by Milan Fust
And what about all the rest? Like a charging battery, I absorb memories, but even so, much of it dissipates, or is altered, transformed, by time and distance—no one can find out about them. ... So that is my life story, a story nobody else knows, a story I myself do not believe in the end. And yet, all this is not proof enough, because in the end you still want more and more. . . . you're insatiable, like a man who drinks too much water and, though ready to pass out, is still thirsty. In fine, this world is unfathomable for the human soul, this is not its real home, it longs for something else. But if it is an alien place for man, who is it for. . . ?
Oh, but why go on about this? Some superior intellect may find it diverting, pleasurable even, to assay the futile struggles of my life. But I am no philosopher, and may not even be expressing myself properly. Yet, I must let my feelings be known some-how.
To sum up, then: I never feared for my own life. If I have to go, I'll go. I will even do it as a favor to someone, if they should insist on it. So that wasn't what scared me, it was something else—the mere thought of having to continue living with my wife. For now I felt I could really tear myself away.
And that's why Miss Borton saying I will never ever leave my wife had such a terrifying effect on me. My believing her is what scared me. It was as if she held a mirror to my face, in which I saw a terrified face—a distraught and terrified face.
In the end, though, I calmed down; my girl was so sweet, we made up. She said, "Micislav, I am not angry with you, I'll be patient." And she even took me into her confidence, lessoning me, chiding me. She'd give me an apple and ask if I was hungry. Or she would want to know if I had a toothache, or if liked beer, and if I didn't, why not?—she liked it a lot. By now, you see, she let me in on her secrets.
"I just love a mug of dark ale," she'd say demurely, like a little angel, casting down her celestially chaste eyes. And I could just see her dashing off in her flounced green dress, a pale pink rose on her bosom, holding a giant keg of beer, and even licking the foam off her lips like a kitten. However, that's not the only thing she loved; everything that's of this world was to her liking. Like money, for instance, which she loved not only in the abstract, like good people generally do—she simply adored coins, especially if they were shiny new. I took her some, in modest amounts at first: a few sparkling half-crown pieces, newly-minted Maria Theresa thalers, even commemorative gold coins. And how she agonized over accepting them:
"Oh, but this is gold," she squealed, all flushed and moist, struggling still. But how quickly that little piece of gold disappeared once she has brought herself to accepting it.
"Oh, dear . . . thanks so very much, really," she said somewhat guiltily, "I might as well take it then." Her pocketbook clicked and the gold piece vanished.
All right, this can't be called greed yet; this may still be a childish fascination, an old, old obsession. But she did make sure she got what was coming to her; and she haggled if necessary.
"Do you think I am made of money," she'd say to merchants indignantly. And to me, too, she once said:
"You are altogether too wasteful, Micislav. You work too hard for your money; don't squander it." And to the owner of the restaurant where we happened to be then:
"I get better service for my money elsewhere. So there!" And with that she got up; we had to leave.
She gave me the following explanation for her behavior: "There are people, you know, who have to work very hard for every penny they own." She too had a difficult time selling some baskets she had weaved herself, put a lot of effort into them, still, some went to waste. Or you are in a store, she said, and they give you the wrong change, or you buy a dozen eggs and three of them are rotten. . . . Wasn't all of that quite annoying?
She went on and on about this, teaching me, giving me pointers on how to live more frugally. We were out taking a walk. We still did a lot of that, an awful lot; she must have had a great inner need for these walks.
Once, however, she caught quite a chill. We were out again, quite a distance from London, and it suddenly got very cold. We had spent some time at a quarry, walked about, stopped on a bridge to stare at some old-fashioned wagons.
"My feet are ice-cold," she announced. "I think I got frost-bite, just now, I actually felt it happening."
I suggested we run a little, that ought to help it; there may be a pub nearby. So we began to run in the dark, in the blowing wind, through open woodland, toward the nearest village.
"Feeling better?" I asked while she was trying to catch her breath.
