No More Lonely Nights (17 page)

Dominique came forward until she was standing at the threshold of the living room. “Yes, I was nine.” Her voice grew somber, as it always did when she spoke of her father’s death.

Madame Renard tilted her head. “Of course I understand that you were not brought up with a man in the house. But surely a woman of your mother’s breeding has told you what’s expected of a wife.”

An icy calm settled over Dominique. For the second time in as many weeks, she—and Solange—were being criticized for her failure to behave as Anton’s subordinate. She bit the inside of her mouth, determined not to lose her temper, but equally determined to stand up for herself. “Frankly, Madame Renard, your son led my mother to believe that he was a wealthy man with an active business. Mother—and I —assumed that my life here would be very much as it was at home.”

The older woman regarded her daughter-in-law steadily. She showed no sign of surprise.

Dominique continued. “As I’m sure you know, the payment to Anton when my mother’s cotton is sold will be very generous. And he’ll continue to profit from his stock. Furthermore” —she walked slowly toward her mother-in-law—“he took two thousand dollars from my handbag as soon as we were married.” Dominique stopped and crossed her arms. “So, to put it bluntly, Anton has profited from this marriage while I—” She hesitated, afraid she would go too far. This was her mother-in-law, after all. She owed her some respect. In addition, what good did it do to criticize Anton to his mother, who adored and depended on him?

Madame Renard’s lips tightened until they were nearly invisible. “A woman’s duty is to look after her husband. These are things that every wife does for her husband and you’ll need to learn. You don’t intend to neglect that, I hope,” she challenged.

“I’ll do my share,” Dominique replied at once. “But I won’t be the maid here,” she warned. “And I’m going to find a job.”

Anton’s mother leapt to her feet. “Your first duty is to your husband! If working is an excuse to neglect—”

“I’ll do my share!” Dominique cut in, her voice rising. She fixed the other woman with a level gaze.

Madame Renard threw the shirt she was holding on the chair and strode from the room.

Dominique’s stomach churned with tension. It occurred to her that, so far, she had found little in her married life to recommend it.

After the first few bumpy days, however, Dominique discovered the key to peace with Anton: the promise of money. She quickly found a job as a secretary in the international currency department of San Francisco’s largest bank, and she looked forward to going to work each day. As soon as she hopped aboard the cable car that whizzed her downtown, she felt more alive. The atmosphere in the financial district throbbed with vitality. Everyone walked purposefully, eager to get on with their work. And when Dominique entered the sprawling marble lobby of her bank, she felt as though she belonged. She quickly made friends, and one in particular, a pretty Chinese-American named Susan Lee, became her daily lunch companion.

Anton, on the other hand, took little interest in her job except on Fridays, payday. Then he waited outside the bank for her and collected the cash she had in her purse, leaving her enough for the next week’s lunches and nylons. What he didn’t know was that Dominique had opened an account and was depositing almost one third of her fifty-dollar paycheck in it. It was her secret way of rebelling.

As for the disputed housework, Anton’s mother prepared the evening meals and made the beds. After dinner, the women took turns cleaning up. Dominique would then retire to the bathroom to wash and set her hair for the next day. Anton would either remain in the living room with his mother or, just as often, go out to play cards.

Sunday was the family’s day for major house cleaning. The first time, Dominique, in her ignorance, allowed Anton’s mother to “teach” her. This meant that Madame Renard hovered over Dominique, every so often issuing laconic criticism. The next Sunday, Dominique insisted that they would finish more quickly if they divided the tasks. So Anton’s mother dusted, vacuumed, and changed the sheets, while Dominique scrubbed the bathroom and kitchen and swept. She even persuaded Anton to haul the basket of wash to the basement laundry room on the grounds that the job required a man’s strength.

It was the only work Dominique ever saw Anton do. He disappeared from the house before she left for work, but what he did all day, Dominique didn’t know. He occasionally brought home a new item of clothing for himself—a silk tie or a set of handkerchiefs. These he would carefully place between layers of tissue in his bureau.

One evening, as Dominique watched this meticulous procedure, she asked him, “Have you ever thought about decorating the rest of the house? I feel a little guilty that our bedroom is so much grander than your mother’s.”

