by Milan Fust
nam animal in me debile crebro.
(From a medieval devotions)
One
MY WIFE'S BEEN UNFAITHFUL, THIS MUCH I HAVE LONG suspected. But that she should take up with a man like that... I stand over six feet tall, weigh 210 pounds, am a veritable giant, in short, the sort of person who—as they say— only has to spit on someone and the man is finished.
That's what I first thought I would do to Monsieur Dedin . . . Ah, but this is not where I should begin . . . It's no use; I still get worked up when I think of him.
The truth of the matter is that getting married was a mistake— all the more since up until then I had very little to do with women, I was cold by nature. I look back on my early youth and find that the only story of an erotic nature worth recollecting is the following: I could not have been more than thirteen. The place was a park in the Dutch city of Sneek, in Friesland, where we then lived. A governess sat in the park with a small child, whom she kept admonishing:
"Veux-tu obéir, veux-tu obéir?"
I loved the sound of the words. She also said to the child:
"Vite, vite, depêche-toi donc."
And I liked that too. It's quite possible I decided right then and there that I would marry a French woman. At any rate, I enjoyed listening to that sweet melody. Then, as though by divine inspiration, I walked to the edge of the park, tore out a page from my exercise-book, and wrote two words on it, in Dutch (for I could not yet then write in French, nor did I speak the language, though I did understand it when others spoke it).
"Greppel, greppel," I wrote, that is, let's lie in the ditch a little. There was indeed a rather deep, grassy ditch nearby. With the piece of paper I walked back to the governess and stood meekly before her, looking at her sweetly, the way I did when as a little boy I was sent with a list to the corner grocer. Then I held up the little piece of paper in front of her.
Naturally, the governess thought I was crazy.
She understood the word but not the thing I was getting at. True, I was a good-sized lad and could have been taken for a boy of eighteen, but I did wear short pants and knee socks; what is more I had on a nice blue sailor suit top, with a bow my mother herself tied that morning. I still had rosy cheeks then, though I admit my ears were also red, and large-sized ears they were, too. But my teeth were white and my eyes fearless—I was a boy with earnest eyes. And I was not yet corrupted, honestly I wasn't. Just how I got the courage to put those words down I still can't say.
The governess simply stared at me, she nearly swallowed me with her eyes.
"Que c'est que tu veux?" she asked finally.
But I was not embarrassed even then. I stood there graciously, then ran away. I did the same the following day and the day after.
The governess, as soon as she saw me coming, would start laughing—she laughed so hard she nearly fell over. Arms akimbo, she continued laughing, and the child with her laughed too. But I stood my ground, my gaze remained steadfast; I did not budge.
"Mon pauvre garçon," she intoned sympathetically, laughing still, though also blushing hotly. "Eh bien, tu ne sais pas ce qu'il te faut." A woman of the world, I thought. "My poor boy," she repeated; "you have no idea what's bothering you, do you?" And she stared into my eyes, wonderstruck, like the hot sun, and even pinched my face. Whereupon I ran away.
Finally, though, she caught on. Why not? she must have asked herself. At least this sort of thing can't lead to scandal or other problems. The thought of the ditch appealed to her too. There was also a little bridge there with overgrown bushes underneath. After discovering that the park-keeper passed by only twice a day (because of the summer heat, the place was deserted most of the time), she met me by that bridge early in the morning, bringing with her a basket of food or a jug of milk. She was uncombed, sleepy—oh, I was crazy about her. For it should be understood: I was a young lad and I could still feel the warmth of her bed on her.
At home I accounted for my early departure with some lie or other; I tried to avoid my mother anyway and walked about all day in the sunshine as if in a dream. . . . This lasted the entire summer. Then I lost all interest in women.
A year later, one of my uncles, my favorite, my thoroughly depraved uncle, whom I happened to be visiting then, set out a hooked ladder for me so I could climb up to the upper floor of a neighboring house; each night I observed a beautiful lady taking a bath. It was summertime then, too, and in the sweltering heat she kept the windows of her apartment open. One day, while hovering between the ground and the sky, I decided to land on her window sill. So as not to scare her, I whispered to her:
"A little boy is here."