"I am dying," she replied briefly. So I picked her up in my arms and continued running. At last I smelled beer.
"Good, here is a tavern; I am going to put you down."
"Don't," she said gently. "My feet feel like wood." At that point I kissed her; and she kissed me back. There we stood, kissing passionately, until we almost tumbled over. Finally a shaft of light fell before my feet; someone was leaving the inn. (For that's what the place was.) So I walked in, with the girl in my arms. The people inside thought I was bringing in a corpse, they raised their hands. But when they saw this beautiful creature, they smiled.
"I need a room, quickly," I said, "my wife is ill." Luckily, they had one, which they kept warm for a veterinarian who visited there every Friday. I took her upstairs immediately.
And now let me relate an incident which I myself witnessed in the city of Hamburg. A man sat in the middle of the street in a puddle; it was raining hard and he was moaning loudly, for he couldn't manage to stand up. Mainly because as soon as he made a move, his mate pushed him back. "Ich bin der Herrgott," he told him, and just wouldn't let him get up. "Was machst du mit mir" whimpered the other one, but his friend showed no mercy. "Ich bin der Herrgott" he was told from above.
It was the same with me. And here is why:
"The young lady should be put to bed right away," suggested the innkeeper's wife. "And let's get something to warm her feet."
While she went to get the legwarmer, I did as she said and put her to bed. But first, I had to undress her. And that was something else. ... I removed her blouse and skirt, and she let me do it. But when it came to her garter belt, I got so entangled in the pink and blue straps, I almost broke out in a sweat. "If I knew it was this hard, I wouldn't have begun," I grumbled to myself.
I did feel kind of odd, as can be imagined. For even though there was a tiny pendant in her neck, to protect her from all the calamities of this world, and though her shoulders and arms were oh so delicate, undressing her was like peeling away a tiny bud or unwrapping a dainty box with luscious fruit in it.. . . No wonder I was all discombobulated. After I put her down and covered her up, I even straightened out her clothes (I was truly crazy by then); laid out her little skirt nice and tidy on a chair, her little blouse on another one, so it shouldn't get wrinkled; her shoes I put under the chair, though by now I thought I was going to hit the ceiling.
Finally I said to her: "Now it's time for a good-night kiss. I earned it." I tried to be matter of fact about it, thinking to myself, if I don't kiss her now, I'll be declared a certified idiot for sure. And anyhow, didn't she get sore at me last time, because I didn't ask for a kiss?
"One little kiss," I said, and tried to look at her amorously—as amorously as a man like me can look. But she didn't answer, or at least not right away, and when she did, she yawned: "I am sleepy," and blinked her eyes lazily, like a cat.
"Just one kiss, come on, before you fall asleep."
Whereupon she stretched out her hand. That's what I kissed first, and then, without much delay, her mouth. Or rather, her arm, her hair, too—for all I know I may have devoured the pillow as well. I wouldn't be surprised because in kissing back she almost broke my teeth. Nobody ever kissed me like that before; I never knew such passion existed, and surely never thought that a skinny kid like her could have so much fire.
And here I must pause and expound on a troubling thought. It has to do with how very predictable men are. For when I think abo
ut it, what have I done all my life? Whatever anyone else would have, in my place. Let's be frank. Whenever I had the chance, I kissed, without fail, without much ado, like a machine. That's how life pressures us and drives us on. For what would have happened if the girl had really fallen asleep, with me at her side? Yes, let's entertain that unlikely possibility. Two lovers who, for once, for a change, do not jump on each other, but fall asleep in a sweet, infinitely trustful, unearthly embrace. However odd the thought may seem to others, that is really what I would wish for today. And not because at this point I am beyond carnal passions—the truth of the matter is that this is what I wanted even then. No, my memory is not impaired: I am convinced it's trust that I sought all along. . . . But let's not pursue this just now; I have no desire to become sentimental. Suffice it to say that everything in my life happened differently from the way I intended it.
But let's continue where I left off. I confess that nowadays I consider what happened—and what didn't happen—that night rather fortunate, however despondent I may have felt at the time.
