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Divorcing

Page 5

by Susan Taubes


  “Could we have some tea?” he asks. She is in the kitchen. She really likes to make tea for him. It’s a comfort. It’s crazy, but it’s a fact. Such small comforts make life bearable. Perhaps Ezra is right and she is mad. Perhaps Ezra is wrong and she is still mad. Drop the whole thing. A lot of crazy talk. Receive him with a hot bath, breakfast, clean sheets; because she wants it, even if he doesn’t want it and has to reproach and quarrel, even if she has contempt for him; do it simply because she needs it for her sanity. He comes into the kitchen.

  “Have you something to eat?” he asks, opening the icebox. “As usual, only food for the children.” It was always so. Her asceticism. She is so tired of the old complaints she is ready to cook a goose with dumplings. But it’s just too late. She wants him out. She really wants him out. He weeps into the teacup. “We will not survive this. I know I will not survive it.” So perhaps he has accepted. Weary and dumbfounded, she waits for him to finish weeping. In an hour the children will be home from school. She must get the papers for him to sign, however pointless everything seems at this moment. Yes, it’s too late for everything; too late to end the marriage. Still, it must be done.

  “So,” he says, and takes her hand. “It is settled. Please may I hold your hand? You’ve taken off the ring, I see; but we are still married. We must both try. But Sophie! But why, Sophie!”

  “Why?” She is up, clutching the back of the chair. “I told you in New York and in Ibiza, I told you in Genoa and in Paris, last year and again this summer; I’ve told you and told you and told you and I’m telling you for the last time: The marriage is over. It’s over. The marriage is over.” She screams.

  “Please,” he protests, clutching his ears.

  “I’m screaming so you’ll hear me, yes I’m screaming: The marriage is over.”

  He rushes to the door muttering to himself; she follows him. “You’re not going to slither out.”

  “I’m not. I just wanted to make sure the children...”

  “The children are in school and I don’t care if the whole house hears me screaming. THE MARRIAGE IS OVER.”

  “Please control yourself and let’s sit down and discuss this quietly in a civilized manner.” The reasonable man to his crazy wife. “It’s a life decision involving the lives of three children!”

  “We have discussed this matter, Ezra, for seven years. We have discussed it and discussed it and discussed it. I have nothing more to say.”

  “I am sorry,” he says with a perplexed air, “you must forgive me. I have a different sense of the situation. I remember we had such a nice dinner at the Coupole the last time with the old crowd.” Speech fails. “Perhaps I really don’t understand. Forgive me, but I must have a drink. This is really too much.” He sips the Scotch she has served him. “I want only to understand. I won’t stand in your way, hold you against your will—what would I have from that?” It’s the voice of the lover and friend. “You are a just and noble person. The woman I married. I know I have failed you—please allow me to speak—I am not asking you to forgive me. I am resigned. You will have your freedom, I promise I will not stand in your way, but I must understand why. Why now after all these years?”

  “It’s seven years Ezra,” she says, staring out the window. “Seven years that I’ve been telling you.”

  “Was it really so terrible with me?” he asks, smiling at her and pouring himself another drink. “Tell me, Sophie, I want to understand the woman I married—the woman I divorce. You can talk to me. We are friends.”

  “No,” she says coldly.

  “But why, Sophie?” He is offended. “If there is another man...Look, I don’t care who you screw around with, the marriage is sacred. We promised each other. It’s Nicholas, I know. But that’s neither here nor there. Maybe you suddenly don’t like my nose. You’re capable of any frivolity. No, I can’t give you a divorce unless you have someone else to marry you. I am responsible for you. You have no reason to want a divorce. You just want to break the marriage. Why? Are you evil? Are you bent on my destruction?”

  “I don’t want to be married to you.”

  “But you don’t see me. We live in different cities. I give you complete freedom. I visit every so often, we spend a few weeks of the year together for the sake of the children—Look, Sophie, it’s not easy for me with you, but a marriage is a marriage. You can live as you please and with whom you please. What more can you want? What do you gain from a divorce?”

  “The thought of being married to you drives me insane.”

