by Milan Fust
"Please, please, Jacques," she pleaded, "do love him, I beg of you; he is so very nice to me." This was strange, passing strange. Until then we rarely talked about things like marital fidelity; I just don't care to discuss such topics. But now I asked her:
"You'd have me love your boyfriend, Lizzy?" And burst out laughing. My wife, on the other hand, blushed.
"How can you be so vulgar, Jacques" she said indignantly, contemptuously. "He is not my boyfriend, he is not, how will I make you understand?" She was up in arms, a regular rebel; she even hit the table with her fist. "He is not a boyfriend, all right? He is a dear old friend whom I've known a long time and whom I now met quite by accident. You, Jacques, must be completely out of your mind."
I am out of my mind—that's rich.
"You can't deceive my eyes," I shot back, and quickly thought of a comparison. "Why, you are like a hen about to hatch an egg." I laughed again and just kept on laughing.
"Look at you, you're all hot and bothered. . . Do you know what I once saw in a village? A farmer's wife who didn't want her hens to hatch their eggs simply dunked them in a bucket of cold water. That's what I'd like to do with you right now."
She gave me a dumbfounded look. "You are comparing me to a hen?"
"Yes, I am. For now only to a hen, and you had better appreciate that."
"For now?"
"Yes, for now."
"Are you threatening me?"
"You've guessed it." And with that I got up and went into the other room. I was gasping for air, I noticed.
But she came after me and touching my arm with her finger, said:
"How you've changed . . . How nasty you've become." That's all she said and left the room.
Have I really become nasty? Could be. Irritable? Entirely possible. I was even willing to concede that my wife was innocent. (She did have such an innocent and offended air about her.) It was all in my mind, right? Women are such romantics—he was just an admirer. But what did that make me?
Actually, she had no idea what's been going on. She didn't read about my misfortune on the high seas, she missed it, and by the time people showed her the newspapers, it was all over, everyone was fine, nothing more to worry about.
"You had a fire?" she squealed when she found out. "Oh no! Was it dangerous?" Like that she started carrying on. What was I going to say? Start in, like her? Pant and hang out my tongue and show how my insides were ready to come out?
I did nothing of the sort. Even her voice annoyed me.
"Yes, I had a fire." And that was it. I really didn't need anyone to sympathize with me, or relive my troubles, which is impossible anyway. I don't expect any appreciation, either, it means nothing to me. Whatever happened happened, case closed.
I was somewhat agitated, I said before. She did have a way of stirring me up. And when in company, I felt even more of a stranger. What they found amusing, I found pointless; even their calm irritated me. I almost attacked a waiter once because he wasn't polite enough with my wife. And had a run-in with an old woman who . . . But what's the use? The truth is a sailor always feels edgy and offended on land. On sea I am somebody, if only a seaman. Here I am nothing, I turn into nothing. And contend with the filth and smut of the big city. It can be dirty aboard a ship also, but there I can have the crew clean up, can have their souls scrubbed down, if need be, until everything sparkles in the bright sun. Here what am I going to scrub down, the air? Might as well: it's pretty dirty. And people look pallid and sickly in the city, as if shut up in old mildewy attics, especially on winter mornings when they are still sleepy, and wheeze and hawk on crowded streetcars.
I am saying all this to demonstrate once again that for men like us it's no good being out of our element. We lose our aim, we stagnate, I especially, after what I've been through. Buried deep inside an endless, horrible night, unable to break loose. I often felt I was still on that lovely, graceful boat as it kept plowing the waves, all ablaze, its engines rattling and whining, struggling as if alive, refusing to yield. That whole night was like a huge void, a vast, dark expanse, and in that vastness, the flaming ship was ... I don't know how else to say this . . . my own living soul. For a long time I'd wake up in the middle of the night, screaming, drenched.
And all my wife could say even then is: "What's wrong? What's wrong?" And sit up in her bed and fret. But I'd say nothing to her; I would rather talk to myself. On the street or in a train, I would launch into endless monologues.
