by Milan Fust
"And me too," she added bashfully.
All this time I kept staring at her as if she were an apparition.
How very odd that she should show up just now, I thought. But she was real all right, in a mauve fur jacket, with diamonds in her ear. Her nails were perfectly polished, as were her teeth, her eyes—the woman looked perfect in every way, she sparkled like a gold watch . . . And add to this those sinful little fires in her eyes ... As I bent over to kiss her hand, she laughed. But I did it, I kissed it, and she let me, she didn't move or duck, but put up regally with this bit of chivalry, standing there tall and slender like a Christmas tree. Though such things are not even customary in England.
"Oh, Mrs. Cobbet," I told her, enraptured. And then: "Is this true? Am I really seeing you again?" And other such phrases ... I plumb forgot to be angry with her.
In other words, it was the same story all over again. Yet, for me to fly into raptures over meeting anyone, or in any case to act like such a jellyfish, was . . . was unheard of. And the truth is I never did act this way before. To back down, to take flight—these were moves I had not been familiar with before. Faced with a challenge, I usually pause and then meet it head on. But not this time. This time I balked, I shrank back, there's just no other way to put it or explain it. There was such a burning desire in me to live again, such an uncontrollable and passionate yearning, I thought come hell or high water, I shall not lie dormant, shall not sleep again, nor return to that awful, dingy hotel room, but go out, walk around, talk, do something, for God's sake, to keep me from going mad.
But then maybe I should take the morning train to Cuxhaven. Actually the thought occurred to me as soon as I laid my eyes on this luminous creature, while staring at the glittering rings in her ears, at her flushed face, at her smouldering eyes . . . How these creatures love to live. As though they just got started, and then started anew every minute, again and again . . .
But what about me? Was I no longer interested? Didn't I want any of it any more? It's easy to say, of course: that's it, I've had enough. But when you yourself make the first move . . . What was it that charming maid told me the night before? "Why are you always in the dark?"
Kodor was writing out telegrams in the lobby with a gold pen, and ordered Mrs. Cobbet to pick out the wine.
"Have them put some in the car," he commanded. "We can take it with us; I feel like drinking." Mrs. Cobbet did as he said but then remembered to ask:
"Do you think you ought to?"
"Yes," Kodor replied, pragmatically and unequivocally, and continued writing. "Nothing can hurt me, I am made of heavy metal," he added, amusing himself, as usual, with homegrown witticism. I noticed right away how rudely he treated Mrs. Cobbet, and at the same time how very friendly he seemed toward me.
"Ah, it's so strange to see you," he said. "Lotty talked about you so often . . ."
So that's how it was: She said it was Kodor who kept talking about me, and he said she did . . .
I must say, though, he looked sharp. No sign of depression that I could see; if anything he looked stockier, more substantial. And more solemn, too, more formal, as though he'd just walked out of a barber shop. Nothing slovenly about him, his pockets weren't bulging as in the old days. He wore black—brand new black, at that; a fine hat, fine gloves, and all of it understated. There was only one bit of shiny yellow flashing through his fingers: the gold handle of his cane.
So he became a gentleman, finally, how do you like that? A genuine millionaire. Quite a change from the quirky con-man I once knew.
But didn't the man go bankrupt? Those shady oil deals . . . didn't they do him in? I tried to sniff out the cause of the change. But it wasn't anything like that. What his face reflected was something else, a kind of placid indifference, the same expression I must have had after my own vicissitudes. Even his gentleness was different. Strained.
"Ah, my dear friend," he said. (He never used that word before: not "friend" and not "ah.") "How are you, Jacob? (He never used to say that, either. He was never interested enough.) But why are you staying here? Why in a hotel? Got divorced perhaps?"
He still had his sharp eyes, the old scoundrel.
"Yes, I did," I answered quietly, and was surprised myself how easily the word slipped out.
"Quite right, quite right," Kodor said, stealing a glance at me from behind his spectacles. "Nothing wrong with getting a divorce. If you can go through with it." And he calmly went on scribbling.
