by Milan Fust
The decision was made right there: I would move to London for good. That's right, for good, taking everything with me, including my wife. Yes, it has to be done that way, if only because she had been keeping an eye on things, knew all there was to know.
In fact she, too, was quite happy about the telegram.
"Bravo, Jacob," she exclaimed after reading it. "This is really something, this makes me very happy."
Why is she so happy, I wondered. Could it be that she herself was trying to escape? Get away from Dedin at last? That would really be a laugh. I felt like a man who had just wrung his chief enemy's neck. How sweet that was.
But why go into details? There comes a time in a man's life when he is prone to illusions, beguiling suggestions. That's what must have happened to me. Otherwise I could not easily explain how a man as cautious and circumspect as I could decide to just chuck everything, dispose of his house, sell his furniture, all because of a telegram he received from a friend. Some people, it seems, enjoy throwing away a life's work.
But word was out: we were moving to London. I began seeing the move as my salvation, the key to my future happiness; the image persisted until I began to float about listlessly, laughing vacantly, like a man without a soul.
"We're moving to London," I told my young friend, and for good measure waved the telegram before her eyes. She was somewhat taken aback.
"Really? You are coming?" Actually, she was quite crest-fallen, the poor thing.
But only for a moment.
"That's just great," she then said. She was happy for us, of course. But will I still keep my promise and take her to see one of Paris's beautiful cemeteries? I had promised her I would.
"Why of course I will," I said, feeling at that moment as generous, as exalted, as a true knight.
"Lizzy, you'll come too, won't you?" she said to my wife, ever so demurely, casting down her eyes, wanting to say of course: You're not coming, are you?
But my wife was too smart for her.
"Oh no, my dear," she said with a laugh. "I hate cemeteries. You go ahead. And have a grand time without me."
The young lady looked around hesitantly.
"Why wouldn't you go?" Lizzy went on, still smiling. "What could possibly happen if you went?" And her eyes, like two bright planets, turned on me with a knowing, appealing look.
It was no use. I was simply unable in those days to make any sense of my life. In those days, did I say? I am not much better at it today. . . .
Two
BECAUSE OF A FEW MINOR DETAILS WE COULDN'T LEAVE FOR London till early fall. I had made a couple of investments in Paris which had to be liquidated, our furniture had to be stored someplace (as it turned out, my wife couldn't part with them), she still wanted to order a new wardrobe, and so on. Time passed without our noticing it.
But finally we arrived. For the time being we didn't take a flat but moved into a fairly decent boarding house near Charing Cross. It wasn't that decent, actually; in fact it was pretty awful, and our landlord was a sanctimonious old scoundrel, but more about him later. To get to the heart of the matter, though: what was planted in Paris bore fruit in London. The sun came to shine upon me on two sides, or however that's put. When I met Alexander Kodor he sized me up and said:
"Jacob, you look dumber than when I last saw you. You used to be a pretty smart fellow, what happened? On my word, I see an idiotic expression," he added with some sympathy. Then he made me sit down and offered me an "extraordinary" cigar. "You haven't smoked such a fine cigar since Maurokordatos."
I didn't know who Maurokordatos was and didn't bother to ask. As I said, Kodor loved to make up such nonsense. I lit up and began to look around in his office. How very fancy, I thought to myself. Brocades and marble all over. This chap's got it made, damn it . . .
But what about me?
A good question. I was sitting in that posh office and realized that I was kind of slow on the uptake. My fine friend was right, in other words: I did become dull. For would a man who was on the make act this way? Sit around meekly? So as far as that was concerned, Kodor was right. I grew lax . . . that's it: lax and sluggish. Absent. Before this I was the kind of person who said: either or. I lashed out, I pounced, I struck. Now all I could come up with was a maybe. I floundered in empty space. Kodor couldn't get over his surprise.
"Something's happened to you, Jacob," he said, quite worried, and twice passed his hand over his bald spot. "What is it, old chap? Have you become an illusionist or something?" By which he meant an idealist. And he happened to be right—I did become an idealist. I began to despise these people in London. Traders, hucksters, I called them. Stop your jabbering, I felt like saying to Kodor but thought better of it.
