The Story of My Wife

by Milan Fust

  My friend was furious. "But I told them I'd be bringing a friend," he said indignantly. "But wait . . ." and there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

  Sure enough, when it got dark he broke open the larder. Of course I helped him too, gladly. We set a splendid table; the damask tablecloth gleamed like a field of ice under the bright chandelier. And our raid yielded the very best: beautiful pieces of ham, mouth-watering sausages—we created regular still-lives with the red and brown meats. Later, though, things soured. For one thing, we broke open a cupboard—my friend wanted to get his hand on some money, too. And then, another unpleasant memory: we were trying to distill brandy on the kitchen table when a young girl walked in, a maid apparently . . ', When it was all over, she started crying, and kept it up, there was no consoling her.

  Adolescents are awful creatures. The beast in them has not yet been tamed. We didn't make much of the incident with the girl, though the next morning we couldn't look each other in the face, my friend and I. He wrote a brief note to his mother, thanking her for their hospitality, put it on her desk, and we left.

  But I couldn't get the crying girl out of my mind. For a long time afterwards I kept hearing her sobs, even her quickening heartbeat, as if she was secretly taking me to task, making me pay.

  And now this boat.

  Again I felt like a wastrel, a scapegrace, who's got corruption in his blood, who is sure to come to a bad end.

  And then the tormenting questions, the self-reproaches. How could I let this happen? How will it all end? Why was I entrusted with this beauty. . . ? Because it was a splendid boat. And so well maintained. We were encouraged to be on the lookout even for minor defects. At home port the inspector came around regularly, and we had to report the slightest damage, even scratches on the woodwork. And now all that painted and varnished woodwork was sizzling, the whole goddamn handcrafted frame.

  Well, Kodor, you picked out a winner, I said to myself. (He was the one who recommended me to the post. Why on earth did he do it?) The boat began to smell like burning wooden play dishes, freshly painted toys, Christmas boxes—a sickeningly sweetish smell, it almost made me sick. To this day I get nauseous when I see such wooden dishes. But that's the way we old-timers are; we get very attached to the boat we serve on. Keeping things intact somehow means more to us. A broken cup, a lost key causes us grief, let alone something as big as this. Ah, it's a terrible heartache, enough to drive you mad.

  "And the passengers' lives meant nothing to you?" someone asked me after the accident. Sure they did. Even my life is worth something. So at half past three I decided to give the distress signal. But let's face it, this was a mistake, too. I did it late, much too late. What was this with me: just a lapse, a sudden paralysis, temporary insanity? God only knows. It must have been around one thirty when my navigator first came over and saluting me stiffly, asked:

  "Hadn't we better signal for help?" Just at that moment I was staring at the barometer and then at the sky.

  "Let's wait; I have a feeling it's going to rain."

  "If we delay, the entire deck is going to burn through."

  "It will not. In any case, it's the captain of the ship who must take the responsibility, not the officers. In case you didn't know."

  He withdrew.

  But half hour later he came up to me again.

  "Do I have your permission?"

  "No."

  I have some explaining to do. Again. Where do I start? For one thing, I was always taught to be ambitious and self-reliant, which gave rise to such an inflated sense of responsibility, such vanity ... It was madness, I know. The man was right. And still. There's always that urge to prove you can do it, on your own, without help. Just then we were getting close to the seat of the fire. I was there, I saw it—deep inside, a gentle little flame, a mere flicker, hardly more than the light of a candle. Could that be all?

  Well, God be praised, I said to myself, like a man obsessed.

  The sky was overcast, there was a sluggish breeze, the barometer kept falling, and I felt like saying, hold on, hold on, it'll soon rain, very soon, in a few minutes, I'd stake my life on it. And I left it at that, I wouldn't budge.

  There is something strange about me in this respect. I can never really believe in danger, that something can be final, fatal.

  So there we were; at 2:30 p.m. the upper deck did give way, and we began burning in earnest. Imagine our little ship, if you will, as it kept burning and still pushing ahead in the pitch-black night. And the engine still working, doggedly, faithfully, like the heart of a dying man, holding out to the bitter end. Ah, what a splendid little engine it was, what a fine boat.... I thought I should cry or try saving it with my bare hand, or plunge into the flames and howl and rave until it's over.