But then we started out; the bottles of wine were put in the car, and we were off.
But let me interject two things here. First, I couldn't figure out what smelled of topsoil in that car, yes topsoil, or was it a dank cellar smell? Actually, freshly dug soil has that smell, or sod that's just been turned over. I had the terrible feeling that this time I really went off the deep end. How could I smell soil in the car? But then I had one hallucination already the night before, so it all made sense: I was going crackers.
There I was, smothered by the smell, yet I couldn't even say anything to them, lest they, too, lose their head. Those few minutes were sheer agony, I considered jumping out of the car.
Oh, but why does one cling to one's memories? Why hold on to them with all one's might? It's so futile, so utterly senseless. All k produces is pain and more pain. The past I can never change— according to Thomas Aquinas (whom I am reading just now), not even God himself can. If somebody never loved you, what's the use of reasoning or pleading? Move heaven and earth, dislodge the moon with your bare hands, still you will not change it. Yet, you keep straining, you rehash everything, wondering if it really happened that way, praying for a miracle, hoping that the mass of contradiction and pain—this hard and bitter lump—will somehow budge, give way, though it so happens, this pain is also impalpable, untraceable.
Where is my past anyway? What remains of it? What mark, what sign is there to show: this is how it was . . .? The waves subsided long ago.
But even if they have, can one ever acquiesce in this? Accept the inevitable, the unalterable; behold it, helpless, stupefied?
Oh, I loved her, of that there can be no doubt, loved her deeply, madly even . . . Yet, look where it's got me . . .
I broke out in a cold sweat by now. What was I really thinking about? What did the smell of freshly dug soil come to announce? I refused to believe it, I resisted it with all my being—it's the reason why I wanted to jump out of the moving car. Why, it's Lizzy's grave; I am anticipating Lizzy's grave!
The horrifying realization hit me and I thought I could take it no longer, could not cope with this anxiety.
And then Kodor chanced to remark: "Open the window, Lotty, will you? It's so stuffy in here. Smells like a cellar.
"Because she never asks them to wash the bottles," he turned to me. And to his mistress he said: "They must have brought it straight from the wine cellar."
As far as the effect his words had on me . . . only a drowning man could appreciate that. When he is pulled out of the water . . .
This is one of the items I wanted to cover. The other was over something else.
When Kodor ordered his chauffeur to drive home, I thought nothing of it. I was sure we were going to his house—he had his office there, I knew the area; I'd been there often enough. My surprise was all the greater when the car came to a halt on an unfamiliar street.
But then I remembered: this is where Mrs. Cobbet lived. I got out and started walking toward the door, thoughtless as always.
Luckily, I caught myself in time and turned around. The driver was unloading the wine from the backseat, while Kodor stood next to him and lit a cigar. It was raining again. He let me lead the way—to test me perhaps? Behind the glow of the cigar I could see his tranquil though watchful eyes.
There you have it, I thought; a simple nonchalant move can be quiet enough. He has the right idea. Why didn't I do that with that delivery boy back at the boarding house?
Because if I knew my way around here ... I'd better watch my step
.
Could he be pulling the same sort of trick on me? Not telling me anything and just bringing me here?
But there was no follow-up. I drank a lot, too much, in fact. And handled Kodor rather curtly. Told him for instance that I was in Bruges, got a position, was put in charge of a vessel, and what's more, received permission to take someone with me. It was to be my wife, but that has changed now of course, since I got a divorce in the meantime. And all this in a matter of fact voice, just to see if he was going to make any snide remarks. And when, instead, he started telling me how happy he was to know that the good word he put in for me helped, I cut him off:
"It had no effect whatever. You had nothing to do with it. But never mind."
This silenced him finally. He grew very small, in my eyes at least—it was like looking at him through a pair of binoculars.
But he gave it another try: "Listen, Jacob, I know very well that an unimportant person like myself cannot . . ."
"Spare me the false modesty," I snapped. "You are not unimportant and you know it. The truth is you didn't knock yourself out. But let's just forget it."
