by Milan Fust
It was close to midnight. The people next door had already banged twice on the door, on account of the noise, and now they banged again. But I wasn't done yet. I began to pace the floor furiously:
"Don't you think she'd be the first to lose respect for me if I pretended to be blind?"
"All right then, do what you like," Sanders said gently. "I would just like to remind you that last time you were here you saw a man with a gun."
"Yes, yes; I think about him often enough."
"He was detestable, wasn't he?"
"He was. Yet, tonight it's quite different. Maybe you can tell me why I feel close to that man right now, why I keep telling myself that I'd like to be as far gone as he was . . ."
"You're crazy, Jacob."
"Yes, I am . . . But I learned a lot tonight; you've really enlightened me ... I realized that no matter what I do, I've no other choice left but . . ."
"To kill?"
"To take my leave, actually. Because I've had enough. I will have no peace, no rest, until I can say: It's all over, finished. Everything, including life itself."
At that point I felt something in my eyes, tears, I think. The old man noticed: "You will give up then what you truly love?"
He then presented the following parable:
"Suppose you own a castle; it's your castle even if it's not in perfect shape. Say, the roof leaks, the plaster flakes, the whole place is in bad repair—would you stop calling it your own? How well I know these negligent owners ... I am only sorry you are one of them. And you are—you are quarrelsome and senseless. You don't deserve the good in life; you don't know what to do with it. Oh, I know you people, I know all about you . . . The slightest flaw in the design and you are ready to set the whole structure on fire."
And he looked at me very very sadly, as if to say: It's too late. You are beyond help.
When I got home, my wife was fast asleep; she didn't stir when I walked in—at least not right away.
"What, you didn't go away?" she asked later, though, toward morning, when I turned on the light.
I couldn't really sleep. I kept seeing the happy blankness of Scotland . . . kept picturing the serene empty spaces, the deserted fields and mountains, and the locked-up restaurants with their overturned chairs resting against the bare tables. I imagined all of this quite precisely, over and over again, to the point of distraction, the way unhappy people do . . .
But back to why I was still there. A misunderstanding. She apparently thought I would leave right away.
"I changed my mind," I told her. "Besides, the old man— Gregory Sanders, that is—also told me not to leave just yet." That's all I said to her, then turned off the light. It was half past three.
Around five-thirty someone tapped very lightly on our front door, and then gave a few more taps.
"Who is it?" she asked and sat up in bed. Apparently she wasn't asleep either.
"Who the devil could it be?" I also asked, and reached for my robe.
"For heaven's sake, don't go out," she pleaded.
"Why not?" I couldn't figure out why she got so scared. She also jumped out of bed, I noticed. And she kept on telling me not to go out, she was afraid. It was so dark on that staircase, God only knew who might be lurking there—"Why it could be . . . anybody."
"Who cares? At worst, I'll belt him."
"No, no, don't," she kept begging, and clung to me with all her strength. (I never realized she was that strong.)
But I managed to free myself, and still clutching my robe in one hand, I grabbed the fire iron with the other and ran out. There was no one in the hallway. I raced down a flight of stairs, opened the hallway door—strangely enough, that wasn't locked either, no one was there. I pulled the cover off a table—no one was under it. I saw light seeping through one of the apartment doors, I turned the knob, and amazingly enough, that wasn't locked either. A man in a nightshirt stood in the middle of the room. I ran.
"What nerve," a woman's voice shouted after me.
"Next time lock your door," I shouted back.
I ran down another flight of stairs, and there on the bottom of the staircase stood that old scoundrel, our landlord, Mr. Horrabin Pit, smoking comfortably in the dark.
I put my hand on his shoulder.
"Did you knock on our door just now?"
"I did."
"And why did you knock so early in the morning?"
"I had to," he whined. "You took my key to the outside door and never returned it." And he went on about how it didn't do any good to knock on the caretaker's door, that good-for-nothing must have wandered off again somewhere, or died for all he knew, and he had to go to the Caledonian Market to do some shopping, it was Friday, didn't I realize, he was late as it was, those thugs at the market will make him pay double for everything . . .
