The Story of My Wife

by Milan Fust

  Especially considering how that young lady treated me.

  Three times I wrote to her—she didn't bother to respond. When I called her on the telephone, she was always out. I went to the music school where she took piano lessons and found she no longer played the piano. I hung about in front of her house—need I say more? I even called up her milliner. All this happened at the time I was grappling with the Tannenbaum letters and other phantoms. And when after all that she still didn't show, I gave up on her, I let her go. Now and then I thought of her, especially of the times when I crept past lit-up hotel windows; and when I did, I had to smile. Was I really such a meek little fellow back then? It's hard to imagine. I certainly wouldn't do it today, wouldn't for the life of me creep under any window.

  At the same time I was sure she would show up one day; I had this feeling. I knew the young lady pretty well, you see.

  And now she was here. What could she want from me?

  She had to see me, she wrote, for reasons that were quite peculiar, and she underscored the word "peculiar." I had to laugh at that too. I was long past making distinctions between the peculiar and the ordinary. I was no longer so subtle in my ways.

  First I wasn't even going to respond. This one time I won't, I thought. But just then I saw her coming towards me on the street.

  She looked rather pale, and said in fact she had been working hard lately. "What at?" I inquired. She mentioned some crafts shop or other and said she was quite happy with the job—she'd had enough of doing nothing. In addition she was taking French lessons from Madame Lagrange.

  "What's that? From Madame Lagrange, of all people?"

  "That's right. . . somebody recommended her. Interesting, isn't it?" And she blushed a little. "Quite a coincidence, don't you agree?" She just heard that this lady and my wife were good friends actually. Was this true?

  I said yes it was, and added, just to say something: "What sort of woman is this Madame Lagrange?"

  "Oh nothing special," she replied somewhat contemptuously. But what did it matter if this impudent little judge of character thought Madame L. was nothing special? And what if she was? What did I care?

  The point I am really trying to make is that seeing her did not impress me any more than did her letter. And our conversation was entirely without significance—we didn't talk about anything. I didn't even mention the letter; nor did I inquire about her "peculiar" reasons for wanting to see me. And as she didn't bring up the matter either, I decided it was just as well. Evidently she changed her mind. She walked with me for a while, then left. And that was it.

  But the next day she again stood on the same street corner. This time I was a little put off. I ought to have mentioned that around that time I spent my afternoons in the library of a maritime club, working on a modest assignment. How on earth did she know I frequented this place? She must know, or else why would she come back? I simply had to find out.

  "Was it Madame Lagrange who told you I had business here?" I asked.

  "Uh-huh."

  Now I was even more annoyed. How very well informed these women are. . . . But what she wanted to talk to me about was a letter I had written—except she didn't know how to begin.

  "Anyway you like," I said. At this, she raised her head slightly.

  To be perfectly honest, she began, she didn't know for a long time what to make of the letter or how to answer it. There was no denying that it had a curious effect on her.

  "It was a strange letter, wasn't it, miss?"

  I shouldn't misunderstand her, she went on. What I wrote . . . she found it quite unsettling. I did know, didn't I, what she was referring to—which particular letter.

  Did I ever. I had a hearty laugh over this.

  "Listen, my sweet, we are long past that stage." And quickly added: "You are late."

  As simple as that. It happened to be the truth, too. What was in that darn letter, one may well ask. All sorts of things one doesn't like to recall. Anyway, you can't respond late to a cry for help. It's like somebody saying, I am dying, and then the next he is asked if he's all right. The chap has to laugh, if only because he's still there, still alive . . .

  And this is what the young miss felt like discussing with me?

  "My dear girl, it is like munching on a day-old roll," I said to her. I came up with regular little parables now, intending to demonstrate what is timely and what is not. For instance, how long did she think a thirsty man can wait for a drink? There comes a moment when he no longer needs it—did she ever think about that?