In short, I stopped being Mister Nice. That crooked ladies man and his shabby tricks really got to me by now. I would have given my right arm to find out that he did come in for a fall, that he really did lose his shirt on that oil deal—that is what I wanted confirmed above all, it was my heart's most fervent desire. I took a long, hard look at him this time, and believe me, I didn't like what I saw. A rodent, I said to myself, that's what he is.
But enough about him. Mrs. Cobbet I treated much more gently, like an angel, or a beloved sister. Why this solicitude? Because I saw that for all her sparkle she was a very sad woman—she was the sad one, not her friend. I mentioned already how rough he was on her; well, I tried to be that much more courteous. I noticed something else, too, which never fails to have an effect on me: how very grateful she was for every scrap of attention. Is that how that woman really is? I wondered. That servile? The thought depressed me, because I had treated her wretchedly myself in the past.
But besides all that, you can't go on too long with only hatred in your heart. I had to start feeling tender toward somebody.
"How nice you are to me tonight," she whispered in an unguarded moment, and even touched my arm. And her eyes, like a shady garden, had a warm, quiet glow.
"Do be careful, though; don't antagonize him." And she gave me an imploring look. Why did she say that? Oh yes, because I stepped on one of Kodor's "extraordinary" cigars.
"Pick it up," he said to Mrs. Cobbet when it fell on the floor.
"No, she will not," I said and crushed it with my foot.
Kodor took it lightly, or at least acted as though he did. "Serves me right for being a skinflint. It's only the best Mexican cigar money can buy. But fifteen bob will get me another, right?"
There was silence in the room. No one answered him . . .
And then we began to sing. I must say I enjoyed drinking that night more than ever. I kept saying to myself: nothing can top this. It's exactly what I needed: to drown my life in booze. And wouldn't you know it? Everything began to look rosy, and even more so when Mrs. Cobbet sat down to the piano.
"Why don't you sing something?" Kodor asked. Mrs. Cobbet suddenly looked up. "I am sure Jacob would like to hear you, too." And to me, by way of explanation:
"She has a lovely voice. I ought to know, I am paying for her lessons. But she never wants to sing for me."
The glass began to shake in Mrs. Cobbet's hand, and she spilled some wine on her dress. She got nervous, it seems. And then something happend that I didn't quite understand.
"How am I to sing?" she complained indignantly. "You always come up when ... eh, they'll grumble again that I am not letting them sleep."
"Now, now," Kodor said. "When it comes to me they are not so touchy, you know that. Anyway, they are not home. You were right here, weren't you, when they said they were going to the movies tonight."
As I said, I didn't know what they were talking about, and didn't much care. Anyhow, Mrs. Cobbet relented finally and burst into song, accompanying herself on the piano. The music resounded in the room, it swelled and flowed, I was awash in sentiment.
"Cloud, dark cloud, why hang over me?" she sang. "My heart aches only for yooou" was next. Then this: "The night is full of secrets, dear / But whispering leaves make them clear." Silly hit tunes they were, as can be seen. But with what conviction she sang them, what passion! She practically melted into a world of cheap fantasy, she was transfigured.
But truth to tell, I got caught up in it, too, I couldn't resist the urge to sing myself. And Kodor was beside himself with joy at seeing me like this.
"See now, you can still have a good time with us." And then added: "I feel honored."
But who cared about html I was like a heady explorer making his way through unchartered territory; I felt powerful, expansive. Besides, I know nothing more pleasurable than drinking and then breaking into song. The whole world seemed to be mine, I felt at one with the vast outdoors. It's true, what I sang were rousing sailor songs. One of them was about the shin-shin-girls, which begins like this: "You shin-shin girl, Tokyo's pearl," and ends with a loud cry of "Shin-shin-shah!" The other was the more familiar: "When the last penny's out," but I sang that lustily, too, I belted it out . . .
