He felt a sudden urge to go back in, to get on his knees before her, bury his face in her stiff black skirts and beg for her forgiveness.
He closed his eyes. “I’ll give her back the earrings. I will.” His hand was already on the bedroom door when he heard the piano start again. The playing was confident, calm, considered. No, an unhappy woman could not play like that.
He replaced his bowler hat and bounded down the stairs as fast as a rubber ball. Once in a taxi, he lit a cigar and drew on it with pleasure. “Good job that Fanny doesn’t suspect a thing. At least she won’t suffer that way. Natasha will be so pleased! To think—another minute and I might have given the earrings back! What a weakling. And to call myself a man of the Sixties!” He smiled to himself in amusement.
II
BUNNY RETURNED home late. His wife was already asleep in their vast bed. He tiptoed past her into the bathroom and switched on the light. A large mirror on the wall showed him a reflection of his squat figure in a bowler, holding a cigar and wearing a tie that was slightly askew.
Ordinarily, upon meeting himself like this, he would bow deeply. “Good day to you, Abraham Vikentievich. How is life treating you?” he would ask himself and then reply with some polite little gesture. “Excellently, thank you. Still hopping around.”
But today, as though ashamed of himself, he quickly turned away from the mirror and set about turning on the nickelled bath taps.
“It’s a bad business. Bad. Very, very bad.”
Water noisily filled the white bathtub. That sound—the sound of running water—always made him think of Imatra. Even now he could vividly picture the thundering waterfall cascading down, the silver icy water scattering the sunshine. He saw grey pines, rocks and himself, too, in his student’s cap.
He undressed and lowered himself into the steaming hot bath. For a moment he was completely at peace—he had no worries, no shame, no fear. It was as if his worries, shame and fear had dissolved in the steaming hot water and evaporated somewhere beyond those white tiled walls. His stress and anxiety were replaced by a blissful feeling of exhaustion. His head suddenly grew light and empty, and rolled to rest on his shoulder as his eyelids gently closed.
If only he could stay there for a long, long time. For ever. So that there would be nothing else.
What if he were to slit his wrists in the bath? They say it’s the nicest way to die. You don’t feel a thing, only a sweet exhaustion, a lightness, just like now, and then you die peacefully. And that’s the end of everything. He started. “No, no, I can’t. It’s quite impossible. I don’t own a razor,” he remembered with relief. He always went to a hairdresser’s for his shave and didn’t even have a safety razor at home. Thank God he didn’t.
The water cooled. He felt uncomfortable and anxious. He wrapped himself in a bathrobe.
It isn’t true, he thought. Femmes fatales are not sultry and dark-skinned with eyes like shining coals and full of demonic intrigues. A woman like that would not have ensnared him; he would have known how to deal with that sort. No, the femme fatale was blonde, grey-eyed and helpless. She loved nothing, wanted nothing. She hadn’t even been cruel. No, she had been indifferent. She wasn’t happy with the earrings at all today. And he had placed so much hope in them!
He lifted the bed covers and lay down next to his wife. He could just about make out her pale face in the darkness. Tresses of her long hair curled on the pillow, like damp seaweed. He moved away from her, right to the edge of the bed. The quilt weighed heavily on his chest.
So it was night-time again. Oh, what a bad business it all was!
He closed his eyes and stretched out on his back. Tomorrow… No, it was best not to think about tomorrow. Everything was at sixes and sevens—it was so difficult and so ghastly.
He suddenly remembered something his old Jewish grandmother used to say to him. She was a tiny woman, hunched over and always wrapped up in a large chequered shawl. “God forbid, Abraham dear, that you live through all the suffering that it is within man’s capacity to live through.”
God forbid. But God had not forbidden it. He hadn’t heeded the old woman in her chequered shawl. Bunny truly felt as if he had lived through almost all the suffering that was within man’s capacity to live through.
The curtains in the bedroom were slightly ajar, and a thin streak of moonlight cut across the rug. The armchair loomed dark against the window.
The piano shimmered in the corner of the room. It was warm and quiet. Fanny’s breathing was barely audible.