  "Now he can tap away," I heard the first officer say to someone, after I finally relented and relayed a series of distress signals, and gave orders to sound the alarm.

  He wasn't a disrespectful chap, my officer, but he was tired— the poor man staggered about like a drunkard. I myself was hardly conscious of fatigue, though God knows, I must have been tired, too—as tired as if I had caroused for three days nonstop. But as I say, I didn't feel it, only my eyes burned and my throat filled up with bitter smoke. I drank glass after glass of lemon squash in my cabin where I escaped, to do some desperate figuring. According to my calculations, if we held out for four more hours, or even three, I could sail into a harbor safely, as I had into Trieste years ago, aboard the Guidetta.

  We are sixty miles off the Alexandria coast, I kept fretting, there have to be boats around. But no, there was nothing. Just before it got dark, we did spot a Czech steamer heading in the same direction we were, but then we lost her.. . . There we were, close to the desolate coast, with no island, no rescue station, nothing to pin our hopes on.

  At that moment I swore on the Virgin Mary that I would never again take charge of a fancy ship like this (provided we come out of it alive). It just wasn't for me. I'll go back to my old ships, my old routes—to hell with what my wife will say.

  Oh, how I hated her then . . .

  At 3:00 a.m. a morbid-looking Spanish passenger, a certain Don Pepe, shot himself in his cabin. Luckily, no one besides me found out. His younger brother, Don Julio, a freeloader, if there ever was one, came over and asked me to support his claim that as next of kin he was entitled to all his brother's worldly possessions. Sure, I said; why not?

  And that's when treacherous gusts began to rock the boat. I was desperate again. Should I stop the engines? I knew full well that only speed could save us. I walked into the lounge and told the passengers to start boarding the lifeboats. I didn't get very far. They were ready to tear me to pieces.

  "What kind of ship is this? What kind of captain?" I heard from all sides. "Why didn't you radio for help earlier?" a hulking, wild-eyed young man demanded. Clutching a pale-faced wisp of a girl under his arm like a pitiful bundle, he came menacingly close. "We can all croak for all you care," he barked, his lips quivering with rage.

  I had no choice; I took out my pistol.

  And immediately had second thoughts. They quieted down all right, but remained hostile, ready to pounce. I took advantage of the tension, and for once seized the right psychological moment. I threw away the pistol and addressed the crowd:

  "Listen, everyone: A trap door just cut my arm, I am covered with blood. My jacket burned through and with it pieces of my flesh. So you can see, I am doing my best. But you must help, too. If you go haywire, you put me in a foul mood, and that won't do you any good, believe me. Without me you don't have a ghost of a chance. But if you stick by me, I will save you even if it kills me.. . . Look at me, people: Do I look like the kind of man who doesn't keep his word?" And more of the same. I am too embarrassed to repeat all of it, it was such rubbish. But the effect was stunning. The mood changed; it swung to the other extreme. People began pleading, imploring; someone picked up the revolver I flung away, and the way he handed it back, I felt he was of
fering up his heart. After a while this, too, became insufferable.

  Some Armenian pilgrims began to torment me with their love; they caressed my coat, and droned on and on, obsequiously but unintelligibly. They spoke very little French; five of them tried putting together one decent sentence but couldn't—it was horrible. And just then their priest held his cross over me and amidst much wailing and moaning held an impromptu mass. The resulting commotion got to be too much; so as not to make a further spectacle of myself, and fools of them, I got up and left. But a young English girl threw herself at my feet and wouldn't let me go through the door.

  "I adore you, can't you see?" she cried, and smiled at me with a strange, seductive smile. She then hugged me and tried to clasp my neck. She was a beautiful girl, actually, but right now she was too busy shrieking: "Don't go away, pleeease . . ." And then: "I had my eyes on you the whole way, you didn't notice. . . ? It's all right, it's all right, I can say it," she explained to everyone around. "He is my true love, my ideal." Her mind apparently became unhinged in the crisis. Her parents, a tiny old couple with idiotic smiles of their own, just stood there, seemingly in total sympathy with their raving daughter, though their eyes were imploring me to save their child, for God's sake.

