by Milan Fust
I often think of a scene in this connection, not a scene really, just a remark passed by an Andalusian clod.
It happened in Spain, at the beginning of our marriage; we were traveling south, by coach (I had put in at a Spanish port and she came down to meet me). We were detained because there was a religious procession in the city, complete with flags, flowers, incense. This chap in a black hat and embroidered vest stood near the coach and kept ogling us; he wouldn't take his eyes off my wife and me.
"What does a big hulk like that do with such a tiny woman? he asked his friends. "Break her into little pieces?" The rascal asked just that, and then laughed, too, in the midst of the holy procession.
The comment sure made my wife come alive, though.
"Did you hear what that fellow just said? What nerve . . ." She got all fired up, and her eyes, even her eyes spoke of a knowledge that only she possessed.
"What nerve, really." And she pressed her flushed face against my hand. Then, still blushing, she said: "Nobody but nobody knows what you're really like. Except me."
And this is just what I am getting at—that she wasn't at all indifferent then. And it is precisely that scene, that sudden flare-up, that I kept going back to when I felt she might not have any feelings left for me.
Once again I thought of it. And it is the reason why—miserable as she was when she came after me in her robe—I didn't say anything. I didn't ask, didn't look into her eyes, didn't try to puzzle out her secret. I wouldn't have, under any circumstances. I never did like showdowns and final pronouncements.
"If you like, I can even be more frank," a hot-blooded classmate of mine once told me at the academy. And my response even then was: "Don't bother. Let's not be that frank with each other." And I hold to this even today. For where does all that frankness get us? One never really knows what to make of another's version of the truth; each one of us sticks to his own story, and we proceed alongside of each other, toward a dead end.
Which wouldn't be half so bad. But certain words may be uttered, fatal words, which may not even be true, or not completely. As soon as she blurts out things like: I don't love you, I can no longer live with you, the damage is done—she can't really take it back the next day, can she? It's those damn conventions again. I hate you, she says. There can be some truth in that. But if those nights we spent in Granada were any indication, the matter was not so simple. And for that reason, it was still better to be cautious.
In any case, where are the people who are perfectly suited for each other? Who will show me these blessed ones? Life, alas, is one long test of endurance.
So I chose to keep quiet, and made sure she wouldn't have to say anything, either. After all, I was trying to calm her down, not unsettle her more. The seat of unhappiness is in the neck, the old sailors used to say; and if one of them went crackers, they'd start working on his neck muscles. And that's exactly what I did now. Sometimes it's those clever tricks and concoctions that bring relief to an aching soul, by relaxing and then toning up the muscles. And the neck muscles are crucial, those old seamen knew what they were talking about.
Sure enough, she began to cry. And smile, too. We all know how lovely a young woman can be when she smiles through her tears. Sunlight piercing through the rain clouds, and all that. I myself was almost happy. Life does have a way of fooling us.
Pretend she ran to you in her hour of need, I told myself.
This happened on a Sunday, when the maid was out. I was happy about that too, happy to while away hours, outside of time. I made a nice fire and got some food in the larder. Because she was hungry by now. And we simply stretched out on the carpet and nibbled, as if on a picnic. I didn't even turn on the light, I just let the darkness close in on us.
And then I began to talk, too. Told her about. . . well, what? My travel experiences, mostly. About the urge that's in every young man to find out if there is happiness anywhere in this world. For what else is a young man interested in but to learn what goes on in those dimly-lit huts after the hypnotic din of a sun-drenched day subsides? When light fades from the walls and he stands alone in the cold tropical night. Who are those shriekers and clamorers, he wonders, who during the day simply gobble up the sun. What goes through their minds when night comes and the moon shines into their shabby little rooms?
"This was when I wound up in Selangor," I said to my wife, "on my way to even remoter parts of Malaya. I can't tell you what fascination life there had for me. I had seen indolence before but never such voluptuous idleness . . . The way these people could stretch out and lounge about and chew tobacco in the shade, their eyes forever bright, as though they were always drunk, always burning. They kept sipping life as if it were some delicate wine. I, harried and overworked as always, thought I had finally reached the happy isles.
"Until, of course, I found out a thing or two about the place. 'You can't measure happiness,' a member of one of their ruling families told me once. (He, of course, studied in Paris and London and naturally spoke Dutch, too.) 'Take a look at them when they are raving mad,' said this pale-faced descendant of a long line of sultans, 'when they seethe and whip out their knives.'
'"Life is a but a struggle," this oriental aristocrat informed me. And laughed rather coldly. And to illustrate, he told me little stories about these people, to help me understand what this serene-seeming island paradise was really like. He mentioned unusual goings-on under the surface, disappearances, strange pilgrimages—God knows what else. But mainly he told me about the grandmothers and their sorceries. He asked me to consider just that: a world ruled by women who were tiny, by the way, the older ones smaller still, and all shriveled, though tough and immovable, like a mountain. It's easy to imagine, how all this can lead to ruin, how it can devastate the young especially, who become generally apathetic, oblivious, interested in only one thing; the Dutch guilder. And when the scramble for those guilders gets to be too hectic, the women just chuck everything, very proudly put on their chadoors and journey to Mecca to kiss a stone.
