May We Borrow Your Husband & Other Comedies of the Sexual Life

by Graham Greene

  ‘If you would be a little more explicit . . .’

  So Herr Puckler gave him the whole row of names, beginning with Herr Schmidt. ‘They meet in secret,’ he said. ‘None of them stays at home.’

  ‘They are not the kind of men I would suspect of plotting.’

  ‘All the more dangerous for that.’

  ‘Perhaps they are just friends.’

  ‘Then why don’t they meet in public?’

  ‘I’ll put a policeman on the case,’ the Superintendent said half-heartedly, so now at night there were two men looking around to find where the six had their meeting-place. The policeman was a simple man who began by asking direct questions, but he had been seen several times in the company of Puckler, so the six assumed quickly enough that he was trying to track them down on Puckler’s behalf and they became more careful than ever to avoid discovery. They stocked up Herr Braun’s cellar with wine, and they took elaborate precautions not to be seen entering – each one sacrificed a night’s drinking in order to lead Herr Puckler and the policeman astray. Nor could they confide in their wives for fear that it might come to the ears of Frau Puckler, so they pretended the scheme had not worked and it was every man for himself again now in drinking. That meant they had to tell a lot of lies if they failed to be the first at home – and so, my father said, that was when sin began to enter in.

  One night too, Herr Schmidt, who happened to be the decoy, led Herr Puckler a long walk into the suburbs, and then seeing an open door and a light burning in the window with a comforting red glow and being by that time very dry in the mouth, he mistook the house in his distress for a quiet inn and walked inside. He was warmly welcomed by a stout lady and shown into a parlour, where he expected to be served with wine. Three young ladies sat on a sofa in various stages of undress and greeted Herr Schmidt with giggles and warm words. Herr Schmidt was afraid to leave the house at once, in case Puckler was lurking outside, and while he hesitated the stout lady entered with a bottle of champagne on ice and a number of glasses. So for the sake of the drink (though champagne was not his preference – he would have liked the local wine) he stayed, and thus out of secrecy, my father said, came the second sin. But it didn’t end there with lies and fornication.

  When the time came to go, if he were not to overstay his welcome, Herr Schmidt took a look out of the window, and there, in place of Puckler, was the policeman walking up and down the pavement. He must have followed Puckler at a distance, and then taken on his watch while Puckler went rabbiting after the others. What to do? It was growing late; soon the wives would be drinking their last cup and closing the file on the last grandchild. Herr Schmidt appealed to the kind stout lady; he asked her whether she hadn’t a back-door so that he might avoid the man he knew in the street outside. She had no back-door, but she was a woman of great resource, and in no time she had decked Herr Schmidt out in a great cartwheel of a skirt, like peasant-women in those days wore at market, a pair of white stockings, a blouse ample enough and a floppy hat. The girls hadn’t enjoyed themselves so much for a long time, and they amused themselves decking his face with rouge, eye-shadow and lipstick. When he came out of the door, the policeman was so astonished by the sight that he stood rooted to the spot long enough for Herr Schmidt to billow round the corner, take to his heels down a side-street and arrive safely home in time to scour his face before his wife came in.

  If it had stopped there all might have been well, but the policeman had not been deceived, and now he reported to the Superintendent that members of the secret society dressed themselves as women and in that guise frequented the gay houses of the town. ‘But why dress as women to do that?’ the Superintendent asked, and Puckler hinted at orgies which went beyond the natural order of things. ‘Anarchy,’ he said, ‘is out to upset everything, even the proper relationship of man and woman.’

  ‘Can’t you be more explicit?’ the Superintendent asked him for the second time; it was a phrase of which he was pathetically fond, but Puckler left the details shrouded in mystery.

  It was then that Puckler’s fanaticism took a morbid turn; he suspected every large woman he saw in the street at night of being a man in disguise. Once he actually pulled off the wig of a certain Frau Hackenfurth (no one till that day, not even her husband, knew that she wore a wig), and presently he sallied out into the streets himself dressed as a woman with the belief that one transvestite would recognize another and that sooner or later he would find himself enlisted in the secret orgies. He was a small man and he played the part better than Herr Schmidt had done – only his gimlet-eyes would have betrayed him to an acquaintance in daylight.