  After a time I was able to extricate myself from her embrace. I caressed her hair and—inappropriately enough—began to think how nice it would be to make love to this girl. In no time a fever of desire coursed through my veins . . .

  There is madness in all of us, I concluded, and its source is deeper down than we care to reach.

  There wasn't much left for me to do. I had the ship's foremast sawn off, lest that, too, come crashing down, and issued a few more orders in anticipation of a final catastrophe. The engine began emitting furious hissing sounds. Ominous grinding noises were coming from the direction of the propeller. And what did I do? I had a sailor arrested for trying to jump ship. I gave one more command, told them to release the steam, to avoid an explosion, after which I headed for my cabin. Once inside, I bolted the door. I was all set to do what that Don Pepe fellow had done just before: move on to the next location, as it were. I was just waiting for the lights to go out. Responsibility be hanged—let them manage as best they can. The first officer was a capable enough man.

  I can't even say I was depressed. All I kept mumbling to myself was: enough. Enough! You blew it, you are worthless, so why go on? Not that chucking everything is so commendable—ach, it's awful, despicable, today the mere thought of it makes me shudder with horror and shame. But then I was so utterly broken in spirit, I longed for death, thirsted for it.

  Strangely enough, I didn't think of my wife, and even if I had, it wouldn't have been enough to stop me. In any case, I decided she no longer loved me, and therefore dismissed all hope, turned away from a life gone awry. I knew strange things were beginning to happen back home, but I no longer cared to investigate. I was much too tired.

  I had to stuff cotton in my ears because the noises from outside—the stamping and crashing and screeching—were becoming fearsome, apocalyptic. All I wanted at the moment was some peace and quiet, a little time to sort things out. But what? Everything I believed in—life, ambition and the rest—seemed like so much foolishness and vanity. The scales fell off my eyes, yes. What was the good of all the drudgery and pain? I may just as well have spent my years whistling on streetcorners—it would have amounted to the same thing. No, I was not sorry to leave anything behind.

  But I did wash up, I washed my head and neck in cold water. Why did I do that? Not to clean up for the hereafter, I assure you. I once saw an old man suffering excruciatingly, his eyes ablaze with pain. He was ready to end it all and was just waiting for his deathly sick boy to expire in the next room. But even that boy, in the final minutes of his life, asked for—of all things—two soft-boiled eggs. Why? Because he was hungry. And that's just the point: life goes on till the last breath . . .

  My washing up, then, ought to be seen in this light.

  In the meantime, there were rumblings outside, followed by loud cries; I didn't even bother to look.

  A sailor knows more about chance than anyone else; his whole life, after all, consists of nothing but chance. First I thought we were in for a big storm, and that was actually one of the reasons I locked myself in my cabin. I figured the coming storm would seal our fate—we would all perish.

  All the signs were there: strong gusts, a rough sea—it seemed as if some awful underwater demon was churning up the sea. Northeast of us I saw lightning, even rain, but where we were, not a drop. The wind blew the clouds our way but then drove them on; they passed rapidly overhead. And though the barometer kept falling, the chances for rain, precisely because of the wind's velocity, seemed nil. If anything, it seemed to be clearing up, though I was no longer interested. I even drew the curtain over the porthole.

  And as I sat there, immersed in thought and pipe smoke, a kind of blessed tranquility came over me, the like of which I had never before experienced. It had to be serenity of a celestial sort, for all my bitterness vanished, I felt light, and my thoughts, too, seemed weightless, evanescent . . .

  Is this what death is like? I wondered. But just then I sensed a change, something must have happened out there. But what? It got awfully quiet; I began to listen.

  The wind . . . has it stopped? I jumped up, but somebody was already knocking on my door.

  "I felt a drop," he said jauntily, and moved on. "Sure looks like rain," said another. I was so shaken by that word, so devastated, I froze. Ah, those fine boys. I had abandoned them, let them down most shamelessly, but they wouldn't dream of doing the same. All night long I'd been a frantic beast, still, they didn't forget me. But that's the way they are. A little blessing from the sky and they think all their troubles are gone.

