The Dogs and the Wolves

by Irene Nemirovsky

  ‘But what have you done?’ she pleaded, her voice full of fear.

  He stood up and paced back and forth around the room, opening and closing the cupboards.

  ‘What are you looking for? Money?’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Just thirsty. I’m dying of thirst. Give me something to drink.’

  She poured him a glass of water.

  ‘Give me a drop of wine, Ada.’

  ‘You already seem drunk!’

  He wasn’t listening to her. He’d found a bit of white wine and mixed it with the water. He sipped it slowly, standing up.

  ‘No luggage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just like before,’ she murmured, ‘with three shirts and a raincoat, always ready to leave, as light as the wind, a passport in your pocket . . .’

  ‘Why do you want me to have changed?’ he asked dryly. ‘And what about you? The mistress of that rich Sinner, but you’re still here!’

  He thought for a moment, then added, ‘You do know that I won’t be the only one who has to leave, don’t you?’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning that someone – who is certainly not expecting it, someone who is now sleeping in his lovely French bed – would be wise to do what I’m doing, tomorrow morning or even tonight, if he doesn’t want to lose everything along with me.’

  ‘Are you mad? Have you been drinking?’

  ‘I’m not mad and I’m not drunk. But you’ll soon find out what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Have you managed to get Harry mixed up in your dirty business, in your damned shady schemes?’ she shouted.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Harry? But that’s not possible! You and he have nothing to do with each other!’

  ‘He and I may have nothing to do with each other, but his uncles and his company do, and there are many unpleasant, painful things in store for him as a result.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Tell me!’

  ‘You can read about it in the papers tomorrow!’

  Ada’s eyes were flashing.

  ‘Tell me right now!’ she said, leaping at him. ‘Tell me, damn you!’

  ‘The stock market crash of the Sinner firm,’ he said. ‘It’s been kept secret until today, but tomorrow the news will break, and with all the usual consequences: legal proceedings, scandal, public outrage, et cetera.’

  His long, agile hands, never at rest, traced an elegant shape in the air, a web that was as extravagant and complicated as lace; he smiled as his eyes followed its threads.

  ‘You know, however brilliant and elaborate the scheme, it is a fragile, delicate structure that can come tumbling down with a single blow. And we’ve had one disaster after the other. What can you do? In the past, it was individuals who went bankrupt. But we’ve been dealing with insolvent governments. One after the other, they’ve collapsed, and every bankruptcy has been followed by some revolution or other, a change of regime or a war, and we were left high and dry with our mines flooded, our factories destroyed and our railways nationalised. What a year! I’ve lived through more this past twelve months than in the last twelve years. I did what I could . . .’

  He stopped and looked at her.

  ‘Yes. You’ve guessed right. I stopped at nothing. I wanted to save time. In deals like these, it all finally comes down to seeing how long you can hold on. You dig a hole to fill in another hole until everything caves in and the whole thing collapses . . . or you’re saved by a single stroke of good luck. I’ve been accused of forgery.’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I had to keep going because of my enemies and also because of the Sinners. The past six months . . . yes, it’s true . . . I did forge their signatures. I had to. There were certain documents to do with assets that I had to . . . sort out a little . . . change the dates to get the creditors to wait. Everything could have been saved if we’d held our nerve and kept it quiet for a few more months. The revolutions are coming to an end; the regimes are changing. The natural resources I was counting on are still there. But you’re always having to hand out bribes. That’s what can become costly . . . both for me and for them. One young lad who worked for me committed suicide. You can play around with the figures and that’s all right, but there’s always the human element; it’s inherently flawed, but you can’t do without it. Every man has his petty ambitions, his pitiful little love story, his fears. One fool lost his head and killed himself; before he died, he wrote a letter to the State Prosecutor. That’s how everything came out. Did the Sinners know?’ he asked slowly, speaking less to Ada than to himself. ‘No, of course not. Not at first, at least. And afterwards, they kept quiet because they understood how much could be gained. They were intoxicated by the idea. They rushed ahead, seeing nothing, forgetting about all the obstacles, like old horses who’ve been locked up in the stables for a long time,’ he said with a harsh laugh. ‘They hear shouting and the sound of the whip again and start running, and they run until they drop down dead. But at least I really made them run again. They had good times with me. You can’t even begin to imagine what they gained, thanks to me, and especially what they might have gained! Their company was large, famous, established, but with no power, slow, uncompromising, stagnating, dying: a corpse! I’m the one who brought it back to life, make no mistake about that!’