So he carried on and on, wanting to know why I had arrived now, three months late, and why I had to bring all my stuff with me when he cabled me to come at once. Things here changed by the minute.
"Now they don't want foreigners any more," he declared. "Still, why did you talk to those agents like some marquis of the sea?"
The truth is that I did act like a marquis of the sea with them. "Thank you ever so much," I said as I rose from my chair in the office of one of the rescue companies, adding with great dignity: "Another time perhaps."
By the way, I didn't believe a word he said about having arrived too late. They sent me on a wild goose chase, that was all. I knew what kind of people I was dealing with. What was it to them to summon me here? It was the least they could do for a man like Kodor, if that was his wish. And when I got here they couldn't care less. "At the moment there are no openings," they said obligingly. It was obvious that they were not the least bit serious about the offer. That's why I behaved like a marquis.
That the whole bloody business did not bother me much is another matter. The best position, the best prospects couldn't get a rise out of me. I got involved with sentiments instead.
But how was I to explain this to that jackass Kodor, whose ideas about women were what mine used to be before all this happened—namely, that they were not worth discussing. That it was all right to please them when it came to bonbons and burlesque shows, but much better to get over them. But with the passage of time I've changed somewhat in this regard, and my new outlook was enough to make me see him as a stranger.
"Why show up at those agencies by yourself when I was the one who called you over?" Kodor started in again. "And most of all, why are you so damn complacent. . . ? Listen to me, Jacob, if you'll start acting like office girls, you are sunk, take my word for it. This is not Italy; this place is full of nasty people." (Apparently, he only liked nasty people.) "Be straight with me: what the hell is the matter? You've got no money? Is that what it is?"
"It's women, old chap, women," I said jokingly, smiling my stupidest smile. Even my voice surprised me, even that made me feel ridiculous.
"Women are a problem, wouldn't you agree?" I said hesitantly, realizing with alarm that if need be, I could be much more forthcoming on the subject.
What I really wanted to ask him was to get me a good job right here so that I wouldn't have to go out to sea again. I wanted to tell him everything, in other words, but luckily something held me back.
I should point out that I used to treat this swarthy little man with nothing but disdain. I'd get tired of his stupid conceit in no time. "I've had enough of you for a while, good-bye," I would say to him when I thought he was getting too big for his breeches. But now I had the feeling he was getting fed up with me. I just stood there, unable to move, ready to yield to some great emptiness. For a long time I stood there, like an oaf, in my neatly knotted necktie, placid, inert. . . . Good God, where was this going to end.
But when Kodor heard I had trouble with women, he eased up a bit and became quite understanding.
"So that's what it is," he said somberly. "That little minx ... I see. But don't you worry. There are always complications . . . We'll think of something . . . But now run along, I still have work to do." It was the first time he d
ismissed me and not the other way around, but that too I swallowed. I staggered down the stairs and thought to myself: This is it, I am finished. I felt so wretched, I could hardly breathe. That I should become a love-sick old fool, that sweet nothings should be my undoing . . . this I never would have believed. No, not at my age.
Outside it was a glorious autumn day, brilliant sunshine after a quick shower, and the familiar, bustling traffic. I stopped now and then, gazed about, then stumbled on. I moved slowly and when jostled by the crowd, I got so angry, I thought I'd grab a passer-by by the neck and fling him on the pavement.
"Hey there, whoa," a policeman shouted at an intersection. "Are you deaf, man? Out of your mind?" And he angrily motioned the cars to proceed. That's right, I was almost run over. But not because of the state of mind I was in; that obliviousness had more to do with my refusal to believe in danger. The very idea that I could be run down by anything seemed . . . But let's not go into that just now.
"I am not from these parts," I said to the policeman, trying to pacify him. He was unmoved, though; a choleric sort, I decided.
