The Story of My Wife

by Milan Fust

  And oddly enough, I did.

  Three

  WHILE STILL IN THE HOTEL LOBBY, I BUMPED INTO A DOOR, and where I come from that's considered a bad omen. But fortunately nothing happened, I was fine.

  In fact I began to feel a bit warm under my skin, as when you've just had a full, satisfying meal.

  But what followed was a remarkable experience. You leave behind the dirt and grime of London and find yourself first in lovely woodlands; then you enter the vaulted doorway of a stately mansion, flooded with light, and in the light you see a most curious procession of doll-like human creatures. Saracen kings carrying ripe lemons, Oriental acrobats in red and black, an Eastern wiseman, as well as Negroes, Arabs, Chinamen—a curious bunch, in short, all agape. You get so excited your heart, too, begins to kick and bounce. And why? Partly because you realize how foolish, impish this world is, and also because you like the scene, enormously. I looked at myself in a mirror and burst out laughing. My apron, the iceman's apron, was splendid, I must say. And the hook, too! And my beard, let's not forget my beard.

  It suddenly occurred to me that this is how I'll go to my wife in the morning. What would my sweetheart say? I wondered. Would she get scared? Would she laugh?

  And then, I discovered an old friend, Nicholas Hoshkin, leaning against a marble column. A dear man he was and an excellent sea captain.

  "Nick," I cried and poked him with my hook. "Nicholas, old chap." And I stared right into his eyes. (He was also wearing some sort of Indian getup.) "Don't tell me you can't recognize me like this? Don't you know who I am?"

  "Of course I do, you old growler," he answered. "It seems only yesterday that we were in school together. But just give me a second, I am after someone . . ." And he winked at me.

  "Still the old rascal, aren't you," I laughed.

  "Run along, I'll catch up with you. But now I must wait for my ladylove ... In a moment I shall know true bliss," he enthused, and began walking toward the music.

  A band was playing in the middle of the room and all around people were swaying and whirling, bending toward each other and toward the empty space, it seemed to me; now and then fire-kings and fauns in shimmering turquoise and slender water nymphs would step out of this mad swirl, and like I did before, look at themselves in the mirror, adjust their costume, and even scratch a little.

  Oh, what was there not to like here? Dear God, I thought; could the joy of make-believe be this pervasive? In my country, in the homes of rich folk, this is the expression you see on the paintings of long-dead ancestors. Like giant beetles they were, interrogating each and every guest: How do I look in this dress? Yet, they've been dead for ages. That's how these people struck me now; they churned up fantasies, they took pleasure in toying with them.

  Now and then Nicholas Hoshkin turned up and whispered: "Not yet, she hasn't appeared yet . . . Until she does, I'll cruise some more."

  Only then did it occur to me that I was also waiting for someone, and she was nowhere to be seen, either. I walked around the room several times, even looked into the small chambers off to the side, but there was no trace of Miss Borton.

  Just as well, I thought; this place is interesting enough without her, and not just the people, either. In one of those small rooms, for example, a separate little world opened before me, a curious little world. Aside from mystical drawings of a king named Petasois, there were all kinds of enigmatic exhortations and mottos on the wall, by such people as Saint Benedict the Bridge Builder, Bonaventura, Prudentius Clemens, Johanna Southcott. I noted down a few of these, though I didn't quite understand them. To this day I don't know who the "The People of Benjamin" are supposed to be. But that's who the inscriptions were addressed to; and they also kept mentioning "The New Jerusalem." Among the admonitions I found this, for instance:

  "He who defies joy defies God." (We know that every five hundred years or so this idea makes the rounds, but to no avail.) Diametrically opposed to this notion was a little prophecy from a book of esoterica by Philo of Alexander:

  "The fire was out before they arrived." (An illustration went with this one, showing a fiery red figure, a late arrival, obviously, before whom the glowing embers had just stopped glowing. And all around there was winter, a hopelessly bleak, dusky landscape.)

