Fear (2 page)

Her first girlish dreams of ecstasy and a great love, lulled by the calm friendship of her first years of marriage and the playful delights of becoming a young mother, were beginning to revive now that she was approaching the age of thirty. And like any woman she believed herself capable of great passion, although her desire for experience did not go hand-in-hand with the courage to pay the true price of an adventure, which is danger. When, at this time of a contented serenity that she could not enhance for herself, the young man approached her with ardent and obvious desire, entering her bourgeois world with all the romantic aura of his art around him—while other men merely paid respectful court to her, praising her as a ‘beautiful lady’, and indulged in mild flirtations without really desiring her as a woman—she felt deeply intrigued for
the first time since her girlhood days. Perhaps all that really attracted her to him was a touch of grief lying like a shadow on his rather too interestingly arranged features. She was not to know that in fact it was something he had learnt, like the technical aspects of his art and the sad, thoughtful melancholy with which he would play an impromptu that he had composed in his head well in advance. To Irene, who in the usual way felt that she was entirely surrounded by the complacent bourgeoisie, this melancholy suggested the idea of a more rarefied world, one that she had glimpsed graphically depicted in books and that moved her romantically at the theatre, and she instinctively leant out past the confines of her everyday feelings to observe it. Spellbound, she paid him a compliment on the spur of the moment, perhaps expressing it more warmly than was proper. It made him look up from the keyboard at the speaker, and that first glance reached out to her. She was alarmed, and at the same time felt the pleasures of alarm. A conversation in which everything appeared to be illuminated and stoked by fires only just under the surface occupied her mind, intriguing her already lively curiosity so much that she did not avoid another meeting at a public recital. After that they saw each other quite often, and before long it was not by chance. A few weeks later, the delightful idea that she, who had never before thought highly of her
musical judgement, correctly judging her appreciation of art to be minimal, meant so much to a real artist like him—for he kept assuring her that she was the one who really understood him and could advise him—caused her to agree rather too quickly when he said he would like to play his latest composition to her and her alone. The intentions behind this proposition had perhaps been half-genuine, but they were lost amidst kisses, and it ended with her surprised surrender to him. Her first feeling was one of alarm at this unexpected turn taken by their relationship, moving it into the sensual sphere. The mysterious thrill that had surrounded it was abruptly dispelled, and when her conscience pricked her for committing this unplanned act of adultery, it was only partly assuaged by the tingling sense of vanity in having for the first time defied the bourgeois world in which she lived and as she thought by her own decision. Her horror at her own wickedness, which alarmed her for the first few days, became a source of heightened pride. But these mysterious emotions too were felt at their full strength only at first. Beneath the surface, her instincts resisted this man, and most of all what was new in him, the difference that had in fact aroused her curiosity. The extravagance of his clothing, the gypsy way in which he lived, the irregularity of his financial situation, always swinging between extravagance and embarrassment, were alien to her bourgeois mind.
Like most women, she wanted to see an artist as very romantic from a distance, and very well conducted in personal relationships, a fascinating beast of prey, but kept safely behind the iron bars of morality. The passion that intoxicated her in his playing of the piano made her uneasy when they were physically close; she did not really like his sudden, masterful embraces, and instinctively compared their self-willed ruthlessness with the milder ardour of her husband, who was still reticent and respectfully considerate of her even after their years together. But now that she had been unfaithful for the first time she returned to her lover again and again, without being either gratified or disappointed, out of a certain sense of duty and the apathy of habit. She was one of those women, quite often found even among the more reckless and flirtatious, whose bourgeois nature is so strong that it imposes a sense of order even on adultery; they bring an aura of domesticity into their departure from the straight and narrow path, trying in the guise of patience to transform the most unusual feelings into everyday custom. After a few weeks she had fitted her young lover neatly into her life, setting aside one day a week for him, just as she did for her parents-in-law, but in entering into this new relationship she did not give up any of the orderliness of her life, she merely, so to speak, added something to it. Soon her lover made no
difference at all to the comfortable mechanism of her existence, he became, as it were, an additional source of temperate happiness, like the idea of a third child or a motor car, and her adventure soon seemed to her as ordinary as her lawful pleasures.

