by Milan Fust
"All she does is read?"
"All the time."
"She's always home then . . . But do you let her? She is supposed to be in your care. At the rate she is going, she'll ruin her health, she'll just waste away." (I scolded her, just to be on the safe side.) But Marie's smile was guileless, genuine.
"She doesn't go out much," she now said, and turned a little sad. "She is rarely in the mood."
"Not much, you say, that's all right. But where does she go when she does go out? Among interesting, entertaining people, I hope."
Marie gave her finger a lick and tested the iron she was about to use.
"Where?" she reflected. "To see silly women, I would say. She always lets me know exactly where she will be. She'd say to me: 'I'll be at Madame Lagrange's' or 'I am going to Mrs. Pigal's.' Aren't they kind of silly? Next to madame, I mean? They are not good enough for her," said our very own dairymaid, and lapsing into blessed docility, she continued ironing.
"Of course they are not good enough for her," I said. "That's just it. But what about her? Does anyone ever come here? Women I mean, friends . . . you know . . . Does she ever have parties here?"
"Not really, mon colonel" she answered (as a rule she called me colonel, though I explained to her more than once that I wasn't one). "These are the people who come to the house: Madame Casa, but she comes seldom. (This was a Dutch lady who married rich but then went broke.) Madame Lagrange (a very religious lady against whom I had no objections . . . then.) And sometimes Mademoiselle Sanchi." I had to agree with Marie; they were all rather stupid females.
"All right. And what about men?"
Marie immediately became defensive.
"What do you mean men?" she said, no longer very docile. Even her cheeks turned red, like a shiny apple, and her eyes clouded over. I was quite surprised. But wasn't it amazing? That she mesmerized everybody, even this love-starved old spinster to whom jealousy came naturally? That even she was willing to back her up? And now got all worked up because I dared to utter the word men in connection with my wife?
Should I insist then that I was a crazy fool?
Because to top it off, she didn't have one real friend, which was odd, to say the least. So she was cooped up in these rooms for months by herself, reading up on the role of the inner voice, the conscience. Isn't it quite understandable that such a woman would one day find herself desperately in love with the very first man to come along?
If there was no one around her except the likes of a Dedin?
There couldn't be any other explanation. I had to assume that most of my money, not just the three thousand but much more, ended up in his pocket. There was no uncle, that's for sure—my wife must have invented him on the spur of the moment, in desperation. Come to think of it, the poor woman must have invented quite a few things—an uncle here, a pickpocket there. Childish nonsense, all of it.
She was neither shrewd nor sneaky, but quite, quite gullible, an easy prey, I tell you, an easy prey, for all her machinations. Just imagine, then: if such a muddle-headed little romantic, at Madame Pigal's or some other place, where the common bond, supposedly, was a belief in some highfalutin brand of mysticism—if in such an environment, under such circumstances, she met a languid-eyed hunter who gave her fancy books to read, filled her head with claptrap, and even had her believe she could be an actress one day, wouldn't it be fair to surmise that the young man's plaid suits and ample overcoats and smart hats were bought with money he got from this poor creature?
But then, all these thoughts vanished, the clouds lifted from my heart. My wife recovered. One morning she woke up in good spirits, her gloom had vanished, she knew how to laugh again. Did she really get over that love of hers? Did she finally realize that the man simply walked out on her? Which he did, of course, vanishing without a trace.
You see, I would have liked to say to her: Who is it but I who sticks by you no matter what? (I deluded myself with the hope that she would realize this herself.) That no one was as concerned about you as I. That I devoted my whole life to you, neglecting practically everything else. . . .
What followed were happy, peaceful days—days that were like the fading sun: weak but still warm. This was our real honeymoon, happier even than the time we spent in Granada. We roamed the city and did quite a bit of shopping. I knew how much she loved to shop, so I let her splurge. Ah, the excitement, the anticipation of it . . . she was beside herself with joy. May she have that, too? Really? Maybe she shouldn't. She realized we couldn't spend so much, but still. We happened to be discussing a snakeskin portfolio. She was dying to get it.
