by Milan Fust
So I buckled down and read all the books and journals I could get my hands on. For a whole week I didn't sleep, didn't even take my clothes off. But when the excitement got to be too much for me, I lay down and stayed that way. This was my old system—it never failed. Whenever I got too tense, I'd just chuck everything and start staring at the ceiling.
It was the same now. For three whole days I lay in bed in a kind of stupor, feeling pretty unhappy. What do I need all this for? I thought. To make more money. . . ? Ah, vanity . . . what a strange thing it is. One gives the very best of himself, casts it in front of others, and the only reason for doing it, it seems, is to solicit praise. And you do it for nothing, isn't that a laugh? For a casual nod of the head. (This, then, is what holds the world together— vanity. People have been saying it for a long time, and now I've come to agree with them.) Is that what I am after, that nod? And if not, why all this drudgery, when what I really want is peace and quiet . . . what I have right now, this very moment, and find so pleasant . . . since I don't even have to stick my hand out of the bed.
And still. In the end I got back into action. One night I struggled to my feet and with my still stiff and bandaged hand I began to draw diagrams. I quickly sketched out plans for two systems, I even filled in some of the details, so as to have it all on paper. This way I wouldn't have to let draughtsman in on my idea, for they would be sure to spread it around. I even thought about the manufacturers I would approach and get estimates from—for that's how you usually proceed: order each part of the planned machine from a different manufacturer, and when they're all ready, assemble a prototype . . . Well, I had the whole thing mapped out and even began thinking about the actual production, when I suddenly faltered, my spirits flagged, and I was overcome with shame.
For the heavens responded to my ambitious notions with a peal of laughter. I was needed to come up with a new solution? I had to play the inventor? Weren't there enough chemists in the world?
And they never thought of this possibility?
What can I say? I grew to hate chemistry and everything connected with it, including my own diligence. In short, I had only contempt for all this busywork of mine.
But what else could I possibly be after?
I heard nothing from the other side, you see, nothing from the two girls, that is, although I had been working on my project over a month and a half now, and Madeleine gave me her word, promised me when we parted at the university, that she'd apprise me of their decision as soon as possible. Though her sister was still recuperating, and therefore she didn't want to excite her unduly, she said she'd have a talk with her just as soon as her little sister got better . . . She promised this twice, using these very words.
So I waited another two weeks. But as it proved to be a fruitless extension, I came to the conclusion that the younger sister also condemned those poor, untrustworthy people who in moments of weakness or embarrassment were capable of lying through their teeth.
Except it didn't help to think that, nothing helped. Over the years I may have become adept at giving up on things, but I also grew older, and when that happens, your strength and resistance diminishes also, alas.
So what I decided one fine spring Sunday, early in the morning, was that I would look them up—that very day, it was Sunday after all, and they did mention it more than once that they spent Sunday mornings at home—the older one usually rested, the other wrote letters. I knew all that. And knew also that they were living with their aunt, but quite independently, meaning they could receive visitors any time they wished.
I thought to myself: Maybe I still had a chance. Why should one give up prematurely and retreat unnecessarily, permanently? I have time. I will tell them that when it comes to matters of social conscience I will defer to them without fail. I never did pay much attention to those momentous issues, I don't have a feel for them—they can make all the important decisions . . . Now could I have come up with a more honorable offer? Oh, and something for the little one: Should she fall in love with someone, I will get out of her way. That's what I'll promise them, I decided, and swear to it if need be.
There was nothing else . . . but could anyone do more than that?
As for the rest, we must submit to our fate.
And with that I left the house—it was early still, and as I said before, a beautiful spring day.
I must begin this chapter by saying that basically I live as I always had, there has been no real change in this regard. I do have a nice, pleasant house now, and I realize that is nothing to sneeze at— there aren't too many people who can say they live in pleasant surroundings. I even have a greenhouse now . . . I've always wanted one but for the longest time didn't do anything about it, God only knows why. But now I had one installed. And that's about it. Apart from the fine cigars I now smoke, that is the one bit of extravagance I've allowed myself, nothing more. And that is as it should be. Modesty had always been my strong suit—I've grown accustomed to the simple life, and never yearned for more. And don't now, either; that's the reason I will not buy an automobile. What do I need it for? I am not in such a hurry. Do I need another strange face, a chauffeur? My man is enough for me to handle.
Besides—and this may sound ridiculous—I love to ride on buses, even if the ride's bumpy. There I see people at least, and there's even a slight chance I may meet someone—an old friend perhaps, a captain from the old days. Oh, how happy that would make me, how eagerly I'd embrace them. I would take them straightaway to some joint, and wouldn't get off their back for at least two weeks. ... In a word, I am alone much of the time anyway (weeks go by without my talking to a human being)— should I now bury myself even deeper, and huddle and brood in the back seat of the car, in the shade, in the dark? Must I be more miserable now than before, just because I became wealthy?
I have related all this by way of explaining why I kept riding the buses that day, too. Because I did: I criss-crossed the city several times. I was restless, it seems; I couldn't settle down.
