All that is so long ago, forgotten . . . Where are those rose gardens now where I used to pick flowers to pin on my dresses? Roses like those. You know, I even decorated my horses with them, in Cannes . . . Yes, at the flower show, I had roses sewn on to my parasol and on to the horses’ blinkers . . . What are you going to do? Do you intend to sit there opposite me all night, without moving?’

  ‘Go to bed!’

  ‘In front of a young man! Well, I never! Hand me the cards.’

  He automatically shuffled them and dealt them out for a game. They played for a while in silence.

  ‘Are you jealous?’ she asked at last.

  He said nothing.

  ‘I thought you were above all such fine feelings, Ben . . .’

  ‘Do you know what she wants to do now? Is she going to leave me?’

  He was speaking quietly, without looking at her. He seemed calm, but drops of sweat were running down his cheeks; he wiped them away with the back of his hand.

  ‘I can’t breathe in here,’ he said suddenly, throwing down his cards.

  It was true that the small room was stifling. The windows must not have been opened all day and the radiators were burning hot. It meant that Ada hadn’t spent a single hour there since yesterday: she could only bear living in rooms that were icy cold.

  ‘Does she want to leave me, Madame Mimi?’

  ‘She hasn’t spoken to me about you.’

  ‘So she’s finally got what she wanted,’ he said softly, sounding bitter.

  Madame Mimi crossed her hands over her chest, and like an old soothsayer entering into a trance, she began speaking in a deep voice, one that scarcely resembled her usual lively, sharp tone. It was always startling to hear it, just as a certain cooing of doves is surprising in its harshness:

  ‘Oh, how alike you two are . . . Neither of you can calmly walk past a closed door without cunningly, or forcefully, trying to get in where God has forbidden you to go. You remain patient! You wait for an opportunity, or you bang on the door even harder until someone opens it . . . You’ve always been like that, Ben, and your wife is just the same. That’s how you got her, and that’s how she . . .’

  Ben closed his eyes. The old woman’s words sounded like bees buzzing in the distance. He had never experienced that.

  ‘Is she going to leave me?’

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Madame Mimi, leaning towards him and taking his hands in hers – they were as dry and light as a bird’s – ‘You have always known that she didn’t love you. She’s not the right girl for you. Ada is special . . .’

  ‘I’m special too,’ he said with bitter pride. ‘Just give me a few years and I’ll be in charge of many things and many people who now treat me like the mud on their shoes.’

  ‘She doesn’t love you.’

  ‘She’s as cold as stone,’ he whispered.

  ‘No, Ben.’

  ‘If she would only . . . stay with me . . . I wouldn’t ask anything else . . . I would let her . . . be with Harry . . . The way these sophisticated people behave sometimes has its uses,’ he said, sounding pained and sarcastic, ‘but it’s the idea of losing her that’s . . . unbearable. She’s always been with me. You know that’s true . . . We even used to sleep in the same room. I used to wake up and look at her black hair while she was in bed . . . We used to walk through the streets of the lower town together . . . I never really felt unhappy or alone because I knew that she was with me. She can’t leave me.’

  ‘Be quiet,’ said Madame Mimi. ‘They’re home.’

  24

  Ada had come in with Harry. They were both talking loudly and laughing. It was the laughter that both angered Ben and astonished him: he had so rarely heard Ada laugh. She was always silent and distant, lost in her daydreams. She was back down on earth now, thought Ben, watching her. She was dressed as simply as ever, almost shabbily, but she seemed happy, younger and more feminine, her face illuminated by an intense yet soft light that disappeared the moment she saw Ben.

  The two men eyed each other contemptuously, in silence.

  ‘I’m back now,’ said Ben. ‘Get out.’

  Harry took Ada by the shoulder.

  ‘Let’s go, Ada. It’s better to get this over with, once and for all.’

  Until now, Ben had remained calm. When he heard the way Harry said ‘Ada’, he flew into a rage. It was the French pronunciation, with the accent on the last letter, which Ben found affected and almost insulting. He shouted out his fury in curses and insults; the words he spoke were interspersed with Yiddish and Russian: Harry barely understood them. To Harry, there was something repugnant and grotesque in the way he swore, gesticulating wildly in an outburst of hatred. He immediately thought of the expression of horror there had been on Laurence’s face when she’d called him hysterical. These howls of passion, these frenzied calls to a vengeful god came from a different world.

  ‘I want to watch you die!’ shouted Ben. ‘I hope your body is ripped to shreds! I hope you have no peace, no rest, no easy death! I curse you and all your descendants! I curse all your sons!’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Harry shouted harshly. ‘We’re not in a ghetto in the Ukraine any more!’

  ‘But you came out of that ghetto just like I did, just like her! If you only knew how much I hate you! You who look down on us from on high, who despise us, who refuse to have anything in common with the Jewish scum.
Wait a bit! Just wait! You’ll be considered part of that scum again one day. And you’ll be dragged back into it, you who got out, you who thought you’d escaped. I’ve always hated you so much. For all the reasons that made Ada love you. Because you were rich! Because you wore clean clothes! Because you were happy! But just you wait. We’ll see which one of us ends up happier, which one of us has more money: you, rich and spoiled ever since you were a child, or me, a poor, miserable Jew. Perhaps one day, Ada, you’ll realise what you lost in me. Millions! I could have given you millions, if you’d only been patient enough to wait.’

  ‘Be quiet now, you dirty little opportunist,’ shouted Harry. ‘How can you not understand how horrible it is to talk about money, to bring money into this?’

  ‘Oh how I hate all your European pretensions! What you call success, victory, love, hatred, is what I call money. It’s just a different word for the same things. Both our ancestors talked this way. It’s our own language. You know very well why she fell in love with you. Because you had a clean collar and cuffs that day we went to your house for the first time, for our sins, while I, I was splattered with dust and blood. And it was money that made the difference. It’s not as if you were from a different bloodline, a different race . . . Well, in those days I would have said to myself: “Ben, my poor boy, you’re nothing but mud, you are, but him, he’s a prince. Better get out.” But you’re not a prince! Look at yourself. You have my hooked nose, my frizzy hair, you’re weak and frail, as hungry and miserable as I am . . . Hungry for other things, perhaps, but hungry all the same and not fulfilled and satisfied like other people . . . I could have been you and you could have been me. Ada! Why do you prefer him to me? Take a good look. Look at us carefully. Him and me, me and him, we’re cut from the same cloth. We’re brothers.’

  ‘No, no, it isn’t true,’ said Harry, hiding his face in his hands.