Here is a sample: She may be lovesick but I am not.
Or: I won't ever set foot on land again. If it means anything to you, follow me, come aboard my ship, for that's where I belong. Other times I said just the opposite: I'll never go out to sea again; it's a good life but no longer for me. In short, I, too, experienced that wretched state when you no longer know what to think and the opposite seems just as reasonable. ... I was almost sorry I didn't shoot myself that night.
Mind you, I was still sound as a bell, nothing was wrong with me, as of yet. All the same, I was like a watch that kept perfect time but with a funny, hollow tick, as if something had already snapped inside.
But it so happened that Monsieur Dedin, his mere existence, gave me strength to go on, if only because I began to take him seriously now, and noted other things as well, which I will relate presently.
One day we were sitting in the Café de Saint Luc, which was owned by an old friend of mine, a sea captain from Normandy. And of course Dedin was with us, too, which was now the case almost all the time. Don't ask me how I could stand it. Or how he could do it.
When does this writer write? I often wondered. I was inclined to believe he did absolutely nothing, let alone write. Maybe he carried his rich uncle's chamber pot around. And then put on his little hunter's hat and headed for a wild night on the town. The man, as you can see, irritated me to no end.
Nevertheless, I told my wife one day:
"That Dedin seems like a decent fellow."
Well, she lit up like a lightbulb.
"You see, you see; I told you." And she beamed.
That's how far this thing has gone, that's how open she was about it, damn it.
Why, then, did I make that appreciative remark? For two reasons: First of all, I was pleasantly surprised. He didn't steal, though he had the opportunity. He returned my wallet which I left on a table in a bistro; he didn't pocket it but brought it back. A promising beginning, surely.
The other reason was that I could no longer put up with my wife's suffering demeanor. Ever since that time when I was a little rough on her, she'd been giving me dirty looks. As though I'd killed her papa. But now that we made up, she showed no mercy. We had to be together all the time. I called him a decent fellow, didn't I? She tried so hard to bring us closer, to match us up. This is how a typical conversation was conducted:
She'd be walking in the middle, between Dedin and me, and turn from side to side as she talked.
"Dedin says you can get finer cigars than these." "My husband says it's time we went to a different cinema." Like that. Dedin would sometimes send me messages, too, but I never sent him any.
All I kept thinking about was how to get rid of this guy. For no matter how I looked at it, this arrangement was not very good. Even under the best of circumstances, he'd remain the ideal friend who brought her books and things, and kept feeding her stories about how she could make a pretty good movie actress. (With this sort of claptrap, I noticed, every woman can be swept off her feet, even the very best.) He'd still be the cultivator of her soul, and I, the uncouth husband, the breadwinner, the workhorse.
The truth is I was dimwitted enough to fill the role.
At my friend's place, on the other hand, I felt more comfortable. He was a man after my own heart. To him I didn't have to explain what it was like to have things like "What kind of captain are you? Where is your sense of duty?" thrown at your face.
"Tell me the truth," my friend now said to me, "do you really like the blasted sea all that much? (And the que
stion, needless to say, could not have come at a better time.)
"I myself love it," he went on with a grin, "always have, especially from afar. Come on, man, be honest: aren't you glad when you leave those rotten tubs, those floating prisons, when your foot hits dry land? Especially after that accident of yours?"
"God only knows," I sighed.
But he persisted: "Can you eat anything this good on a boat?" (He was serving us some chewy meat cooked with a kind of polenta, a regional specialty, apparently, prepared in my honor, expected to be praised.)
"But let's chat about something good ... It just occurred to me: Why don't you and me open a nice little inn. . . ? What do you say? It's no life being away at sea all the time?"
"You know, you are on to something," I said. "But that inn . . . it better be classy. My wife likes only the very best...." I glanced at my wife. My friend laughed. But she calmly continued her needlework, as though she didn't hear a word I said. The little woman was embroidering a pair of slippers, with very fine, brightly colored threads.