  The men had been meeting happily enough now for two weeks in Herr Braun’s cellar, the policeman had tired of his search, the Superintendent was in hopes that all had blown over, when a disastrous decision was taken. Frau Schmidt and Frau Muller in the old days had the habit of cooking pasties for their husbands to go with the wine, and the two men began to miss this treat which they described to their fellow drinkers, their mouths wet with the relish of the memory. Herr Braun suggested that they should bring in a woman to cook for them – it would mean only a small contribution from each, for no one would charge very much for a few hours’ work at the end of the evening. Her duty would be to bring in fresh warm pasties every half an hour or so as long as their wine-session lasted. He advertised the position openly enough in the local paper, and Puckler, taking a long chance – the advertisement had referred to a man’s club – applied, dressed up in his wife’s best Sunday blacks. He was accepted by Herr Braun, who was the only one who did not know Herr Puckler except by repute, and so Puckler found himself installed at the very heart of the mystery, with a grand opportunity to hear all their talk. The only trouble was that he had little skill at cooking and often with his ears to the cellar-door he allowed the pasties to burn. On the second evening Herr Braun told him that, unless the pasties improved, he would find another woman.

  However Puckler was not worried by that because he had all the information he required for the Superintendent, and it was a real pleasure to make his report in the presence of the policeman who contributed nothing at all to the inquiry.

  Puckler had written down the dialogue as he had heard it, leaving out only the long pauses, the gurgle of the wine-jugs, and the occasional rude tribute that wind makes to the virtue of young wine. His report read as follows:

  Inquiry into the Secret Meetings held in the Cellar of Herr Braun’s House at 27—strasse. The following dialogue was overheard by the investigator.

  Muller: If the rain keeps off another month, the wine harvest will be better than last year.

  Unidentified voice: Ugh.

  Schmidt: They say the postman nearly broke his ankle last week. Slipped on a step.

  Braun: I remember sixty-one vintages.

  Dobel: Time for a pasty.

  Unidentified voice: Ugh.

  Muller: Call in that cow.

  The investigator was summoned and left a tray of pasties.

  Braun: Careful. They are hot.

  Schmidt: This one’s burnt to a cinder.

  Dobel: Uneatable.

  Kastner: Better sack her before worse happens.

  Braun: She’s paid till the end of the week. We’ll give her till then.

  Muller: It was fourteen degrees at midday.

  Dobel: The town-hall clock’s fast.

  Schmidt: Do you remember that dog the mayor had with black spots?

  Unidentified voice: Ugh.

  Kastner: No, why?

  Schmidt: I can’t remember.

  Muller: When I was a boy we had plum-duff they never make now.

  Dobel: It was the summer of ’87.

  Unidentified voice: What was?

  Muller: The year Mayor Kalnitz died.

  Schmidt: ’88.

  Muller: There was a hard frost.

  Dobel: Not so hard as ’86.

  Braun: That was a shocking year for wine.

  So it went on for tw
elve pages. ‘What’s it all about?’ the Superintendent asked.

  ‘If we knew that, we’d know all.’

  ‘It sounds harmless.’

  ‘Then why do they meet in secret?’

  The policeman said ‘Ugh’ like the unidentified voice.

  ‘My feeling is,’ Puckler said, ‘a pattern will emerge. Look at all those dates. They need to be checked.’

  ‘There was a bomb thrown in ‘86,’ the Superintendent said doubtfully. ‘It killed the Grand Duke’s best grey.’

  ‘A shocking year for wine,’ Puckler said. ‘They missed. No wine. No royal blood.’

  ‘The attempt was mistimed,’ the Superintendent remembered.

  ‘The town-hall clock’s fast,’ Puckler quoted.

  ‘I can’t believe it all the same.’

  ‘A code. To break a code we have need of more material.’

