The Oriental Wife (17 page)

“Just this and that,” Louisa said craftily. “It strengthens my hand. Have you been discussing me with Mrs. Sprague?”

“You know I would not do that.”

“She thinks it’s silly, my learning to type. She thinks I should just lie there.”

“She seems very fond of the child.”

“Yes, I know. I know all her virtues. How is Gustav?”

“Very well, thank you,” Sophie said. “He sends you much love.” She tried to think of something to add, some cheerful detail, but Gustav was getting less cheerful all the time.

“Please give him mine.”

“You must not let this woman bully you. Shall we go out together, and tell her we will bathe Emma? I would like that very much, and you would enjoy it too.”

It was Sophie who spoke to Mrs. Sprague, while Louisa smiled and waved at Emma. “It would give me great pleasure,” Sophie said, conscious that she was asking permission of the other woman, that she felt the need to charm her. “I haven’t done it in such a long time, since my own children were small.” Mrs. Sprague was gracious in her assent; she even filled a little basin for the purpose, which they placed in the bathtub. Emma wriggled and splashed and clapped her hands, sending water all over the bathroom, while Louisa blew kisses at her from behind Sophie’s shoulder, her mouth quivering in nervous excitement. Afterward they sat with her between them on the sofa, and Louisa, looking flushed and happy, stroked the baby’s wet hair back from her forehead. But when Mrs. Sprague came in, proffering more cookies, she excused herself, returning to her room.

“You have seen her?” Gustav asked, when he came home from the office, looking gray with exhaustion. Sophie nodded
once and turned away, opening the door of the oven to peer at the calf’s heart within. She was expecting a call from their son Kurt, who was studying for his law degree in Ohio now; she wanted Gustav to be steady in his mind when he spoke to him. There had been some shameful scenes lately, with Gustav sobbing over the
Kindertotenlieder
on the radio, or an item in the paper about a panda grieving for its mate in the Bronx Zoo. She was glad their children were far away—Kurt in Ohio, Gabrielle in Pennsylvania, where she was teaching German and Latin in a private school. She would not want them to see their father like that.

The first time it had happened—a mother of two had thrown herself in front of a subway train when her husband deserted her—she spoke to him sharply: “Look here, you must get yourself under control.” But more recently, if she found him with tears running down his face, she simply looked away, or left the room to fetch a clean handkerchief.

“And how did you find her?” he asked now.

“Not too bad. We bathed the baby together, I think that was enjoyable for her.”

He sat at the little dining table in the alcove, from where he could watch her. He had not even removed his suit jacket. “She always seemed so eager to seize life. I wonder if she knew,” he said then.

“Knew what? What are you talking about?”

“Maybe she sensed she did not have much time.” It was what some of the women had said too, at the time they learned of Louisa’s tumor.

“That’s nonsense. It was her character, that’s all. And she’d had it easier than others, don’t forget. She left so early for England, she didn’t see the worst things.”

“You sound as though you are blaming her for that.”

Just then the phone rang: it was Kurt, punctual as always. He thanked her for the food parcels she had sent, while teasing her for believing that he could not possibly be eating properly in Ohio. Kurt was like her: nothing he had seen—either back in Europe or while he was serving in the Pacific—would destroy his nerves, she was certain of that. It was Gabrielle, the quiet one, she worried about.

Then Gustav spoke to him, taking on the mantle of the father again, standing very straight by the little table where the phone was kept. “You must show me some of this one day, I would like to see it,” he said. “I would like to see what these laws are, in America.”

But when he replaced the receiver and sat down again, he returned to the subject of Louisa. “You never really liked her.”

“I didn’t dislike her,” she said.

“But you disapproved of her.”

“I never spoke against her. It was the other women who complained. She could have helped them with so many things, the shops, the subway, the English words they needed, but she preferred her American friends. She only ever visited when Rolf did, on the weekends, never during the week.”

“I seem to remember she gave you presents when we first came. And something for Gabrielle.”

“Ribbons,” Sophie said. “She sent me French ribbon with embroidery. And a string of green beads.”