He happened to be right. I did borrow his key.
"What a strange coincidence," I muttered to myself. That this should happen today, of all days, when my wife thought I was away. Odd, isn't it? That I should go on boxing shadows this way.
Needless to say, I didn't believe the business about the key, no sir. Who knows what strange confluence of events I may be witnessing, I thought, as I ascended those stairs. Otherwise why should she have gotten so scared.
She even discovered traces of the flour the next day, because some of it spilled in my pocket.
"What is this?" she cried. "It's ruining your clothes, darn it. What is all this smut and dust?"
"Dust, you say? Well . . . you guess." I was stalling, because I had no idea how to handle this. "It's . . . er . . . just some flour," I then said, quite flustered.
"What do you need flour for?"
"Why don't you guess?" I again said and thought: What now? Do I tell her everything? "Actually, it's a bit of cocaine," I averred, because it occured to me that that's what it looks like. I had seen enough of that stuff in the Levant.
"And what do you need cocaine for?"
"What do you mean what do I need it for? Good grief, I tried it. I need something too. To make my life more bearable."
"Is that so?"
"Ahem."
But a little later I relented: "All right, don't get scared; I have no intention of becoming an addict. I just want to kill myself." And then:
"It really is just flour. I wanted to sprinkle some on your doorstep, to see who climbs in here when I am away."
"You're crazy," she said. And you could tell she didn't believe me. For it goes without saying that the truth is always the hardest to believe, because it's always so fantastic, so incredible—the most florid imagination can't equal it.
Just the same, my revelation did produce the desired effect.
"What is the matter with you?" she asked and turned pale as she did.
"What should be the matter? Nothing at all. I am just not feeling very well. My strength is failing me, that's all. I wonder how I'll go on working." In the meantime I was looking at myself in the mirror, for I had just started shaving, and my face was covered with foam. . . . God Almighty, I looked like somebody who hadn't slept for a hundred days—circles under my eyes, deep creases, a bewildered, animal look . . . It's high time I croaked.
"But really, what's bothering you?" she again asked.
"Bothering me? Nothing. Nothing at all, I tell you. I feel great, I adore you, as always, my life is all sweetness and sunshine."
She grew quiet.
And I could no longer bring myself to talk to her. Even though I would have liked to, I still would have liked to. And to no one else, only to her. For hours on end I would have loved to talk to her. To sit down somewhere and just talk.
She, too, stood there, helplessly, like a poor old woman who didn't know where her children were. I noticed she had tears in her eyes. And she still had the clothesbrush in her hand, covered with white dust.
But it was no use. There was a lump in my throat, it kept growing, but it was all too late. She finds me unbearable, she said so herself, she used that very wor
d. Her life with me had become unbearable. And I kept mulling over the phrase.
What is more, that iron poker was still there on the couch, waiting for me.
From then on it was simply more of the same; there was no stopping.
To begin with, I ran over the list of tenants in the building.
But it's hardly worth mentioning them. The boarding house itself took up two floors, with constantly changing boarders (we were the only long-time residents). Downstairs there was a glass shop, on the third floor, two families with teenage girls, plus a sickly law student. And in the backyard, a vacant studio.
With these I wasn't going to get anywhere, clearly. The glass shop downstairs held out no promise, either. It was run by a very officious, nervous owner and his old assistant, and the shop wasn't even doing well.
But then let's look elsewhere. Just how far one can get carried away may be seen by the following absurdity: There was an errand boy at the boarding house, a buttons of sorts, and I even put him on the list. Why did I? My own childhood experiences had something to do with it, I guess. I know myself how large and robust a kid of fourteen can be, how, in his reckless and clumsy passion, like an ox. I remembered the ladder—didn't I, in my own time, climb through the window of a strange apartment? She too was a lady of impeccable reputation, who lounged about all day in her flat. This was one reason why I suspected the kid. The other was that I knew, again from experience, that childless women can be very fond of young boys. My wife even said now and then: "Look, isn't he sweet?" I answered: "Yes, he is." The boy did have bright blue eyes, a ready smile, and would say things like "I am totally at your service, sir," and even exchange glances with my wife when he did . . . All right, we'll see.