It began when she heard noises and placed her hand on my face. I immediately jumped up and rushed to the door. The innkeeper's wife was puffing and blowing outside; she had a pile of bricks in her hands and couldn't open the door.
First I didn't understand. What did I need bricks for? I wasn't about to build a house, for God's sake.
They were the hot bricks for her feet, why of course. I took them from her and put them down someplace. What followed, however, was a little more complicatd. After the woman left, I naturally locked the door. The result was a terrified scream, but so terrified, as though someone were holding a knife to the young lady's neck. I am still surprised the help at the inn didn't come rushing in.
"What are you doing there?" she asked, aghast. "Are you locking the door? Are you trying to seduce me?"
I got so flustered, I almost started laughing. Oh, the terror that got hold of her. . . . She sat on her bed like a disheveled little angel, her eyes filled with bewilderment. As though she had just realized where she was and what could happen to her. She mussed up her hair, like frustrated children do; her bodice slid down, her breasts were half bare. ... So it goes, I guess. We men cannot begin to fathom what these things mean to them. Virginity. Seducer. He is more terrible than a killer.
"Go away," she began pleading all of a sudden. Her reason? I am ashamed even to write it down. She didn't want me to ruin her life. She was begging me on bended knees, she said; if I loved her just a little, I should get out of her life for good. Or else, she'll be destroyed, she can't go on living this way.
And for good measure, she started crying, quietly and sadly.
She used to love her father so very much, she said; but now she couldn't look him in the eye.
"I've gone so far downhill," she lamented, "I am like those awful, awful creatures."
And in her agitation she began beating her blanket, and then kicked it off. I dutifully picked it up and tried very hard to calm her down. What else can a man do at a time like this? Especially if he himself feels terribly ashamed. . . .
No matter how I look at it, I must conclude that what happened to me there that night was typical. I am not saying something could have come of it, though I can never be sure—people have it in them to do all sorts of things, I have seen much of it myself in my time. And I for one did have the feeling that I was never closer to changing my life as I was that night, while standing in the dark in front of that tavern. It was one of those rare moments—All my doubts were gone, and the only question I asked myself was: What makes you run? Doesn't your entire life right now consist of dreaming about this child . . . ? But it wasn't to be. I couldn't even dream. As soon as I began hoping for something better, a greater force shoved me back, right in the middle of the puddle, mercilessly.
The matter is worth pondering. For I wasn't such a weakling, after all. If I mustered all my strength, no power on earth, no Herrgott, could stop me. Yet, let us not forget that the whining man in Hamburg was drunk, and so was I, and just how drunk, I am only beginning to realize. Every drop of my blood was full of the poison I then called my wife. . . .
This is why I brought up the story of those two wretched Hamburgers.
It is why I, too, was unable to climb out of the puddle.
"Why do you send me away when I love you so much?" I said to the girl.
"I don't need your love."
"And you love me too, that's what you said."
"I don't want to love you ever again," she sobbed. "I don't want to see you." and she sobbed some more. I tried to embrace her.
"No, don't," she screamed, absolutely horrified. "I hate you, I never loved you; all you wanted to do was seduce me."
I was deeply wounded. And why, of all things, over this? The case of the two men in Hamburg should make that clear.
So I took my coat and headed for the door, without saying a word, making it clear to her that I wasn't going to dignify that charge with an answer.
Then she spoke again in that silence. An ethereal, angelic sound, the tinkling of glass bells:
"Farewell."
I had to stop, my heart ached for her so. "Should I wait for you outside?"
But she hid her face from me.
I continued walking. Outside, in the dark, I stopped once more. I had to. I kept stumbling.
And what about the turmoil inside, in my heart? Well, in my heart there was dull silence. But in my ears I heard jabbering, music even. As if they were ringing bells; I had to listen. "Are you leaving, sir?" someone seemed to ask. "So soon? What did you do up there, kill the young lady?" Such things were buzzing in my ear. And there was more: "What did you do up there? Undress her? Bravo. Had yourself a little fling, I bet."