I also walked a lot, it's true; now and then I got off the bus for some fresh air—in the Bois de Vincennes, for instance, or around the Étoile, where I think I even bought two bunches of violets. I thought: it's no big thing either to give or receive these. As a matter of fact, from the way they'll react to it I could figure out what to do next. If they accept it reluctantly, without much enthusiasm, I just leave.
I mulled over this a few times during my walk. Actually, I picked up speed now and then, shifted to a fast jog, then slowed down again to marvel at the city a bit. It was, as I said, a beautiful morning, a beaming, sparkling morning in the middle of April.
There were passing clouds, to be sure, but they quickly yielded to airy brightness. Such weather always has quite an effect on me, like a fast-paced drama almost. It even rained momentarily, but afterwards the sun began to shine so fiercely, it burned, as in the heat of summer. Oh it was blinding, this flood of light, with all the tiny flashes refracted in it, as if some naughty kid was annoying the world with a mirror. After a while your eyes began to hurt, and when you stopped at a doorway and looked in, all you saw was darkness.
And the stream of people—why that, too, was a flood. But they were so fresh, so spanking clean, as if they were emerging from underground bathhouses, and honoring this bright and festive morning with their bright and airy walk—the world itself seemed all lightness, without weight . . . Now we could sound the trumpets, I thought. And the color black disappeared. Or rather, now it was here, now it was gone . . . it's hard to explain. I saw a woman, for example, riding a horse on a remote bridle path in the Bois de Vincennes—it was dreamlike almost, you didn't want to believe she was real, she only half existed, she seemed to melt into a sudden atmospheric disturbance. Never have I observed such a phenomenon so intently. She was trotting along, patting the horse's neck pensively; dressed in black, she was surrounded by a kind of radiance, a halo . . . And that is just what I mean to point out: at moments like this the flashes of light seem to
dance around the blackness, there is a swirling, boiling brilliance, and while the figure itself fades away, the contours seem enhanced, transfigured . . .
She ambled along, and I, too, kept on walking, in a daze. For I did calm down in the end, and grew languid from the many sensations of that morning. What was I going to tell the girls?
Chances are, nothing. I was deflected from my purpose, my plans dissolved.
And I felt good about that, relieved. And though it was almost noon by now, I was neither excited nor restless. I wasn't sad, either, even though a great deal hinged on the outcome of this morning's interview, as can be imagined. If nothing else, it was going to decide whether or not I'll stay here at all. . . in this sweet and wonderful city which I love so much. For this was my home; I realized only now how much I loved it. And what a strange feeling that was, too; I never experienced it before. For if I look back, I realize I never really felt at home anywhere—it may have been nice to arrive in a new place, but to stay? And here was a city at last where I did want to stay. I was surprised myself. Impressed. I even began to whistle quietly.
In my pocket was an admission slip to an evening lecture course in political theory. I enrolled in the course two weeks ago, but didn't bother to go—I've always hated theories. I also had the score of Handel's "Messiah" with me, giftwrapped for Mademoiselle Madeleine, meant to be a surprise. . . . What will Mademoiselle Madeleine say, I wondered, when she finds out that I had made a thorough study of this music? Will she be pleased or merely nod her head? I was still whistling.
During these reveries I strayed far from the center of the city, so I got on a bus again with my little bunches of violets.
After all that enchantment, though, the inside of the bus seemed cold, unfriendly. It was also empty, I was the only passenger, and I never like that. So I walked to the rear platform and for a while watched the world go by.
I also wondered what I would say to my son (if I had one), in parting, before letting him go off on his own. Perhaps I would simply describe to him how I spent this morning—he may not even need more. At any rate, advice I could not offer him.
I would talk about fleeting things, vanishings, that would be enough. For that's all the world is: playful shifts, glimmers . . . It's futile to look behind them for something more definite: systematic intelligence, a higher purpose, for there is nothing there. . . . Just as a burst of light flashes by, our own life flares up and goes out. And the world becomes a different place. What, then, would I say to my son?
I would tell him not to let his soul grow too heavy here, for if he did he is bound to be disappointed, like all the others who believe they'll remain here forever. But if he does understand the world the way God intended it: as unceasing motion; if he learns to appreciate this truth and will not do his utmost to resist it, the way I did at one time, then he will turn into a creature that will please Him . . . This is the first thing. The second is that having known both joy and grief he should not insist on yet another day, and say he needs a little more cheer, just once more the same old thing: to see the sunrise, to eat fresh bread. ... In other words, he should not grasp at life with greedy ardor but should accept with equanimity what life has in store for him. After having tended the eternal flames, the flickers of gladness, in his heart, he has no business staying here. Whoever lives with a light heart should depart the same way.
I noticed my eyes filled with tears as I thought this through. And I was no longer certain I would visit the two young ladies—I did not wish to go there, either, alas.
For what could I tell them? Or to someone as splendid as that Amazon rider in the park this morning? Should I tell them all this? Bore them with my other experiences perhaps? One seeks solace from them, but it seems nothing scares one more than finding that solace . . .
My one desire at this moment was to go home, and without having to see even my servant's face, immerse myself in some interminable night and continue writing these notes. Because I had the feeling that these notes were the voice of my conscience, the source of my peace; any gladness left in my heart now resides in them. The only possible atonement for me is this: to render an account of my erring ways.
