by Milan Fust
But then he began to sound off again, blustering as usual:
"Now you think of this? Did I ever ask you for anything? Didn't you volunteer to testify? And tell me, have you found yourself a job already?"
Oh, how I would have loved to clobber him just then. But all I said was:
"You have some nerve, Kodor." And got up from my chair.
"Why? Weren't you quick to pooh-pooh that piece of paper. . . ? The marquis has no need of stocks," he declared sarcastically.
I turned to him now and even grabbed hold of his arm.
"Look here, I have no job and you know it. So what you are doing is dragging an unemployed man into your crooked schemes."
He didn't withdraw his arm, didn't even wince, though I squeezed it hard.
"Shut up, you hear?" he said instead. "What are you, a squeamish virgin? A knight in disguise? Why all this fuss? Just say I don't want it. As simple as that. I want no part of it." And with his free hand he reached for the telephone, which just then began to ring.
"Hello, Lotty dear. I have this Jacob fellow with me. Yes, he is here in the other room. (Why he had to say that I don't know.) No, no, I am no longer in bed." (What that was supposed to mean I couldn't figure out, either.) Then he began talking about me again. And what he said was roughly this:
"I had no idea he was such an ass. (I must say that upon hearing this, I began to feel a little better.) To tell you the truth, I don't know how to handle him. That's why I wanted you to be there too when I put him to work. (Those were his exact words: 'When I put him to work.') Your sweetness, your mere presence, is bound to have an effect on him, you are such an angel. (This was said quite sarcastically, to be sure.) He is quite taken by you, my dear, in case you didn't know. Yes, yes, of course I noticed it, with an oaf like him, how can you not notice? Our discussion? (His voice turned rude all of a sudden.) That's none of your business. (And now for the rousing finish:) You are a lady, and an angel to boot, just remember that. And what am I? A crank, that's what. An oddball, yes, an eccentric. You can chop wood on my back, my sweet, though not always. Sometimes I get real wild, you take my word for it." He guffawed at that and hung up the receiver.
You can chop wood on his back... is that so? I thought this as I stepped out the door. How very strange.
Though all it added up to was that I was right again. He may bluster and fret, but the truth was he was head over heels in love, the old phony.
I was on my way by then, though as agitated as I had been when I left my room earlier.
Then again, why get involved with other people's business? The only thing that gave me pause was that this female wasn't who I thought she was. For if she didn't even know what we were talking about, and in fact was eager to find out, believing as she did that I wasn't in the room ... Or rather . . . but who the hell cared?
The devil could have them both, as far as I was concerned. Let them live happily, or whichever way they prefer . . .
Actually, I began to think about very different sorts of things. I felt I had to make a reckoning quickly; I could no longer afford to float in space.
So I stopped in at a nearby pub, ordered a pint of beer, and since I found a piece of chalk on the table (the people before me must have been playing cards), I made a note of what I wanted to do at this point.
First of all, I had seven hundred pounds in the bank, and since this was sure money, why not put it down? My other investments were more uncertain, and would probably have to be used to pay off my debts, so that part is negligible. Of course there is still my father's legacy, the Cincinatti Railroad stocks, which must be worth four hundred at least, even with the stock market being depressed and all. Let's enter that too; in case of need I should be able to count on it. But that was all: eleven hundred pounds was all I had to my name, and you can't perform miracles with that kind of money. I even emptied my billfold; I had close to fifty pounds on me. (I always liked to carry around at least that much when I was in town—with anything less I didn't feel secure somehow.) I may have another eighty at home ... at most. But how long would it last me if I stay with this woman?
Eh, hang it all, I said and got up from the table. I don't want to end up in jail because of him, or turn crooked, for God's sake And I don't want to steal my friends' women either. I've had enough. I want my old, simple, straight and dumb life back. To live the way I had before, period.
I didn't even touch my beer. As if to show that that very minute I was returning to my spartan way of life.
And then one day I did manage to catch her redhanded. She went a little too far, you see, was beginning to live it up again, starting to go out more and more, which she did before, too, except now it became a regular, almost daily thing. Her battlecry became: "The Lagranges are here." Now who were these Lagranges? Real numskulls, both of them, and typical French provincial misers, to boot. What enabled them to live so damn well in this town I still don't know, and don't care to find out. The only thing that concerned me was that they were here, these asses. And ever since they arrived, there was no holding her back. I never quite saw her like this. I guess she really took a liking to this dismal city. "I am beginning to appreciate this strange town," she would explain to me in her own silly way.
But I said nothing. It so happened I landed a couple of modest commissions just then, from a naval club and a maritime insurance company. Both had to be completed fast, so I spent a lot of time at home, working, whereas she was always out. So the tables were turned; there were times she took off, quite blithely, way before noon.
But first she got all gussied up of course, like some fair-weather flier, and when her hat was in place, her umbrella stuck snugly under her arm, when she was all done up, in other words, and ready to be leered at by hungry males, she stood before me and stretched out her pink little palm, waiting for me to fill it.
And I did, dutifully.