  “Then see an analyst. I have no more time to waste on these discussions. We have more important things to talk about. When do the children come home?” He looks at his watch. He wants to spend the afternoon with the children. All this has exhausted him; he really needs a nap but he must meet someone at the Deux Magots. He will be back in time to take the children for dinner. They have important matters to discuss...

  ─────

  Soon it will be Christmas. Sophie is still trying to come to terms with the future. With the fact or the idea? She doesn’t know what the future is. A pseudo-problem, she resolves, strolling through the courts of the Louvre, and not to be taken seriously. Anyway, time passes of itself, it runs without gasoline, it can’t stop.

  As she walks along the sandy paths of the Tuileries, the possible relation between the force of gravity and the temporal flow whereby all this mass and spectacle, the Louvre included, was hurtling into the next instant is tantalizing her mind, when she notes that a man whom she had seen standing before a white Alfa Romeo at the Carrousel entrance of the garden when she entered is now standing at the rue de Rivoli gate, looking at her, on her way out. It is the same man in the same expensive cashmere camel’s-hair coat, tartan scarf, beret, pigskin leather gloves, the white Alfa Romeo parked visibly near the gate. He watches her approach: a civilized man’s predatory look. In a situation like this (not yet actually accosted but simply alerted to the strong probability), a woman disposes of a series of mysterious adjustments whereby she can, while maintaining her nonchalant pace, and without altering the diffuseness of her gaze or appearing to scrutinize...

  ...pleased to attract the attention of an obviously wealthy and well-built man still in his prime, and perhaps behind the clotheshorse—she suspects he has facials, and why not?—there is a soul. (More likely a drunk, looking for a woman with a soul.) Of course, once more she has been recognized by a dim-sighted worldling.

  Where would she like to go? Urban setting is always a problem in these preliminaries, unless the man himself is the lure, but there is a place in the Bois de Boulogne she has eyed dreamily on Sundays with the children. Her capacity for self-deception goes only so far; it’s clear as she leans back on the leather cushion that she wouldn’t be interested to be with this man except as a partner in a pleasant journey; a walk along the beach might be just as nice—in the city it needs a fat wallet. He is delighted to be conducted to such a pleasant place; she looks out over the white tablecloth, and silver bowl of bouillon, at the bare branches. From the fine lines of branches threading into mist she draws her smile, which elicits some remark about her being un-parisienne, Nordic, her mystery— Fortunately the language barrier —her limited, his incomprehensible French—puts some restriction on inane conversation. Having begun as usual with jokes (Are you a model? Did you rent the car and outfit?) it’s a variant of the old story. Lives near Milan; owns some factories. Wife and children. Nice family; he just isn’t a family man. Doesn’t know what he is. Once interested in mountain climbing and Indian philosophy.

  ...go somewhere else for coffee and dessert? No, she will finish the wine, it’s marvelous. She must remember the name—no, it’s better not. It’s quite wonderful not to be Sophie Blind just now. It’s wonderful enough to be this someone else in the car. He asks why she is smiling. She answers with a new smile which turns into a kiss. She is thinking of what her aunt told her when she was twe
lve: Always be sure your underwear is clean even if you’re only going across the street; you never know when a car might hit you and people will see your underwear. While they wait at an intersection she hears him tell her about the garage; it’s three blocks from the hotel, does she mind walking? He could ask the doorman, but he doesn’t want n’importe qui to drive his car. She doesn’t mind walking; it’s right, his tenderness for his car, it’s such a delicate, sensitive, powerful beast—she’s in love with it herself. They talk about cars. He finds it unusual, her enthusiasm for machines, women don’t usually—she hasn’t had the opportunity of course. She chatters foolishly about typewriters, phonographs, a motor scooter she owned once. She wonders how long this euphoria will last. Whether it will last her through. In the elevator (perhaps just the stupid situation: sealed in this ascending coffin with him, a separate individual who doesn’t mean anything to her) the reflection that she is a bitch taints her euphoria; doesn’t interrupt her ease, only changes its color, which may be for the best. Undeluded, she walks with the same ease, it doesn’t spoil her pleasure. There is no regret when she awakes to herself, all the wine drained off in the act of pleasure, leaving her utterly lucid, alone, curiously purged; after a while, just empty and becoming restless. She recalls other rooms in other places...the men...It’s really quite nice, this elegant suite at the George V. Faïence knobs high in the wall so you don’t have to bend when you take a shower. Nice, the thin white blankets—Does she really have to go in half an hour? They could have an early supper served in the room. He is explaining about his trip to London: He would invite her to come along except that his brother-in-law will be waiting for him at the airport. But she could join him in a day or two, and they could drive through Scotland or fly off to—