"Well?" I inquired, pressing the point, "what would you two say if I decided to stay home?" But Monsieur Dedin didn't budge either; he kept smoking his cigarette furiously, immersing himself in a magazine.
"Good meat," I said. And it was, its texture anyway—nice and firm. And I always liked to chew my food properly, I had damn good teeth.
"And the sauce?"
"That's good, too."
"We'll have to make this in our new hotel," he said.
"Oh yes, definitely." And to myself I thought: Damn that woman. What's with the embroidering all of a sudden? She never used to embroider. And the silence between us, this incredible silence. As if she were saying: Go on, talk to your friend, talk all you like.
I don't know if others are familiar with the feeling: the intimacy of those long silences between lovers. Picture it, if you will: she peacefully stitching away, he turning the pages of his magazine, but with an air of confidence that said: I know you love me and you know that I love you, and that's all the two of us need to know. Just to illustrate how this silence affected me: Years and years later, in South America I believe it was, I thought about that evening once and promptly flew into a rage. Even then I did, I saw red even then. My wife appeared before my mind's eye just as she stopped sewing for a minute. Like someone emerging from a dream, she lifted her pretty head, to cast a glance at her friend, not even at his face, only at his checkered jacket, his hand, even that was enough. And as if drawing strength from that mere glance, she bit off the end of the thread and continued working.
This scene, as I say, had such a powerful hold over me, I was ready to explode even years later. But that's the way I often am. Implacable. And then not even rivers of spilled blood can appease me. But let's go on; maybe this book will vindicate me.
"Who are you making those charming slippers for?" I asked her finally, when I thought I could no longer contain myself. Ah, but these two would not admit a stranger into their own little world. "For Monsieur Lagrange," my wife said. "A surprise." Just like that. Case dismissed. (Madame Lagrange, by the way, was a friend of hers.)
"You know something," I turned to my friend from Normandy, "we will buy ourselves a little hotel and fill it with little mamselles." I just had to say something. Actually, I wanted to use another word, but they all knew what I meant. In fact, my wife was already gathering up her slippers—she got offended.
"Let's go home," she said abruptly. "I don't feel well."
Let's go then. By all means.
She did look rather pale. We left the café and Dedin of course came with us, he sat in the cab and said he'll see us home. Ah, the faithful friend ... I was trembling already. And at the door, as though I didn't even exist, he took his time saying good-bye, making it sound like a confession. He clasped her hand, gazed intently at her. And all that before my very eyes. But then I had a fiendish thought.
"You will go to bed, won't you?" he asked very solicitously. Asked her. Asked my wife. "Promise me you'll go to bed right away." This was altogether too much, this tender loving care was too much, when I happened to be right there. I thought I'd give the young man a little scare.
"Why don't you come up, too, for a drink?" For a moment I had this mad idea that as soon as we got upstairs, I'd seize him, drag him to the window and push him out. We lived on the sixth floor and had a nice view of the park, and the apartment itself was roomy and almost completely empty.
What the hell makes these two so dreamy? I wondered. They must be over it by now; they had this whole place to themselves, they could do whatever they wished. That this was no casual friendship I could no longer doubt. That interlude in the café convinced me, though there were other signs as well. For example, my wife said to him: "Give me a match, will you?"
Just like that. Real intimate. But how does one preserve such evidence? How does one prove after the fact that it was no mistake, this is precisely what happened? Sooner or later you forget yourself. Night comes and you forget. For the words, ah, the words, disappear.
Once we were upstairs, I put my wife to bed. Her teeth did chatter and she did shiver a little, and though I thought I knew why (obviously because I was still there), I said to myself: Never mind. I'll stay no matter what. As long as I must. As a matter of fact, I felt like making love to her right then and there.
