The Woman Who Wouldn't

by Gene Wilder

  Clara spread the blanket. I put the basket and violin case down, and we rested for a few moments.

  “You’ve got a worried look in your eyes, Jeremy. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  “Not a bit! I’m just trying to figure out what kind of sandwich I’d like to start with and which piece of music I should play for you. Those are very serious questions—especially which sandwich.”

  “How do you know what kind of sandwiches they put in?”

  “I peeked! Now, music first or eating?”

  “Music!” she said, like a little girl, as if it were a birthday present.

  I carefully took out Gerhardt Fleischer’s violin, bowed across the strings until I was satisfied with the pitch—which I’m very good at because I’m blessed with a perfect ear—and then I played Robert Schumann’s very short, very sweet piece called Traumerei, which means dreaming or reverie. As much as I loved this piece and thought how calming it would be for Clara, I also chose it because it was so romantic.

  As Clara watched me play I saw her eyes drift off to a heavenly place every once in a while. “Reverie” was right. She looked so calm and happy, and what I had earlier seen as a very pretty lady, I now saw as a beautiful woman.

  When I finished playing, I said, “Now let’s eat!”

  “Jeremy, won’t you at least give me time to tell you how beautiful your music was, and how moved I was?”

  “All right, go ahead.”

  “Oh, you silly man! It was beautiful. Thank you.”

  “Good! Let’s eat.”

  Clara opened our picnic basket and started laying out food while I opened the bottle of Gutedel with a waiter’s corkscrew. I chose a ham sandwich with lettuce, tomato, and some kind of pink dressing that smelled wonderful. Clara chose a chicken sandwich. I poured some wine into our glasses, but filled them only halfway, remembering the picnics I used to go on with my family and how often I spilled a glass or bottle of soda when I tried to balance it on a blanket.

  “To long life and happiness,” I said, regretting the “long life” part after I said it.

  “To happiness,” she answered, as we clicked glasses.

  After I finished my sandwich and Clara finished half of hers, she started cutting up bits of cheese for us to have with a ripe pear.

  “Tell me about your wife,” she said, just like that. No leading up to it.

  “Well . . . let me see. Two weeks after our marriage, she turned into a witch.”

  “You mean . . . What do you mean?” she asked. “You don’t mean a real witch, do you?”

  “Yes, a real witch. She was very pretty and she had beautiful long hands. When we returned from our honeymoon I had to go back to work, but when I came home from rehearsals each night, there was nothing to eat. She wouldn’t cook or shop or wash a dish or make the bed. She wouldn’t even buy soap for the bathroom, even though I gave her plenty of money and she was free all day.”

  “Oh dear. But didn’t you make love together?”

  “Once every six months—like clockwork. I was a faithful husband for three years, but when the sadness of my marriage finally inched its way past my self-pity and into my brain, I got a divorce . . . and I was liberated.”

  “I see.”

  “I didn’t mean to make you sad, Clara.”

  “You didn’t make me sad. I’m happy you got rid of the witch.”

  “Would you tell me about your husband, or is that insensitive of me right now?”

  “I like insensitive questions—haven’t you figured that out yet? Gustav was what, in French, we would call ‘un con,’ which means—well, a bad thing. An ass, I think you say in English, but worse than that. He was a big man—not cruel—but weak and dumb and I think he wanted to marry me because I was from a good family and he wanted financial help from my father so he could go into some kind of tool-shop business. And he wanted lots of children. I was a virgin, of course. He would put his willy into my private part and pump. There was no delight for me, or rapture, or any of the things I had heard about when I was growing up—just Gustav pumping up and down until he was finished. Then he would stand up and say, ‘Thank you, Clara,’ and that was the lovemaking. We did that five times and then I found out that I had a stomach cancer, which my mother and grandmother had also had, and off Gustav ran—weeping, ‘I can’t, I can’t,’ as he packed his bags, took his cigars, and left. My father arranged for an annulment shortly after Gustav left.

  Clara smiled like a cherub and said, “Sound like fun?”