  ‘And Harry’s uncles, those old men, listened to you?’

  ‘Because I appealed to something within them that was even older than they were,’ he said quietly.

  ‘And Harry?’

  ‘We fixed it so he wouldn’t know anything.’

  ‘Well, then, he’s not responsible,’ she cried. ‘He can’t be expected to answer for what you’ve done!’

  ‘That will all be decided during the proceedings, my dear,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘What proceedings?’

  ‘But . . . there will have to be an inquiry, judges, an investigation, how should I know?’

  ‘You mean a scandal! Is that what you wanted? A scandal?’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘You’re disgusting, Ben. You are the person I mistrust and detest most in the world, the person who is most evil! There is no punishment too harsh for you. Because of you, innocent people will be prosecuted, poor people will die. An honest man will be ruined, dishonoured, and all because of you! While you, you’ll disappear, calmly on your way, your hands in your pockets, your full pockets . . .’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong! I haven’t got a penny.’

  ‘Tell that to someone who might believe you,’ said Ada harshly.

  ‘I swear. Why would I lie to you? I have nothing. Do you think I was wanting to stash away pennies like some old farmer’s wife from the Auvergne or Flanders when all those millions were floating around me, created by me, by the unique actions of my intelligence and cunning? Don’t laugh, Ada. Just because I’ve been beaten doesn’t mean you should refuse to admit that my intelligence, my gifts, are as brilliant as yours and equally important. What is your painting, after all? You want to make people see through your eyes, and in the same way, I too want to bend the world to my imagination, to my desires. That was what amused me, it was that, not stuffing my pockets full of money or bringing glory to the Sinners.’

  He said the name with such hatred that Ada cried out. ‘The truth is that you wanted to destroy Harry! Get your revenge because I left you for him. You’re so proud of yourself but you’re nothing but a poor jealous child! And just like the most bourgeois husband, just like any shopkeeper whose wife has cheated on him, you wanted revenge!’

  ‘No,’ he said quietly, shaking his head. ‘No. The game I was playing was so exciting, I got so carried away that I even forgot about Harry . . . But the fact that he’s now mixed up in this mess, well, that is some consolation to me. For two days now, ever since I’ve known that the scandal was about to break, ever since I’ve been shaking all over (because you know I
show off for you, Ada, and you, well, you know me so well and you either don’t see it or don’t want to see it, so you can be tough on me, so you don’t have to feel sorry for me), ever since that moment, there has been only one thought that has consoled me: the fact that, finally, Harry’s fate will be the same as mine. And why shouldn’t it be? We’re cousins; we come from the same line; we look alike. Ah, how satisfying it will be to see our photos side by side. Harry Sinner. Ben Sinner. Tomorrow, everyone will see those photos in the morning papers, and no one will be fooled, no one. They’ll be saying: “Two dirty foreigners, two filthy immigrants. Brothers, without a doubt . . . Look at them: they have the same scheming eyes, the same greedy mouth. They’re so ugly. Prison is the only place for those two!”’

  He saw she had turned white.

  ‘But you know, I don’t really want him to go to prison that much,’ he said, leaning towards her. ‘You can warn him and let him do what I’m doing. Tell him to get away, to disappear. He won’t have a penny, you realise that? . . . The Sinners’ business will collapse. He can go from country to country, buying and selling rubbish, trafficking in foreign currency, become a travelling salesman, a broker who trades in cheap fabric or contraband munitions, depending on what his clients want or need, and in ten years, we’ll see if anyone, even a woman in love, even you, Ada, can tell the difference between him and me.’

