The Story of My Wife (23 page)

"Precisely," he said with some condescension. "Or haven't you ever seen such a woman? Or loved such a one? When she got married, did she stop being nice to you? Did she become so nasty and hateful to you that you could no longer look at her?"

"She remained nice enough."

"And perhaps to her husband as well. Why, of course. Except you weren't so particular then. Lovers usually aren't. They don't go around sprinkling flour on doorsteps." (All this made me uncommonly nervous, but I had to listen.) "No way were you particular then," Sanders repeated, with all the stubborn vehemence of his old age. And like a toothless soothsayer who could still roar, he raised himself in bed in his bitter rage. At first I didn't know what came over him. His very soul seemed to spill over. Where were his measly lemons now, or this very room? Whirling somewhere in space, I shouldn't wonder: disembodied, rarified. His words had an amazing power over me, and I again understood why I liked this old man.

"Or are you suggesting that such things don't exist?" he continued, breathlessly. "And a woman can't deceive her lover with her own husband, whom she might still love? It's useless trying to explain, though it's high time you understood. . . . We can love more than one, it's part of being human."

"As many as five?" I put in, but Gregory Sanders let that pass.

"You are greedy, that's what you are. You're after complete certainty. But is there any such thing. . . ? Flour, you say, flour, for God's sake ... I have nothing but contempt for you, my friend. Why aren't you jealous then of the cigarette she smokes, or of her past, or of the sun's rays that caress her skin and makes her shudder with pleasure, yes, with sheer pleasure, you might as well face it. Or do you suppose a woman lacks imagination. . . ? Well, she doesn't," he answered his own question. But he did this so despondently, with such an air of defeat, as if old ghosts were passing before his eyes, as if he were crushed by his own words.

And just then I understood everything. Suddenly it all fell into place. He was settling old scores himself, why of course. Such things do happen; one does often make amends to one's dead in this way. ... So that's what this is all about, I thought with some sadness. He, too, is in the same boat.

And to prove it, he asked one more question: "Do you really think you can live your life without sin? In a white robe? Try reading the lives of the saints sometimes."

And then there was silence between us. At last.

After I'd recovered somewhat, I said to him: "The lecture is over, I take it." And then, with forced cheer: "This is all very instructive, but just what would you have me do?" For like a phantom, Ridolfi's stupid face appeared before me just then. "I should love her, lovers and all, is that it? Just ignore everything. . . ? Is that what you would want. Is it? Tell me."

"Yes, that's what my advice is to you."

"That I should just ignore it?"

"Yes."

"That
is
what I've been doing until now."

"You're doing it right now."

"That's right, isn't it?" And I was so mad, I could have killed him. "But the truth is I don't want to go on ignoring it any more."

"But you do, you do. (Well, that made me laugh.) Or if you don't want to, change your mind fast."

"And ignore it."

"Yes, ignore it. Anyway, one doesn't have to know everything. Man is not cut out for that kind of knowledge."

"What is he cut out for, then?" I asked, and realized I was shouting again. "Or are you suggesting that's all there is to us? But even if that's so, why do you approve, why acquiesce? Is that how low you have sunk? You don't even leave room for protest? (I was shaking with fury by now.) Or you no longer notice how odious you acquiescence really is, how humiliating this degree of understanding can be? You don't care to see what's behind it, what misery? You'd rather look the other way?"

It was close to midnight. The people next door had already banged twice on the door, on account of the noise, and now they banged again. But I wasn't done yet. I began to pace the floor furiously:

"Don't you think she'd be the first to lose respect for me if I pretended to be blind?"

"All right then, do what you like," Sanders said gently. "I would just like to remind you that last time you were here you saw a man with a gun."

"Yes, yes; I think about him often enough."

"He was detestable, wasn't he?"

"He was. Yet, tonight it's quite different. Maybe you can tell me why I feel close to that man right now, why I keep telling myself that I'd like to be as far gone as he was . . ."

"You're crazy, Jacob."