"More," she said affably, lightheartedly. "That's not enough. Not nearly." She had expenses now, she had to buy all sorts of things. The social season had just begun. There were parties, get-togethers.
"Fine, I understand." And I didn't ask what sort of get-togethers she had in mind.
The truth was I began to turn away from life altogether, I came to hate it. I realized once more that the only thing that could keep me going was work. If I immersed myself in it totally.
Whereas she kept buying colored drinking cups and gold-plated teaspoons—what the hell for? I wondered. Perhaps so that she, too, could invite her friends over. And just then I began to think about the possibility of disappearing for good. That's right, I was pretty much resolved to do it. She was rotten to the core—I was more convinced of that now than I was of being alive.
Sometimes, you see, she came home with a hairdo that was different from the one she had when she left. And I am not talking about that perfect hairdresser look, which is easy to spot. Naturally, she didn't figure on my noticing the difference.
At any rate, in London it's customary to kiss and pet during intervals in dance halls—everyone knows that. People close their eyes over such things in this peculiarly hypocritical town. They would first give my wife a little whirl and then draw her behind some curtain . . .
Her books, as before, were strewn all over the apartment, but now they were all love stories—no more philosophical tracts for her. And the pages had lipstick stains—she must have moistened her fingers as she turned the pages. What's more, some of the passages were underlined (and that, too, with lipstick!), but these I didn't feel like going through any more. Neither was I—come to think of it—any longer interested in her friend, Mr. Tannenbaum, though I did receive some information abut him just then. It seems Mr. Tannenbaum was an eager young man, a dedicated student of philosophy with a promising future—this is what my friend Toffy-Ederle wrote about him from Paris. And also that he happened to be the son of the mover in whose warehouse we had stored our furniture before our departure. Now whether she befriended the mover's son during that short time
while we were discussing the transaction or whether she knew him before—this I didn't ask. In her books the word slender was underlined six times, and it was always used to describe a man. Then, in another place (in a story about a stalwart cattleman, written by one Carl Jensen), the words: "his eyes were radiant" were underlined. I pushed aside her books, if only because I also came across the manuscript of a short story, written by a former friend of hers, Madame de-Cuy, a sixth-rate actress, and in this manuscript the following remarkable passage was marked with exclamation points: "I owe him nothing. I've earned his sacrifices—with some of my own." But this was only the beginning; there was more: "I will not be crippled by you; I will not extinguish, for your sake, that in me which is me. I won't let you do violence to my real nature, I will not stand for it. Please know once and for all that I am what I am; you may rant and you may rave, it will not change a thing."
So she is what she is. A clear-cut message, if there ever was one. All right, from now on I'll be myself too. And I'll chuck her and her precious nature so fast, she won't know what hit her.
"Who is your lover right now?" This was the only other thing I would have liked to ask her, not even in anger or bitterness but straight out, without fear or favor. Depravity does have something shockingly straightforward about it—has anyone ever thought of that? About how natural sin is, what elemental force it has? Like our dreams. And isn't there something innocent about it, too? If only because it has such a natural place in the human heart . . . Why, the way this woman looked when she came home at night . . .
As though she had descended from some higher sphere where she was enlivened by fresh air and song; as though she was returning from her French home—she exuded gaiety from every pore.
"You are still working?" she'd say to me and light up a cigarette. . . . Her face was flushed and in her eyes there were warm dreams. Yes, sin slumbered in her eyes, behind her half-closed lids, it glimmered like mischief in cats' eyes. I could almost sense those hypnotic, rapturous dreams.
One day, though, she did get somewhat scared. After some initial hesitation she remarked: "Your eyes . . . what's with your eyes?"
"What do you mean my eyes?"
"They are so ... so motionless." And she laughed a bit as she said this. "Are you angry with me by any chance?"
I remember the exact moment. She had just got home, all frosty and ruddy-eared, she didn't even take her coat off, she just stood there in the living room, staring. It was late at night. I even remember her glossy black fur coat and the silence between us, and most of all my own imaginings: that in her ear, next to her tiny earring, music must still be playing, and echoes of whispers. . . . Next to that I must have made quite a drab and prosaic impression, with my five days' growth of beard, engrossed as I was in lists and figures . . . Though it's also possible she was suddenly ashamed herself.
Was I angry with her? she wanted to know.
I assured her I was not. And that was the truth. There was no anger left in me. I just got tired of her spending all that money. And told her so, soon afterwards, the very next morning in fact. I decided it was enough, I wasn't going to give her any more. She found it hard to change her ways? I found it even harder. I was not giving her another penny. Not for pubs and drink bars, anyway. Because we had to contend with that too now, with her not coming home even for lunch, which was pretty idiotic.
"Why don't you eat lunch here at the boarding house?" I asked her calmly. "It's paid for. I'd be a fool for picking up the bill in two places."
At this she smiled. But with what hauteur. Only a French woman could smile like that. And when this smile lasted a bit too long, and the curl of her lips and the shrug of her shoulder got to be too infuriating, I took hold of her ear, quite literally, and pulled it.
Nice and slow, the way you'd pull a mischievous kid's ear. After that I couldn't see myself telling her about the true state of my affairs. Anybody else, yes, but not her.
