It was late in the evening—we’d been out to a restaurant and then danced—and Jane was sitting brushing her hair in front of the mirror in our room. I stood behind her, with my eyes on her reflected face in the glass. (For some reason, I’d always thought of that as being the classic pose of the jealous husband—to stand in a shadowy background and question the back of your wife’s head and her reflection.)
‘I wonder what Martin Gates is doing now,’ I began.
‘Who knows?’ said Jane. ‘He’s probably as high as a kite, wherever he is.’
‘He’s in Paris, isn’t he?’
‘Is he?’
‘Didn’t he say he was going to Paris?’
‘Did he?’ Jane yawned. ‘I forget.’
‘You don’t seem very interested,’ I said.
‘I’m not. Should I be?’
‘You used to be interested in Martin. Quite a bit.’
‘I liked him all right, if that’s what you mean. I still do.’
‘I mean, you used to sleep with him.’
At this, Jane turned around on her stool and faced me. ‘Sure I slept with him, Steve. I told you that, right away. I slept with him a couple of times this spring, before you showed up. I thought he was kind of attractive, but I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been loaded. It didn’t mean anything special. We’ve stayed good friends, just because it didn’t mean anything … What are you getting at?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You aren’t getting jealous of Martin, surely? It’s a little late in the day for that.’
‘I never said I was. I just find this sudden lack of interest rather curious, that’s all.’
‘Steve—you are getting at something. Tell me. You know how I hate hints and mysteries. What are you thinking?’
‘Martin left here rather suddenly, didn’t he?’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘So what? All the people we know are like that. They’re all apt to pull up stakes without warning. There’s nothing strange about that.’
‘No, I guess there isn’t—except the time he chose to leave.’
‘The time? What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Now see here, Steve: either you tell me what you’re getting at, or quit beating around the bush. You make me nervous with all this crap.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes, you do. What’s the matter with you tonight?’
‘Okay, I’ll tell you. If you’re quite sure you don’t know—’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake—’
‘Very well—why did Martin leave exactly one day before you told me you were pregnant?’
That hit her, though she made a tremendous effort not to show it. She turned back to the glass and went on brushing her hair.
‘So that’s it?’ she said, finally.
‘That’s it,’ I said.
I was expecting an explosion. I didn’t like the way she smiled at herself in the mirror. ‘What am I supposed to do now,’ she asked quietly, ‘drag out a Bible and swear on it that you’re the child’s father?’
‘I don’t care what you do.’
‘You mean, you wouldn’t believe me anyway?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Oh, go to hell,’ Jane said. ‘Get out of here.’
‘All right. I’m going.’
I went down to the Old Port, found a congenial bar, and got drunk—exactly as jealous husbands are supposed to. I didn’t return to the hotel until very late, and I half expected to find our room empty. But when I opened the door, there was Jane, sound asleep in our bed. That was just like her. She always surprised you.
‘Well, whether you’ve guessed it or not,’ I wrote, continuing my letter to Jane, ‘the truth is that I never really for one moment thought that Martin Gates was, or could have been, the child’s father. That’s a terrible thing to have to confess, considering the way I acted, and what happened as the result. But at least I do ask you to believe that this wasn’t a deep-laid plot of mine. I didn’t plan any of this consciously. I just let myself drift into the situation. Does that sound incredible? It does, I guess. But it’s the truth as far as I can discover. And, as a matter of fact, I suspect that lots of people just drift, like that, into the worst actions of their lives—including murder.
‘I don’t think I even knew, when we came back to our room at the hotel, that night, that I was going to mention Martin. I only knew that I was miserable and trapped and resentful, because of the kid. I wanted to get at you somehow and hurt you. And I started probing and feeling my way toward a fight. Martin’s name came into my mind—God knows why—and so I started using Martin. I’m sure I’d never thought it strange that he left St Luc when he did. Not until the moment when I said it was—and then it suddenly seemed strange. It was a kind of inspiration, on my part. It astonished me, probably just as much as it did you.