"Yes, I am . . . But I learned a lot tonight; you've really enlightened me ... I realized that no matter what I do, I've no other choice left but . . ."

"To
kill?"

"To take my leave, actually. Because I've had enough. I will have no peace, no rest, until I can say: It's all over, finished. Everything, including life itself."

At that point I felt something in my eyes, tears, I think. The old man noticed: "You will give up then what you truly love?"

He then presented the following parable:

"Suppose you own a castle; it's your castle even if it's not in perfect shape. Say, the roof leaks, the plaster flakes, the whole place is in bad repair—would you stop calling it your own? How well I know these negligent owners ... I am only sorry you are one of them. And you are—you are quarrelsome and senseless. You don't deserve the good in life; you don't know what to do with it. Oh, I know you people, I know all about you . . . The slightest flaw in the design and you are ready to set the whole structure on fire."

And he looked at me very very sadly, as if to say: It's too late. You are beyond help.

When I got home, my wife was fast asleep; she didn't stir when I walked in—at least not right away.

"What, you didn't go away?" she asked later, though, toward morning, when I turned on the light.

I couldn't really sleep. I kept seeing the happy blankness of Scotland . . . kept picturing the serene empty spaces, the deserted fields and mountains, and the locked-up restaurants with their overturned chairs resting against the bare tables. I imagined all of this quite precisely, over and over again, to the point of distraction, the way unhappy people do . . .

But back to why I was still there. A misunderstanding. She apparently thought I would leave right away.

"I changed my mind," I told her. "Besides, the old man— Gregory Sanders, that is—also told me not to leave just yet." That's all I said to her, then turned off the light. It was half past three.

Around five-thirty someone tapped very lightly on our front door, and then gave a few more taps.

"Who is it?" she asked and sat up in bed. Apparently she wasn't asleep either.

"Who the devil could it be?" I also asked, and reached for my robe.

"For heaven's sake, don't go out," she pleaded.

"Why not?" I couldn't figure out why she got so scared. She also jumped out of bed, I noticed. And she kept on telling me not to go out, she was afraid. It was so dark on that staircase, God only knew who might be lurking there—"Why it could be . . . anybody."

"Who cares? At worst, I'll belt him."

"No, no, don't," she kept begging, and clung to me with all her strength. (I never realized she was that strong.)

But I managed to free myself, and still clutching my robe in one hand, I grabbed the fire iron with the other and ran out. There was no one in the hallway. I raced down a flight of stairs, opened the hallway door—strangely enough, that wasn't locked either, no one was there. I pulled the cover off a table—no one was under it. I saw light seeping through one of the apartment doors, I turned the knob, and amazingly enough, that wasn't locked either. A man in a nightshirt stood in the middle of the room. I ran.

"What nerve," a woman's voice shouted after me.

"Next time lock your door," I shouted back.

I ran down another flight of stairs, and there on the bottom of the staircase stood that old scoundrel, our landlord, Mr. Horrabin Pit, smoking comfortably in the dark.

I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Did you knock on our door just now?"

"I did."

"And why did you knock so early in the morning?"

"I had to," he whined. "You took my key to the outside door and never returned it." And he went on about how it didn't do any good to knock on the caretaker's door, that good-for-nothing must have wandered off again somewhere, or died for all he knew, and he had to go to the Caledonian Market to do some shopping, it was Friday, didn't I realize, he was late as it was, those thugs at the market will make him pay double for everything . . .

He happened to be right. I did borrow his key.

"What a strange coincidence," I muttered to myself. That this should happen today, of all days, when my wife thought I was away. Odd, isn't it? That I should go on boxing shadows this way.

Needless to say, I didn't believe the business about the key, no sir. Who knows what strange confluence of events I may be witnessing, I thought, as I ascended those stairs. Otherwise why should she have gotten so scared.

She even discovered traces of the flour the next day, because some of it spilled in my pocket.

"What is this?" she cried. "It's ruining your clothes, darn it. What is all this smut and dust?"