  ‘Never. That’s impossible. He’ll never be like you, never!’

  ‘No, he won’t. He’d drown in places where I would float.’

  They heard the clock strike four. Ben shivered.

  ‘I’m going now.’

  ‘Yes, go on, please,’ said Ada, trembling, pale, her eyes burning, ‘because . . . I’m afraid of myself . . . I want to kill you . . .’

  ‘Ada, come with me.’

  ‘You are mad! Now I’m sure of it. You’re mad!’

  ‘Ada, he’s not right for you and you’re not right for him. I know you; I’m almost a brother to you. Come with me. Who is he? He’s nearly a stranger to you! Come with me!’

  He was no longer overexcited; the unnatural fever that had been sustaining him had abated. He spoke quietly, simply, without looking at her, without moving towards her.

  ‘You’re thinking you’ll go with him if he leaves. But he won’t leave; he’ll stay, his head bowed. He’ll bear the punishment that he doesn’t deserve. He won’t have the courage to give up everything, to get away, like I’m doing. I may have more happiness and more misfortune in store, but for him, life will be over. He’ll be eaten up by shame, by futile regrets. He’ll wait for the scandal to break. Then he’ll wait for the trial, then he’ll wait for people to forget. But they won’t forget, not until after he’s dead. But if you come with me . . .’

  ‘And you just said how similar you both were!’ she interrupted, furious.

  ‘Yes: the ways dogs and wolves are similar,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Ada! Do you imagine for a moment that he’ll forgive you?’

  ‘Forgive me? I haven’t done anything!’

  ‘You forced him back amongst us, the Jewish scum, the opportunists, the immigrants, the foreigners . . . What else could he be after this? He had friends, a family, a fortune, a French wife! Can you imagine the contrast? What is scandal or dishonour to me? I’ve never been respected! What does going into exile mean to me? I have no real home. But to him . . . And you think he’ll forgive you for that?’

  All she could do was whisper, her voice faltering, ‘You are disgusting! Go to hell! I wish you were dead! I hope you die alone!’

  The ferocious curses that came from her mouth frightened even her. She fell silent.

  ‘Come with me!’ he said again. ‘Will you, Ada?’

  Suddenly he was speaking in an almost childlike voice, like when they were young, when he would call out to her beneath the open windows to come with him, at night, to the river’s edge. And, just like back then, she replied, ‘No. Go alone,’ opening the door for him to leave.

  He leaned forward and kissed Ada’s hand. Then he went calmly down the stairs, walked out of the house and disappeared.

  29

  Ada ran down the stairs after him. At first she had thought of rushing over to Harry’s, but she knew he couldn’t be persuaded to flee. He wouldn’t abandon his uncles or the business when they were threatened by scandal. How could he run away? He was still held there by so many family ties. No, it was pointless trying to find him. Besides, she felt sorry for him. It was nearly five o’clock in the morning. Let him have one more peaceful night’s sleep. She was afraid of him too. Ben was right: it was all her fault. How could he ever forgive her? She had dragged him far away from his family, into her own dark and tangled woods. No, she wouldn’t go to Harry’s house. But whom could she turn to? Whom could she beg for help? She had no one in the world except Aunt Raissa and Madame Mimi. Aunt Raissa had come back to France when Lilla had abandoned her prince, running off with the leading court musician.

  Ada walked up the staircase that, a few years before, she had fled down, her cheeks still burning from the slap she’d received, to throw herself into Ben’s arms. On the first floor, there was an empty little alcove made of painted wood, and she remembered how she had stopped there for a moment before rushing away and running into the street. And now she was hurrying to Aunt Raissa to ask for help!

  When she remembered this, she clung on to the memory for a moment and managed to give shape to an idea that was her only bitter consolation: ‘If you’ve forgotten that, you’ll also forget about Ben, and Harry.’