  She is dressed. He wants to know how he will find her. She smiles, her hand on the curved brass handle: Perhaps they’ll meet again some afternoon in the Tuileries...

  Strolling out the carpeted lobby (a fleeting glance at the newspaper headlines reassures nothing has changed for better or worse), she is feeling rather good, the hot bath in particular, till at the entrance of the métro she discovers she has lost her gloves in his car or the hotel. (Perhaps in view of such an eventuality, or for unrelated motives, Sophie had stuffed her bag full of hotel stationery and soap, a faïence knob from the bidet—nothing from the Milanese gentleman, in whose reality she did not entirely believe.)

  Nice for an afternoon—but too strenuous a business to incarnate some guiding star or even an exotic fish for a floundering millionaire. Has she missed her calling? She recalls backing out of a very attractive offer two years ago: a yacht, villa in Nice, apartment in Paris. Wanted her to fly to San Francisco with him. Took her three days to realize the futility of it. Sorry now? But then other things wouldn’t have happened. As for the tyrannical rich man who was usually on the other side of fifty, that too was impossible in the long run—and anything over a day ran into a long run or just a waste. No, it was just too much trouble to comply with an assured, vain man’s whims, or revolt, or get around him—that was the kind of patience Sophie knew she didn’t have. It naturally occurred to her that she might use a floundering rich man for her ends, indeed this was mostly on her mind. It wasn’t so much a question of the means; it wasn’t at all a moral problem, but simply that if you’ve set your heart on going to Rome, the Shanghai Express won’t get you there. You’re better off walking. The Shanghai Express might be great fun, you might fall in love with a station master, it could make you forget about ever wanting to go to Rome, revolutionize your life or be just an adventure. All this was possible but it wouldn’t get her to Rome.

  In her coat pocket is the letter to New York she wrote last night, which she decides not to mail.

  ─────

  Ezra lies on her bed when she comes home late at night.

  “Don’t look so shocked,” he laughs. “I’m still your husband.”

  “Where is the baby-sitter?” she asks.

  “I paid the baby-sitter and sent her home. I am glad to see my wife goes out. But you don’t seem very pleased to see me. Please try to make a friendlier face,” he says rising, his smile affectionately indulgent. “Should I have stayed outside till you returned? I wanted to see the children.”

  “You could have let me know that you were coming.”

  “Sophie, I have taken this time out from my lecture schedule just so I could see you. I must be back in London by tomorrow noon and fly to New York the next day. It wasn’t easy to arrange and you are not very friendly.”

  “All right,” she says, “then let’s settle things. I wrote you a month ago.”

  “Yes, I received your letter.” He rises with a gesture of grief. “I didn’t know what to write. Sophie, I would not hold you against your will. But a divorce! Sophie, are you aware of all the difficulties, professional, medical; the real problems we must face together? How do you imagine a divorce—it’s economically unfeasible, I can’t afford it. Divorce is a luxury of the rich. Poor people have to stick it out together. I have been lenient, generous, I have yielded on many issues, too many, but I have let you go too far. It’s obvious you are bent on the destruction of the marriage, a compulsion clear from the beginning. No, I will not permit it, someone has to be responsible.”

  “Ezra, you promised.”

  “Sign? Out of the question. What kind of papers? You went to a lawyer? I can’t believe it. My own wife to whom I entrusted myself and our children? You went to a lawyer. My own wife has turned into my enemy.” He weeps, but in the next instant collects himself. “It’s unworthy of you,” he says with disgust.