"Dust, you say? Well . . . you guess." I was stalling, because I had no idea how to handle this. "It's . . . er . . . just some flour," I then said, quite flustered.

"What do you need flour for?"

"Why don't you guess?" I again said and thought: What now? Do I tell her everything? "Actually, it's a bit of cocaine," I averred, because it occured to me that that's what it looks like. I had seen enough of that stuff in the Levant.

"And what do you need cocaine for?"

"What do you mean what do I need it for? Good grief, I tried it. I need something too. To make my life more bearable."

"Is that so?"

"Ahem."

But a little later I relented: "All right, don't get scared; I have no intention of becoming an addict. I just want to kill myself." And then:

"It really is just flour. I wanted to sprinkle some on your doorstep, to see who climbs in here when I am away."

"You're crazy," she said. And you could tell she didn't believe me. For it goes without saying that the truth is always the hardest to believe, because it's always so fantastic, so incredible—the most florid imagination can't equal it.

Just the same, my revelation did produce the desired effect.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked and turned pale as she did.

"What should be the matter? Nothing at all. I am just not feeling very well. My strength is failing me, that's all. I wonder how I'll go on working." In the meantime I was looking at myself in the mirror, for I had just started shaving, and my face was covered with foam. . . . God Almighty, I looked like somebody who hadn't slept for a hundred days—circles under my eyes, deep creases, a bewildered, animal look . . . It's high time I croaked.

"But really, what's bothering you?" she again asked.

"Bothering me? Nothing. Nothing at all, I tell you. I feel great, I adore you, as always, my life is
all
sweetness and sunshine."

She grew quiet.

And I could no longer bring myself to talk to her. Even though I would have liked to, I still would have liked to. And to no one else, only to her. For hours on end I would have loved to talk to her. To sit down somewhere and just talk.

She, too, stood there, helplessly, like a poor old woman who didn't know where her children were. I noticed she had tears in her eyes. And she still had the clothesbrush in her hand, covered with white dust.

But it was no use. There was a lump in my throat, it kept growing, but it was all too late. She finds me unbearable, she said so herself, she used that very word. Her life with me had become unbearable. And I kept mulling over the phrase.

What is more, that iron poker was still there on the couch, waiting for me.

From then on it was simply more of the same; there was no stopping.

To begin with, I ran over the list of tenants in the building.

But it's hardly worth mentioning them. The boarding house itself took up two floors, with constantly changing boarders (we were the only long-time residents). Downstairs there was a glass shop, on the third floor, two families with teenage girls, plus a sickly law student. And in the backyard, a vacant studio.

With these I wasn't going to get anywhere, clearly. The glass shop downstairs held out no promise, either. It was run by a very officious, nervous owner and his old assistant, and the shop wasn't even doing well.

But then let's look elsewhere. Just how far one can get carried away may be seen by the following absurdity: There was an errand boy at the boarding house, a buttons of sorts, and I even put him on the list. Why did I? My own childhood experiences had something to do with it, I guess. I know myself how large and robust a kid of fourteen can be, how, in his reckless and clumsy passion, like an ox. I remembered the ladder—didn't I, in my own time, climb through the window of a strange apartment? She too was a lady of impeccable reputation, who lounged about all day in her flat. This was one reason why I suspected the kid. The other was that I knew, again from experience, that childless women can be very fond of young boys. My wife even said now and then: "Look, isn't he sweet?" I answered: "Yes, he is." The boy did have bright blue eyes, a ready smile, and would say things like "I am totally at your service, sir," and even exchange glances with my wife when he did . . . All right, we'll see.

I should mention, too, that he was the kind of kid whose eyes went everywhere. And I say this not only because I once saw him whistling and chuckling to himself in a doorway, but also because when he came up in the morning to deliver our laundry, he was ever so observant, and stood there gaping if he noticed something out of the ordinary—if I left something on the table, for instance, a novelty he hadn't seen before: say, my two-valved telescope, or some other strange instrument. He'd keep staring at it, reverently, like a savage at a modern city.