The Story of My Wife

by Milan Fust

  After all, one does change over the years, especially if one spends a long enough time on land. I was no longer the seafaring man of old, that's certain; but being a sailor is so improbable a condition anyway, it could never be understood by anyone who's never tried it. Just to give one example: A man like that hasn't got anything he can call his own; fact is he hardly knows what the word ownership means, not in the sense it's used around here, at any rate. If he is asked, "Is this yours?" and he answers straight from the heart, he should say: "What do I know?" For whatever he does have is his only temporarily. It's swept away by the first wave, pinched by his best buddy, or snatched from him by the devil in a smoky dive. But after it's gone, he appears again with the most curious of smiles, saying he'd like to serve again, start from scratch, that is, and again finish last.

  Oh, the hours I spent trying to figure him out!

  What makes such men go on, anyway? To be stuck for months on end on an old windjammer, say, with nothing to look forward to but hard work, atrocious food, and no family, no women, until you end up snarling at your buddy like dogs—what's there to like in all that? Or take those never-ending storms . . . But who can see into men's hearts? What do they really like—that unquenchable thirst, the scurvy they can never get over, the bouts of depression, the boredom?

  I was getting restless, the ground under me scorched my feet, and besides, I couldn't keep up the pace over here, though at times all you do on land is tread water.

  Or is it possible that I wasn't such a great sailor even in the old days? I guess it is possible. But never mind, I said to myself. Let's do something else, let's start from the beginning.

  My health wasn't what it used to be, let's not forget that, either. the old wear and tear, you know. The wind forever blowing outside made me uncommonly edgy, and what's worse, it cut through me like ice, especially in the early morning hours. What ended up happening was that my joints began to hurt.

  Before long I did indeed give up the sea, as soon as something else came along, that is. And I did it without much regret. Enough, I said; because I do like quick decisions. At one time I did expect a great deal from the sea, total peace of mind, enormous calm, God knows what else—everything the human heart could desire, I suppose. But I was in for a rude awakening. So I got fed up, I'd had enough—let's move on, I said.

  But before turning my back on the sea, let me recount my farewell to it, too—I want to note it for myself. As luck would have it, I ended up sailing past the Greek isles one last time, not too far from the cliffs where the poetess Sappho was supposed to have thrown herself into the sea. And here, following an old custom, I sounded the ship's horn—three short signals and one long one. And I repeated it a few more times. For you see, in the old days, there lived around here a poor lighthouse keeper, whom I had known for a long time, when he was somewhat better off. Now I was curious if he was still here. And he was, by God.

  "Oh that Jacob, that Jacob," he cried, waving his flag on a bluff. Later he informed me that his wife gave birth and that he needed some aspirin.

  So I sent him a few packets. And figuring this had to have been our last meeting, I bid him farewell in my letter and sent a small gift along with it, for the baby. For that was my very last voyage. By then I knew where I was going to live, what I was going to do—I knew everything, in short. For at long last I began consorting with my kind of people, the right kind: schemers, cut-throats. Whatever these guys grabbed hold of was sure to crack.

  By chance I got acquainted with a clever rubber dealer named Bobeniak and then with one Aurelius G. Anastasin—but let's forget the details. Suffice it to say that I was able to scrape together a small fortune. First, a very small one, here, and then a larger one in South America. How very simply one can state this, yet it was rather strange. As when the wind changes direction, my good fortune took me quite by surprise, and held on with such force, it was almost too much. Such things can be scary. Let me illustrate. I spent some time in New York; I had been collecting money right and left, the green stuff was just pouring in, I was up to my ears in it, my very soul seemed to be made of money; and then one morning I was awakened with the news that a department store sent me a refund—they accidentally overcharged me for their merchandise. And I hadn't the slightest idea how they managed to find out where I stayed, who I was . . .