He suddenly felt very afraid. He tried closing his eyes again. What was going to happen next? What suffering was there left to live through? Surely, not public humiliation, court and prison? No, the very thought was inadmissible. He had to lie on his back and think of something soothing. Like the stars. Stars were soothing. Starlight took two hundred years to reach the Earth. Or he could think about Egypt… No, stars were better. He just had to concentrate in order to see them clearly. The Big Dipper. Cassiopeia. Saturn. Saturn? How many rings did Saturn have? Was it nine? The rings spin slowly. What meaning did his life have, or his grief? What was the meaning of life? Saturn. Venus.
He heard something rustle next to him. He turned his head and stared into the darkness in surprise. What was it? Wasn’t he alone? Alone with his grief under the starry sky.
“Fanny, are you awake?”
The rustling turned to whispering.
“Yes, Abraham Vikentievich, I’m awake.”
“What is it? Did you have a nightmare?”
“No, I didn’t sleep at all. I…” She let out a loud sob. “I know. You took the earrings to give to her.” She was crying now, loudly, catching breaths between her sobs, just like a child. He could hear her old, wet lips parting and coming together again. “I know everything. I have done for a long time, since spring. I didn’t want to say anything, but I can’t do this any more. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!”
He leant over her and reached out his hand to touch her warm, naked shoulder. The long-forgotten sensation of her skin made his heart leap with tenderness and pity.
“Fanny, Fanny,” he whispered desperately. “Forgive me, Fanny. I’m a scoundrel. I’ve ruined us. I’ve robbed us. Listen, Fanny. That’s not the worst of it. They could throw us out of here tomorrow, out onto the street. How will we live? I don’t even know if I’ll be able to support you. And your music! You won’t have a piano any more, Fanny.”
Tears streamed down his sagging cheeks. He sought salvation in her shoulder as he pressed his face into it.
“Fanny, I’m so unhappy. Forgive me. Forgive me, please.”
But she wasn’t listening to him. She carried on sobbing.
“I knew back in the spring. And when you left for Biarritz. And I didn’t say anything, not once.”
Their tears seeped into the pillows, mixing together. Fanny’s warm arm embraced his neck.
“What have I done to deserve this? Haven’t I been a faithful wife to you? Haven’t I loved you all these twenty years?”
“I don’t know, but you may even have to get a job. The thing is—I’ve nothing left.”
“I loved you so much. I love you so much. What have I done to deserve this? And who have you betrayed me for?”
He wasn’t listening to her. Her shoulder, her arm, emitted a familiar warmth, one he had known in childhood.
His puffy tear-stained eyelids were closing. His puffy tear-stained lips were whispering, “Forgive me, Fanny, forgive me.”
His desperation and pain had disappeared. He felt quiet, calm and light. He felt like it wasn’t Fanny lying next to him, not his wife, but his grandmother, and they had wrapped themselves up in her chequered shawl. It smelt of cinnamon and onions. And it wasn’t Fanny sighing and sobbing at his ear, but his grandmother teaching him in her monotone voice:
“Man must not lie. Man has a small head. He’ll lie and then he’ll forget what he’s lied about. Not like a horse. A horse has a big head. A horse can lie if it wants t
o.”
III
CROMWELL JUMPED OFF the tram and made his way down the street. He turned a corner and came face to face with a pink villa that was surrounded by golden autumnal linden trees. It was a small building, two storeys high, with sweeping windows and a front terrace.
Cromwell felt his heart clench, as though some misfortune lay in wait for him there.
“Perhaps I should turn back?” The fleeting thought crossed his mind.
But it lasted only a moment. He placed his hand on the gate and looked up at the window on the upper floor—her window. He felt excited and nervous. She was waiting for him just there, behind that window. He rang the doorbell. A maid opened the door.
“Is the young lady at home?” he asked.
The maid pointed to the staircase.
“She’s upstairs.”
“Please, let her know I’m here.”
But she had already turned her back on him.
“I haven’t time to let her know,” she said over her shoulder. “You can tell her yourself.”