  “I think I’d like another glass of wine.”

  “Me too,” she said, and filled our glasses halfway again.

  “To always being honest with each other,” she said, as we clicked glasses.

  “To honesty,” I said, with tightness in my throat.

  “I suppose you want to kiss me now,” she said, and she was not making a joke.

  What an unusual woman. Well, tell her the truth.

  “I do want to kiss you, Clara—not because of the story you told me about your asshole husband—but because I’ve wanted to kiss you since we met.”

  “I know that. Well then, ask me!” she said, like a schoolteacher.

  Don’t laugh . . . Don’t laugh . . . It’s just the way she is.

  “Would it be all right if I kissed you, Clara?”

  “Yes, it would,” she answered.

  I put my arm around her waist and gently pressed my lips against hers. At first she kept her eyes open, but after we both lay back onto the blanket, her eyes closed and she folded herself into my shoulder as we had a beautiful, long and tender kiss. And then she fell asleep.

  In my former life—which was about two weeks ago—I would have said to myself, “Good for you, Jeremy. Now gently slip off her skirt while she’s still in this dreamy state, and then—” No! You don’t womanize with a dying woman, no matter how desirable and accessible she is. You may be a flirt but you’re not a brute. Anyway, she’s sleeping—not because of your exquisite kiss, lover boy, but probably because of the wine she drank, and the music, and the excitement of romance, which she’s not used to.”

  I brushed away a fly that looked like it was about to land on Clara’s eyelid. What an angel face she has. I don’t want her to die. And I don’t want her to fall in love with me on the rebound from that asshole she was married to, or out of vulnerability because of her thoughts of death and cancer. I just want her to be happy, for as many weeks or months or days that she has. The pain is going to come later, Dr. Gross said. Well, watch over her, Jeremy. But I’ll be glad when I’m healthy enough to return to my work and my home, without responsibility for Clara’s happiness

  THAT EVENING I received a note addressed to Mr. Webb, from Mrs. Mulpas. It read:

  Dear Jeremy:

  Too tired to eat dinner . . . perhaps because I’m so

  happy after our lovely picnic. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  I hope you’re happy, too.

  Clara

  SIXTEEN

  THE NEXT MORNING THE SKY WAS FILLED WITH ominous clouds that promised a thunderstorm in a very short while. I was about to call Clara’s room when the receptionist handed me another note.

  “It’s from Mrs. Mulpas, sir,” the receptionist said.

  Because of the coming storm, I am going to be a good girl and do all of my treatments today, just as Dr. Gross wants me to. Perhaps we can have dinner together tonight . . . if you still like me.

  Clara

  “If you still like me?” I’d never met anyone like her.

  I went to my room and practiced with Gerhardt Fleischer’s violin for a few hours, but from out of nowhere I became so emotional that I had to stop for a while. When I finished playing, I decided to call Dr. Gross. He said I could come to his office in half an hour.

  “I DON’T know what’s happening. I’m terribly upset, Dr. Gross, and I think I need—”

  “Please—won’t you call me Karl?”

  “Thank you. And please call me Jeremy.”r />
  “Good! Now then, sit down and tell me what seems to be the trouble?”

  “I need to know if I’m crazy.”

  “Of course you’re not crazy. I told you that. You just do crazy things.”

  “But why?”

  After quite a long pause, he said, “How was your picnic with Clara?”

  “Fine. Very nice. But she’s probably told you everything already.”

  “No, no, not everything. I only know that you made her happy, that’s all.”

  “I don’t want to hurt her, Karl. I care for her, and yes, I’m attracted to her. But I don’t want marry her or promise her anything or make her fall in love with me or—”

  “You don’t want to hurt her—I understand that. Don’t worry so much. You cannot make that woman do anything she doesn’t want to do. Clara is stronger than you or me. You think you’re a bad person, but you are a good person. . . . Can you possibly live with that, Jeremy?”

  “Are you saying that I do crazy things because I can’t accept that I’m a good person?”

