by Milan Fust
I kept only a single photograph of her, taken long before we met. She was quite young then, a student in a teacher's college. I had the picture framed and it's been on my desk ever since.
But everything else I mercilessly destroyed.
And what utter bliss it was to see it burn! Could I have thrown that in, too?
But who could make me do it? In front of whom was I so ashamed? I finally asked myself. Is there anybody here? A single human soul? Look around. And even if there was, is it someone whose laughter scared you that much? I conversed with myself in this manner for a while. Then I rummaged through my other closets.
But the letter did not turn up anywhere. After a while, however, I got another idea. And reached straightaway for the telephone directory.
One more word, though, before going on. I did find something which made me glad.
In South America this is what I wrote once on a sheet of paper:
"Just think: The Chinese would consent to stare at a flower for a lifetime, without getting tired of it. And if someone were to ask them: what is there to see in a flower, they would gently laugh."
And right afterward there was this:
"M.-Heights, by the lakes, May 2nd. Stop struggling. And think of your life in this light: you wanted pudding and got chocolate instead. But chocolate isn't bad, either; so do take what's coming to you: instead of gay Julie the pensive Cathleen, in place of heartwarming repose disquieting ardor; either genuine novelties or raucous frauds, drums and not sheperd's pipes, Italian basil rather than a French rose . . . But if you're not happy with these, don't be surprised—all of them put together may not please you, for all you know. It's true enough Julie may not be the only pretty girl, or a sheperd's pipe the only instrument, but what if that's what you're hankering after. . . True, she may give you lots of trouble (they all do in the end, everything does that goes under the heading of earthly love, which we all yearn for and pursue)—yes, yes, all of that is quite true, but don't for a moment forget that this is what your heart desired all along, it is what you reach out for from your private hell, it's your gauge, your guide.. . . Whose fault is it if you took the wrong turn and proceeded in the wrong direction? You wanted to turn right and ended up turning left—but how do you expect to be happy, then, you luckless man?"
After reading this admonition, I felt much better about making the next telephone call—even though the person I was calling I always found thoroughly disagreeable. I am talking about the mystical Madame Lagrange.
I guessed correctly: they were in the telephone book. Which meant they were back in Paris, too.
I was even lucky in that she picked up the phone. I began the conversation quite smoothly, deftly even; my voice was calm, somewhat high-handed actually, only my hands kept shaking still. All afternoon they were trembling, unstoppably.
She even recognized my voice, I didn't have to say who I was.
"Is that you, Captain?" she cried, and quite pleasantly too. Indeed, I was moved by her good memory, her loyalty.
"How did you end up in our neck of the woods? We thought you disappeared somewhere in the fabulous East Indies . . . For we heard that's where you went." (She said this without a hint of sarcasm or malice, quite straightforwardly, really.) "We thought you gave up on us poor Parisians. Are you here on a visit?"
I told her I was, but that I had arrived some time ago. And of course I thanked her for her kind words. But she blithely chirped on.
Did I remember that wonderful Christmas Eve we spent together in London once?
Did I remember? "My memory is everlasting, Madame," I said with a smile. "You can try me. Wake me up in two hundred years and I will be able to tell you what we drank that night." She laughed rather sweetly.
"Two hundred years?" she said, more somber now. "Where will we all be by then, Captain? You should see my hair—it's all white. What about yours?" And she again laughed a little. And went on to say that she will remember that particular Christmas as long as she lives. Oh, and how very sweet she was then, the poor dear . . . And she began to rave about her, as was her wont.
"In her youth she was such an extraordinary, radiant creature . . . God's precious little gift."
"You really think so, Madame?" And to myself I said: You see, you see, other people liked her, too. I wasn't crazy for being mad about her . . .
Did I still remember her? she sadly inquired. Did I remember the poor dear?
The question irritated me.
"Madame, if I can remember what drinks we had who knows when . . . But why do you keep saying 'poor?' It's the second time you've done it; I don't understand."
Madame Lagrange didn't answer.
"Or are you trying to make me feel better? I am not in need of such consideration, I assure you." Why is she to be called poor? Because she left me? She obviously thought it was the right thing to do.
"Or perhaps because she may have suffered hardship in Spain, lived from hand to mouth. . . ? Dear me . . . But she got over it, and that's what's important. She doesn't look the worse for wear. You say in her youth she looked oh so special—she's the same now, surprisingly young looking, that is . . . amazingly so.
"I happened to see her on the street just today.
"But why are you so quiet," I now asked, rather anxiously, in fact very nervously. (Why was she being so damn mysterious? Why not answer my questions?) "Did she get married by any chance?" I inquired, and my heart did skip a beat, to be sure.