  And there were other curiosities, other theosophic fancies as well. For example, I got acquainted with two little old men; like a pair of buzzing twins they were, dressed up as senators. And there was talk of honey in the comb, and of people with a weakness for honey, and of a naughty fellow parading as a conquistador, who kept disappearing with some actress in one of the upstairs rooms, or studios, as they were called here.

  ' "The kind of studio, my dear sir—someone informed me— which is ideally suited for loveplay." Very well, I thought; as long as we're here, we'll have a look. I couldn't help feeling of course that I got myself mixed up with a mighty strange group of people, a crazy, eccentric bunch. I bet they must all be dying to have honey straight from the comb; God only knows what brought them together. Not just these mystical disciplines, that was fairly obvious, not simply Bonaventura.

  I note this because my suspicions were confirmed by what was to follow.

  "Who is that queer-looking character?" I exclaimed around midnight, somewhat alarmed, and stared at one of the new arrivals. A whole group of butchers walked in just then, equipped with meatsaws and knives, led by a burly master butcher. They were all French and seemed to have a head start on the merrymaking—quite uninhibited they were, especially their leader, a particularly jovial young man. I could tell immediately he wasn't a member of this set, though a number of people knew him.

  "Hey, no slip-ups now, do you hear?" they shouted. And: "Look, here's the brigadier general." "Ah, the billy-goat, well hello." and other such niceties.

  But he paid them no heed, he just laughed as he passed them. He was a handsome man and he laughed rather attractively; he had nice teeth. And such drive, he seemed ready to take on the world.

  "I am looking for new kicks," he declared unabashedly, and before long he pounced on the Queen of the Night. (She was some kind of a doctor, this enchantress; her real name was Dox, Nox, something like that.) The butchers were hard on his heels, but like savages, their untrimmed sidewhiskers all aflutter.

  But who was that bloke? Where did I know him from?

  What he said to that heavenly creature I had no way of knowing. Most probably that he adored her, for the lady laughed and even waved her fan at him, mock-menacingly. While he, disregarding her gestures, simply nodded and moved on.

  "Well? Well?" the others quickly inquired.

  "It's not her," he said, on his way to his next victim. Now it was he who smiled broadly. (This new lady looked positively Roman, like a fugitive from Pompey she was, though extraordinary just the same.)

  "I wouldn't mind taking a bite out of her" he declared with no less relish than before. But then, quite abruptly, he stopped.

  "Who is this one?" he asked sternly.

  I should have mentioned that the music had stopped some time ago, refreshments were being served, the buzz of conversation could be heard all around. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine yourself in some Parisian park, with the birds chirping away. But now the buzzing died down . . .

  A servant girl entered the room. Actually she was no ordinary servant, but the personal maid of Madame Poulence, the lady of the house, her protégé, it was rumored, an orphan girl living in very difficult circumstances. But she was a bright little thing—not even in King Petasios's garden could such a flower be found. I don't know if others have ever noticed it, but there are human beings who seem to epitomize youth; the gleam in their eyes, the smile on their lips, every buoyant move they make seems to proclaim: I am young, I am a delight. And it's as if they keep asking you: Is anything else worth paying attention to?

  Well, that's the kind of creature this chambermaid was. A little freckled, but that made her even more exciting. (In youthful beauty such as hers, eve
n a flaw can be a source of radiance. For perfection we admire; tiny imperfections we love with a passion.) Her hair was flaming red, and such women know that green, deep sea-green, goes well with those flames. She was wearing a green dress and on it a tiny, tiny lace apron—next to such simplicity, the above-mentioned nymph-like woman, vastly, scientifically beautiful, did not have a chance. In her tiny hands she carried a trayful of cold drinks, and even that lent her face a silvery glow—looking at her, you felt both hot and cold.

  When she walked past Mrs. Bagpiper, a millionairess, she cast her eyes down, but when stood before the Queen of the Night, she raised them again, and the words slipped out of her mouth like tiny birds.