Rather than getting scared, she turned very somber in her bath. Actually, she knew me already by sight. Then, without saying a word, she motioned me to come closer. I stepped down from the ledge, and she with a hazy look in her eyes embraced me.
These were the only two amorous adventures of my early youth, which, though awkward, both of them, are worth mentioning. The others are negligible. I had to laugh at men who were panting after them. ... I was full of unattractive thoughts about women. How haughtily they sat in restaurants, holding their heads oh so high. But I knew things about them that would have made them less haughty, surely. I conceived of man's business with them as being fairly straightforward. In this I was not unlike many a young man. One must deal with them quite simply, I thought.
Instead, I became more and more interested in good eating, especially after being exposed to new worlds during the course of my travels. An acquaintance of mine, General Piet Mens, once made the observation in my presence that man is worse than the filthiest hog because he tastes everything. Well, I disagree. It's by leaving nothing untouched that we discover the tastes, the uses, of this world. And besides, I am convinced that anyone who wants to delve into the souls of nations must eat their foods.
That is what I have done. I can't think of a single dish, not even overspiced dried mutton that burns like the sand of the Sahara, that I wouldn't eat. I walked through Eastern bazaars where meats sizzle on open, communal fireplaces. I watched dough rise on a pastry chefs stand in Persia. The Mohammedans do make wonderful pastries, and prepare them tastefully and cleanly too, in spotless aprons, and serve them in hot bronze dishes. You get sated with the fragrance, it stays with you for months. When I had no pressing business, I would sit for days on end in those bazaars and souks—it was my way of relaxing. I couldn't imagine anything more fascinating than the ceaseless bustle, the stream of alien color, the strange tongues, the laughter. If after a time all this did get to be a little too much, I ordered one of their dishes and continued daydreaming.
My friends thought I was a savage, mainly because I ate everything, though for other reasons as well. No job was too hard for me; I tackled everything. I would think nothing of sweating and slaving for three months straight. Needless to say, the shipowners knew this about me, too.
"You buffalo, you," said one of my mates, a kid named Eberstma-Leiningen. I had to laugh at his squeamishness—I always found work, whereas he didn't. I am a buffalo, eh? So be it. The buffalo's a very useful beast. And anyway, I can do something a buffalo can't, which is going without eating or sleeping. To repeat, nothing was too much for me when it came to enduring hardship. But then, nothing was good enough when I felt like letting go. If there were limits to pass, I passed them, and not only in attacking a job but also in seeking out pleasure . . . But gone are those heroic days. I listen to myself tell my tale and it's as though I am talking about somebody else. I listen with some sadness, I do admit.
About my soul I used to think: a painful frill. And that's exactly what it was.
Then again, I became a shipmaster rather early on. While still a smooth-faced youth, I was entrusted with all sorts of fine wares, precious cargo worth fortunes. Now and then I struck my own deals, private deals, on the side. There are ways. I began to prosper, and before I reached thirty I had accumulated a handsome fortune.
But then someth
ing happened, a minor accident. Not even so minor, actually. The nemesis of seafaring men. Stomach trouble. It felt as if an armored plate was pressing on my belly ... I couldn't eat. Here is how it happened.
We were laid up in Naples, and I bought some things in a delicatessen shop. I like to shop in Italy: the merchants are high-spirited and their stores well-stocked. In this shop, too, there were first-class foodstuffs: smoke-cured ham, poultry, even game, from woodlarks and thrushes and tiny quails to good-sized ducks, some already roasted, others uncooked and therefore pleasantly yellow, with their heads tucked under their wings, looking as though they were made to rest plumply on a marble slab. I could watch them for hours, as well as the appetizing breadstuff, the nuts, the clusters of grapes, the pyramids of apples and chestnuts, even the golden-yellow dessert wines which remind one—who knows why?—of cheerful old women.
I ended up with quite a selection; and as I fingered my crisp banknotes I anticipated the swishing sound the little packets would make. (I walk down the street and they begin their little chatter. I like that sort of thing.) But then I thought: Why carry all those packages? They can be delivered. I had to stay in town to attend to a few things and thought of inviting a few people to my boat.