But she started crying, the woman actually started crying. And when I see that, I simply melt and am no longer responsible for my acts.
"What's the matter, my precious?" But she just went on crying, inconsolably, like a child. And me, I was trying to pull down her stockings.
"Don't cry, my sweet," I said, my voice hoarse with desire. (Man is a strange beast, I tell you.) Why not have a beautiful moment, I thought, while our young friend is waiting in the other room? I was giddy with lust by now.
But she resisted me, which was only natural, turning blood-red as she did. "Let me be, let me be," she hissed. But that aroused me even further. The more she fought, the more I wanted her. Each touch was like a burn, I felt her tears on my face. She tried with all her strength to push me away but of course couldn't.
"Now, now, you know I won't let you go if I don't want to." And I grabbed her and lifted her, blanket and all. But then she struck me. I stopped.
I could have broken every bone in her body, of course. And then take a shoetree maybe or a clothes hanger and beat the young man's head until there wasn't a breath of life in him. But flareups like these have a strange effect on me. If a woman goes as far as she did just now, I let her go, I lose all interest. I put her down and started walking toward the door.
But she began to cry even more desperately, it made no sense to leave; I would have heard her sobs even in the other room.
So I stayed and began pacing the floor.
What's making her cry so much, I wondered. What's got into her? Or is that what it is? I happened to glance in the mirror. My eye was bloodshot, she scratched it, the little bitch.
And there was her blouse, too, a beautiful Chinese silk blouse I brought back from one of my trips, in shreds, completely torn.
Maybe this is why she is crying, I thought, and smiled. Or was it the hotel business that got her so scared? That they'd be stuck with me for good in this empty, silent apartment?
"What a horrid man you are," she sobbed. "You take me to that boorish friend of yours and all you do is insult me. And now I am to become an innkeeper's wife."
I had to laugh.
"Is that what's eating you?"
"Oh no."
"What then?" But she didn't answer.
It was just as well. What else could have bothered her but the thing I'd already mentioned—the fear that she'd be stuck with me. I knew as much. Saying it would not have made any difference.
So I continued walking up and down, with a wet handkerchief over my eye, mulling over decisions that seemed pretty final.
"Tell Dedin I am feeling better and send him home," I heard her say after a
while.
"Yes, ma'm," I replied and bowing slightly, left the room.
This won't work, I decided. When you are patient and understanding, people take advantage of you. It was a mistake to allow things to go this far. I should have thrown the bum out long ago. I walked into the other room, handkerchief still in place, which he didn't seem to notice. He was reading again.
"You must be a well-read man. How old are you, anyway?"
"Thirty."
"I am forty-two but I bet I could still knock you down with one finger. . . what do you say to that?" He laughed. And he was right. What sort of talk was this? Like that kid at the academy.
"It's quite possible," he replied with a broad smile.
"And if I did, I don't think you could get up again. What is it you do for a living?"
"I was a sublieutenant attached to the medical corps," he answered and straightened out a little.
"I am not interest in what you were, my good man; what are you now, What is your livelihood? I can also say that I am a master violinist just because I once owned a violin. What I am asking you is what you are right now." Monsieur Dedin cast curious glances all around.
"I am not much of anything," he said with an enigmatic smile.
"Now that's more like it. . . you are nothing, that I can understand. What do you live on, then?"
"That is rather a mystery," he replied and cracked a sugar cube in his mouth. Our gallant was invulnerable, I realized, he was totally impervious. The sugar was left on the table after tea, and he was sucking on them now quite peacefully. He really didn't feel like answering my questions and would have liked nothing better than to walk away. But he couldn't—not just yet.
"A mystery, eh?" I said. "Might you have a rich uncle supporting you?"
"An uncle?"
"A rich uncle. No need to get embarrassed, young man. Someone generous enough to help you." He turned a deep red. I thought this is it: something is going to happen, at last. (Ah, how I wished it, with all my heart.) But no: the young man kept smiling.
