by Milan Fust
"No, he is not," she crooned.
"We are all alone then?"
Whereupon she lit into me: "You stay where you are. What got into you anyway? Listen, you disgusting creature, I will not cheat on my husband ... on such a fine, decent man . . . You pudgy servant, you . . ." And she was quite outraged.
Pudgy eh? I'd had enough. Leaping to my feet I yelled "Mutiny!" And then, darkly: "Enough of this comedy."
Ah, but what all this led to . . . What voluptuous pleasures, what renewals; and more than once, what unsurpassable raptures. By the time darkness descended, we didn't dare look at each other; huddling in our corners, we wrapped ourselves in blankets and fell asleep, distant, forlorn, like two black heaps on a field of ice.
At other times the first light of dawn found her by the foot of my bed, with her hand on her side, shaking with laughter.
"Please don't make me laugh," she begged. I had been telling her risque little anecdotes about men who were hopelessly clumsy in lovemaking.
"Somebody ought to write a Casanova story in reverse," I said.
Not that that was what I was doing. I was talking about myself, of course, twisting things a little, to make me look even more ridiculous. Let the precious woman have some fun. Let her remember what an oaf her husband used to be . . . How many times it happend that women kept caressing my foot under the table, and I still thought it was an accident . . . Now I was telling her about the peasant woman who asked me to pull out my rabbit.
"What did she want to see?"
"My rabbit. Of course I didn't know what she meant. Where was I going to get her a rabbit?"
"Don't go on, please," purred my wife. But I couldn't be stopped. I told her now about the time, long long ago, when I gave violin lessons. (Yes, yes, I even did that.) I wasn't very good at the violin, but where we lived in the provinces it didn't much matter. My student's mother happened to be a splendid woman, grand in spirit, and in body too. Whereas I was young and unusually skinny. I was too scared to even look at her, though she did tickle my fancy, as can be imagined. One day she sent word that she wished to discuss her son's progress with me.
Well, I was open to discussion. It was early spring, I remember; the apartment was flooded with light. I pulled on my necktie several times before opening her door. Once inside, however, I was shocked beyond words. For my student's high-minded mother received me in bed, submerged in downy softness.
"What are you doing to me?" squealed my wife once again, in vain, for I went on, undetered.
"I sat down in a chair, though just barely (you always leave a little space behind you at such times, just in case). I was going to regale her with everything I knew, and even what I didn't, about education and childrearing and such, and thought of including my thoughts on metempsychosis, too, when I noticed that this beautiful lady pulled her leg, nice and easy, from under the fluffy featherbed. What could this mean? I wondered. And even thought of the French Revolution—maybe she was a freethinker or something. She stuck out her leg all the way, you see, not just halfway, and her leg was stunningly white . . ."
"Oh, look, for heaven's sake, it's getting light," my wife said in a plaintive voice, and pointed toward the silent windows. The sun was indeed coming up, emerging gold and bright from the mist . . . And a beautiful sight it was . . .
But let's stop here for a moment. I was so overwhelmed by what happened that night, I thought I was ready to face the music. We had raged all night long like jungle beasts, ravished each other with our teeth . . . And then that bewitching laugh, and the dawn that followed . . . Can one take more? You have quite a lover, I said to myself; won't she do? And this night, wasn't it enough? But what I really would have liked to do was whisper in her ear:
I have another lover, you know. Yes, for once I have one too, and even more beautiful than you. And do you know who my other lover is. . . ?
Ah, what a thrill it would have been to tell her.
* * *
She wasn't even my lover.
It's true, we kissed now and then, in cemeteries, on country roads . . . just like in Paris that first night, in the famous Montmartre cemetery.
"No, you mustn't, Micislav, you mustn't, for pity's sake," she said every time, with an imploring look in her eyes. But I didn't care; all I ever wanted to do now is kiss. Another time she said:
"Oh, what am I doing here, Micislav? I must be mad." To which I replied:
"It's an irresistible force, my dear." (She herself told me one time: "Love, Micislav, is an irresistible force.")
"But is that what it is to you?" she now asked. "Tell me. Look into my eyes. Do you love me at all. . . ? No, you don't," she said abruptly and walked away. I ran after her and gave her a song and dance about how much I adored her . . .
I didn't, of course. I loved no one. No one. And I reached this conclusion with a light heart, I was proud of myself, in fact.
Actually, I discovered a wonderful way out: it's what people call sensuality. . . . Why take these women seriously? For, instance: does she love me, does my little sweetheart really love me? Then why does she call me Micislav? Whenever I thought about it, I had to laugh. It was all a game. The young lady was having fun at my expense. In the meantime, though, kissing her was very nice.
One day I decided I was going to divorce my wife and marry the other one. It all came about so fast, I was quite surprised myself. Here's how it happened:
I had a date with her and was late (not the first time, either). When I arrived she came running toward me.