“You shouldn’t,” Anton said flatly. “Hers is bigger.”

His shortness made Dominique wonder if he begrudged his mother the master bedroom. But why should he? It was his house. It had been his choice to give it to her. Dominique changed tacks. “But wouldn’t it be nice to redecorate the living room?”

Anton shrugged. “We’ll see in November.”

It was a constant refrain. Anton made it clear that almost every aspect of their future depended on the cotton money. Dominique didn’t like that, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it. And she couldn’t help looking forward to the day when Anton would start his new business and they would no longer depend on her dowry. She imagined that when he was busy again—earning a living, feeling productive—he would be less withdrawn. It was this hope that made her daily life with him bearable.

Nights, though, were more distressing. Dominique read as late as she dared, but all too often, when she turned off the light, she would hear Anton’s voice in the dark.

“Lift up your nightgown,” he would instruct. It was a frequent ritual, an odiously frequent ritual. Dominique had learned to insert her diaphragm before going to bed, as routinely as she brushed her teeth, all the while dreading what was to come. Oddly enough, it wasn’t Anton’s touch that was so objectionable, it was the sickly sweet smell of his hair pomade. It would assail her nostrils as he rose and fell on top of her. The smell had begun to symbolize all that repelled Dominique about Anton. It was greasy and suffocating—a failed attempt at order and refinement, like Anton’s entire life. So she turned her head away and imagined he was Stephen in order to get through the invasion.

Afterward, her mind would drift to thoughts of divorce. What if Stephen were free? What if his reconciliation with Serena hadn’t worked? To see him again, just
see
him… But then what? Dominique had been indoctrinated since childhood to believe that marriage was permanent, divorce unacceptable. How could she face her family if she left Anton? He might be lazy, but he didn’t abuse her. She might not like the fact that he had taken her money, but it wasn’t unusual. Besides, marriage demanded compromise.

Then an event occurred that changed everything.

Dominique was home one Saturday in July enjoying her solitude. Anton had gone to play cards and his mother was at the market. The sun sparkled through the living-room window, urging Dominique outside. She threw open the front door and stepped onto her porch, inhaling the warm, fresh air. Her next-door neighbor looked up from his roses and waved his pruning shears in greeting.

“Hello, Mr. Vitalli.” Dominique smiled with pleasure. The old man was a masterful gardener and the sweet fragrance of his blooms perfumed the air.

“Gorgeous day!” Mr. Vitalli called back.

Squinting her eyes against the sun, Dominique peered at the flower-filled terra-cotta pots that lined Mr. Vitalli’s stairs. She wondered if Anton would give her money to buy flowerpots for their own house; she wouldn’t use her own savings.

The ring of the telephone interrupted Dominique’s thoughts. She turned and hurried into the house, wondering if it was Susan, from the bank. They had talked about seeing a movie that afternoon. She eagerly picked up the phone, which rested on a table near the couch. The voice that greeted Dominique was that of a stranger. The woman spoke in rapid French, clearly mistaking Dominique for the elder Madame Renard.

“Bonjour, Madame Renard, c’est Marie. Pourrais-je parler à Anton?”

Dominique replied in French. “This isn’t Anton’s mother, but I’m Madame Renard. He’s not here, though. May I take a message?”

Silence.

“Hello, are you still there?” Dominique asked.

“You’re Anton’s
wife?”
The woman sounded stunned.

“Yes,” Dominique said impatiently. Was this an old girlfriend?

“May I take a message?” She leaned over and picked up the pencil that lay near the phone. Dominique was disturbed to hear the woman burst into laughter. “Why are you laughing?” she asked uneasily.

“Welcome to the club!” said the woman with cynical cheer.

Dominique’s grip tightened on the phone. Her mind was racing ahead. “The club?” Her voice rose anxiously. She dreaded what was to come.

“How much did he take
you
for?” the woman asked with bitter amusement.

Dominique’s pulse roared in her ear as she pressed the receiver closer. “You were married to him?” she asked in a voice that was deceptively calm. The eraser of her pencil shot across the room as her thumb mashed into it, tearing it from its anchor. Dominique slumped into the couch, yanking the phone from the table to her lap. “Tell me!” she commanded, too distraught to phrase it politely.