  In a word, I was showered with blessings—deals, connections, one after another; a shipment of coal led to freight cars, that, in turn, to the transport business and so on. At last I could work again, and keep at it until I was ready to drop. I hated Sundays, in fact, when things came to a standstill and there was a yawning emptiness in my office. I really had trouble finding things to do on those days, I could hardly wait for the week to begin, for the machinery to start clattering and rumbling again—I preferred not to think about things, I just didn't want to any more.

  And then I grew tired all of a sudden . . .

  Ah, those unforgetable lovely apple trees which, sparsely planted but stately, led me through various gardens, all the way to the mountain top, to the spot, that is, where Miss C. H. Inez lived. (In this near-tropical region fairly good apples were grown, though not nearly as sweet as ours.) It was Sunday again, the blissful calm of late afternoon, with a hint of the coming dusk. The trees here were like the golden apple trees of fables, with perfectly rounded crowns and pale gold, full-bodied fruit. It was in the shadows of these trees that I decided to bid South America farewell; to wind up my affairs and return to my home in the North . . . preferably to lovely French soil.... At least this was my plan. From the hilltop, where I was standing, I could see the ocean.

  And when I laid eyes on that endless expanse, the scene of all my futile exertions, it became even clearer to me that I had to come to rest; it was time. Life itself was winding down, the fire, the fury, was out. For good.

  Why ride around in this place, I thought; why go on joyrides? (It was a custom in this town to trot about for a while before dusk, to gallop under the trees of the promenade in a light two-wheeler drawn by a small, black, thick-maned horse. Little lanterns were hung on these horses' oversized heads which, illuminated thus, looked like those of magic steeds ... as imagined by chambermaids, of course. In the end I was even tempted to buy me one of these domesticated pegasuses, especially as there was little else in town by way of diversion.)

  "Why don't you buy one of these ponies?" asked Miss C. H. Inez, the sister of one of my business associates, himself a very influential and distinguished gentleman. Hearing her question, the young men around her began to smile mysteriously, detecting signs of secret pleasures in our exchange. One of them even touched my elbow, his eyes burning with passion. In a word, my taking out Miss Inez for a ride became a distinct possibility. And what this means in these parts everyone knows . . . the obligations it entails, I mean. Stern elder brothers watching over their sisters' honor and all that. What's more, in view of our business connections . . .

  No, no, I thought; I don't want them any more. Not the sultry black ones, nor the angelic fair ones, who are all soul, whose meals consist of nothing but green leaves. Who with their penetrating eyes can espy the very pit of your miserable soul. She happened to be one of those. In brief, I was no longer interested in such things.

  It's not even that she was homely, but one couldn't really talk to her properly—I couldn't, at any rate. No one can be expected to be proficient in all languages—Spanish did me in, I will admit. And though she adored chatting in German, and tried ever so hard to prove she spoke that language (why shouldn't she? her mama was German), she didn't really speak it."So mankes," she'd say all the time. When she couldn't think of anything else to say, she'd come out with "so mankes." What was I going to do with her? Besides which she had this martyr-like disposition.

  No, no, I thought to myself, I am better off returning to the continent of my origin.

  So I told my business associates that I was sailing back to Europe to look after some of my bigger projects. At the same ti
me I put a man named Perjamin in charge of my office, and a very decent young man he was, almost like a son to me at that time. . .. He made out all right, I dare say, but so did I, having reserved for myself a sizable annuity.

  With this agreement in my pocket, as well as with a fortune said to be respectable, I set out, like Sindbad the sailor. Having bid my friends a proper farewell, and after an absence of exactly eight years and four months, I was on my way back to the Old World.

  And this, briefly, is the story of how I ended up a rich man. If time allows, I may yet return to the subject.

  London was my first destination. And I thought, as long as I was there, why not look around one more time—it was, after all, the place where I had gone through so much a decade earlier. I could not bring myself to visit my own flat, but I did want to look up the one-time Miss Borton.