"It is a handsome portfolio," I said.
"You like it too?"
"I do, very much. I've been meaning to get one for myself," I added slyly.
"This, then, is for you, all right?" She was trying a new tack.
"Very good." And I won't deny it, my heart was glad. After all, she was once a poor girl. To this day I don't know how she, a peasant's daughter, made it as a school teacher. She never had a thing, this girl. Why even now, when she saw ordinary candy, her eyes lit up. So I bought it by the bagful, and always those brightly colored ones, fiery reds, deep greens.
"Look at the little devil's eyes," I said to her. She may be a grown woman, she still looked in the bag. And her smile retained some of that childish wonder. And why not? I knew myself what childhood memories were like. Why shouldn't she crave for pretty things?
"Isn't it beautiful, though?" she exclaimed ecstatically when we got home. "Isn't it?" (She meant the portfolio.)
"It is, it is," I said and then added: "It's funny when you think about it. You first say to someone: you are beautiful; and then you say: I love you." She knew right away what I was getting at.
"A man doesn't have to look beautiful," she said, crestfallen.
"Oh yes," I said and gently caressed her face.
I had to teach her how to eat again. We munched hot donuts in department store snack bars, and feasted on tiny crabs in crowded diners. I dragged her to bakeries for a whiff of fresh-baked bread, and even to make-shift barbecues. I like places like that. "It's no good being so particular," I explained to her, "for who can tell in advance when or where you will have the time of his life?"
"Go on, take a look over there," I yelled to her on one occasion, "look at the size of that dumpling the man is trying to bite into." I was pointing to the signboard of a surburban dining place, at a huge blue figure who stared open-mouthed at a dumpling in front of him, which will remain that way, dangling, tantalizing, to the very end of time.
"The poor devil. It's right under his nose, but he will never sink his teeth into it."
"Too bad," she concurred, shaking her head. "It's terrible being a signboard," she sighed.. . . "Come on, let's go inside, I suddenly feel ravenous." And she pulled me in.
The place seemed like a hangout for foreign workers. We had tripe sprinkled with lemon juice, and oh yes, dumplings too, the very best, and plenty of it. And to wash it down, some robust red wine, which made her eyes throw off sparks.
"See, isn't this wonderful?" I said. "Food to warm the heart and all for less than ten francs."
All that wholesome food did enliven her spirits. She got drunk but was still sweet; actually, she could be captivating in such a state. She nestled her little head in the palm of my hand and left it there. She lay like that in my hand, giddy, her eyes all aglow, winking, and at one point even kissing the palm of my hand.
It's also true that as the wine got the better of her, she could no longer resist and exchanged glances, discreetly but undeniably, with a tall, lean workman who just then got up to stretch. In this regard she was in no need of instruction; when it came to life's gifts she was receptive and open-minded. What could I do? Absolutely nothing.
And after that her darkening eyes had an even fiercer glow.
And so it went. We toured the countryside, wandered about a little, got off the train at unfamiliar stations. It began to feel more and more like spri
ng, and when spring comes, both France and my wife are lovely. She looked as if the sunlight had settled on her eyes. She would stand in some arbor in her pert little hat, her light parasol, her frilly dress covered with rings of sunlight, and she would laugh away, at me, mostly.
"How clumsy you are, how very clumsy," she said to me when I presented her with a bunch of baby roses.
"How can you hold flowers like that?" And she embraced them as if they were her children.
"It's easy for you to talk. Is it my fault that I am such an oaf? You're right, flowers don't look good in my hand, nor anything else that's pretty or refined. A piece of red onion or a cow's leg would be more like it"—I tried to think of things that would make her laugh again, but she didn't she just looked at me timidly, like somebody who wants to please, may even know how, but is afraid to try. Finally she spoke up:
"Is it my fault that I am so bad for you," she said gently, with tears in her eyes.