  “No, not at all. That would be crazy. I’m talking to you about Clara and you’re talking to me about that tuba again and pounding the piano and—by the way, why did you pour water into that tuba?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. The tuba player in Cleveland was a nice enough man. He was sort of—”

  “What was his name?”

  “Carlo! Why do you ask?”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Yes. Everyone liked him, but—”

  “But—?”

  “Well, Carlo was a little heavy. . . . I mean, quite overweight . . . and the conductor kept picking on him—always referring to him as ‘Fatso’ in front of the full orchestra. That’s a terrible thing to do. I mean, you do have to be fairly big to carry a tuba around.”

  “Why didn’t anyone say anything to the conductor?”

  “I did! I said plenty. I told the conductor—in front of the whole orchestra—to shut his fucking mouth or I would shut it for him.”

  “Good for you! But why did you pour water into Carlo’s tuba?”

  “I DON’T KNOW! I THOUGHT HE MIGHT BE THIRSTY!”

  “Who?”

  “CARLO! I mean . . . Oh, my God, what am I talking about? This is crazy.”

  “Not at all. I’m sure Carlo was very relieved.”

  “When?”

  “When you gave him a glass of water to show that you cared about him.”

  Karl Gross’s angelic eyes seemed to look right into my brain as he gave me one of his devilish smiles.

  SEVENTEEN

  IT WAS POURING BUCKETS THAT AFTERNOON. I went to the small indoor dining room for my tea and scones and Chekhov motioned me to come over. He was tucked away in a corner, sipping his mare’s milk.

  “I think it’s a stupid habit to ask, ‘How are you doing, old fellow?’ as the English say. I hate the sound of it. Why don’t you just sit down and tell me about food and wine . . . and Mrs. Mulpas.”

  “What’s that brown thing you’re eating?” I asked.

  “They call it a ‘Gesundheit brot,’ meaning a health bread, but it tastes more like a ‘Kranken brot,’ so I dabbled a little cinnamon and sugar on it—don’t inform on me. Now then, tell me things.”

  I motioned to Maurice to bring me “my usual.”

  “I went on a picnic with Mrs. Mulpas.”

  “Good! I like the sound of it already. Where?”

  “To a secluded place in the foothills, not far from here. The chef packed sandwiches for us and a little cheese, and some Gutedel. We even had glasses and a blanket and cushions. It was wonderful.”

  “This makes me happy, but also a little jealous. May I ask if your romance is at the galloping stage, or are you just trotting?”

  “Somewhere in between, I think. I care for her, Anton, but I’m not at all interested in anything permanent, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m not worried about anything except staying alive. I just can’t help relating things to my own life. I was always careful to keep my ladies at a distance and I would break things off if they got too heated. But the irony is—despite all of my stupid philosophizing—I got married two years ago.” Chekhov laughed. “This could be one of my plays, you know. Or better yet, a short story.”

  “But where’s your wife? What’s her name? I’d like to see her.”

  “So would I. Her name is Olga Knipper and she’s a wonderful actress and wants to come and visit her husband, but it seems that Mr. Stanislavski and his famous Moscow Art Theatre can’t put on even one play without Olga acting in it. And the doctors won’t let me go to her right now.”

  Maurice came in with “my usual.”

  “Ah, here come your scones. Please, drink your tea and tell me more about your picnic.”

  “Well, it was a lovely day and—”

  “I hope there’s a kiss involved. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t interrupt. This is your story, not mine. Yes, ‘it was a lovely day and’—”

  “—and Dr. Gross let me borrow a violin that used to belong to a famous violinist, and before Clara and I ate our lunch I managed to play a short piece by Schumann without doing any of my famous crazy antics. Anyway, Clara liked it very much.”

  “Which piece did you play?”

  “The Traumerei.”

  “Beautiful. By the way, are you at all familiar with Rachmaninov?”

  “He’s my favorite,” I answered.