  "Oh, it it you?" she cried when, after some waiting around, we stood face to face. For I showed up at their house one cloudy afternoon completely unannounced. They lived in a nice little cottage, of course, with a garden ... I thought I'll surprise them.

  "Is it really you?" she repeated, with a shocked clap of her hands. "How you have changed, Captain . . ."

  Not as much as you, I would have liked to say. To be perfectly honest, I didn't dare take a good look at her.

  Nature can be mighty strange.

  I mean: is it possible for a grown woman to keep on growing after she gets married? Is there such a thing? I had the distinct impression, you see, that this lady became gigantic, and very very flabby. What is more, she was wearing a loose-fitting, flouncy sort of a dress, all white, too—she looked like some Niobe, so help me. In short, you could tell she was constantly nursing, and that—may God forgive me for saying it—she's had no other ambition for years.

  And what could I say about the husband? He addressed me in the following heartfelt manner:

  "Welcome, welcome, Captain. Please note, sir, that in this abode you are revered." And he turned his clear, girlish-blue eyes on me. Like two great crystal-clear lakes in America—that's how they sparkled.

  Coming here, in other words, was a fool thing to do. Damn it. And I already saw myself, or rather, my happier self, pulling my hat down over my eyes, and taking on the wind, the night, melting into darkness on an out-of-the-way London street corner . . . What I am really saying is that you must never go back.

  But then we started talking, about this and that, human happiness for one thing, an inevitable subject on such occasions. The gist of the discussion I no longer remember, only that while we were talking, their dog kept barking, and they were hushing it in French. With the dog they spoke only French. And of course my wife, too, came up in the conversation. Mrs. Eders-Hill could not help mentioning her, gently, subtly—still, it wasn't very nice of her, that's my feeling about it to this day. Did I really divorce her, she wanted to known. Yes, I did. They brought in tea.

  "Don't you like butter?" this same woman asked, my one-time lovely, my own little Miss Borton, my angel. Don't I like butter, she says.

  "Why of course I like it. And will go on liking it till the day I die."

  "And sweet rolls? What about sweet rolls?"

  "That too. Unto death. Though I am loath to spread one on the other. And will be, I think, to the end of my days."

  Oh what a decent, upright couple. They said things like:

  "We are two very happy people, Captain." Or: "We lead very sensible lives." And they asked me if I really believed them. And about their children they said: Didn't I want to go upstairs to look at their little brood. True, there was a slight problem with the kids just now.

  "They are not sick, I hope," I said.

  "Oh no, God forbid, how can you even say such a thing? They were a wee bit naughty, the little darlings, that's all. Like a bunch of frolicking mice they were." And just for such situations, they had a technique that worked like a charm. Was I interested in hearing what it was?"

  "Why sure," I cried.

  "Here it goes then," Mr. Eders-Hill said.

  "Don't spoil it now," his wife warned.

  Well, for one thing, he began, they didn't use a whip on the child, like backward schoolmasters all over England. They thought of something else ... did I want to know what that was? Yes, yes, I did. In that case they would tell me. If the child misbehaved, they dressed him up in his Sunday best, and in those clothes, of course, they couldn't run around and kick up a fuss. . . . And at this point they looked at each other, significantly, like two animal tamers.

  And if that didn't do the trick, they just stuck them into bed. That was the best technique of all.

  "Why this child is sick," they'd say and pretend he had fever or the cramps. And the kid would be besides himself because there was nothing wrong with him. But there is, they'd insist, there must be, or else he wouldn't be such a mischievous little devil, would he now? And he got a cold compress on his tummy, a spoonful of castor oil maybe, something like that. This is what was going on right now. Well, what did I think of their method? Fascinating, just fascinating. I even slapped my head a little, for emphasis.

  "I like your approach very much. Madame is absolutely right. When dealing with children, it's no good to dilly-dally ... to shilly-shally." Such things I told them.

  And that's how we spent the afternoon, full of affability and high spirits.