I am not one to cry; I wasn't brought up that way. (What evil spirit was it, I wonder, that forbade me to cry?) But when I heard her say this, something gripped me, a sudden seizure, I dare say. I am embarrassed to say it but I broke into tears.
There was a wooden fence, and behind it a farmhouse with animals; I remember hearing pigs grunt. The louder they grunted, the more desperately I sobbed. It was on a narrow, grassy path where the unfortunate accident occured. My wife just stood there and didn't say a word. I think she was whimpering herself, she had to be, because when I regained my composure, I saw that her bouquet lay in the grass and her handkerchief was all wet. Even so, she kept squeezing and pressing it to her silent lips.
"Don't cry, Jacques," she said at last, still sniffling. At last she wasn't laughing at me, and that, to me, made all the difference.
I was still in this mellow, vulnerable state when one evening, to my great surprise, I met up with Miss Borton. (Let's just call her by that name; it wouldn't be fair to divulge her real identity.) She was the young lady from the ship, who on the night of the fire, in the most desperate moment, embraced me and said she adored me. We were just coming out of the Opera (we had been looking at the program; why not go there once, I said to myself), and she was walking up the steps, bathed in light. I must say she was beautiful; I recognized her immediately. . . . Indeed, I had once seen an old, old painting of the Virgin Mary, a very childlike virgin, ascending the steps of a church with great aplomb and charm—and the young miss now reminded me of that lovely picture. She was youth herself, light as a cloud. She wore a lacy green dress, with a star over her bosom, and a wide, floppy hat with ribbons that fluttered with every step she took, revealing something of her roving spirit, or maybe the devil-may-care solitude of her being. When she saw me she was so stunned, she could hardly speak.
"Captain," she said finally, but as if still sunk in some gorgeous reverie. "Captain, you, here?"
I also had difficulty answering. I certainly would not have expected her to accost me and strike up a conversation, after what happened between us.
"How are you?" I said, quite embarrassed. "Have you, er, quite recovered?" Like that. One inane question after another.
But she got over her embarrassment in a jiffy. In fact, she made the best of the situation. How could she not be well, she said, especially now that she had seen us. No, she was not going to the Opera, she wanted to get tickets for tomorrow, but it can wait. In short, she unloosed her tongue pretty quickly. I almost forgot to introduce her to my wife. But Miss Borton stepped up to her, with great self-assurance turned her sparkling eyes on the little woman, and said:
"The captain's wife, I presume." And in French, too.
She was so beautiful that Lizzy, a great admirer of beauty, forgot to take her eyes off her. She again had flowers in her hand, roses again, and without hesitation gave her the whole bunch.
"Here you are, you lovely, lovely creature."
They hit it off well, I must say. They even kissed each other (which, what with Miss Borton being English and all, I found rather odd). Then, arm in arm, they started walking toward the Avenue de l'Opéra. I trailed after them, quite pleased.
"Ah, Jacques, Jacques," my wife cried out. "Where are you, love? Why, Miss Borton is mad about you." And she was positively beaming.
"What are you saying, Lizzy?" The young lady blushed.
"I am proud of you, I really am," my wife went on, undeterred.
I tried to laugh off the compliment as best I could.
Miss Borton decided not to protest: "Why shouldn't she say it?" she declared. "It's true." And laughing to herself, she embraced my wife again.
"Isn't she sweet?" my wife trilled.
"Oh yes, adorable," I answered.
In other words I got into an absurd situation. What was I to do with this new-won glory? My wife was still beaming at me with puckish delight.
"Miss Borton really envies me," she whispered when we got into a car, intending to spend the evening together. Did it seem so strange to her that I was capable of making a conquest? Or did she really like the idea? Who cared? At least she found out it was possible. Yes, let her hear somebody sing my praises, and not just anybody, but this lovely Irish rose.
I should mention that I did not tell her about my encounter with Miss Borton; her surprise, therefore, must have been all the greater. It seems the young lady told her everything, not only about the big fire, but about the other, smaller ones as well, and with an air of abandon peculiar to sarcastic natures. They kept up their tête-a-tête even after dinner, while I was discussing business with two government officials I chanced to run into at the restaurant where we were dining.