‘Of course, if you’d cared to, you could have talked me out of that fantastic accusation and back to my senses—by kidding me a little and making me see how absurd and crazy I was being. I’d have dropped the nonsense about Martin in two minutes, if you’d argued with me. But, after all, why should you have? You were innocent. I was behaving like a heel. And, anyhow, it wouldn’t have done any good. Because Martin wasn’t what I was really getting at. It was the existence of the kid.
‘You’ll probably be wondering just what I did expect would come out of that scene about Martin. Did I hope you’d run out and leave me then and there? Perhaps. I doubt it, though. I don’t think I knew clearly what I wanted. I was simply sulking, like a baby who feels uncomfortable. The baby doesn’t bother its head about what Nanny should do to make it comfortable again. It just sulks.
‘Maybe, too, because you always acted so indifferent and self-controlled, I imagined you were thick-skinned. I hadn’t any idea what an effect my saying that about Martin would have on you. I supposed I’d have to keep needling you for weeks, before I made any impression.
‘Believe it or not, that’s the truth. And Jane, I do most solemnly swear to you—and you know I’ve no reason for lying, now—that no one could have been more surprised and horrified than I was, by what happened next—’
I didn’t sleep much, that night, and I don’t think Jane did either. Several times, I was aware that she was awake, too. I spoke her name but she didn’t answer. I tried edging up close to her and sliding my arm over her body as though I were doing it in my sleep. But her body didn’t respond to mine; and there was a curious physical hostility between them.
In the morning, it was Jane who rang for the coffee. Her voice was quiet and very self-contained. She wasn’t sulking. She answered two or three matter-of-fact questions, and we were quite polite with each other. I was watching her face all the time. She managed to avoid my eyes without seeming to do so. Once, while she was passing me my plate with the rolls and butter, I took hold of her free hand and squeezed it a little. She let me do this without the least sign of distaste but quite passively, and she held the plate in mid-air, waiting coldly and politely until I’d finished. I let go of her hand, feeling baffled and completely idiotic.
After we had had our coffee and bathed and dressed, she turned to me. It was as if she were now giving me her full attention for the first time.
‘Stephen,’ she said quietly, ‘did you mean what you said last night?’
This was just exactly the sort of question I didn’t want to be asked, right then. I didn’t want to be asked it because it challenged my whole behaviour, and the secret intentions behind it. So I was on the defensive at once.
‘I didn’t “mean” anything,’ I said obstinately, avoiding her eyes, ‘I merely asked you—’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Jane interrupted, getting visibly rattled for the first time, ‘don’t let’s start any more of this double talk! You know perfectly well what I’m getting at—’
‘Last night,’ I said, forcing back a sly smile w
hich I felt coming to my lips, in spite of myself, ‘I asked you a simple question about Martin Gates. You immediately flew into a rage. You refused in advance to answer another question which, as a matter of fact, I’ve never asked at all—’
‘And so you decided that Martin’s the father?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘I know you didn’t. You never have the guts to say anything. But that’s what you think.’
‘It’s what a lot of people might think, under the circumstances.’
‘But is it what you think?’
‘You seem to want me to think it.’
‘Do you know, Steve,’ Jane said, looking at me intently and with a kind of dismay that almost touched me because it was so truthful, amidst all these lies I was spinning, ‘I don’t believe you give one damn about any of this—not about me, or Martin, or the kid? I don’t believe you’ve got any feelings at all.’
‘Don’t you?’ I asked, poker-faced, but having difficulty with that smile, again.
‘I don’t know,’ Jane sighed; there was a note of despair in her voice. ‘I just don’t know if you’re a human being, or what—’ She moved toward the door.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
‘I’ll be back.’
‘When’ll you be back?” I felt suddenly alarmed. I didn’t like her to go off like this, leaving everything up in the air. I felt somehow unsatisfied. It was like making love without an orgasm.