"Are you all right, are you all right?" she sobbed, and in front of all the passers-by threw herself into my arms. Actually, though there was quite a crowd (we were in a suburban railroad station), the people didn't really notice us. They seemed preoccupied with their own concerns and appeared quite sullen. There was one old lady, however, who seemed to approve. She kept staring at us, and while her demeanor was grave, too, she twice nodded her head, apparently thinking we were husband and wife and very much in love. . . . Not knowing what to make of the whole thing, I was somewhat embarrassed.
But not ashamed. If anything, I was proud of this "wife," this slender young thing with airy footsteps . . . Who would have believed that such a girl would reward me with her love—me, who was way past his prime. Up until that moment I couldn't imagine such a thing. But when I heard her say, "Are you all right?" and felt her quickening heartbeat, something stirred in my heart, too.
But back to the incident. She had all kinds of premonitions that day, she told me. The night before she had a dream in which she was leaning out of a window and crying. That was the extent of it, but she was terrified all the same, because it was me she was crying over. In the morning she was in a great hurry to see me, fearing all the while that she might be too late. Just as she got to the railroad station, she saw a crowd of people; they were taking a man away. Something had fallen on him from a scaffolding and he died. They had shouted after him not to go that way, but apparently he didn't hear, he was absorbed in his thoughts . . .
"And you are the same way," she scolded me. "You never listen, you're never careful. And trouble can strike so fast ... It doesn't take much."
Of course she tried to find out right away who the victim was. Somebody from Copenhagen, they told her: a Dane. In other words, her suspicions were confirmed. For in her confusion she thought I was from Copenhagen. She may have acted very silly, but she was terrified. And no wonder: She even asked if the victim was a large man, and they said he was. She just stood there on the sidewalk, weeping. At worst, I'll die, too, she decided.
"You see, you see," she now said to me. "I love you so much and you treat me horribly."
I cannot begin to describe what gladness, what calm filled my heart at this moment. She was a good girl after all, despite her odd ways. And I suddenly remembered other little incidents which at the time I hardly paid attention to. Like when she brought me some pills for my headache; or the time she berated me for not buying a wintercoat, and other such tri
fles. Who in my life had ever shown such concern, who ever cared about me so much? And such a young girl, who was not mature enough to be this considerate. I said to her now:
"I did treat you badly, I know; and it pains me, too. But what am I to do if my fate turned me into such a heartless man. With a life such as mine it was inevitable ... I want to talk to you openly."
And I was ready to tell her everything, above all, that I hated my wife; and that only now that I was with her did I realize how much I hated her—I didn't even feel like going home.
I also meant to explain to her that my life was not yet over, and implore her to save me, save my wretched life—she was the only one who could . . .
"I wasn't always like this," I said to her, and already felt myself getting a little warm. "But do you know what it's like to be tormented? Tormented until you are ravaged, your mind, your heart, until you are turned into a thoroughly despicable man. . . ?
At this point I suddenly fell silent.
How was I going to tell her the rest? The most important part. About my wife and me, how we lived even now. For even if I had just thought of our fun and games . . . But no way did I want to think of that when I was with her. I was ashamed of my life, realized how loathsome it really was. Being with her was like stepping out of some dive into the fresh air and seeing peaceful, beautiful country all around.
How very different this girl is, I thought wistfully as I glanced at her. How sweet and pure; and how beautiful.
But why did she lower her head?
And why didn't she answer? Or did she find everything I said— my whole miserable story—so self-evident that she wasn't even surprised? Maybe she knew about it all. That's what her demeanor seemed to suggest.
And not just now. I had long suspected that she knew more than she let on. But if she did, how did she? This puzzled and intrigued me more than ever.
I thought the best thing would be simply to ask her. Actually, something happened at home just then that I mustn't leave out.
It was nothing much, really, though the consequences were momentous. I found a couple of withered violets on the top of the cupboard, amid a dusting of green moss. This in itself was nothing unusual, of course, except that it followed another discovery. A few weeks earlier I had found a handsome little box in the wastebasket and that also had a sprinkling of the green stuff. It appeared that someone had sent my wife flowers in that box. I've seen it before: when flowers are sent in a box, they are packed in ice and placed in a bed of moss. They can be exquisite, these arrangements, and that is probably why she didn't have the heart to throw it all out.
But even if it wasn't so, even if it was a mistake . . . Should I make myself crazy again, start all over, wonder if Ridolfi, or somebody else, followed her here?
No, no, I've had enough.
I decided to be quite frank with the girl. I asked her quite plainly:
"Why did you become so quiet last time when I started talking about my wife? Do you know something? Are you angry with her for some reason?"
By now I had no doubt in my mind that I was right in surmising that the two had a falling out, possibly while we were still in Paris. That they must have quarreled seemed pretty obvious, but could things really be that bad between them? Apparently, because here in London they no longer wanted to have anything to do with each other.
Whenever I mentioned our English friend to my wife, she'd say with utter disdain, "Oh, that silly goose." In other words she made no secret of her feelings.
"What makes you think she's a silly goose?" I'd inquire, trying to get her to tell me more. And thinking to myself: In Paris you didn't think so. In Paris you fell all over her. And now all of a sudden she is a goose. Another time I said to her quite casually: "Yesterday I visited that Irish family." Like hell I did, but let her think I frequented their house. But she said nothing, I simply couldn't draw out her anger.