  “You have good taste. Did you know that when he premiered his first symphony, the critics tore him apart? He suffered a nervous breakdown, contemplated suicide, couldn’t write music for almost a year, until he began working with a psychologist who gave him something called ‘auto-suggestive therapy.’ He recovered his confidence and wrote his Piano Concerto Number 2, which is now being played all over the world. Why don’t you take another little bite of that delicious-looking scone with your tea?”

  “Dr. Chekhov—are you treating me with auto-suggestive therapy right now?”

  “I was a doctor, Jeremy. I gave that up several years ago. I’m not a psychiatrist or psychologist, I’m just an artist, like you, but I know a great deal about critics and nervous breakdowns . . . and people who are exploding with anger.”

  I took another bite of my scone and a sip of tea, but I didn’t look at Chekhov when I asked, “And you think I’m exploding with anger because of that son-of-a-bitch music critic from New York?”

  “No, not at all. Well—I don’t know. My guess is that you’re terribly angry with someone else. But what do I know?”

  “Anton, do you honestly think I could be that angry with someone else and not even know who that person is?”

  “Perhaps. I know that I’ve been boiling with anger at one woman or another who disappointed me terribly, but at the time I wouldn’t allow myself to know how truly angry I was. I still wanted to protect them, I suppose . . . or didn’t want them to stop loving me, or stop thinking kindly of me, or something like that. Life is strange.”

  Chekhov took another sip of his mare’s milk and made a sour face when he took a bite of his Gesundheit brot.

  “Would you like a little taste of this Kranken brot, Jeremy?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Eighteen

  SHE FINALLY WORE A DRESS I HAD SEEN ONCE BE-fore: the lavender with a splash of pink and light blue. Clara was smiling and she looked exuberant as she walked toward me. It was still too cool to sit in the garden so we sat in the dining room.

  “What are we having tonight?” she asked. “Lake trout, if that’s alright with you?” “Oh good, I was hoping for some fish. Have you heard anything about the weather tomorrow?”

  “The storm is over. It’s supposed to be beautiful.” “Can we have another picnic?” she asked, with the excitement of a child.

  “Of course. But you’d better bring a sweater along, just in case.”

  I TRIED to fall asleep that night, but I kept recalling the few times in m
y life when I was actually “exploding with anger,” as Chekhov put it. Apart from one particular memory of my time with the “witch,” when I threw my dinner plate, with a sirloin steak, which I had bought and cooked, onto the ceiling—and my memory of that stupid conductor in Cleveland who kept calling Carlo “Fatso”—the only image that kept coming to mind was a woman named Miss Schneider, from Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

  When I was twelve and my mother was terribly ill, my father hired a tall, matronly lady named Elsa Schneider to watch over my mother while he was at work. Five afternoons a week. But in those afternoons—while my mother was lying in bed and constantly in pain—Miss Schneider spent most of her time trying to convert her into becoming a Christian Scientist. She tried to get her to give up all her heart medications and to stop seeing her doctor. She also tried to have an affair with my father when he came home. I didn’t know about that until much later, but I knew something was wrong when I heard Miss Schneider telling my mother to throw away her medicine and stop seeing her doctor. And yet, Miss Schneider was always so soft-spoken and gentle with my mother, even while she was trying to poison her mind. I felt helpless, because I didn’t know what I could do. But my father did. When he came home and my mother told him what was happening, he screamed at Miss Schneider: “ARE YOU CRAZY? ARE YOU NUTS? WHAT THE HELL’S THE MATTER WITH YOU?” And he kicked her out of the house. I wanted to be able to get angry that way. I even went into our basement and pretended that Miss Schneider was standing in front of me, and I shouted: “Are you crazy? Are you nuts? What the hell’s the matter with you?” and then I slapped a cushion in the face, as if it were Miss Schneider. But that was all pretend and it was so long ago. I finally fell asleep exhausted.

  NINETEEN

  OUR THIRD RENDEZVOUS

  The next day, the weather was beautiful. After a short walk we found our grassy plateau in the woods. Clara spread the blanket and cushions and took out the food. I took out Gerhardt Fleischer’s violin.