Jane smiled bitterly. ‘I’m not running out on you, if that’s what you think. Though I don’t suppose you’d give a damn if I did … But I’m not. Not yet. I’ll be back by suppertime, I expect.’
After she’d gone, I went out too and wandered around the town most of the day. I felt anxious and uneasy, wondering what Jane was up to. But, at the same time, I was excited. There was something exhilarating about the situation. We couldn’t go back to where we’d been, twenty-four hours earlier, and I was glad we couldn’t. I welcomed almost any kind of a change.
Toward the end of the afternoon, I returned to our hotel, found that Jane wasn’t back yet, and sat down at a table out in front on the sidewalk, to wait for her. I hadn’t been waiting more than a couple of drinks when a taxi drove up and Jane got out of it. I followed her into the hotel and we went up together in the elevator. Neither of us said anything.
I followed her along the passage to our room. As we reached the door she faltered, and swayed a little. I thought she was going to faint. She was very pale. I caught her by the arm.
‘Don’t,’ she said, shaking me off as if she hated to have me touch her. ‘I’m all right.’
‘What’s the matter? Are you sick? Shall I get a doctor?’
‘Open the door,’ Jane told me, between her teeth.
I let her into the room. Jane went over to the bed, sat down on it, and then lay back. I got the impression that she’d made it only just in time. As I shut the door, she closed her eyes for a moment and her face looked very sick. But the weakness passed almost immediately. By the time I’d crossed over to the bed, she was in control of herself again,
‘Do you want some water?’ I asked.
Jane looked at me. Then she said, in a tone of intense, quiet hatred: ‘You dirty sonofabitch.’
‘Jane, what’s the matter with you, for God’s sake?’
‘I’ve done it,’ Jane told me, in the same tone. ‘I’ve gotten rid of it. That’s one child that won’t grow up to be called a bastard, you bastard.’
‘Jane! You—Oh, my God—you didn’t—?’
‘Sure. I got rid of it. Remember that girl, two years ago—the one Pierre brought with him? It happened to her, too. I never told you that, did I? She went to this same doctor. He’s a good man. He did a good job. I’ll be all right.’
‘But, my God, this is awful!’
‘Sure. Just the same as murder—that’s what the Catholics say. How does it feel to be a murderer, Steve? Or have you done it before? I’ll bet you have.’
‘Jane, I—I just don’t know what to say—’
‘It’s what you wanted me to do, isn’t it? Why couldn’t you have come right out and told me to? But you’d never do that, would you? You’d never have the guts—’
‘I swear I never even imagined—’
‘If you’d told me to, maybe I could respect you a little. But you’re too smart to do anything like that, aren’t you? And now you’ve got it the way you want it. Are you satisfied now, you sonofabitch?’
‘Jane, don’t talk like that! Listen to me—I swear I—’
‘Now that the kid’s out of the way, you don’t have a thing to worry about. No scandal. Nothing. We can just call it quits. Too bad there’s all the bother of getting divorced. But what do you care? You can afford it—’
‘Jane, please don’t talk like that—!’ I tried to put my arm around her. She shook herself free violently.
‘Don’t touch me, you filthy lying bastard!’
I grabbed her again, more firmly this time, so that she couldn’t escape. She struggled for a moment. Then she burst into tears.
‘Jane darling,’ I said, very gently, ‘you’ve got to listen to me. I won’t try to excuse anything I said. It was horrible. I don’t know what got into me. If you want to know the truth—’ Here I checked myself hastily, on the verge of confessing everything: how I’d felt about the baby, and how Martin had been nothing but an excuse. I didn’t dare tell her that, then. She could never have forgiven me; right after what I’d driven her to. So, to cover up my hesitation, I went on: ‘The truth is—I’ve always been jealous of Martin. I couldn’t bear it, having him around and knowing that he’d been with you those other times. So I got the idea in my head that he might have—Oh, I know I was all wrong, now—I was crazy ever to have thought it—’
‘I don’t give a damn what you think—any more—’ Jane sobbed. ‘I’m through—’
‘But you can’t be!’ I exclaimed, in a panic. ‘You can’t leave me now! I need you so terribly, Jane darling. I’m not fit to be around by myself. I’m such a mess. No one else would even bother with me. I know I’ve no right to ask you to stay, after what I’ve done. I don’t suppose you’ll ever be able to forgive me. But won’t you—won’t you let me have one more chance?’