"And I say the same to you now," I continued, turning to matters closer at hand. "Life is indeed a struggle, as you can see, that's what it is all about. It's no use looking for happy people."
I tried hard to make her see my point. There are people, I know, who think only they are unhappy. The whole world writhes in ecstasy, only their skies are overcast.
"Take my life, for instance," I said to her and smiled. "After all, I am human, too, and believed with all the rest of them that I was entitled to a little happiness."
And strangely enough, I began to talk about my own life, something I hardly ever did.
I talked about my struggles, my work, about the odd and baffling world I sprang from—my family, in short, whose members in a way also put on a chadoor and disappeared when they felt too stifled, or simply fed up with those around them. They were also forever preoccupied, oblivious, never paying the slightest attention. Our mother only liked to cook and play the piano, these were her two passions. Father, on the other hand, had not much use for fancy feelings and moods—one night he took a pitcher of water and dumped it into the piano. All he wanted to do was think, to figure things out. What was it he kept turning over in his head?
Not much, I suspect—a new type of camera maybe, an old hunt he'd gone on once, or whether the czars of Russia were right about anything. And if we add to this an extraordinary brother who cared about nothing in the world except his own little pleasures, whose pocket always jangled with money of mysterious origin, and whose head too was full of mysterious schemes—well, if she were to imagine all that, then she would surely see why I left that world behind, and why I didn't care to waste another thought on them.
I brought all this up because I figured: Why shouldn't she know? It might just make her realize that she could do things if she wanted to. But when I got this far I suddenly stopped and said to her:
"Now why don't you tell me something?"
"Me? I don't really have anything to tell."
/> "You don't? All right, then. But then what are we to do. . .? What is it with you, anyway?" I suddenly asked, and already felt my blood pressure rise. Here I was talking to her, putting my soul on display, and she won't even respond.
She did make a move finally; she got out of bed and groped about for something in the darkened room.
"I was going to swallow this," she said casually, with a laugh.
"What is it?"
"A drink," she said, lighthearted still. And lay down again.
I tasted it: a bitter, vile potion, I disposed of it quickly. So she wanted to poison herself. While in the bath, she wanted to poison herself but couldn't go through with it.
"Why did you want to poison yourself?" Dead silence.
"Strange, this silence of yours. But it's all right. Don't speak if you don't want, I will not make you. But I will get to the bottom of this vast silence, I assure you." And put this critical question to her: "Why can't you live with me?"
I swallowed hard. For this was the touchy area about which I spoke earlier: the area that had been out of bounds for me for so long. But no more rational arguments. I must get through to her somehow.
"I will not dissuade you from doing anything," I began. "At the same time, there are limits, you can't expect me to condone everything. To live here and at the same time to be thinking of someone else, that's something I can't put up with."
There, I said it; no more roundabout phrases, no more gentle hints. Why not talk plainly for a change, the way God intended for us to talk?
"But if you are after the impossible I will give you the impossible. I'll support both of you—you and your lover, how is that? And you won't even have to live in this house. Well, are you willing to go that far?"
Utter silence.
"I know, I know, we can entertain wonderful thoughts about the subject. Why shouldn't a woman feel or think as she pleases, right? Especially if she is no ordinary woman? What business is it of another man, of her husband even? Just because I work for you and support you? A contemptible argument, I am sure you will agree.
"But we can even go further, if you wish. You can't love on demand, that's quite clear. Even I can appreciate that. Either it's there or it isn't—no philosophy can change that. However, if you don't find it in your heart to show some interest, then say so. Because in that case, I will let you go. (I even said that, come what may. I had to know where I stood, once and for all.)
"Or I shall go away. I can, you know, just as I did years ago, when I left my parents' house."
She sat there in the dark, perfectly still.
"And as far as the young man is concerned, he's a first class scoundrel, believe me. (I got to this point perfectly composed. I was proud of myself.) He invited us to go to London, you know. (I told her that too. And that he's had it with her, wanted to get rid of her. I told her everything, in other words, the whole pitiful story.)
"But only because I want you to see it for yourself," I said. "You are nothing to him, you understand. No, don't even answer, I know, I am convinced it is so.
"Wouldn't it be better for you to stay with someone who does love you? Think about it. Or does that really make you want to die? Is it such a big crime to love you?"
And then once more, the same question: "Why shouldn't you want to live with me?" And after that, nothing.
"Shouldn't we turn on the light? I asked her a little later. "Oh no, please," she said, terrified.
This wasn't so bad, I thought. And tried to convince myself that I was still quite calm. No damage done. I kept whistling loudly.
Besides, I tried to approach this thing from another angle. It occurred to me that she might be involved in some other mysterious and messy business. Maybe she gambled or played cards —hence her nervous condition. She could be in debt up to her ears and afraid to tell me about it. Could I have misread her signals?
She did sometimes tell me she had no money left. And I could see there was more on her mind.