And now that she was called upon, for the first time, to pay the real price of danger for that adventure, she began to calculate its value in meticulous detail. Spoilt by fate, cosseted by her family, and with almost nothing left to wish for in her financially easy circumstances, she found the very first moment of discomfort too much to bear. She immediately resolved that she was not going to give up any part of her freedom from anxiety, and in fact without further ado she was ready to sacrifice her lover to her peace of mind.

His answer, a nervously disjointed letter expressing his dismay, was brought by a messenger that same afternoon. The letter, full of distraught pleading, complaints and accusations, shook her determination to end the relationship because his desire flattered her vanity. Indeed, she was delighted by his frenzied desperation. Her lover begged her, pled urgently with her, at least to grant him a brief meeting, an opportunity of explaining his offence if he had unwittingly injured her in any way. Now she was intrigued by this new game of showing that she was in a sulky mood, and making herself even more desirable to him by refusing her favours without
giving any reason. She felt that she was in the midst of excitement, and like all naturally cool people she found it pleasant to be surrounded by surging waves of passion while she herself did not burn with true ardour. She arranged to meet him at a café where, she suddenly remembered, she had once had a rendezvous with an actor when she was a young girl—an episode that admittedly now seemed to her childish in its carefree propriety. How strange, she thought, smiling to herself, that romance, stunted by all these years of marriage, was beginning to blossom in her life again. By now she was almost glad of yesterday’s abrupt encounter with that woman—for the first time in a long while, it had made her feel truly strong, stimulating emotions which still left her nervous system secretly tingling, in contrast to its usual state of mild relaxation.

This time she wore a dark, plain dress and a different hat, which would lead the woman’s memory astray if they did by any chance meet again. She had a veil ready to disguise herself further, but with sudden defiance she left it at home. Was she, a respected, highly regarded woman, to be afraid to venture out into the street for fear of some female whom she didn’t know at all? There was already something curiously tempting mingled with her fear of the danger—an alarmingly pleasurable readiness to do battle, rather like caressing the cold blade of a dagger with her bare fingers, or
looking down the black muzzle of a revolver where death in compressed form lurked in waiting. This thrill of adventure was not what her sheltered life was used to, and she toyed with the enticing idea of coming close to it again. The sensation exerted delightful tension on her nerves, sending electrical sparks flying through her bloodstream.

A momentary sense of fear overwhelmed her only in the first moment when she stepped out into the street. It passed through her like the nervous chill when you dip your toes into the water, before entrusting yourself entirely to the waves. But that chill lasted for only a split second, and then, all of a sudden, she felt a strange delight in life rushing through her veins. She relished the pleasure of walking along with more of a light, strong, springy step than she ever known herself to adopt before. She was almost sorry that the café was so close, for some kind of impulse was now urging her to go rhythmically on, attracted by the mysterious magnetism of adventure. But the time she had set aside for this meeting was short, and she felt in her heart, with a pleasing certainty, that her lover was already there waiting for her. Sure enough, he was sitting in a corner when she came in, and leapt to his feet in a state of agitation that she found both pleasant and painful. Such a whirlwind of heated questions and reproaches poured out of him in his mental turmoil that she had
to remind him to keep his voice down. Without giving him any idea of the real reason for her failure to visit him, she played with hints so vaguely phrased that they inflamed his passions even more. She could not and would not comply with his wishes this time, she told him, and she even hesitated to make any promises, sensing how much her sudden withdrawal and refusal to give herself excited him. And when, after half-
an-hour
of heated conversation, she left without giving him the slightest sign of affection, or even holding out the prospect of any in the future, she was glowing with a very strange feeling that she had known before only as a girl. She felt as if a small, tingling fire were burning deep inside her, just waiting for the wind to fan it into flames that would rise and unite above her head. She was quick to notice, in passing, all the glances cast at her in the street, and her unusual ability to attract so much masculine attention made her so curious to see her own face that she suddenly stopped in front of the mirror in the window of a flower shop, to see her own beauty framed in red roses and violets gleaming with dew. She was looking back at herself with sparkling eyes, young and light at heart. A sensuous mouth,
half-open
, smiled at her with satisfaction, and when she walked on she felt the rhythmical movement of her limbs as if her feet had wings. A need for some physical release, a need to dance or run wildly, took over from
the usual sedate pace of her footsteps, and now she was sorry to hear the clock on St Michael’s Church, as she hurried past, calling her home to her small, neat, tidy world. Not since girlhood had she felt so light at heart, with all her senses so animated. Nothing like it had sent sparks flying through her body, not in the first days of her marriage or in her lover’s embrace, and the idea of wasting this strange lightness, this sweet frenzy of the blood, on well-regulated hours seemed unendurable. Wearily now, she went on. She stopped outside the building where she lived, hesitating once again, wishing to expand her breast and breathe in the fiery air and confusion of the last hour once more, feeling the last, ebbing wave of her adventure deep in her heart.