"Ah, ah, Jacopo, carissimo amico mio." My Italian acquaintances greeted me with noisy effusiveness; they even flung out their arms. The Italians love this sort of self-generated conviviality, everybody knows that. What my friends also knew was that if I invited them for supper, they wouldn't regret it.
On my way home I had another idea.
Why not have a bite before dinner? I was in the vicinity of Posilippo, so I stopped in at a place near there. Right by the water, on the pier in fact, there was a pleasant little tavern, pretty much deserted at this time of the day; the area around it was quiet too, all of which made the place kind of inviting. A hearty snack with a couple of the local boys would be just right. They were having ordinary shellfish with white bread and wine. I joined them straightaway, and we had a pleasant chat. The shells sloshed in the buckets as we rinsed them one by one. Everything around was spotless: the pier on which we sat, the sea, life itself, it seemed, including the hearts of those sitting around the table. And to top it off, the sun setting across the bay was a glorious red.
This isn't half bad, I said to myself; rather nice, in fact. And as I had always been fond of a little make-believe, a little pretending, I imagined for a while that I wasn't me but a languid world traveler on a rest cure. I paid for the boys' drinks, whereupon they stood up and bowed. (Italians are fond of such ceremony.)
But I did suspect that the shellfish I ate there was the cause of my undoing. To this day I think of that little snack as the beginning of my troubles. That night nothing tasted good, the excellent supper was wasted on me. There was a coldness in my stomach from all that wretched seafood.
Not even the preparations gave me any pleasure, though ordinarily that's the part I like most. First I check if they sent home everything, making sure nothing got switched. As a rule I buy the finest cooking oil, as yellow as the warm light of a lamp. The one I had just bought was naturally of this kind. I held it up to the light; it was flawless, perfect. Normally, the mere sight of such a fine product gives me a little thrill of pleasure. Now, too, I stood in the kitchen, waiting for the snails to cook, telling myself: You have to learn to anticipate those little pleasures. But I had learned it, I knew how to live. I watched the kitchen boy drying the plates and stuffing and twisting the dishcloth in the glasses, and holding them up to the light to see if their sparkle was brilliant enough. An even tempo can be so soothing. I like quiet, measured movements; I also like quiet brilliance. So I usually prepare for these dinners with great inner calm. I tried now too, but it was no use; my insides were going haywire. Watching my friends didn't help any; they were noisily devouring everything in sight, while I hardly touched a thing. They sang boisterously, while I remained silent. Years ago, in happier times, I bought rich, heavy tobacco in the Levant. In some ports the fast-talking merchants would lug on board vast quantities of the slender leaves, as golden yellow as the hair of virgin girls. I brought out a few sheaves of the stuff and tossed them in front of my guests. Later I also tried smoking one cigarette after another, but it just didn't taste the same, nothing did—life itself appeared futile. Until then I was never sick, never had a stomach upset; but now I felt this was it: an evil fate. I was desperate.
Meanwhile the gramophone was playing.
"Niente, niente" I told them; "sono un poco amolato cosi." I pretended to be drunk from the resin-colored wine.
But they had a fine time without me.
"Vieni, vieni," they told my boy. "Eat this, for your master." They fed him all the delicacies, though eating on duty was never allowed on my ships. But now even this didn't bother me.
I was angry enough, however, to toss the leftovers into the sea.
This painful interlude, I am now convinced, led me to my marriage. In a way I began to hate people that night. And no wonder. They gorged themselves and ignored me completely.
It happens often that for all our experience and wisdom we get deeply offended when people, seeing we are in trouble, pass us by like a speeding car, without so much as looking back. These rejections hurt, as can disappointments suffered at the dinner table. Indeed, some people take these even more to heart, and not just youngsters, as prigs and pedants might think, who belittle such grievances. For instance I had a crony, a captain by the name of Gerard Bist, who lapsed into melancholy every time his cook spoiled his dinner.