"If you go on like this, I'll be ruined. And I have no desire to be ruined." That's what I said. And one thing more: "Money doesn't grow in my pocket; and right now I have no job, either." Considering what just happened, I still managed to present my case succinctly, reasonably.
It was no use, of course. The ear pulling made her eyes gleam with fury. She was like an enraged cat ruffling its fur. But then she thought better of it.
"All right; it's just as well," she said, rapidly, unthinkingly. "Besides, I couldn't care less about your business affairs."
"That's good to know," I answered. "When you won't be interested in my money either, I'll give you more."
Actually, this was a first; I had never before raised a hand against her, never. And I didn't deny her anything, either, not for a long, long time. Offhand, I can't remember a single instance.
"All right," she repeated, and this sounded like a threat. As though she could get money someplace else, and plenty of it.
And she started walking toward the door; her hand was already on the knob when she stopped and turned around. She looked as though she still had something to say, her face turned quite pale, her lips trembled. And then, suddenly, she began to rave.
She threw herself on the floor and kept tearing at herself; and when I tried to pick her up, she lunged at my eye. But I grabbed her hand in time.
"Easy, easy," I said; "better be careful, or I'll really let you have it."
"Get out!" she screamed, writhing in my hands. "Get out, you brute. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"What's that?" I shot back, and calmly put her down. "I should get out?" And smashed a flower pot against the mirror so hard it broke into a thousand pieces, the pot and the mirror. There was soil and rubble all over the floor.
"I ought to be ashamed of myself?" And the next second I overturned the bookstand with all her junk; one of her precious mugs missed her head by a few inches.
And I was ecstatic, I must say, I melted with pleasure, as if honey were flowing through my veins. The mere thought that I no longer had to keep quiet or bow in reverence before her fancy philosophy was simply delicious.
"You are what you are, eh?" I roared. "Well then, my pet, I'll also be what I am." Ashamed indeed. Should I be ashamed in front of a rotten little worm? And she never has to be ashamed?
Like a thunderbolt now, the chandelier came crashing down. I yanked that out, too. Dragged it down and smashed it.
At that moment, though, I pulled back. And I must say something about the sudden shift.
For in the end my wife did open her mouth. Not that she got scared, oh no; she remained uncommonly calm and serene. The destruction of her potted plants she withstood quite well. She lay on her ear amid the shards, calmly as can be, as though her only concern was to make herself as comfortable as possible in that position. Like a sweet little baby who watches quietly as the world around it comes tumbling down. But when it was her brand new disgusting red cups' turn to break, she did begin to stir, and even sat up.
"Have you gone completely mad?" she asked. "What's this playacting for? Or is this how you amuse yourself now?"
Well, this was the word that made me put down my spoon, as the peasants in our parts usually put it. And what I am going to say now is an attempt to describe what might be called delirium. I know I am compromising myself, but that's exactly what I want to do. What was it I said before? That I was in ecstasy, in seventh heaven. Yes, that's how I felt, no question about it. I was excessively happy, suspiciously pleased with myself.
My wife was right then, after all. For what did I want from her anyway? Nothing, nothing whatsoever. But then, why was I carrying on this way?
I realized the futility of it all. I felt as empty as a discarded sardine can; I was nowhere as dangerous as I appeared to be. And I had nothing further to say, it was all a charade, empty and false.
Yes, nothing but useless bluster, I felt it acutely. And that wasn't the worst of it. I also became aware of a certain amount of caution on my part, which was even more interesting—and l
oathsome. I realized that I threw her things at her with the greatest of pleasure, but was amazingly careful not to pick up my fine little traveling clock, for example, or anything of mine, really. Yes, let's just put that down too, for it's the truth . . . But that's man for you, all over.
He rants, he simpers . . . God, he's awful. That's why I never trusted human nature, or that of monkeys, either . . . because they enjoy themselves so shamelessly, so self-consciously. Even in moments of grand passion. Especially then. As soon as they notice their hands or feet and what they are doing with them.
But this whole business has another facet which should also be mentioned. When they are caught in the act, when their fakeries are exposed, then they turn serious. And that's when they become dangerous.
This is what happened to me, I think. I am playacting, my wife said. At that moment I felt something stirring in me, with a kind of bovine sluggishness, but threateningly, too. Because what she said was the truth. I don't dare imagine what might have happened if we'd carried on, for I felt my side quivering, and that's always an ominous sign with me. But just then there was a knock on the door . . . two knocks. Something must have happened to the bell.
My landlord stood before me.
Now try and imagine the scene: my wife was lying inside on her ear amid broken flower pots, and here was the old man trying to collect some neckties from me. I did promise last time that I'd give him a few, didn't I? He could use one now, he was on his way out to see friends.
What was I going to do? The truth was I did promise to give him neckties, two brand new ones, as a matter of fact. The old codger was smiling already, all set for a little intellectual stimulation. This is what he came out with:
"Ah, my dearest captain, guess what? I managed to solve the puzzle of Jacob's ladder." And he began talking about the mystery of Jacob's dream, which under different circumstances would not even have been that uninteresting.