  She’d reached the door; she rang the bell and knocked several times. Aunt Raissa finally appeared; she was still slim and agile, but her red hair had turned white and her lively, harsh expression had given way to a look of defiant and false resignation, as if she were thinking, ‘Oh, I won’t make the same mistake again. I know now, you don’t have to tell me: it’s all over for me; the bets were placed long ago, the cards dealt out, and I can only watch other people play without playing myself, happy that I’m still allowed even to be here.’

  ‘What is it now?’ she shouted, looking at Ada.

  ‘I’ve just seen Ben,’ she said, and her voice seemed extraordinarily calm and distant to her, detached, like the echo of someone else who had spoken her despairing words in the most self-controlled way, just to mock her. ‘Ben has gone away. He was going to be arrested tonight.’

  Aunt Raissa said nothing, but her cheeks and forehead turned red and blotchy, as always happened when she felt any real emotion. She never cried, which was one good thing. It was comforting to hear her say in the sullen voice that was just as it had always been, ‘Come in or go out. Don’t leave me standing here in a draught.’

  Ada followed her inside. There were piles of material, pins and patterns all over the little sitting room, as always. Aunt Raissa automatically picked up and folded the fashion photos that covered the table. Then suddenly, she stopped, and with a surprised, weak gesture, covered her cheeks and forehead with her hands.

  ‘It’s hard at my age.’

  ‘I know, Aunt Raissa,’ Ada said, with pity.

  It hadn’t occurred to them to switch on the lamp; the dawn light lit up the grey canvas tailor’s dummy that stood in the corner of the room. The two women sat on the settee in silence for a moment.

  ‘How was he?’ asked Aunt Raissa.

  Ada shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘The same as ever.’

  ‘Yes, even on the gallows he’d be the same as ever, full of hope. What did he want from you? You’ve separated.’

  Ada didn’t reply.

  ‘Are you going with him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re wrong. The scandal will come out and land on you too, because you’re his wife and you have the same name. Whether you like it or not, you’re tied to each other. You should have gone with him. What will happen to you here? Your lover will leave you. He won’t forgive you for getting him mixed up in a scandal.’

 
‘Where is Madame Mimi?’ Ada asked, her voice shaking.

  Madame Mimi was her last hope: unlike Ben and Aunt Raissa, she wouldn’t tell her she had betrayed and ruined Harry.

  Aunt Raissa pointed to the next room.

  ‘Go to her. She’s sleeping. She won’t have heard you come in; she sleeps like a log. I never even close my eyes at night, not me. But she doesn’t have, has never had children, the lucky thing, so she can sleep!’

  Ada went into the little back bedroom that was Madame Mimi’s. To her surprise, she found the old woman out of bed; she was wearing a red silk shawl with fringes and sitting at a little table with a lamp on it, her playing cards spread out in front of her. She raised her eyes and looked straight at Ada.

  ‘Come in,’ she said softly. ‘I heard what you said, you poor thing. How alone and in despair you must be feeling to make you come back here!’

  For the first time, Ada couldn’t hold back her tears. She threw herself down into a chair and repeated everything Ben had said. Her voice was low and broken.

  ‘What should I do, Madame Mimi?’ she murmured.

  ‘Nothing. Wait.’

  ‘But that’s impossible!’ she cried, in anguish.

  A smile flickered across the old woman’s face.

  ‘Ah, that’s just like you, just like all of you. You fight until the very end.’

  ‘You know as well as I do,’ said Ada in a cold, distant voice that rang in her ears as if it belonged to some stranger, ‘you know as well as I do that only his wife, only that French family can save him.’

  ‘If they want to, Ada.’

  ‘If they don’t want to, then he’ll be mine and mine alone . . .’

  But Ben’s words and Aunt Raissa’s came flooding back.

  ‘Whatever happens, I’ve lost him,’ she said.

  She had hoped for some advice from the two old women, but she now understood that nothing had changed: she had always been alone, and she would always be alone, listening only to herself, to a sort of hopeless, wise twin who was hidden deep within her.

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ she said out loud, more to herself than to Madame Mimi. ‘It’s true that I have nothing to complain about, in the end. After all, if anyone had told me back then, in the Ukraine, that one day Harry Sinner would leave his wife and child for me . . .