Also, right around that time she again informed me that 3000 francs were stolen out of her pocket. Once again: a mystery story. Money lost or stolen, probably the latter, she thought. She was ready with a couple of versions. She took off her gloves and suspected that while she did ... A familiar story. And obviously phony from beginning to end. Let's look into it then.
Not because of the money involved. I wanted to know what she spent it on. Because she went through an awful lot of money, an unheard-of sum, considering my circumstances.
She once started telling me about some sort of time payments but I only half listened. It had to do with door-to-door salesmen and how she always fell for their pitch. She'd be standing in the kitchen, over the stove, and they'd be pestering her, she couldn't get rid of them. I also remember her telling me about bills she got from booksellers.
Her books . . . there's another story. We should talk about that, too. My wife, you see, was a rather cultured woman, a high-minded person, really, who loved literature, philosophy, and, in a light-hearted sort of way, even the occult—she didn't believe in it or anything, she just wanted to get a taste of that, too. At one time she bought all kinds of books, rare old editions, journals, too. I don't really know what the hell for. As though there weren't such things as lending libraries. But she never liked things that passed through other hands, she was finicky that way. I let her be, though, I didn't interfere.
Needless to say, I didn't join her in her pursuits—how could I?
Reading requires your heart to be in it, and who had time for that? At most I'd glance at the titles.
"What sort of books are these?" I would sometimes ask her, sounding sarcastic, the way unschooled people do when they want to appear superior about the very things that are beyond their comprehension. Among her books were such titles as On Human Emotions, The History of Philosophy. She was especially interested in psychology.
"Yes, what sort of books are these?" I'd ask her casually, pretending to be even more ignorant than I was.
"Tell me the truth, are you really interested in this stuff?"
"Why, of course. I am interested in all that's odd in nature." So there.
What could I do with this woman? I put down the books and didn't discuss them any further. When I asked her the next time what she was reading, she just said:
"Serious literature."
"What for?" I'd ask.
"Because I have a feeling for such things," she would answer.
"And what else do you have a feeling for, you strange creature?"
"I am not about to tell you. Must you know everything? You know too much already." In other words I couldn't delve into her affairs, the better part of her world remained shrouded in mystery.
All this, however, is besides the point. The only reason I mentioned it was to raise a question: How does one reconcile these "finer things" with her lies? The edifying tracts with titles such as "Educating Your Soul" or "Know Your Conscience" with murky uncertainty and the shady affairs involving three thousand francs which, supposedly, was stolen while she took off her gloves. . . . She lied through her teeth, that woman, she lied shamelessly, all the time.
If she said she was going one place, she'd be sure to go to another; if she said she had no cigarettes with her, she did. It was all so baffling. Why should she go through contortions even over such petty things? She even went so far as intimating that she may be the daughter of a Turkish major—she actually made a statement to that effect one day.
"What was that? What are you saying?" I mean, this was too much. She was lying on the sofa, staring into the air. Daydreaming with her eyes open. And this is precisely what was—and is, even today—so alien to me. But I guess it was in her blood, all this romantic nonsense. Or should I call it plain childishness?
I realize now that I should have spoken about this earlier. It is strange, after all, that she never answered my questions. All those searching questions about the meaning of life and never an answer. And I just let it go. But why did I? Because
I wouldn't have believed her anyway. With her I could never escape the feeling that it was all play-acting, all make-believe, and it was her wild fantasies that did it. After a while I couldn't even believe what I saw with my own eyes. For all I knew, her wanting to drink poison may also have been mere play and illusion. And when she sank into silence, perhaps all she wanted to do was torment me, to pretend she no longer loved me but loved someone else, and couldn't care less about my probing questions.
Come to think of it, it took some daring to dish up the story about being robbed—twice. It took impudence, come to think of it, and skill. She'd have me believe that if the same happened to her again, it must have happened the first time, too.
But it didn't, not the first time and not later. And now I was determined to get to the bottom of it, at least of the three thousand. Was it cards, after all? Or the races? I even thought of drugs. I went through her books again, the latest shipment, and her clothes, too, to see if she didn't have a fur coat or an evening gown stashed away someplace—anything that might suggest extravagance. But I found nothing. And as far as cards were concerned, she didn't know the first thing about them; I discovered that several times. Just then I began to teach her trente-et-quarante and another game, meine-deine, favored by sailors.
"Take it, it's your winnings," I reminded her during a game— she obviously wasn't paying attention.
"Yes, yes," she said, and yawned. A blind alley, clearly. I had to find a different lead. One day I went into the kitchen where our maid, Äubchen Marie, a good-natured, obese old woman, was doing her chores. (We called her Äubchen Marie because whenever she saw a child, she called it Äubchen, or little bonnet—who knows where she may have picked up that German word..) I put a practical question to her, though using a approach that was the opposite of my usual strategy.
"Last winter we spent altogether too much money on electricity, isn't it so Marie? I am about to pay the bill and I want to know how come?"
"Madame spends the whole night reading, that must use up a lot of electricity."