  But why all this sarcasm? Really. They were robust kids, actually, as I later found out, because in the end I did penetrate the very warmest part of the family nest—I had to, they insisted on dragging me upstairs. They lay in their tiny beds like little lions, grim and fierce; there were at least five of them, all boys, I think. One of them remarked quite angrily: "Let me at least have some chocolate." Whereupon the parents looked at me with pride.

  But there is no sense mocking them, as I say. They were so very sturdy, the whole bunch, like a vitamin ad, on my word. It even occurred to me: couldn't they actually burst from all that health.

  I was ready to get the hell out. But before I did, I took one last look at something. Even the devil glances back before leaving a house.

  In their small parlor there was this beautiful portrait of a young lady with a celestial gaze. It was my little Miss Borton in her green silks, her little breasts like a prohibition, her mind sharp and hard. And her two hands sweet like a pair of lovebirds. Only the flight of stairs was missing, on which she could ascend to some higher realm, and my picture of her, as she once was, would have been complete.

  But where does all that go, where does it disappear? Do they fall apart, these creatures? Melt away the moment they are fulfilled?

  And I almost felt happy for not choosing to stay that other time, long long ago.

  But before I forget: I saw one more thing as I was leaving the children's room. The door to the master bedroom was wide open, so I was able to cast a glance toward the sacredness of the conjugal beds. Nice size beds they were, too, damn it. . . though that wasn't all. Over them hung images of religious martyrdom, and this I couldn't understand at all. Did they feel like indulging in marital pleasures under those things? I wouldn't, that's for sure. In point of fact, the mere thought gave me the shivers.

  After these unpleasant experiences, I decided I had better not look up Kodor. I was content with information received about him.

  Let's see now. He didn't succumb to that illness after all, though at the time he did seem to be at death's door. But one day, miraculously enough, and to the astonishment of his physicians, he recovered. (It wasn't even that remarkable when you consider that his whole life consisted of miracles.) Yet the medical experts did say it was cancer, and were proven right of course when it came to the operation. . . . They opened him up, saw it was a hopeless case, and didn't even touch him, just sewed him back up. Then it happened that on a spring morning he asked for beer. And from then on he drank two pints of beer a day.

  Could this have really been the cause of his recovery? He certainly claimed it was. Then again, I heard elsewhere that
this was not an unknown phenomenon—there are such unpredictable tumors. When exposed, they miraculously dissolve, from the air, it would appear.

  But this is neither here nor there, important thing was that he was well again, felt fit as a fiddle, what is more, he was richer than ever. For that man kept climbing higher and higher, all the way up to the starry sky, as the manager of the Brighton, that dullard, put it.

  He was there all right, still at his post, unyieldingly present. A whole world moved underground in the meantime, excellent men among them, another Brighton manager, for example, and Gregory Sanders, whom I liked so much. Time didn't seem to leave its mark on this chap, though; he hung about as before, near draughty doorways and elevators, plump-bellied but ageless. Even the look in his eyes was the same: contemptuous, vacant—a camel's look.

  "You see, that's life for you," he said. "For some of us it's all the way up, for others, the opposite. There is no rhyme or reason behind it. Mrs. Cobbet, for instance, hit rock bottom. Yes, she really did," he nodded, amidst meaningful smiles.

  She went to America and got lost there, melted into some sinful night, he shouldn't wonder. He spoke rather oddly of this, sarcastically, but with some alarm, too. Evidently the poor sap believed there was nothing but carnal pleasure over on the other side, and night itself was like a vampire, sucking out your bodily fluids.

  "Drats," he suddenly cried, "what sort of a man are you? I've never seen anything like it. You leave without a word, nothing about where we ought to send your letters . . . Come to think of it, you have one." And off he ran, to get it from the strong box.

  Oh, and when he saw that I didn't even open it, didn't really look at it very closely! One quick glance was enough; I threw it in my briefcase, next to my other papers.