  "A drink, Madame?" she chirped. The lady took the proferred glass and said: "My, you're charming." Others smiled and whispered "thank you" or a simple "oh," but they were all obviously taken by her beauty. A man with stooped shoulders who apparently was fond of philosophy had this to say to the person standing next to me:

  "How is it that the Creator places such enticements, such wonders, on externals? Life's essence lies on the surface—would I have believed that when I was schooled in logic?"

  "Right you are," nodded a plump, sad-looking woman, "and goodness lurks in the depths"—though her intonation suggested she could easily go on about this.

  What impertinence, I thought, that someone should want this miracle all for himself. And closing my eyes, I thought about my own sorry lot. Nicholas Hoshkin was standing not too far from me, and I knew that the same thing was eating him; actually, he looked quite drunk, his eyeballs were ready to pop out.

  "Ask her for some lemon squash, why don't you?" the butchers were urging their leader in the meantime, though he—mark that in his favor—didn't make a move. He just stood there with a timid look in his eyes—he, too, was overwhelmed by this vision of a girl.

  "Dedin is crazy," I heard his friends grumble. "He's been hypnotized." "Since when is he such a ninny?" blurted out one of the men close to me, but so loud, I thought he was talking to me.

  First I looked at this man, then at the chief butcher ... It was him. Paul de Grévy. Known to his close friends as Dedin.

  But why didn't I recognize him right away? I haven't the foggiest. Because of his sidewhiskers? Not bloody likely.

  Perhaps I didn't remember him all that well; maybe I never did take a good look at him . . .

  Anyway, there he was. And after that I couldn't think of anything, silence descended, the wheels stopped turning.

  Actually, there was something, a faint ringing in my ear, a strange and distant call, which lasted but for a few seconds.

  "So he is here, too," I mumbled to myself. I should have known. And I tried very hard to keep my balance.. . . Slowly, very slowly I left the room.

  I hung about for a while outside.

  It was chilly in the garden, and I didn't have my coat on—no wonder I was shivering. Early spring: a cold and bleak season, when nothing stirs, and there is no sign leading you to believe that someone, somewhere is watching over you. The night was massive, immovable, indifferent. And above the trees, the slow swirling of mist and light: London's nocturnal wreath.

  How pleasant this city is, I now said to an unseen party, though what I was really saying to him was: Just what am I supposed to do now? The man I was addressing was in all likelihood the old Dutchman, my shipowner. In that moment I felt so much affection for him—overflowing affection, unjustified affection. Or maybe what I liked was not him so much as doddering old age, and death . . . Oh I was so flustered, so troubled; blustering fool that I was.

  Otherwise I was empty of feeling. Yet, like someone on the look-out, I was watching, listening . . . The night was dark, starless; now and then I looked up. It seemed I was yielding to some outside power, I let it do with me what it wished.

  "Francesco," someone shouted across the garden. Before long I caught up with the fellow.

  "Is there a studio anywhere in that house?" I asked him, in Italian. He was pleased by my question, he even touched my arm. Actually, he came out for a smoke. He was a youngish man.

  We proceeded through the bowels of the mansion, through corridors and a huge kitchen, toward the mysteries of the "studio." It was I who wanted to take that route; I had no desire to go back to that noisy reception hall. Along the way we got some strange looks; the cooks and kitchen maids were lolling about, yawning— it was that late.

  "Good evening," I greeted them as we passed their posts.

  "Good morning," they replied with English precision; I felt their sardonic smiles on my back. I must have looked a sight: a man in outlandish costume amidst all the pots and pans.

  I kept seeing my Dutchman's eyes before me. I have seen white ones, dark ones, his eyes seemed to be saying; and some of them were quite interesting. But I've had enough. And what is it you are after, dear sir? Oh, nothing, I replied. Just keeping busy, I suppose.

  I stood outside the door for while. Applause could be heard, but I couldn't go in—a performance was in progress.

  "What's going on in there?" I asked the boy.

  He didn't really know. "Some sort of dance recital."

  "Dance recital? When there's a big party downstairs?"