Mrs. Cobbet, in the meantime, was beaming with pleasure, why I don't know. A trained singer I am not. And those songs! Inane little ditties, all of them, not sentimental even, which she might have expected after her sappy tunes. Maybe she's admiring my strong lungs, I thought. That I have, no question about it. My performance made the windows rattle. That and the storm outside. It's true: the wind howled and lashed the windows while I was carrying on inside. And when I stopped, the racket ceased, too, or so it seemed. And Mrs. Cobbet must have thought she was already on the high seas—her smile was beatific.
We made the mistake, you see, of gabbing away foolishly right in front of Kodor. At first, it was only things like: how pleasant all this is, how happy we are to be here and so forth. To which Kodor automatically answered, Yes, yes, he was awfully glad I was so pleased. But he was really out of it. He just sat there in an arm chair with his eyes closed, as if dozing quietly. I knew he wasn't but still... I sat down next to her on the piano bench, and leaned closer, as if getting ready to turn the page but making sure her gorgeous black hair touched my ear. And indeed, I felt her snuggling up to me, nestling her flushed little face close against mine. Now who could resist such advances? Looking down, giving my shoes a thorough inspection, and addressing the floor, all I said was: "How very sweet." And immediately thereafter: "I am sailing towards India. Will you come with me?" But all this right under Kodor's nose, as if he were no longer around.
But he was. And he proved it soon enough. We heard noises outside, the door slammed.
"I guess they are back," Kodor mumbled and gave a big yawn.
"Back? But who?" Now I had to ask. How many times was he going to mention it?
"What do you mean who?" Kodor said. "Why, the neighbors, of course. Actually, they are not neighbors—this is a single apartment. Except I had it made into two when I rented it for her."
But even this he said as if he'd just been awakened and didn't feel like talking yet.
"I want her to live in a place she can be watched," he continued, somewhat louder. "I want to know about every move she makes."
At first I didn't understand. All I saw was that Mrs. Cobbet turned crimson, and in her embarrassment was picking lint off her dress.
"At least you admitted it now," she said and tried to smile. It didn't work, though, for instead she turned very somber. And stood up.
"Why shouldn't I admit it?" Kodor countered. "Should she be here all alone? And worry about keeping house and all that? I had a relative of mine move in, who does it for money—my money. Supports his wife and kids on it. Spint is the name, if you really want to know."
"You don't say," I
said, incredulous still. "And you really do know about her every move."
"Of course I do, it goes without saying—where she goes, who comes up here, everything. These people know precisely what their benefactor is interested in ... I bet you think I have no business doing this. But I'll have you know that this is just the way I want it."
I looked around. Mrs. Cobbet stood with her back to me, packing something away, Kodor's fancy cigars, I shouldn't wonder, lest they again fly out of their case. This was a bad sign, though—the sign of total submission. The gilded, finely-crafted wall clock pointed to three, which was a bad sign, too. What the hell was I doing here, anyway? I was quite perturbed, yet couldn't make a move. Was it simple curiosity? To see this thing through? To find out what the old man was up to?
"Wait a minute," Kodor reminded himself. "You mean to tell me you were never here before ... Ah yes, how could you be, you are such an Ehrenmann (that's precisely the word he used), a real cavalière. If you were here, you would have been sure to tell me. 'I went up to see your lover last night, old chum,' you would have said ...
"Yes sir, that's what you are, a splendid cavalière, you demonstrated that the last time. Oh yeah, before I forget: I won that suit, you know, I was vindicated . . .
"Leave us, will you?" he barked at Mrs. Cobbet now. "I want to talk business with our gentleman caller. And make me a cup of coffee; I have a headache." Mrs. Cobbet silently left the room.
"Well, bugger," I said to him promptly, "let's hear what you have to say. But I bet you want me to talk, right? You thought I was going to start spilling the beans now. You'd just love to make me drunk, wouldn't you? You must think you're the only one with brains under your hat, while our heads are filled with . . . what? noodles? (In my rage I didn't know what to tell him first.) And what if I do love your mistress, what then? No one else can love her, only you?"