I should mention, too, that he was the kind of kid whose eyes went everywhere. And I say this not only because I once saw him whistling and chuckling to himself in a doorway, but also because when he came up in the morning to deliver our laundry, he was ever so observant, and stood there gaping if he noticed something out of the ordinary—if I left something on the table, for instance, a novelty he hadn't seen before: say, my two-valved telescope, or some other strange instrument. He'd keep staring at it, reverently, like a savage at a modern city.
I felt like drawing out this curiosity of his, and produced all sorts of items from my trunk.
"What are you up to?" my wife inquired.
"I want to get rid of all this useless stuff. All it is is extra weight; I may be able to get something for them here. Miss Borton said she might sell it for us ... if we are lucky." (But where was little Miss Borton by then?)
My wife, though, as soon as she heard her name, fell silent. And that suited me just fine. I didn't want her snooping in my affairs.
So I took out a miniature Chinese silkscreen, a lantern, a delicate oriental eyeglass case, the kind mandarins tuck away in the folds of their robe, a Dayak dagger called a "parang," and other trifles and knick-knacks one has the urge to pick up while traveling.
I was anxious to learn what the boy would have to say about all this stuff when he shows up in the morning with the fresh laundry.
Now it was late afternoon, he had no business coming up at this time of the day. But should my wife still want to see him, for, as she kept saying, "It's so nice to look at him" (sure, why not?)—in short, if the boy came up after all, then tomorrow morning I will notice it on him—he won't be all that surprised to see the wonderful toys. That was my train of thought, my strategy. And right afterwards I decided to go out. Decided to take a little walk.
"So long, my pet," I called to my wife. "I am going into town. Don't expect me before dinner. I have too many things to do."
And as soon as I stepped out on the street . . .
Why, it was most strange, unreal almost. Rarely have I experienced anything like it. First there was only stillness and an overcast sky. As if the whole world moved underwater, turning opaque and silent.
The colors are unearthly at such moments. The city suddenly turned a deep, exotic brown. But just as suddenly it got blinding white. A storm was upon us, unleashing all its fury; I was shaken up, tossed about, like an empty vessel.
The people on the pavement ran for cover, car-horns were bleating like sheep.
Oh no, I thought, this is how Harry Barbon, my chemistry teacher, died. And that, too, happened in the heart of London, for only here do you get such unexpected downpours. The shower was icy cold and abundant, I got splashed generously in the face, in the neck. But I didn't even try to dry myself—why not let my shirt soak through, why not be at the storm's mercy? Now if I also had a beard—and the thought made me rejoice—that too would be sopping wet . . .
That's how it started. I had to go on about it because rarely before had I felt such elation. ... At any rate, I wound up in some out-of-the-way hole, a tiny room covered in red felt, which for this reason alone looked like a secluded spot in a brothel. . . . Well, in this empty little nook I drank a bottle of port.
There wasn't another soul in that tiny place, and ghostly silence reigned inside me as well; I was empty and dumb . . . Only after too much strain can one feel so vacant.
There was a painting on the wall—that's what I kept staring at. It showed a donkey carrying buckets of water, led by a man in a wide-brimmed straw hat. ... I thought I heard the water sloshing in those buckets, and smelled the sweet fragrance of grapes ripening in the hills. A vast, blue expanse opened before my eyes, and I could swear I was singing. In Spanish yet, which was odd. But sang I did, a sunny Spanish song I picked up who knows where. Though the strangest thing was that I never could speak Spanish well, not way back then, anyway.
Next morning the delivery boy went wild over that dagger from Borneo. I could see; I was there, waiting, when he brought in the fresh clothes.