Then someone touched on her shoulder. She turned around. “What … what do you want this time?” she stammered, frightened to death at the sudden sight of that hated face, and even more frightened to hear herself speak those fateful words. Hadn’t she made up her mind not to show that she recognised the woman if she ever met her again, to deny everything, to stand up to the blackmailer? And now it was too late.

“I been waiting here for you this last half-hour, Frau Wagner.”

Irene started when she heard her name. So the woman knew it, knew where she lived. All was lost
now, she was helpless, at this creature’s mercy. She had words on the tip of her tongue, all those carefully prepared and calculated words, but her tongue was paralysed and could not utter a sound.

“Half-an-hour I been waiting, Frau Wagner.” The woman repeated her words menacingly. It was like an accusation.

“What do you want … what do you want from me?”

“Why, don’t you know that already, Frau Wagner?” Her own name made Irene jump with fright again. “You know what I’m here for right enough.”

“I haven’t seen him again … let me go! I never will see him again … never.”

The woman waited, composed, until the agitated Irene could say no more. Then she replied harshly, as if speaking to an inferior.

“Don’t you tell me no lies! I followed you to that caffy, didn’t I?” And seeing Irene flinch, she added in tones of derision, “Me, I got no job, see? They fired me from the shop on account of no work coming in, that’s what they say, and then there’s the hard times and all. Well, we got to spend our time somehow, so us poor girls go walking about a bit, just like you fine, respectable ladies.”

The woman spoke with a cold ill will that struck Irene to the heart. She felt defenceless against the naked brutality of such malice, and increasingly dizzy in the
grip of the fearful idea that the woman might begin shouting, or her husband might happen to come by, and then all would be lost. She quickly felt in her muff, brought out her silver-mesh purse, and took from it all the money that her fingers could hold. With revulsion, she thrust it into the hand now slowly reaching out in certain expectation of its plunder.

But this time the strange hand did not withdraw humbly as soon as it had the money in its clasp, but stayed outstretched in the air, open like a claw.

“And let’s have that nice little silver purse too, for to keep my money safe in!” said the scornfully smiling mouth, with a soft chuckle of a laugh.

Irene looked her in the eye, but only for a second. The creature’s insolent, malicious scorn was past bearing. She felt revulsion run through her whole body like a burning pain. She had to get away, well away from the sight of that woman’s face! Turning aside, she quickly held out the purse, a valuable item in itself, to the woman, and then ran up the steps with horror on her heels.

Her husband was not home yet, so she was able to fling herself down on the sofa. She lay there as if felled by a hammer-blow, motionless apart from a frantic twitching that ran through her fingers and then up her arm, making it tremble all the way to her shoulder. But nothing in her whole body could put up any
defence against the storming violence of the horror that had now been let loose. Only when she heard her husband’s voice outside did she pull herself together, making an enormous effort, and force herself to go into the next room, her movements automatic and her senses numbed.