  “If you don’t sign the agreement, I’ll take you to court.”

  “So that’s what you are. A bitch. Na ja. I am not the first man to...” he mutters to himself, pacing angrily. He wants to see the papers. “Please,” he demands, it is unworthy of her to entertain the thought that he might tear up the papers. He is offended, disgusted. She has no sense of him, sees him as a common brute, uncivilized—only proves how far out of touch with reality—he demands to see the papers, must he scream? Holding the sheets, he stares at the first page. “Legal gibberish, what kind of language is this? A piece of paper. Zum arschwischen.”

  “Sometimes one’s life depends on a piece of paper.”

  He cannot look at it now. It makes no sense. If she has problems she should see a psychiatrist, not lawyers. It’s a psychiatrist she needs. Or a lover, or a beating. Beat her blue. “I’m not going to beat you. Oh no.” He kicks off his shoes, throws off his jacket, pants, pulls back the bedspread and gets into bed, muttering to himself in German and Hebrew.

  She stands glaring, speechless.

  “You don’t like me in my drawers? I know I’m ridiculous. You have made me ridiculous.” He lies on his back, smiling, his eyes veiled. “I know you think I’m undignified, a boor,” he mimics the disgust her expressionless mask of dignity conceals. “I know. I know. I know everything you feel and think. Sophie, you are a child. A pure and noble child; I understand you,” asking her to come to bed, his outstretched arm invites her, his smile is seraphic. “Sit down, I am leaving tomorrow. It may be our last chance to...”

  She wants to be out of this room. Her coat lies on the back of the chair; she wants to walk out, simply to move and breathe. But she can’t simply walk out because of the children, because she must get him to sign the papers. “Consider it as a business proposition,” he pursues with gentle irony. “I am not pleading with you; I will not use force. We are in the twentieth century; you are a free woman and I want you to make a rational choice. I hope one day you will feel some affection for me. I have a right to hope, after all, but I accept your present feelings of hostility. I want you to look at this as an offer in terms of your interests, professional ambitions, your taste. I know how important it is for you to live in the right setting. We have struggled through such difficult years; now for the first time I can o
ffer you what you always wanted.” A city of culture, he pursues, and reminds her that she always wanted to live in Europe; and she could go to Greece every summer. As for her Paris apartment, he can think of any number of solutions. “Isn’t it reasonable?” he asks. “Be reasonable,” he says.

  She can’t be reasonable even if his proposition appears reasonable—reasonable and attractive for someone else. She cannot be that person. Even if her own position is groundless, the fact is she has no position, she has no plans, she is nowhere. She has only her feelings to rely on. And she must say no. Perhaps she is really in another room, a young woman listening to Ezra Blind’s marriage proposal fifteen years ago. Must this time say no.

  “We have made mistakes,” he is saying. “But we are not children any more. I have changed, Sophie. I promise you.”

  Even if he means it, she can’t forgive herself for making the mistake the first time, or risk making this mistake again. Even if it’s not reasonable. Sometimes it is imperative to be unreasonable.

  “I am not pressing you, you don’t have to give your decision now. But think about it. I will be in Paris again in two weeks. Think about it, Sophie,” he concludes. “And now, after we have spoken as friends...” He is asking her to come to bed. It’s three A.M., he points out, it’s only proper after all. “But Sophie, why not?” he laughs. “Come, I’ll woo you. Sophie, you know even if I fool around with other women, you’re the only woman I ever loved. You’re the only woman who arouses me.” He will prove it to her right now. She won’t lie down. She demands he get out of her bed. He rises laughing, puts his arm around her, pulls her toward the bed.

  “No, Ezra. Please. The children will wake up.”

  “But why? How odd. You’re really strange.” He smiles at her, baffled. Not sleep with her own husband when she sleeps with other men? He knows all about it—her affair with Roland and some rich young art collector she got to know through his girlfriend. He knows everything and it’s all right if she’s enjoying herself. No one can say he isn’t the most generous husband. “Come, be nice...Don’t be afraid to put your head on my arm,” he laughs. “All right, put it on the pillow.”

 

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