The encounter with Miss Borton had quite an effect on my wife. I saw evidence of that already at dinner. But when we got home, in a strange sort of way, it became even clearer.
She sat up with me for a long time that night listening to me speculate on business matters. I began explaining to her the present state of my affairs, my discussions with the two officials, not leaving out the possibility of my joining a rescue service. Leaning her frizzy head on her tiny fists, she wrinkled her forehead in concentration. And although she kept repeating: yes, yes, she was extremely interested, her thoughts, her soul, were elsewhere. Then, all of a sudden, she surfaced from the deep and her face brightened, as though she'd made a realization.
"Forgive me, Jacques, I just thought of something and I must tell you about it."
I smiled a little: Could she be actually thinking of my business ventures?
"But I'll be honest with you," she continued, "as well I should, as you always are. For as shrewd a man as you are, you are also open-hearted."
Again I smiled. If she keeps this up, she'll get to know me yet. But let's hear what she has to say.
"Well . . ."
"Go on, don't be bashful."
"Do I make you happy?" she asked and looked sadly into my eyes.
"You do in a lot of ways," I quickly answered. And to myself I said: Miss Borton is responsible for this, her sudden appearance.
"I am getting old," she said and her eyes filled with tears. And then the words came pouring out: "What good am I to you? And this girl is so beautiful. Why don't you marry her?" I was still smiling, and tried to make light of it.
"And you? Am I not still married to you?"
"Me? I might as well be dead."
But all this was nothing. I might have expected as much after what happened. I was happy even that she reacted this way. For if a wife gets so upset over the unexpected appearance of a younger woman, one can only rejoice.
So I didn't try very hard to calm her and perhaps that was a mistake. I was too relaxed, not convincing enough. I left her with her doubts.
"Come, come," I said to her in my best off-hand manner. "She's a mere child. How foolish can you be? Silly little girls never interested me." (How untrue.) But all along what I really wanted to do was put my arms around her. But I couldn't. She wouldn't let me.
"No, don't even touch me," she said bi
tterly, turning crimson. "Or kiss me, either. I don't want you to, not now or ever."
"What are you talking about?" I said, somewhat startled. "Listen, Lizzy, don't be a fool; I have nothing to do with that girl."
"Nothing to do with her? Oh God. You think I am jealous, don't you? Well, I am not." She was shrieking by now, and her eyes turned ugly. I had never seen her like that. It was as if she was unleashing anger that had been building up in her heart for years.
"What's the matter with you?" I asked her again.
"Nothing, nothing at all. It's just that I find all this ... oh life itself, so very strange." Her words almost sounded like a song now. And what followed then were such tense moments that I tremble even now as I try to describe them. The realization suddenly hit me that this was nothing short of rebellion. But still I tried to smile; I still did.
"You are convinced I don't love you, and still you want to stay with me. How come? Oh, I just don't understand it. But help me, I beg of you.... To be so unconcerned. . . are you that timid or that cruel? It should make your blood boil. What kind of blood do you have?"
This made me perk up. Damn it, she must misunderstand my silence. Should I really show her what kind of blood is in me?
I began to talk, too, and God only knows what came pouring out of me. Such things you cannot reconstruct.
"Why do I stay with you, you ask. For that there's no explanation. (This was still said on the quiet side.) I can neither understand nor explain. I don't know myself why I am still here, and even if I were to crack open this blasted skull of mine . . ."
"Don't squeeze my hand so hard," my wife cried. That's when I realized I had grabbed her hand and began gasping for air myself.
"There is no adequate explanation for suffering, for self-degradation, none whatsoever. Anyway, you should feel flattered that there is a girl who loves me."
"But that's just what I am trying to say . . ."
"Don't talk, don't breathe a word," I panted, and began hitting the back of a chair. "You don't suppose that all this time I hadn't thought of leaving you."