By this time, I was crying, myself. After a moment or two, Jane began to cling to me. ‘Oh, Steve—’ she sobbed. ‘We went on crying together for at least five minutes, without speaking; and it was awful and shameless and wonderfully soothing.
‘Well, I won’t say any more,’ I wrote, ‘about that part of it. It was a horrible business. All we can do is try to forget it. But, looking back over our whole married life, I see how it might quite easily have had a happy ending. I mean, if we’d been two other people. Or maybe even if one of us had been another person. Let’s face it, Jane: we just weren’t made for each other, except in bed. I ought to have had the guts to recognize this and let you go, right after that night in Marseille. It was only my weakness that wanted you. I can’t blame you for not leaving me, considering all the fuss I made; but I do think there was a good deal of weakness in your attitude, too. Laziness, in fact. After a certain point, you just couldn’t be bothered to go on being firm. I can imagine you saying to yourself, “Well, if that’s the way he wants it—” and then settling down to live your own life in your own way, letting me string along if I cared to. So what if you were extravagant? You always looked marvellous in the clothes you bought. And what if you did go to parties and run around with people who bored me? I never offered you any real alternative, and you enjoyed yourself, and I hadn’t any important work you were disturbing. If you’d offered to do exactly what I wanted, I wouldn’t have known what to tell you. I really only wanted you to be as dreary as I was.
‘You remember how, at first, I kept hinting that I wanted another child? Quite naturally, you refused, and I’m glad you did, because I didn’t honestly want one—as I’ve already explained. I was only kidding myself that I did, because I
felt so guilty about what happened in Marseille. Later on, I think, you wanted one—am I right about that? But you were much too proud to say so, right out; and I pretended not to realize it. By then, I had my excuses for refusing—I mean Roy Griffin’s predecessors—don’t be offended—I’m not about to bring all that up!—and excuses were all I needed.
‘There are things about the last year of our marriage that I don’t want you ever to know. There’s no reason why you, or anyone else, should know them. They’re too filthy and squalid, and best forgotten. When you have nothing else to do, hating is a way of keeping busy. It becomes a kind of game, and I suppose it has the same sort of appeal as collecting evidence has for a district attorney. You keep building up your case and rehearsing the speech for the prosecution, dwelling with relish on all the damning facts and filling in the weak spots with rhetoric. By the time I was through with you, you were all ready to be sent up to Alcatraz for life.
‘It is a game, though, because you never really believe in your own indignation: hating is always, ultimately, just for the sake of hating. And it’s a dangerous game, too. One night, while we were living in Beverly Hills, I had an amazing experience: I can only describe it as a hate-nightmare. I saw my hatred as something objective: it was a kind of black stinking bog. And I realized, just for a moment, that it had an existence all of its own. It had nothing to do with evidence or reasons, and nothing whatsoever to do with you. I had developed it myself, and even if you were to disappear out of my life, I knew, it would still be inside of me. Unless I got rid of it, I would have to use it. I would have to hate somebody else, or a whole lot of people; and in the end it would spread through my body right out to my finger-tips and the hairs on my head, and then I would go mad or grow a cancer or burst out into boils and running sores. It was so utterly loathsome, that filthy bog, that it scared me sick. I woke up scared, and I was scared all morning. I wanted to tell you about it, but I couldn’t. I was ashamed to. I knew I had got to do something to be rid of it before it destroyed me. I don’t know if I would ever have done anything, though. Thank God, you took the decision out of my hands. You see, it was less than a week later that we went to the Novotnys’ party.
The World in the Evening Page 28