  I offered further examples along these lines, though through it all I felt myself becoming more relaxed. My indignation, my rage—where were they now? Gone, the moment for them long past. Still, at times like these, you keep trying, you talk and talk, attempting to refuel your anger somehow, while the other person listens quietly and smiles. What could she be thinking of? Maybe you are wrong, all wrong.

  At any rate, I did ask her to try and imagine what it was like for me to wait for an answer, for some sign—anything. A word, a message would have been enough. (What message? An initial or—I don't know—an applecore, as long as I knew it came from her.)

  "But it just wasn't in you people to do that," I said, but again quite simply. "What possible explanation can be given for not answering letters like mine? After that what can one expect from you people?

  "Or did you have a special reason?" It occurred to me just then that she may have had one.

  "Finally," she said with a cheerful smile, "you finally thought of it." And her eyes flashed with anticipation. "You were not miserable because of me, yet it was me you turned to. What could I have answered? Besides, there were a thousand reasons why I didn't answer . . . though only one special reason."

  "And that is?"

  "I got engaged," she said demurely. And how demurely, like some little flower.

  In fact, she looked so very sweet, I had to laugh.

  "That's really something," I said. "You can imagine how heartily I congratulate you. Please accept my entirely good wishes. And who is the happy and altogether fortunate young man, the . . . heavenly suitor, who is he?"

  She again lifted her head. "He is no heavenly suitor," she said darkly. And then with much more emotion: "My intended is a gentleman, what's more he is of noble birth. And to talk about him as you do is neither customary nor proper, I assure you."

  "Oh really?" I laughed, "just don't tell him then." I could hardly wait for us to get to the nearest tree; once there I covered her pretty little face with kisses, while saying to myself: What will the Irish nobility have to say about this? It was a rotten thing to do, I admit, a vile and heartless thing—let me emphasize that for the benefit of those who like contrition. Yes, yes, I was being heartless, beastly . . . But even if I was, so what?

  In the meantime the girl was crying ... As for me, instead of being moved to pity, all I kept noticing was how nicely she cried. Let's face it: it was a pretty sight. . . Come to think of it, is there anything more splendid than a lovely young creature weeping? The tears just welling up, or trickling on end like quiet, steady raindrops? Frankly, even the way she blew her nose I found beautiful.

  I just had to embrace her, to which she responded with a slap. We kept wrestling with each other under the protection of that wintry tree, with me still laughing. . . . These women do like to lash out at me, don't they? And they all go for my eye—my wife did, and now her. Funny, isn't it?

  "You are crushing my hat. Ouch! Oh go to the devil, why don't you?" she hissed with fervid bitterness. "My father doesn't have the money to buy me a new hat every day, you know."

  Her father? This made me look up. What about the air of preeminence and refinement? Or was that all make-believe? Probably. This strange girl let her fancy—and her feet—roam freely, I knew that pretty well.

  "Do go to hell," she hissed again, all breathless.

  "I'm on my way, don't worry," I assured her candidly. And then, in the same vein:

  "You tell me:
is this nice what you're doing? One little kiss you won't give me? A parting kiss? You're getting married and I'm going to hell. Just as you wished. You'll never see me again ... at any rate, it's highly unlikely."

  To be perfectly honest, I would have liked to tell her more about where I was going, what I was planning to do, but the moment was not at all propitious. Moreover, she wasn't paying attention. She was trying with all her might to free herself, she fought tooth and nail, as is the custom of her sex, and then folded her arm across her chest to prevent me from getting close to her mouth.

  "No, no, you may do with me what you like, but I'd rather die first. Oh, I hate my life," she sobbed.

  "Same here," I replied.

  "But I hate everybody, without exception."

  "My sentiments precisely," I shot back.

  "I detest my parents, too," she raved, no doubt infuriated by my off-hand replies. And she was bent on drawing out even darker truths, it seemed.

  "Oh and how my parents hate you," she challenged me anew. "Don't even try to defend yourself. They do, I mean it. Intensely."