"But who are you talking about?" she finally asked.
"Who am I talking about?" I grandly declaimed. "My dear Madame, not about water nymphs, I assure you. First you ask me if I remember her, and now this. Believe me, I remember her very well and I am talking about her. What is more, I'd like to know her address—that is the reason I called you today, as a matter of fact . . . if you don't mind."
She was again silent for a while.
"And where did you see her today, Captain?"
I told her where. What could I do—she's that kind of a person, always was. Nosy. Officious. I saw her on such and such corner, I said, not too far from the Opera; I even named the intersection.
"And you are sure it was her?"
"Yes, I am. But why do you ask, Madame? I adore you and all that but why do you keep asking these questions? Are you needling me? You can safely assume that I know her.
"Or you didn't even know she was here?" I just thought of that and was overjoyed to hear her say that she did not.
"You see, you see," I cried. "Then this is a great surprise for you. But that's wonderful. I tell you what: We'll track her down this very night and pay her a visit—what do you say?" And for all my excitement I began to laugh. I thought of how strange I must seem to her. Yes, just as she struck me rather strange, I must appear odd to her, too, with my fits of sudden zeal—wasn't she the one who used to call me mister steam engine, and precisely for this reason? I am ready to take on the world when the spirit moves me.
So I gave her a full account of the episode—how beautiful the world appeared to me today, what with the extraordinary atmospheric conditions, the radiance, the luminosity, and how she happened to fit right in. I went as far as describing her clothes to her, down to the last detail, just so that she should realize there was no mistake.. . . She was quite happy about this, actually. (I did describe her from head to toe, although, needless to say, I saw her but for an instant, the bus barely slowed down.) "So, what do you say to all this, my dear Madame?"
"Yes, it had to be her," she replied. "Wearing the very coat I had sent to her from Paris. Oh the poor darling," she exclaimed; "how out of fashion she must have looked." And I could sense tears in her voice; her joy overwhelmed her, it seems, and she began to cry.
"Her coat had a high, stand-up collar, right?" she enthused, "and she wore it à la Crétoise, right? And it was a smooth fabric, trimmed with fur? And tiny flowers on her chapeau . . . Oh, I am crying, you see? I sent her that chapeau shortly before her death."
"What are
you saying, Madame?"
"You mean you didn't know?" And she began to gush again. "You didn't know she died, that sweet, darling woman died?
"You see how very lucky you are. What a radiant little guest you had today, and, while you had her, what a brilliant little mate . . .
"And what a sweet, sweet soul she is now, appearing before you like that. She wanted to show herself, that's certain . . . Perhaps to protect you from something . . . For she did love you so."
That's what Madame said, those were her words. That she did love me, she had always loved me, and spoke of me until the very end.
The rest of what she said passed right by me.
Though she kept on telling me that this was not at all an uncommon phenomenon, and went on about when these events are most likely to occur, what exactly brings them to the surface . . .
"But you see how skeptical people are," she insisted. "Even though it occurs many many times, and there is plenty of evidence for it, still, people won't believe it, not for all the world ... It may happen to them, still they refuse to believe it."
All of which boiled down to one thing: she was no longer of this world ... or however that's put more politely. The truth is I still find the whole thing incomprehensible, unutterable.
Madame Lagrange, on the other hand, found it astonishing that I did not have this experience before, at the time it happened, or that she had never before given me a sign. It had been six years almost . . . She died of pneumonia in a Barcelona hospital.
Yes, it was all true. For that night I did find that Spanish letter. It was written by a strange hand and that's all it said, nothing more—that she died. Apparently, before the end she asked somebody to notify me.
But even this was so uncanny, the business with the letter. It was again getting on toward morning, and I was about to stop searching—I was tired, as can be imagined. Then, I happened to reach into some drawer, and there it was on top of a stack of papers, in front of my nose ... I must have opened that drawer a hundred times.
So I didn't burn it that morning, after all. And a good thing I didn't: I could still be happy about that. But it's neither here nor there; if anything, that's another story ... I should really wind up this one.
I'll be fifty-three years old in the fall; I am no youngster, in other words. And even though I have that letter in my hand, I still can't believe it's really so. I do believe, however—and no one should tell me otherwise, for I have every confidence—that one day, one bright, sunny day, she will appear somewhere, on a deserted street, on some distant corner, no longer that young perhaps, but tripping along sweetly, familiarly. And the sun will shine right through her black cape.
It will happen, I know; I am willing to stake my very soul on it. Or else, why go on living? That is all I am waiting for right now, and will go on waiting, for as long as I live—I can promise that. To whom do I make this promise? That I don't know.