“And that was wrong of her?”

“Of course not. It was her nature. But not very helpful. We had no winter coats, or pots for cooking. I would not have brought someone beads in that situation.”

He patted her hand. “No, you would have cooked a good stew and brought warm clothing. That is
your
nature.” But she was not sure it was a compliment.

“She is learning to type.”

“Louisa?”

“Yes, with her right hand.”

“The poor child,” he said in German, and she knew he didn’t mean Emma.

The typing was a foolish idea, such as only a thoroughly impractical person would come up with—in that way, at least, Louisa had not changed. But perhaps there was something gallant about it too; she wished now that she had said so to Louisa. She hoped that Rolf would say it, and doubted that he would.

When her children were young, and like all children wailed, “It isn’t fair,” she used to tell them, “Never expect that life will be fair,” believing it the most important lesson she could teach them, the root of her own philosophy, on which she had prided herself for as long as she could remember. Even later, in the worst of times, she had refused to complain. Instead she had done what was needed: standing in line, sending telegrams, bribing officials to get their exit stamps. Once in America she had told herself to be grateful for all the terrible things that hadn’t happened, or not yet: for their children’s safety, for the friends who had managed to get out, for any kindness she received or heard of. She had learned how to darn socks, how to clean a toilet, telling herself, and believing it, that she was lucky to be performing such chores. When she heard of the death of her beloved cousin in the back of a mobile gas van, she had gotten on her hands and knees, like someone praying, and scrubbed the floor.

But now, with the war over for almost two years, something in her had started rebelling; she herself wanted to howl, like a child, that it wasn’t fair. That must be why this business with Louisa had affected her so badly: it seemed one loss too many; it seemed unnecessary for Louisa to be sacrificed like that, in what felt like an afterthought, a careless postscript to the general destruction. And all she could do was to pay another visit, which she would do very soon, bearing presents approximately as useful as French ribbons and beads made of glass.

T
hey were in the living room together, Mrs. Sprague having gone into the kitchen to prepare dinner. Emma was in her playpen, and Louisa was waving and smiling at her. In between blown kisses, she told Rolf that Otto was coming to visit—to be introduced to Emma, he’d said. But Rolf wondered if she had summoned him.

“Will he want to stay here?” Rolf asked, for something to say, and Louisa said no, no, he had a friend in New Jersey, someone he’d met in the army, who was putting him up. She wrinkled her nose at Emma.

“Well, you’ll be pleased to see him.”

Only then did she look at him. “I thought you might be pleased too.”

Of course, he said. Of course. It had been too long.

But he wasn’t pleased; he imagined that Otto was coming to judge him. When they were children, he had sometimes had the feeling that Louisa and Otto did not really like him as they liked each other; they had allowed him to dominate in most things, but almost as though they were sorry for him—sorry that it should matter so much to him. If he grew very adamant, insisting that something be done in a particular way and no other, he would catch them giving each other secret smiles.

Otto would not flinch at the sight of Louisa; he would only be full of sorrow, and love her more than ever. But then it was easy for Otto. He would not have to see her naked body, or feel the old hunger stymied, remembering her as she had been. Otto would go home and make love to his wife, full of judgment against his old friend for his hardness of heart.

The next morning Rolf got to the office early again, to work on his proposal, but for the second time Miss Maggiore was there before him.

“Well, would you look what the cat dragged in,” she said when she saw him. “I was thinking on the train this morning, I bet even Rolf won’t be there this early. Won’t he be surprised to see me sitting there when he walks in.”

He couldn’t tell if she was making fun of him or not. Surely she had not really thought that on the train, but he felt himself flushing as he wished her a good morning and backed into his office.

Half an hour later he was well launched on his proposal, laying out alternative strategies for reorganizing operations, when she appeared in the doorway. “What are you working on there?” She approached his desk and looked down at the yellow pad.

“Just a proposal for the business,” he said guardedly.