I should have started running, to cool my blood, to ease my shame, but I couldn't.
"Am I nailed to this God damned spot or what?" I said to myself and began cursing.
I also thought of going back upstairs and breaking down the door. How dare she send me away when she let me undress her? What nerve. Am I an animal, a pet she can just toss out? And I almost keeled over, I was so hot. That's when I really felt it. For I saw the slivers of light again, dancing around her lips, and felt the fragrances that permeated the room, as if someone knocked over a bucket of honey up there.
It even crossed my mind that she didn't really want me to go. Can one ever know for sure what these creatures want? I was ready to rush back upstairs, for, you see, I also heard my wife's laughter chiming in, that outrageous laughter of hers, with which she used to mock my bumbling ways with women—my own invented stories, which, lo and behold, came true. Is that what you are? her laughter seemed to ask. A bumbler, an oaf? There is a pretty young lady upstairs in bed.
But suddenly I got very tired. And after that it wasn't hard. Clip-clop. I kept listening to my own footsteps. There: all you have to do is begin. By now I was anxious to get back to London; I began to hurry, as though I had urgent business to attend to.
But what was I to do now in London? Go home? No, that was out of the question.
So I went to see Kodor who this time made a big fuss over me. There were two reasons for the ovation.
First, he wanted me to go at once to Bruges; exciting things were happening there, prospects were excellent, not in the rescue service line, to be sure, but he'd just been discussing some very attractive leasing arrangements . . . And the main thing was they paid their men very well. I should therefore be on my way to Bruges as soon as possible. But not just yet, I should wait, he'll tell me when. In other words, I was not to go to Bruges. That was the first urgent matter.
Secondly, I should go with him right now to a "charming little get-together" which otherwise would bore him to tears, since the people who will be there were all bearded sourpusses, and he never knows what to do with such people.
"Come on, Jacob, entertain those bearded fogies for me . . . Besides, a few new contacts cannot hurt you. And who knows, somebody there m
ay quickly fall in love with you." Kodor said all this in Italian; when in expansive mood he always used that language.
Meanwhile I almost had a fit straining to pay attention, and pretending to be overwhelmed by all these offers and the man making them. But I had to pretend. I thought to myself: Come what may, I'll keep pressing him until I squeeze something out. I had no intention of continuing my walking tours of London. I had enough.
"Wait a minute," Kodor said, "first we'll have a little taste of this milk." (Milk stood for wine in his vocabulary.) He spun around and moments later was filling my glass with something dark.
"Well, what is it?" he asked, beaming, and stuck the bottle under his arm. "Go on, tell me if you can . . . Don't keep on smelling it.. . . Ah, you know nothing about these things." He was running me down, as usual, and shaking with laughter as he did.
I didn't have to taste it. It smelled of resin and smoke. That was enough.
"It's from Samos,"I said, like a judge.
"My birthplace," he whispered excitedly. "But the deal, old chap, the deal is marvelous, too." He was on another subject now, and became even more ecstatic.
It seems two Greek companies went brankrupt, and he bought up all their assets. "And there are British interests, too," he enthused. He just went wild over those British interests.
"I am a brilliant man, don't you know?" he roared. "A regular genius." To make certain I did know, he proceeded to tell me just how brilliant he was. These people thought he was doing them a favor (who they were I had no idea); what's more, it was going to ruin a Greek named Nikander, which was the nicest part of the venture—he loathed this man.
"A little subtraction, a little addition, and I end up with a tidy profit," he explained triumphantly. "By Jupiter ... or by Jove, I should say." For he now switched to English. Still, I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. To this day I can not understand why people do this. Say a young man wants to learn a trade. Why can't he be taught everything from the beginning? For that's not how it's done, oh no. He is thrust in the middle, and left to figure out the beginning by himself. And that's how these geniuses operate, too. They wouldn't dream of starting at the beginning and allowing people to catch their meaning.