  "Yes, yes, this is something else, a school of some sort." Which struck me as rather strange. Mightn't it be a sink of corruption, a den of vice? This was my first thought. But the answer was much simpler, as I later found out. The mistress of the house had a sister, an impoverished society queen, a pathetic has-been, who held lectures here on art, capitalizing on Madame Poulence's considerable social connections. But how was one to know this while one stood before a closed door and heard applause, whispers. . . ? I wouldn't have been all that surprised if there were naked girls dancing inside.

  But there were no naked girls. The same group was dancing as did in the salon downstairs. (I forgot to mention before that they were there too; in colorful head-dresses and with little bells on their ankles, they performed some kind of pious Oriental dance— in keeping with the tenets propagated in this house.)

  On the whole, I saw nothing out of the ordinary, either upstairs or downstairs. However, I did find what I was looking for, what I came here for, in the first place.. . . Sitting in the first row in that studio was my wife.

  Correction: not in the first row but even closer to the stage, in one of the chairs placed sideways under the proscenium. She had a powdered wig on and held a lorgnette in her hand. Naturally, she looked kind of strange this way, at first I didn't want to believe it was her. Could it all be a dream? I wondered. (Indeed, there are moments even today when I am not at all sure if it wasn't.) Yet, it was her all right. She began to wet her lips and then I was quite sure. I inched my way closer, slowly, along the wall, and soon I could see for myself how fast pupils could dilate.

  For at one point she did notice me, raised her lorgnette, and that's when her eyes began to grow under the glass, expressing sudden horror, no doubt, at seeing me. She must have thought: God, he looks just like my husband. And her heart must have skipped a beat, surely. But then she got over it, it seems.

  (Only now as I write this do I begin to wonder about what actually happened. For instance, why didn't she come down to the large hall, why did she stay in the studio? She had a premonition—yes, that's what it was, I am sure of it now—that look gave it all away.)

  Later, though, she probably decided: No, that can't be my husband. In other words she didn't recognize me after all, that became fairly obvious, too, if only because she began to wet her lips again. All of which seemed again like a bad dream. For just at that moment the lights dimmed, the next attraction was about to begin; I slipped out through a side door. I had enough of the show, enough of that house.

  Once more I hung about in the garden for a while, and again thought I heard those distant calls.

  I ought to have my blood thinned, I decided once I was on the street; that's what does it to me. . . too much blood. And just then, swift, soothing images passed
before my eyes: a sunny deck, gentle splashing, pitter-patter, happy boredom, real peace . . . and old sailors pressing cupping glasses on each other's backs under the burning sun, in the shade. I was still young then.

  "Twenty cuppings every spring and all's well," said the old timers, the ones with brass rings in their ears. And who's to say they weren't right? They seemed hearty enough. And wasn't it also smart of them to punch holes in their ears? Human nature is inscrutable, after all.

  But even now I didn't feel any different. I didn't do much thinking either, hardly any, and even that only in faint images, the way animals are supposed to think. I let myself rest for a change— rest and drift . . . my soul too.

  True, I thought about that certain scalesman, but I brushed him aside, as I did Gregory Sanders and that oracular psychoanalyst— all of them, in short, the whole lot. Who the hell needed them? They made me sick; their wise counsel—now amiable, now stern—turned my stomach . . .

  Idiots! They all wanted to explain my own life to me. Well, right now I could give them a pointer or two; they'd be pretty surprised, those fine gentlemen, it would sure as hell put a stop to their jabber.

  I had an overwhelming desire to demonstrate to them how very stupid they were, forcing their passions and prejudices down another man's throat—and brain.

  On and on I went, from nothing to nothing. But sometimes even that can be refreshing. I roamed the city for hours, entangled in futile debates.

  I thought I'd stop, but no, there was more, and more roaming, too; actually the fresh air felt nice. I thought I'd walk a little more, then head for the Brighton and get some sleep before doing anything else. Mustn't forget about our health, right? Besides, I wasn't in London yet, I was still in Bruges. At any rate, I started walking in the direction of the hotel, which wasn't too smart, either. Who the hell can find his way around in a town this size? To boot, there was a shift in the weather, fog shrouded the streets again. I found myself near a large square; I turned around.