Cromwell was left standing in the large, dark hallway. He could see a bouquet of wilted chrysanthemums reflected in a mirror. A grey silk overcoat was draped over a wicker armchair. A trace of perfume lingered in the dusty air. On the side table, next to the vase, he spotted a white glove. It looked like a white severed hand. The hollow fingers pointed upwards ruefully, as if they were trying to push something away.
Cromwell stared at it. Was it pushing him away, barring his way with a curse? He smiled to himself, checked his hair in the mirror and walked over to the spiral staircase. A narrow skylight lit up the white banister and the red runner. He spotted a tiny brocade shoe lying on one of the stairs. “Like Cinderella’s slipper,” he thought. “I wonder who lost it on their way back from last night’s ball?” Was it that beautiful lady he met at the railway station in Biarritz, or Isolde?
He could hear laughter coming from behind one of the doors. He knocked.
“Come in!” shouted Liza.
He pushed the door open. The room had a low ceiling. A plush blue rug covered the floor. Evening sunlight flooded the entire space. Liza was sitting on the edge of a low divan.
“Crom!” She jumped to her feet, her blue dress fluttering like a butterfly in the sun. “Hello, Crom! Oh, what fun!” She was holding a glass in her hand and her eyes were shining brightly. Her tousled fair hair looked like a halo around her head. “Oh, Crom, how good of you to come!” She laughed and fell back on the divan, kicking her legs up high as she went.
Nikolai slapped Cromwell heartily on the shoulder. Andrei greeted him politely, but coolly.
There was a bottle of port on the table. Odette poured him some.
“Drink this, hurry and catch up with us!”
Liza lay on the divan with her arms spread wide open.
“Oh, what fun!” she kept repeating.
Cromwell sat down beside her. As always, he felt a little uncomfortable in the company of these loud, boisterous foreigners. He considered them all to be foreigners, except Isolde. Isolde was like him. She came from the sea, just as he did. Liza lifted her head up.
“Well, where are we going for dinner then?”
“To a Russian restaurant!” cried Odette.
“I want to go to one that has music.” Liza sat up. “Let’s go! I just need to change my stockings. I’ve torn these ones.” She pointed to a hole just above her knee. “Get some for me, will you, Odette? They’re in the dresser over there.”
Liza removed her stockings. Cromwell started at her petite legs and her feet with the rose-coloured nail varnish on her toes. Her golden sun-kissed skin gave off a warm glow. Her knees were smooth and shiny. Cromwell blushed.
Liza kicked her feet in the air.
“I love going barefoot!”
“Yes, in Biarritz…” Cromwell began.
Liza turned to him.
“In Biarritz? You know, it all seems so long ago now. I feel like I wasn’t even there. I hardly remember anything. Just the sea… It’s such a shame you weren’t there with us, Andrei. Maybe next year…”
She pulled a new pair of stockings over her legs and fastened the clasps.
“All I need now is my shoes and then I’ll be ready!”
Her discarded silk stockings lay in two small bundles on the blue rug. They were still warm, like the corpses of two small birds that had just been shot.
“I know you’re a Quaker, Crom, but I’m going to put on lipstick. This is Paris after all!”
Odette was fussing in front of the mirror.
“I’ve already had too much to drink. See, my nose is shining and no amount of powder is going to cover it up. Just look! How am I supposed to go out for dinner now?”
Nikolai finished the bottle.
“Now we can go!”
Cromwell sat still, taking it all in—Liza darting around the room, her brother, Odette, Andrei. He had a peculiar feeling of embarrassment, joy and anxiety all at once. He felt as if already he had no right to be sitting there, no right to be listening to Liza’s laughter. Since this would probably be his last time there, since he wasn’t going to be invited back tomorrow, the room and all the people in it seemed to him so extraordinary and so wonderful. He looked at Liza and his heart grew heavy. He didn’t feel as if he was really sitting beside her, but rather as if he were long gone, long dead, and it wasn’t him, but his soul that was looking at her. His soul, which had floated out of his body and was now looking down from the sky, through the ceiling. It was passionate, desperate, it wanted to take everything in and commit it to memory. It had only a minute to do so, and thereafter lay eternity. Eternity, when he would never see Isolde again.