Her eyes, on the other hand, told a different story. They seemed to be saying: I know exactly what you're up to, I know your every move, so spare me your explanations. I did, as a matter of fact. . . We were both kind of sly, actually. On days when I had a date with my little miss, I began sighing and scratching early in the morning: "I should really get some exercise," Or: "I should go and see that blasted Kodor again." Or, fretfully: "Another damn business appointment."
My wife, who was a smart woman, kindly endorsed everything. "You should get a little more exercise," she said. Or: "You mustn't neglect your business affairs." In short, she was encouraging me, if not as openly as in Paris in the old days, but still. And truth to tell, I didn't need that much prodding. I just ignored the flash in her eyes.
"I won't go out today; not today," I'd say in the morning, and by early afternoon I was on my way.
But let me expand a little on that famous falling-out. I already mentioned that my wife and the little miss were all lovey-dovey when they first met in Paris. But shortly before Miss Borton left, it was all over. That in itself is not so unusual; after all, such friendships can never last. But that it should end so abruptly, from one day to the next . . . One minute they were fine, and then suddenly things turned sour, as if they had both drunk vinegar or something ... I was there, I saw it with my own eyes. My wife wanted to appear very grand, which made me immediately suspicious, for that sort of thing doesn't become her, she is anything but grand. The girl noticed it too, and even said: "Lizzy, stop putting on airs." That's what did it, I think. My wife gave her a smile, a tight little one, a smile of hers I knew only too well. You and I are through, my friend, is what that smile said.
But what did happen between those two? For that whole business remains a puzzle, for a number of reasons. Miss Borton was, after all, a smart young lady; how was it possible that somebody like her would stand by me and get seriously involved? What happened in Paris could be seen as a lark of sorts, a jest. (English ladies on holiday do get strange ideas, everyone knows that.) But this was London. Strangely enough, she never mentioned my wife, took no notice of her, pretended she didn't exist. In short, she became callous.
But why did she? Why? Did she find out something about her? Or did Lizzy herself say anything? About her gentleman friends perhaps? I wouldn't put it past her, she did have a loose tongue, she was famous for it—something like that could very easily have slipped out. It's these questions I wanted answered when I asked why she was sore at my wife. I just wanted to get the story straight. It was high time.
"Did anything happen between you two?" I kept pressing her, turning her head toward me. "Be honest with me."
"I don't want to talk about it," she retorted. Then, with sudden passion: "I don't even want to think about her. I ... I don't like Lizzy any more."
(She was a different sort, I knew it. An honest kid. Sincere.)
"Really? And why don't you like her? I don't quite understand; couldn't you tell me a little more about it? It's very important to me, even if it's just one word . . . Did you confide in her at all?"
"Yes, I did."
"I thought so. And I think I also know what happened. She must have purposely, spitefully told you something that isn't true." (I realized I was changing the subject. But why did I try to defend her? To get the girl to reveal her secret? Or was it just a natural reaction?) "That's how she is, you know. She just wanted to annoy you probably, she never misses an opportunity to do that, to provoke a young girl like you—that's Lizzy for you. But you know, she is not as spiteful and mean as she makes herself out to be."
"Is that so?" she said ominously. "Then I must have misunderstood you last time . . . But maybe she isn't," she corrected herself. "Maybe you're right... I don't know her all that well. So you see, I couldn't really tell you anything special, it wouldn't even be fair; she was nice to me. She even gave me something—look, here it is, this is what she gave me." And she pulled a ring off her finger, a narrow little band, quite lovely actually, studded with tiny garnets.
"But now I am going to get rid of it," she said suddenly, and a
ctually flung the ring on the floor and crushed it with her foot; you could hear the little gems cracking. (We were sitting in a small restaurant near Haymarket.)
"You just go on loving your wonderful wife then," she said, "I will not stand in your way ..." I was right in other words: she was nursing a grudge. But never mind, I said to myself, I have time, I'll get it out of her yet; and she won't even know it.
"Oh that Lizzy," she continued, with a great deal of emotion, "she told me the only reason I loved you was because you were the captain of that ship. Isn't that ridiculous? Does she really think I am that stupid?"
"And is that the reason why you are so angry with her?"
"No, it's not, not really. But the real reason I shall never tell you."
"Look here, Mrs. Murray," she said irritably to her milliner, "it's no good sleeping all the time; what will you do at night?" She was angry because we had to knock on her door for a long time before she opened up. Then in a different, even sterner voice, she said:
"We just want to sit in your parlor for a while, like last time."
We had been there before. These visits were a new development. Miss Borton, you see, didn't like to sit in restaurants, she liked to walk. But she had to realize that we couldn't go on doing that forever, either, mainly because all those walks were driving me crazy, but also because we were plagued by bad weather; it was constantly raining. And as soon as she felt raindrops, she insisted on going home. After a while I didn't let her, I simply refused to let her go home. With the result that she caught a chill and started sniffling. Which made her very angry.