After that I went into a barber shop and then did some shopping; bought myself a handsome wristwatch, twelve English handkerchiefs, real fine ones, and other assorted trifles. But then an inner voice asked: Where is the money for all this coming from? What's going to happen if you and your wife go on spending money this way? (For my wife also went on a shopping spree, in Paris, just before we left.) But I brushed aside these thoughts. It doesn't matter, nothing matters, I said, and began whistling a little tune in that crowded city. That's how she is all the time, I kept saying to myself. Lolling about, with not a care in the world. Her life was one long, sweet song.
Whatever was colorful now caught my eye; bright things made me take a second look. When I saw a pretty woman I had to turn around. The truth is, women began to have a maddening effect on me, in my old age. I realized, for instance, that my wife may not be as pretty as I had thought. Take her nose: it was a little too turned up, and such things do restrain the imagination. But that's man for you. If her nose were one millimeter longer, I could say I was perfectly happy. (It was rubbish of this kind, I am afraid, that I kept mulling over.)
I can still remember one young woman, in uniform, who stopped me. (She was in a procession, a member of the Salvation Army or some such group.) And I felt I could follow that woman to the end of the world. From behind a blue veil her eyes were laughing at me; and did those eyes ever sparkle . . . You could fish gold nuggets out of those eyes, I thought sadly.
"Au revoir, my sweet," I waved after her. In fine, I went completely dotty. "I need a change, a change," I kept yammering, like some nervous little bird.
Speaking of nerves, one hears more and more about such ailments nowadays, and how widespread they've become, though I have never given much thought to their cause. Now I have a rough idea. It may just be due to men having to dance circles around their women. I for one have always wanted to see and know everything about them, all at once, and then see everything all over again. But these mysterious creatures, dolled up like painted dummies, make you doubt your senses. Are they living beings? Are there petticoats under their frilly dresses? Can they speak, or do they just sigh and bob their heads and flutter their lashes?
"Nothing's ugly," I cried out, as happy as if the world itself was my creation. Everything is beautiful. Even old crones, even policemen . . . And the wind, too, can drive you wild, by turning things topsy-turvy; and even the freshly-sprinkled pavement can be like a streak of light. . . Oh yes, the world is beautiful, it wants to shine, its women especially. And they were everywhere, in a thousand shapes and sizes, forever on display, forever beckoning. There were those who tripped along with their tidy packages like Christmas angels, lighter, airier than any human being had a right to be. And then there were huge black women who swayed dreamily toward the City like large, lit-up barges (London was the world's Babylon, after all). And here and there slender, panther-like figures flitted through the crowd, in whose exotic eyes smouldered the dark Orient. And there were gentle little mothers carrying babes in their arms, tiny snowmen swaddled in thick pure white; and they would stop now and then, these lovely madonnas, to whisper mighty secrets in those tiny ears . . .
Dear God, I thought; I'll be lost if I stay on land too long. Let's just go home. Inside a cab, I closed my eyes to escape the darkness within. For I began to sense a strange and profound weariness, which no amount of exertion could produce. But we all know: sweetness devours the soul. Where do I go now? Why home, home, I realized with sudden alarm. And what's waiting for me there? More of the same . . . Puzzles and mysteries, which I will never ever get to solve.
But let me relate anyway what I found at home. A warm room decorated with flowers, which, however, was quite empty. So I knocked on the door of our other room. "Come in," I heard, as always, for entry there was never denied. Once inside, I felt myself surrounded by quiet serenity, the kind you feel in Moorish bathhouses where all you hear is the quiet purl of the spouts. (Here that gurgling was my wife's laughter greeting me.) But that quiet ... it is so basic to life, so much in the world depends on it. A Dutch poet once wrote:
Flowers are for loving
Men for forgetting.
In raiment of white
An island I sight.
I fly there with books . . . etc., etc.
That's how my wife was then. She read even more than before, reclining as a rule on the sofabed. It was as if she really did live on an island, far away from people, in a state of complete repose. And she always had lots of flowers and potted plants about, which made the air somewhat misty; the smell of soil also lingered in the room. If I close my eyes I can still recall this smell, which usually mingled with other, delicately feminine scents and light, fragrant cigarette smoke. All together it used to make me quite heady. It was also dim in that room most of the time—we got little sun, and only in the morning.