She tossed her head. “Never mind, you don’t have to tell me.” But then she advanced another step. “There are lots of things around here that someone should be proposing about, if you ask me. I’ve worked in four places now, and the other three all had the same system for certain things, and it worked great. I don’t know who came up with the systems here. Like the way you file things. Why should you do it by date all the
time? It means you can’t find anything unless you know the date it was written. It’s crazy.”

“You should mention that to Mr. Starin,” he told her.

Again, she tossed her head, her stiffly lacquered, waved black hair hardly moving as she did so. It was a curiously girlish gesture, especially since she was not, after all, as young as he had first thought; seeing her up close like this, he realized she must be in her mid-thirties. “It’s too early for me to be telling them how to run things. Wait till I’ve been here a little longer.” She laughed, and he did too, half wishing she would leave him in peace and half charmed by her brassy innocence.

Then Miss Adams, the earnest young secretary he shared with the other junior manager, popped her head in the door and seemed put out to find Miss Maggiore there. “I wondered who was in here.”

“We were just having a chat, weren’t we, Rolf?” Miss Maggiore said, and sauntered out.

“Can I get you some coffee?” Miss Adams asked, looking wounded.

“No, no, I’m fine. And how is your mother doing?”

She brightened. “Much better, thank you. The doctor says she’ll be back to herself in no time.”

“Good, good.”

“I’ll bring those letters for you to sign.”

Mrs. Sprague phoned shortly after eleven. He should buy some camphor, she said, to rub on Emma’s chest, and maybe some lavender oil to mix with it. “The poor little thing is sniffling, and I don’t want to take her out shopping again when she’s poorly. I think it was that wind yesterday. They kept her out in the park too long, her grandparents.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“Well, it makes more work for me, that’s all I can say. She wouldn’t go down for her morning nap, she clung to me so, it was sad to see.”

Mrs. Sprague never complained of Emma causing her work unless it was somehow connected to Louisa and her parents; they had had this conversation before. He did his best to soothe her, thanking her for all the care and trouble she took, and at lunchtime he went to the nearest drugstore to buy the things she’d asked for.

Miss Maggiore was at the front counter when he went in, paying for a bottle of nail polish. “Hello, there,” she said. “How’s your secret proposal coming along?”

“Pretty well, thank you.” And then, because that didn’t seem sufficient, he told her he was there to buy some camphor for his baby daughter, that she had the sniffles.

“Aw,” she said reverently. “What’s her name?”

“Emma.”

“That’s a beautiful name. And I bet you’re a real proud father, right?”

“Well …”

“Is she your first?”

“Yes, she is.” He stiffened slightly, wary of being asked about Louisa. Or she might make one of her jokes about his wife phoning him at the office to send him out for baby medicines. Instead she said, “I bet you don’t mind that she’s a girl, either. In my neighborhood, all the men are crazy for sons. They’ve got to have boys, boys, boys, the more the better. You can get awful fed up with it, believe you me.”

“Where do you live?” he asked, handing a dollar to the man behind the counter. He was conscious of her watching him as he pocketed the change. She must be lonely, he
decided; she had just started in the job, and probably had no friends yet among the other secretaries.

“In Brooklyn,” she said, falling into step beside him as he turned to go. “East New York.” He nodded, trying to look as though this meant something to him. He knew about Brooklyn Heights, and about Williamsburg, where the
Ostjuden
lived, but East New York was out of his ken.

“Have you heard of it?”

He shook his head, feeling caught out.

“I knew you wouldn’t of. It’s not the kind of place someone like you would know about.” They walked along in silence for a moment, Rolf wondering what sort of person she imagined him to be. Then she burst out, “Not that most people
really
know about it, they just think they do. They think everybody who lives there must be some kind of gangster.” He turned to look at her, bewildered.

“It’s an Italian neighborhood, see. If you’re Italian in this city, everyone thinks you go around rubbing people out for the mob. My father, God rest his soul, would never hurt a fly. He went to Mass twice a week, and if the roof was leaking over at St. Sebastian’s, or the rectory needed a new stove or anything like that, it was always him they came to. He got all my brothers to help the nuns too. And he was a fourth-degree knight in the Knights of Columbus. Not many people get that high, you know.”