  The wind changed direction, the storm grew more intense; it felt almost like a hurricane. And moments later: a thunderclap and then a downpour—we were in the eye of a life-saving electrical storm. While lightning flashed all around us, our boat began hissing and steaming.

  By then, naturally, I was up on deck somewhere, cautious like a convalescent, though by no means happy. Still cold, I wrapped my coat tightly around me. It felt good to shiver, though to be alive did not. And oh yes: I saw the little miss again, if only for an instant. She looked fine to me, quite normal, and not one bit embarrassed.

  "Oh Captain," she cooed, and blushed just a little as she fixed her tear-stained eyes on me. Caressing her face ever so gently, I took another good look—she was beautiful.

  A day and a half later, we limped into Alexandria.

  "Fire and water are bad masters," my officer said the following day, somewhat meekly, as if trying to defuse something in me.

  "And we're not even liable for damages," I quipped as we looked over our still steaming boat. We kept dousing the old girl generously, inside she was still hot as hell.

  It was around this time that my wife fell in love with one Paul de Grévy, a man of noble birth, related to counts supposedly, a descendant of the Latour de Pin clan, a "historical" family. The young man's friends called him Dedin, and now in company that's how my wife began to call him.

  That she adored him I knew from the start. For one thing her whole being seemed thoroughly worked over; she was soft now, receptive, eager. She didn't look at him all that much, but when she did, her look conveyed blissful fellow feeling, transcendent loyalty. When she introduced him to me, she said:

  "This is my dearest friend . . . after you, of course." Why did she have to add that? Better yet, why did she have to be so honest?

  I was on to her, naturally. Her openness was meant to allay my fears. If she tells me what's in her heart, I can't possibly think of the worst. But I did. She could say what she liked, a woman in love has a certain glow, a halo almost—and she had it.

  This wasn't anything like the silly Ridolfi affair, oh this was far more serious. This time she was in love. Very well, I decided, we'll keep an unobtrusive eye on
them, and just bide our time. For the young man didn't seem to be in love, not just yet.

  With his sporty mustache and casual airs, he looked like a self-assured chap. His mouth had a sweet and sensuous curve, but his face also expressed boredom—this man was not at all anxious to please. And his attire complemented that look: a sloppy but expensive jacket, extremely baggy trousers, a tiny, silly-looking hat, and what I took to be mountain-climbing boots—I swear he looked like he was going off on a hunt. And his arms flopped about, as though enervated by his own boredom.

  Must be his aristocratic origin, I thought. That sort of thing does count for something.

  Still, there was a glint in his eyes, an impudent glow, every time he saw me. As though he were letting me know:

  Your face may launch ships, but in my eyes you are still an ox.

  Come to think of it, he called me a sea dog the first time he saw me. "You old sea dog," he said. To which I replied:

  "I am no more a sea dog, sir, than you a landlocked rat." Or some such thing. And gave him a friendly smile. I smiled at him constantly after that, curious to see how he'd respond. Will he notice that I detest him? (If only because he insisted on trying out his maritime expressions on me.) He did know something about ships and sailing, hence his insufferable expressions. And oh yes: when I first met him, I immediately thought of Don Julio carrying off his dead brother's things that dreadful night on the Daphne. He definitely reminded me of that Spaniard, not only his off-hand dignity but also his mustache that looked as if he waxed it with honey—that's how soft and shiny it was. With red, fleshy lips to match.

  I thought of asking my wife when we were alone:

  "What does this man do for a living?"

  "Oh, he is a writer."

  "A writer?"

  "He also has a rich uncle," she said demurely.

  "A parasite, in other words." I never did like beating around the bush.

  She got very frightened. A sight to behold.

  "You mean you don't like him?" she purred. "Not at all? Not even a little?" This was one of those rare moments when I truly detested her. For being so dense. What was there to like, for God's sake? And for her to beg so? . . . What was I, a kindly old uncle who was going to protect her lovers? What did she want, some friendly advice, a monthly allowance perhaps?