  The Superintendent agreed with some reluctance that the report should continue, but then there was the difficulty of the pasties. ‘We need a good assistant-cook for the pasties,’ Puckler said, ‘and then I can listen without interruption. They won’t object if I tell them that it will cost no more.’

  The Superintendent said to the policeman, ‘Those were good pasties I had in your house.’

  ‘I cooked them myself,’ the policeman said gloomily.

  ‘Then that’s no help.’

  ‘Why no help?’ Puckler demanded. ‘If I can dress up as a woman, so can he.’

  ‘His moustache?’

  ‘A good blade and a good lather will see to that.’

  ‘It’s an unusual thing to demand of a man.’

  ‘In the service of the law.’

  So it was decided, though the policeman was not at all happy about the affair. Puckler, being a small man, was able to dress in his wife’s clothes, but the policeman had no wife. In the end Puckler was forced to agree to buy the clothes himself; he did it late in the evening, when the assistants were in a hurry to leave and were unlikely to recognize his gimlet-eyes, as they judged the size of the skirt, blouse, knickers. There had been lies, fornication: I don’t know in what further category my father placed the strange shopping expedition, which didn’t, as it happened, go entirely unnoticed. Scandal – perhaps that was the third offence which secrecy produced, for a late customer coming into the shop did in fact recognize Puckler, just as he was holding up the bloomers to see if the seat seemed large enough. You can imagine how quickly that story got around, to every woman except Frau Puckler, and she felt at the next sewing-party an odd – well, it might have been deference or it might have been compassion. Everyone stopped to listen when she spoke; no one contradicted or argued with her, and she was not allowed to carry a tray or pour a cup. She began to feel so like an invalid that she developed a headache and decided to go home early. She could see them all nodding at each other as though they knew what was the matter better than she did, and Frau Muller volunteered to see her home.

  Of course she hurried straight back to tell them about it. ‘When we arrived,’ she said, ‘Herr Puckler was not at home. Of course the poor woman pretended not to know where he could be. She got in quite a state about it. She said he was always there to welcome her when she came in. She had half a mind to go round to the police-station and report him missing, but I dissuaded her. I almost began to believe that she didn’t know what he was up to. She muttered about the strange goings-on in town, anarchists and the like, and would you believe it, she said that Herr Puckler told her a policeman had seen Herr Schmidt dressed up in women’s clothes.’

  ‘The little swine,’ Frau Schmidt said, naturally referring to Puckler, for Herr Schmidt had the figure of one of his own wine-barrels. ‘Can you imagine such a thing?’

  ‘Distracting attention,’ Frau Muller said, ‘from his own vices. For look what happened next. We come to the bedroom, and Frau Puckler finds her wardrobe door wide open, and she looks inside, and what does she find – her black Sunday dress missing. “There’s truth in the story after all,” she said, “and I’m going to look for Herr Schmidt,” but I pointed out to her that it would have to be a very small man indeed to wear her dress.’

  ‘Did she blush?’

  ‘I really believe she knows nothing about it.’

  ‘Poor, poor woman,’ Frau Dobel said. ‘And what do you think he does when he’s all dressed up?’ and they began to speculate. So thus it was, my father would say, that foul talk was added to the other sins of lies, fornication, scandal. Yet there still remained the most serious sin of all.

  That night Puckler and the policeman turned up at Herr Braun’s door, but little did they know that the story of Puckler had already reached the ears of the drinkers, for Frau Muller had reported the strange events to Herr Muller, and at once he remembered the gimlet-eyes of the cook Anna peering at him out of the shadows. When the men met, Herr Braun reported that the cook was to bring an assistant to help her with the pasties and as she had asked for no extra money he had consented. You can imagine the babble of voices that broke out from these silent men when Herr Muller told his story. What was Puckler’s motive? It was a bad one or it would not have been Puckler. One theory was that he was planning with the help of an assistant to poison them with the pasties in revenge for being excluded. ‘It’s not beyond Puckler,’ Herr Dobel said. They had good reason to be suspicious, so my father, who was a just man, did not include unworthy suspicion among the sins of which the secret society was the cause. They began to prepare a reception for Puckler.