Liza put on Natasha’s hat and her fur coat with the big stoat collar.
“I’m ready.”
She opened the door and ran out. Cromwell caught up with her on the staircase. She was standing in the half-light of the window.
“Why are they taking so long?” she asked in a whisper.
He wasn’t surprised that she was whispering.
“Isolde, I love you,” he whispered back.
She let out a sigh and her face grew melancholy.
“Oh, why bring all that up now? You should stop…” She shook her head.
Odette and Andrei were noisily making their way down the stairs.
“What’s the matter with you, Liza? You spend an hour getting ready and then you can’t even wait two minutes.”
They went out into the garden.
“Where’s your car?” Liza sounded surprised.
Cromwell blushed.
“It’s in the garage. There’s a problem with the engine.”
Liza screwed up her face.
“What a nuisance! I hate taxis. Will it be fixed soon?”
“Absolutely, by tomorrow!”
…A vase filled with carnations stands on top of a white tablecloth. Beside it is a glass filled with long straws. The lighting is both cheerful and mysterious. Where is the light coming from? It’s streaming in from behind the mirrors and from crevices in the ceiling and from somewhere else that’s completely hidden from view.
“It’s hot in here.” Liza pushes her hat to the back of her head which makes her face look childlike, like that of a little girl who has been running around in the garden. “What fun!” She smiles.
Odette is drinking champagne, tilting her bobbed head all the way back with every little sip.
“Yes, rather!” she says.
Liza places both elbows squarely on the table.
“We’re having lots of fun, all of us, together. It’s lovely. All these people here—I bet they’re not having half as much fun as we are. Let’s drink to us!”
She clinks glasses with Odette. Andrei forces a smile as he holds out his glass to clink with Cromwell’s.
Odette points her fork at him.
“Jealous,” she says in Russian.
Liza elbows her. “Be quiet.”
Nikolai is saying
something. He’s telling some story, but nobody is listening to him.
Liza feels happy. She closes her eyes a little. It’s all rather lovely. The mysterious light and the shrill music. Liza trains her ears. So that’s what it’s like, this jazz. It’s fun, loud, snappy and ready to pop with joy! But somewhere in the background she can hear the bitterness and the sadness. It’s quite audible, it isn’t drowned out by all the rest. So that’s what it’s like… Well, so it should be. That makes it even more fun! Her head is spinning slightly, lending extra clarity to her thoughts. It is as if all her senses, her sight, her hearing, have become acutely sharp all of a sudden. She can distinctly make out a conversation three tables away, where a lady in a white dress is saying to her companion:
“That’s impossible. We can’t be apart.”
And his answer:
“Oh, just leave it, will you? I must go.”
The lady in white looks ever so sad and her eyelashes begin to flutter. Liza wonders whether Odette can hear them, too, but she can’t be bothered to ask.
If she were to think of the past, her thoughts would form a triangle and fly out the dining room, right through the wall and into the street. This triangle would encompass everything she was thinking about, all the right memories. Thus, if she were to think of Mama, there’d be a nervous Bunny, and Boris, and the sound of Mama’s voice. Mama laughing and Mama crying. Mama singing ‘Dark Eyes’. Mama putting on her new earrings. And it’s all crystal clear, and she feels so much pity for her. But she mustn’t think of that or she’ll get upset. It’s all clear. Life. Love. The motor cars that keep pulling up outside the restaurant. And those two women with their brocaded cloaks, walking in with an air of grace mixed with nonchalance. Those poor women. They think they’re beautiful. They think that everyone’s admiring them. But they’re ridiculous. Liza could barely stop herself laughing right in their faces. She turns to face away from them and realizes that someone is squeezing her knee under the table. Whose hand is that? Andrei is sitting next to her. Cromwell is across the table. She doesn’t try to figure it out. She doesn’t care. She just likes the hand there. She smiles and looks up at the dimly lit ceiling.
Isolde Page 6