"What did you bring me, Papa Bear?" she would ask whenever I got back from town. "A little present maybe? A little something?" And I made believe I didn't bring her anything.
"I have no money," I said despondently. "What could I buy you? We are poor."
"Oh no, what a shame," she replied, "I am sadder than I can say." But her lament sounded so frivolous, a stranger would surely have thought it odd. There was no content to it—almost like the mock cry of a hysteric.
But we kept it up:
"It is a shame, isn't it," I sighed.
"Ah, life is not worth living," she moaned.
We both gave way to grief, and were quite, quite miserable. I sat on the trunk and grieved there, while my wife, bent on hiding her tears, turned to the wall and covered her eyes. But only one of them, with the other she peeked and laughed. . . . My pockets of course were filled with presents, and she knew this, and was dying to find out what they were. For that's what that woman lived for in those days, those little pleasures and surprises. But right now she restrained herself.
"Your pocket is torn, let me see it," she said at last, but by now she trembled with curiosity, with desire.
"You'll mend it some other time, leave it, my sweet."
Thus we tormented each other thus, with all manner of sweetness, until we could stand it no longer. I should also mention that we didn't even use intelligible language, as would be expected of grownup people. We gave words our own meaning. My wife would say, "Give me a kiwi fruit," and I was supposed to know that she wanted to be kissed. She called her slippers dunderheads, and me she called Captain Liverpool for some reason. I remember we had an argument over this. "I know perfectly well what you're hinting at," I said to her, cool and collected, though I knew perfectly well she wasn't hinting at anything. This went on for a while: I was reasonable, she was uppity; I was earnest, she was sarcastic. At one point, though, I lost my composure.
"I will not stand for such insinuations," I said furiously, and brought down my fist on the table, which promptly cracked.
&n
bsp; God Almighty, if Alexander Kodor would have seen me now. Me, a seasoned, tempest-tossed veteran. These are your great feats, he would have said most certainly. A sea captain reduced to breaking table tops.
One day I was making coffee. Enveloped by the silence of late afternoon, I felt pleasant vibrations all around, and then the even richer emanations of the aromatic espresso. Such moments almost put you in a poetic frame of mind. But then she came through the door in her rain coat.
"There is a storm out there," she said, quite indignant.
"You don't say. My goodness."
"And my heart, my heart is aching, too."
"Come then, we'll take care of it."
"You will, really? But my hair hurts, too," she said gently.
"Oh no, that too. My poor darling, my sad little pet." And I embraced her.
"Tell me more, what else is the matter?"
"You know what?" she whispered. "Growl a little."
"Again?"
"Yes, I want you to growl." Just to please her, I set about growling and since I was an old hand at it, I growled ever more raucously, like a wild beast gargling. Then she said:
"Oh Mr. Lion, how do you do?" and she curtsied sweetly. But she turned pale too; I think I scared her a little.
"This is such a dreadful city," she said all of a sudden.
"Why is that?"
"I am just afraid I will die here."
Why should she be afraid of dying in London? It wouldn't hurt to look into that. . .
One day I came home and found her sleeping. She woke up with these words: "I slept under a cloud." That told me a lot. She was feeling low from time to time, apparently. But why, over what? I didn't ask; I didn't pry.
Why should I have? Why brood and worry when the games we were playing were so intriguing, so delicious?
For instance I would wrap a scarf around my head like a turban—I was sent to the corner just then as a Persian soldier. And I had to sit there with my legs crossed, and not budge, for I was the guard. Imagine now the total silence. "Where is my mirror? Where is my apron?" she'd ask, but there would be no answer. Then, wearing nothing but black silken knickers, she would start preening and strutting, displaying herself like some oriental courtesan. I once saw two women who, not knowing they were being watched, bared themselves to each other. That's how she was now, putting a hood over her head, shrouding herself, then stripping before her mirror, as if she had the room all to herself. Then she called out: "Mazud, oh Mazud," and clapped her hands. That was me. But I was supposed to sit absolutely still and ask: "Is your husband at home?" And ogle her shamelessly.