  Puckler knocked on the door and the policeman stood just behind him, enormous in his great black skirt with his white stockings crinkling over his boots because Puckler had forgotten to buy him suspenders. After the second knock the bombardment began from the upper windows. Puckler and the policeman were drenched with unmentionable liquids, they were struck with logs of wood. Their eyes were endangered from falling forks. The policeman was the first to take to his heels, and it was a strange sight to see so huge a woman go beating down the street. The blouse had come out of the waistband and flapped like a sail as its owner tacked to avoid the flying objects – which now included a toilet-roll, a broken teapot and a portrait of the Grand Duke.

  Puckler, who had been hit on the shoulder with a rolling-pin, did not at first run away. He had his moment of courage or bewilderment. But when the frying-pan he had used for pasties struck him, he turned too late to follow the policeman. It was then that he was struck on the head with a chamber-pot and lay in the street with the pot fitting over his head like a vizor. They had to break it with a hammer to get it off, and by that time he was dead, whether from the blow on the head or the fall or from fear or from being stifled by the chamber-pot nobody knew, though suffocation was the general opinion. Of course there was an inquiry which went on for many months into the existence of an anarchist plot, and before the end of it the Superintendent had become secretly affianced to Frau Puckler, for which nobody blamed her, for she was a popular woman – except my father who resented the secrecy of it all. (He suspected that the Superintendent’s love for Frau Puckler had extended the inquiry, since he pretended to believe her husband’s accusations.)

  Technically, of course, it was murder – death arising from an illegal assault – but the courts after about six months absolved the six men. ‘But there’s a greater court,’ my father would always end his story, ‘and in that court the sin of murder never goes unrequited. You begin with a secret,’ and he would look at me as though he knew my pockets were stuffed with them, as indeed they were, including the note I intended to pass the next day at school to the yellow-haired girl in the second row, ‘and you end with every sin in the calendar.’ He began to recount them over again for my benefit. ‘Lies, drunkenness, fornication, scandal-bearing, murder, the subornation of authority.’

  ‘Subornation of authority?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said and fixed me with his glittering eye. I think he had Frau Puckler and the Superintendent in mind. He rose towards his climax. ‘Men i
n women’s clothes – the terrible sin of Sodom.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ I asked with excited expectation.

  ‘At your age,’ my father said, ‘some things must remain secret.’

  TWO GENTLE PEOPLE

  * * *

  THEY sat on a bench in the Parc Monceau for a long time without speaking to one another. It was a hopeful day of early summer with a spray of white clouds lapping across the sky in front of a small breeze: at any moment the wind might drop and the sky become empty and entirely blue, but it was too late now – the sun would have set first.

  In younger people it might have been a day for a chance encounter – secret behind the long barrier of perambulators with only babies and nurses in sight. But they were both of them middle-aged, and neither was inclined to cherish an illusion of possessing a lost youth, though he was better looking than he believed, with his silky old-world moustache like a badge of good behaviour, and she was prettier than the looking-glass ever told her. Modesty and disillusion gave them something in common; though they were separated by five feet of green metal they could have been a married couple who had grown to resemble each other. Pigeons like old grey tennis balls rolled unnoticed around their feet. They each occasionally looked at a watch, though never at one another. For both of them this period of solitude and peace was limited.

  The man was tall and thin. He had what are called sensitive features, and the cliché fitted him; his face was comfortably, though handsomely, banal – there would be no ugly surprises when he spoke, for a man may be sensitive without imagination. He had carried with him an umbrella which suggested caution. In her case one noticed first the long and lovely legs as unsensual as those in a society portrait. From her expression she found the summer day sad, yet she was reluctant to obey the command of her watch and go – somewhere – inside.

  They would never have spoken to each other if two teenaged louts had not passed by, one with a blaring radio slung over his shoulder, the other kicking out at the pre-occupied pigeons. One of his kicks found a random mark, and on they went in a din of pop, leaving the pigeon lurching on the path.