"What's the use of living?" he'd say to me. "You're stuck on that bloody boat for months on end like a goddamn prisoner; and then you can't even have the satisfaction of eating a decent meal." He was right. Me, I was doubly offended, as can be imagined. For if I can't enjoy good food, what is there left for me? I who had always been intemperate should now start being careful, stick to diets, visit hospitals, medicine women? Well, I did; I even tried acupuncture, and counting therapy, for God's sake, in Japan! There isn't a cure under the sun I didn't try, but nothing helped. Finally, I was directed to a so-called psychoanalyst, and for all I know this man may have been responsible for my even greater misfortune.
"Women," the psychoanalyst said to me. "Women." And he looked into my eyes significantly.
Women? So be it. Let's look around. But I didn't even have to do that, for it was just then that I met my future wife.
She was a French girl, very much a flirt and very ticklish. She laughed all the time, mostly at me, and always so hard as if someone was tickling her. She called me Oncle Douc Douc and Dodo and Cric Crac and Croc Croc because of the way I laughed, which she said sounded like an explosion. And she called me Papa Bear, too, because it was so funny to see the points of my napkin stick out behind my ears. She rolled in delight like a little pig. I do happen to tie my napkin in the back of my neck—who knows why, an old habit, I suppose.
"Your big ears," she cried, "and those two points . . . it's too precious." And she kept clapping her tiny hands.
"Sloppy again," she'd yell at me from her window when she saw me trudging up the steps behind the church (her house was rather high up, on a hill behind the church), and I had the feeling already then, I am not even sure why, that God alone knew how many men—and what sort of men!—she must have greeted like that, leaning out of the upper story window, a fragrant French rose. She was a sinful creature, she had to be; I sensed it immediately. But it didn't much matter then, I had a grand time with her. I asked her to repeat the words "Veux-tu obéir? Veux-tu obéir?" and she repeated them diligently, greeting me with the phrase after a time. In other words, she was quite smart, and quick too, because she learned in no time how to handle me, always letting me have my way, saying mine was the correct way, urging me to do as I please. From all this I could have surmised a certain degree of expertise, but I didn't want to. I refused to consider the evidence.
I thought to myself: If I like her, I'll marry her, so why fr
et? Seafaring men get nowhere as anxious about these things as landlocked folk do. I say this because I've seen enough of them ponder the matter endlessly before finally making up their minds. But us?
My life is always in danger, was then too, and not only on the high seas. I was consorting with some pretty dangerous Levantine gentlemen at that time. Why then should I have been bothered by such minor worries? Will my wife love me? Will she be faithful while I am gone? Women are never faithful, especially sea captains' wives—it comes with the territory.
So I bought her a bunch of bracelets and necklaces and married her. We sailors don't like long courtships. I had a mate who ingratiated himself with the ladies by saying "Andiamo a letto" after his first evening walk with them. And with some, this abruptness worked wonders. If not right away then two weeks later. It's no good being shocked by these things—they happen. It may not be very nice of me to bring this up just here, but why pretend? That's just how I felt. Matrimony to me was not any more sacred than, say, a carrot stick. I was beyond all sacredness, or so I thought. (I was wrong; just how wrong is what I intend to relate here.)
Anyway, I married her. I think she had a little affair right away, soon after the wedding, that is—at least that is what all the signs seemed to point to. I will not say I cared very much for her speed, but I tried to get over it. Told myself not to be petty. After all, I wasn't used to having a woman who was only mine. Was I to follow her now, spy on her, gather evidence? What the hell for? If she didn't do it then, she'll do it later. How could she not be unfaithful? I was away for months at a time, often as long as a half a year at a stretch. Can one expect superhuman behavior from a mere human? Or should she pine away, for years, all alone? Were she really to do that, she probably couldn't say "Veux-tu-obéir?" in such a beautiful sing-song. And then she'd no longer give me pleasure. I said I didn't make much of the affair, still I want to put down everything about that first night. Not because there was anything extraordinary about it, but because I do believe that every "first" has some significance. But I also have another purpose, and that is to give some idea of the circumstances and conditions under which my wife lived—to demonstrate, in short, what an utter fool I would have been if in full knowledge of those circumstances. I still had anxieties about her fidelity.