  But why? I would have like to ask. What have they got against me? Didn't everything happen the way their darling daughter wanted it? But as I say, things got so out of hand, she could no longer be talked to.

  "Oh, if I only had a brother who could teach you a lesson . . . who could kill you . . ."

  Oh sure. I would punch that precious brother in the nose so hard, he'd roll over in the snow three times . . . (There's a desperate man for you—whatever he can think of is an outrage.)

  On the other hand, in between sobs, she blurted out: "You managed to ruin my life, I hope you realize that . . ." Now here was something even an obdurate, heartless man like me should have taken to heart. But I didn't. What did I do to ruin her life? Nothing, I calmly concluded.

  "I loved you," she said, wiping her tears. "I didn't deserve to be treated this way ... I loved you for nothing . . ."

  I let her go at that point. It was all over, I thought. I heard the clasp on her pocketbook click.

  "I loved you too," I told her gravely. "And if you don't believe me, that's all right, too. Good-bye, then."

  "Stay a while," she said, a little gentler this time.

  But I had no desire to stay.

  "I am expected home for lunch. I have to go, dear ... for now, anyway."

  "What do you mean for now?" I let that go.

  "You said you were going away; is it true? Are you going far? Can you tell me where you're going?"

  The little damsel made me smile. She was itching to find out more, I could tell.

  "Go ahead, ask away. Where am I going? To South America. For good? Yes, for good. I have no intention of ever coming back."

  "And are you going alone?" she finally asked.

  "Yes, yes, alone," I laughed.

  "Then it's all right," she said ominously. Yes, ominously, but with relief, too. And she stayed as she was, she didn't move. Only a slight mist covered her eyes still.

  But the truth is that this state of affairs wasn't really to my liking, either, as can be imagined. That's not what I wanted ... to treat her so shabbily.

  So I wrote to her, yes, I did this time. I wouldn't like to part this way, I said; it would pain me. Would she agree to see me one more time? She did, and when we met, we tried very hard, both of us: she was kind and submissive, as never before, and I ... I was so anxious to please her, it almost killed me. But it was no use; attempts like these are bound to fail.

  We didn't really know how to proceed.

  But it's just as well. It's no good running after something that's already past. I was clumsy. Told her I'll always remember her, and who likes to hear that? And she, for her part, let me go, not very happily, to be sure, but she wasn't going to kill herself over me. And that's not a pleasant thing to realize, either.

  For what does the human heart wish for at a time like this? The impossible, I dare say. Its very essence is such; it's in its nature to yearn and pine. It would have me knock down, like a storm, all doubt and fear; it would like me to be the wonderworker of old, so she could again rest her head on my shoulder and say, "This was a glorious afternoon." In fine, I should have told her, "I adore you, I worship you"—again these simple words, and everything would have been forgotten. The present as well as the past.

  Instead, I started telling her about the Indians of South America, a foolish thing to do, and how well I knew it.

  As absurd as if I'd started going cock-a-doodle-doo all of a sudden. She once told me she'd gladly live on a desert island with me. How nice it would have been to be able to say, "Why don't you follow me?" But what do I do if she takes me seriously? This girl might just have joined me, she was that type.

  So what I began talking about was how strange that world was, where I was now going. It wasn't for everybody, I told her. (I was being cautious, no doubt: it may not be the place for her, only for me.) I had her believe that I always had my heart set on South America. (It's true, I often thought about the people living in that part of the world, as I had before about the Malayans and their frantic zest for life. But it was all rubbish of course. What is so special about that place? If you're homeless, you're homeless—you won't find your place anywhere; life is nothing but bitterness. And if you return home, you no longer feel at home: the feeling of strangeness stays with you.) Still, I maintain that I had indeed thought a great deal about that place, I did want to settle there.