The woman let out a mirthless bark. “I was his second wife. He ran through the dowry of the first one in five years. A Canadian… Montreal I think. Her father owned hardware stores or something like that. My father has vineyards in Bordeaux.”

Dominique listened in stunned silence—at the pit of her stomach, a grinding anger.

The woman went on. “And you? Not from France, I’ll wager; he keeps a distance between wives so their families don’t find out about him.”

“Egypt,” Dominique whispered. She thought of Anton’s hands on her at night, his loose, white body—of what she had endured out of a sense of duty! She squirmed with revulsion. She had been so worried about keeping her word. Worried about staying with the husband she had married for convenience. She had thought she
owed him.
And now she was faced with a betrayal so vile that it was almost unimaginable!

“Ah, yes… Anton has family in Egypt,” Marie was saying. “Unfortunately, he has family in many countries and I don’t think any of them know about his schemes.”

Dominique thought of the Renards. She and her mother had known them for years. They couldn’t have known about Anton!
Couldn’t
have betrayed her, too! Dominique shook her head vehemently. “What schemes?” she rasped.

Marie’s voice filled with disgust. “He’s a con artist! He robbed my father of the last of his savings! But the sickening thing is, he didn’t do anything illegal!” She spoke fast, clearly relieved to talk about it. “Father was almost ruined by World War II. But he had enough for a dowry to ensure that I ‘married well,’ as he put it. He thought Anton was a good match. The Renard family is highly respected in France. Anyhow, it wasn’t until after the marriage that I realized Anton had a gambling problem. When I told Father, he hired a private detective to find out just how much he was losing, and how often. That’s how I discovered his first marriage.”

“Gambling problem?” Dominique said dully. She was going to be sick to her stomach. She didn’t trust herself to say another word.

“Ha! You didn’t think he was playing cards for pennies, did you?”

Dominique cradled her head in her hand. It was spinning, the room fuzzy. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” she said weakly. Solange played cards every day and there had never been a money problem. Dominique tried frantically to think if there had been other clues she’d missed. But what? “I don’t understand.” Her tone was suddenly belligerent. She wanted to find a gap in Marie’s story. Wanted to believe that Anton was no longer gambling away his money. “If he keeps losing money, how can he afford this house? All those nice things?”

“The house!” Marie’s voice was incredulous. “It isn’t his, it’s his mother’s!” She paused. “Does he still have that fancy bedroom?” Her voice was filled with scorn. At Dominique’s silence, Marie continued. “Paid for with my father’s money!”

Dominique caught her breath. “What about Anton’s business?” she choked.

“I see he didn’t change one line of his story,” Marie said dryly.

Dominique was frantic—her knuckles white from grasping the phone so hard. She had to get away from Anton! Her muscles twitched with the urge to throw down the phone and
run.
No! That wouldn’t help. Slow down and
think,
she commanded herself.

“Are you all right?” The woman’s voice pierced her conscience.

Dominique took a tremulous breath. “I… I don’t know… I don’t know what to do… I…” She was silent for a moment, then she blurted out the thought that was uppermost in her mind. “I have to get away from him!”

“That would be my advice,” the woman said sympathetically.

But how could she leave? She imagined herself going upstairs, packing her clothes, going to a local hotel. But she had only five dollars in her handbag. And the bank wasn’t even open on Saturdays. She would have to go to a cheap hotel, the kind that demanded payment in advance. Until Monday, she could do nothing. And then what? Her confused mind was unable to focus. She needed time to think.

Dominique appealed to the woman. “Please! I know you’re angry at him. I know you called to talk to him. But please don’t let him know you spoke to me. I need some time to plan. Do you understand?”

“I certainly do!” the woman said fervently. “But be careful. Be smart. Just because you leave him, don’t think you’re finished. As long as he thinks he can get money from you, he’ll keep trying.” She paused, then said sourly, “Anyhow, I only called to tell him to stop pestering me. He already cost me my job. I’m going back to France and he’ll never get another penny from me! We’ll see how he likes that!” she snarled. Then she let out a satisfied chuckle. “But knowing that you’ll have your revenge is delicious. I hope you get the best of him.”