These lonely hours are my only counsel, and also my consolation, and the one proof that I was once here ... I tried out life, it didn't work—what can I do? But this last thing I am not giving up. I begin to understand now what prompts some people to write. For how else can one undo the curse that is life than by recreating, reshaping, reexamining it? Like an accursed god one pounds away in complete solitude, and in one's wrath creates a new world. Out of revenge sometimes ... or so it seems to me.
So I decided to turn back, shut myself up in my room, amidst my papers, and get ready to ... go over my bank statements? (I really should do that.) Work some more on my diagrams? (Maybe.) But when night falls I would again get down to a more serious kind of reckoning; would try to see myself and all that has passed more clearly. For one thing I would give my boy the night off and make the tea myself—I'd smoke for a while, and leave the rest to time.
And just then, from the bus, I spotted my one-time wife—at an intersection, on the corner, the bus itself stopped for a moment. And it was her, nobody should talk me out of that—every cell in my body knew it, every drop of my blood affirmed it . . . Yes, it was, it had to be.
She walked along rather nonchalantly, absently even, toward the light—in a black wrap with a closed collar. I talked about the color black before and the white sparks—well, it was the same all over again: she, too, was insubstantial, a whipped-up lightness, not even a physical presence, only spirit—because she seemed so young, impossibly, incomprehensibly young, as if nothing had happened to her all this time, as if time could not touch her.
And that was it.
For who could ever describe the rest—the things that go through one's mind at a moment like that?
Suffice it to say that I even dropped my bunch of violets; it fell on the pavement. Because, as I said, I was standing on the rear platform, all the way on the edge.
And now I have to refer to a rather ordinary occurrence: You are walking up a staircase and suddenly see yourself coming towards you, that is, your reflection in a mirror, and you are stunned . . . Well, that's what this was like in a way. For it wasn't she who was walking there, but I myself, I swear—some integral part of me. It was almost as if my two eyes went out for a walk and I saw them coming towards me now. I can't tell the two of us apart any more, I get mixed up even in my imaginings . . .
At the same time she frightened me so—my mouth got parched, my throat burned, and her pull proved to be so strong, I myself almost fell down before her, not just my violets.
And this is again something to which I have given a great deal of thought.
Could I have received a lovelier gift from life? I described in detail just before what a tremendous impression all the things I saw that day made on me—the lights, the colors, the swelling and receding world, the tiniest flutter . . . There are times when you become so eager, so alert, it's almost as if you were expecting a miracle to take place. But there it was; could I have imagined a greater one. . . ? My cup ran over, that is what I really felt that day; that I reached the limit, the end of both the good and the bad allotted to me in this life. And still . . . this apparition made my blood run cold. To be in the same city with her. . . ? It was no use, I was still bent on fleeing. And this is what seems so incomprehensible to me now, this fear, the fear of staying after what had happened.
The moment I got home I said to my man: "Let's pack." I was going abroad for a longish stay, I informed him, and was leaving the house in his care, for the time being, that is, because I didn't yet know what my long-term plans would be . . . But I'd let him know. For now, I wanted him to help me pack.
But then I changed my mind.
What did I need him for? I can pack myself. So I let him go out for the night as I originally planned. I knew then that I was much better off staying alone.
> "But where is that letter now? How will I ever find it?" I stood helplessly in the middle of the room, having just drawn the blinds and turned on the lights. Two of my cabinets were cram-full of papers, among them lots of overdue stuff, no doubt. I neglected even my routine bookkeeping of late. There were all sorts of things in those cabinets: cancelled checks, receipts, legal notices— so much clutter, in other words, except the one thing I was so desperately looking for.
That disappeared without a trace. I was looking for my wife's letter, of course.
The letter which, it will be recalled, I received from the manager of the Brighton, before coming here, and which I tossed into my briefcase, unopened.
But where did I put it afterwards; where could I have mislaid it? For I again dropped it someplace. Yet, I do remember holding it in my hand not long ago; I certainly remember seeing it somewhere.
So I began to empty the cabinets again, because by now I decided that no matter what was in that letter, I would definitely open it. I had to know what her last words were to me.
Yes, because that would decide my own actions.
For how was one to know? I could learn something from it even now, even after all that had happened—life's surprises are boundless. I might even find out that... I might even be surprised by the contents of that letter. So why retreat before the battle?
My hands were shaking uncontrollably, and in ransacking those cabinets I made an even bigger mess.
But what if . . . what if it contained nothing but hate? A parting shot, a single word, one I could never ever live down?
And maybe that's why I dreaded it so. And even burned it not too long ago. Because I did burn an awful lot of things a couple of weeks ago, after having drunk a little too much. I can't say I was actually drunk, it was simply too cold in the house. I came home very late that night. It was cold, and almost daybreak; I could see the morning twilight, but my boy forgot to feed the stove. What about all that paper? I thought. What the hell, who needs all that junk? In less than a half hour it was nice and warm in the room. I had plenty of wood, of course, but threw lots of other things in the fire as well, including pictures.