  "Just think of our lives and the lives of those Indians down there," I said to this poor, dear girl. And I regaled her, this angel, with my thoughts on voluptuous forgetfulness. Told her how glorious, luminous, naked life must still be to these people . . . How they are capable of sitting outside their walls all afternoon, in the shade, entrusting their souls to the play of light, to clouds, to things that glimmer and fade . . . While we kept wondering what, if anything, makes them smile all the time? Are their heads stuffed with that many dreams?

  "Yet, this is how one ought to live," I declared. "For what do you have here, just look around. Hear the rumble? Feel the tension? The windows in this town sparkle, right? But people have to work very hard to keep those windows clean.

  "And the trains?" I asked, pleading almost. "Ah, it's all duty and drudgery here, can't you see? People no longer know what enjoying life means . . ." There was more, but I'd rather not repeat all the rubbish I dished out to her.

  But was it all rubbish, I now wonder. There had to be something to it, surely. But why, in God's name, was I explaining it to this girl, who wanted to hear me say something else, not this. Indeed, she walked away from me, and began to quicken her pace, the poor girl.

  "We're not mountain-dwellers here, you know," she called back.

  And: "All I really care about is my homeland." And she kept on running.

  And I after her. I wanted to grab hold of her arm, stop her, tell her to please listen, for God's sake. Now how does one account for such behavior . . .? I am reminded of bright, bright sunshine. "Hey, where are you going?" some old crones shouted after me in a open meadow. I was a young boy wearing a velvet collar. "Careful, you'll fall," they cried. But I didn't listen. With complete self-assurance, and a haughty smile, I continued walking through the lush grass, with the crones following close behind. There was a drop not far ahead, you see; and sure enough, I soon found myself in a mill-stream—I walked right into it in my beautiful velvet collar.

  It was the same now. I was like a sleep-walker. It does happen sometimes that you're simply unable to stop. As if you were adrift, only half alive. I was telling her about the marble quarriers' strong lungs, about the fine, rainbow dust in spinneries, and all along I had the feeling, it wasn't me talking, the words came out of my grandfather's gray beard. And one of the melancholy old willows seemed to fully agree. (We were at the edge of the park now, wandered inside, drifted out again.) It was only natural that I got more and more distracted, befuddled. I had the feeling my lips were askew, my tongue didn't move rig
ht—I wanted to say A and it came out B. For example, I wanted to instruct her in the pleasures of a nonchalant attitude and wound up divulging family secrets—was actually letting her in on intimate details.

  Told her what a hellish thing it is, what infernal racket it makes, to have two people continue their endless grappling in you, in your soul—your mother and father: an always anxious, tensely ambitious clatterer, forever busying herself around the fireplace, and a lazy and sarcastic smirker . . . But fortunately, at such times something in you always calls a halt.

  But it's no good, it's just no damn good, I thought, more despondent than ever. What does the lady want me to do, anyway? Amuse her, bring down the moon for her from the sky? The state I was in then, I couldn't lift a pebble.

  "Watch out, fella," some loaders shouted from a nearby van.

  "Watch out yourself," I shouted back from the vicinity of a shop window which in my daze I almost ran into.

  "And I won't have anything to do with the new Russia, either," my little miss now declared.

  "But I will," I shot back. To my basic tenets I was going to remain faithful, oh yes, unto death, if need be. That this was not living I would always maintain. "Just what do you think people here are after?" I asked. "More coal mines, more obligations? Besides, is that what the world needs—more things, more people?" These were the questions I put to this frightened little rabbit, to this child. It was also my last cry, my very last appeal to her heart. Did she hear me? I never did find out. For at that moment a beggar stood in my way; our unhappy race around Regents Park came to an end. I'd just delved into my pocket for some change, looked up, and saw my wife standing before me.

  She smiled broadly, pretending to be quite happy about the chance encounter. "You great big captain, you," she said and poked me with her finger.

  And she asked me to accompany her to a gentleman named De Mercier. He was having a small party ... a few cups of punch, some fresh walnuts—a new shipment arrived from Southern France, from their village, in fact. Why couldn't I join her for once.