Well, let us then look into some other possibilities; her correspondence, for instance. Maybe that will provide us with some fresh clues. In this connection I must report the following:
In Paris I had bought her a neat little folder with some fine stationery, which for a long time remained untouched. But now, just now, marks began to appear on the blotter, which meant she had been writing letters. Let's pursue the matter then. Whom could she be writing to? Not her mother, that didn't seem plausible—she didn't care for her all that much. Not her relatives—they were all peasants living in or around Clermont—she wasn't close to them, cither. Her old girl friends maybe? We shall see. In any case, I began my investigation.
I left the inkblot as it was, and in one of the better paint shops bought a preparation called Corbusta (it was probably nothing more than ammonium nitrate), and mixed it with the ink. When held over a flame, this stuff burns up faster than other substances, so anything written with it shows through on paper, even on a blotter. I tried it out beforehand and obtained a perfectly legible copy of a text.
So the idea wasn't bad, but I didn't get very far with it. All I could make out on the blotter was one insignificant word: caractère, and even that with great difficulty. What's more, the following day the ink was gone; my wife bought a fresh bottle. In other words, she knew by then, or at least suspected, that I had been watching her. But I wasn't going to give up that easily. If it's games you want, I muttered to myself, it's games you shall have. I will catch you in the end. And went on working.
Sure enough, things began to fall into place. It was November nineteenth—I still remember the date because the night before was one of the most excruciating nights of my life. I was all set to jump out of our third-story window; the depths below beckoned me with such force, I thought I'd have to tie myself to a chair. (It was a moment of utter weakness, a truly loathsome moment, I regret it deeply.) My wife was fast asleep at the time, so I was all alone when these magnetic, hypnotic forces began to assail me . . . (There are indeed such forces, I am convinced of that, we should talk about it, though not now.)
I am not saying it was that silly writing pad caused my frantic state, though it did have something to do with
it. For on a brand new blotter I was able to make out with unmistakable clarity, even without the aid of the chemical, the following two words: "Mon cher." In other words she wrote this to a man, there could be no doubt of that. This was my first significant discovery.
The second came when I happened to reach into some drawer and from the jumble of odds and ends which was to be found everywhere in our house, I fished out an identification card bearing her photo, authorizing her to pick up mail addressed to her and held at such and such post office in Paris. Now I have no idea why certain things—classified ads or mail held at the post offices—have such a disquieting effect on me. But for hours afterwards I was sick to my stomach. That's when I opened the window, for some fresh air, and experienced that mesmerizing spell, which I thought I would not be able to fight off.
And from that point on I often got dizzy or grew weak in the knee when I crossed bridges or leaned out of tall buildings. In other words this thing got to me where it really hurt, it undermined my very livelihood. For when a seaman starts having dizzy spells, he is finished.
I even wrote letters that night, letters to myself, discussing all sorts of non-existent business propositions. I didn't want to waste any more time. True, I had everything all prepared; from a printer I received business stationery with various letterheads (I had told them I was ready to order, but wanted to see samples first). One firm I still remember: Litterton & Co. Brokers. That's what I used for my first letter, in which I was requested to visit their offices at my earliest convenience to discuss one of Mr. Gregory Sanders's proposals. Then I typed another letter, and another, I kept churning them out—the only thing I was afraid of was that all that racket might wake her up. Every once in a while I tiptoed over to the bedroom door and listened.
What purpose this sudden flurry of correspondence served I can't really explain. It was nothing more than groping in the dark, I am afraid. I must have figured that here she was, writing letters, getting answers, receiving them at this very address, and I knew nothing at all about it. When did she get them, and how? There must be some secret understanding. But who with? No doubt, our rascally landlord, Mr. Horrabin Pit, had something to do with this, too. This line of reasoning must have led me to some shadowy conclusion. . . . The thing was that I didn't get any mail at the boarding house, I made arrangements to have it sent to the Brighton Hotel—when I had no permanent address, I always had my letters forwarded to a central location. Now I was hoping that since I would be getting letters here, too, I'll get to see some of hers. One day they might get the letters mixed up . . .
