On the Edge

by Markus Werner

  “Yes, I understand” Loos said. “Husbands are the hot water bottles and you’re the fiery devil. What you say may not be entirely wrong, only you act as if the plunge into the tempestuous sea were typically a woman’s dream. There are also married men who don’t want to do without their cozy little wife and ironer-of-shirts, but still feel free to dance at a second, more glamorous wedding, so to speak—to have their cake and eat it too. I myself never had the urge to be elsewhere involved, and for the simple reason that my wife was so rich and multifaceted that I felt not the slightest lack: she gave me everything and was everything to me. But never mind that—what I still want to ask is which of the two infidelity groups you put Valerie in? Did she come from a failing marriage or an intact one?” “I was never able to find that out,” I said. “As I said, she didn’t want to talk about it. It was altogether as if she came out of nowhere, as if she had no previous life, no history, and I’m convinced that that for her was the most exciting thing about our affair. I noticed how she enjoyed being a blank page to write on and surprising me, and probably herself, with everything she said, desired, or did. I believe that she became new to herself by feeling how excitingly new she was for me. I too enjoyed it of course—having a lover who lightened me of all ballast and had no need to define our relationship or alarm me with hinting remarks about the future. One day, about five weeks after we met, I did get alarmed. We had gone dancing—we both loved the tango—and I asked her on the way back to my place why she suddenly had more time for me, how she explained her frequent goings-out at home. ‘Let that be my concern,’ she said bluntly, but for once I didn’t let up until I found out from her that she was living with her sister. And then I got alarmed. What else could I conclude but that she had left her husband for my sake? We had mutually agreed, without ever saying so, to keep the relationship delightfully uncomplicated. I had been of the opinion that Valerie too regarded it as a romance, enjoyed it as such, and saw in it no reason to shake the marriage. I expostulated with her and called her move a bad decision. I asked her why she would endanger an established thing and leave the husband she had never spoken ill of in the lurch. It all sounded as if I had the closest brotherly sympathy for him. But I imagine she saw through me and recognised the reason for my chagrin. In any case she said, as if to comfort me, that it was a matter of a temporary separation, a pause for breath. I had already asked her several times whether her husband knew anything about us and never received an answer. Now I could assume he had the picture. She countered with the question of why this was of such burning interest to me. I didn’t know; I think it just irritated me that she marked off zones that were inaccessible to me. That evening I made love to her with an almost angry vehemence, without any foreplay.”

  Loos yawned and looked at the clock. “I see you’re bored,” I said to him, “and I can even understand it. You’re thinking of your wife, of the anniversary of her death tomorrow maybe, and here I torture you with stories of my affairs and rehash old events.” “A person has to be allowed to yawn,” said Loos. “That has to do with lack of oxygen, not disinterest. What seems inconsequential to you strikes me, an amateur standing on the sidelines, as very interesting. Are you walking back to Agra?” “It would be more reasonable. Why do you ask?” “First because the staff here has long been waiting for us to go, and second because I’d like to go with you. You still owe me, after all, the continuation as well as the conclusion of the story.” “Good, I’d be glad to. I assume you know that you still owe me something too.” “One thing at a time,” Loos said.

  I got my umbrella, which I had left on the terrace. Loos, tottering a bit, asked me to hold him up—he needed a third leg. We walked through the village. When we passed the butcher’s shop Loos stopped and said, “Flesh is capricious.” What did he mean by that, I asked, but he gave no reply. But after a while he gave me the cue to go ahead with my story. “Let me sum up,” he said. “The moment Amelie got herself more freedom by moving out of her home you felt yours threatened, is that right?” “Her name was of course Valerie, but otherwise you describe the situation correctly. As much as it delighted me to be with her far more often than before, I was equally worried that her heavier tread might suddenly weigh down the wonderful lightness of what we had had up to now. I’m not made for a close bond, in this department I am the amateur.” “Are you really sure that she wanted what filled you with dread? Were there any other signs of that than her change of residence? Did she, for example, speak of love?” “No, not that,” I said. “She avoided doing and saying anything that she seemed to think might oppress me. But it was precisely that that showed me how much it mattered to her not to lose me. Sometimes she would withdraw from me, sometimes she wouldn’t show up at a rendezvous—both without giving a reason and both, I’m convinced of this, to accommodate me, to demonstrate that she was independent and uncommitted. And there were still other signs. I’ve already said that in the beginning Valerie divulged very little about herself and kept her past in the past. That didn’t bother me, just the opposite: we lived only in the present like all intoxicated people. Only it was strange that even later, when we saw each other almost daily, she did not become much more talkative. Perhaps, as I suspected, it was because I had let her know early in our relationship how exciting I found it to have a veiled woman for a lover. In other words, it could be that she wanted to remain exciting to me by continuing to conceal herself and holding her silence. And finally there was a third indication. After the great delirium, on my part at least, had faded, Valerie changed somewhat. She turned more serious. The unselfconscious buoyancy that I so liked about her suddenly became more forced. She didn’t like to joke around any more, and when she did, it might happen that she abruptly flung her arms around my neck and shed a few tears. In short, all of this made me worry: it all seemed to show how different our two desires had suddenly become. And I started hearing, though only in the distance as yet, that old and hackneyed song: The man has only an affair in mind, the woman wants a relationship. If I wanted to be malicious I could sing the rest of the ditty: once her desire for a lasting relationship, for a reliable partner who will provide her with security, is fulfilled, she will sooner or later start to feel that something is missing, something spicy, tingly, piquant. The woman always wants both, and the man who can be both—a beloved companion and a coveted faun—has yet to be born.

  “You repeat yourself, “said Loos, “and a repeated half-truth doesn’t make a whole one. Tell me instead how you warded off the bane of a solid bond. How long altogether did the loose one last?” “Barely a quarter of a year,” I said, “and by half that time—once I thought I saw that Valerie was too attached to me—I began making myself scarcer. I invoked professional demands. We saw each other less often, but actually, when we did see each other, it was just as sweet as it was before, sensually above all. That probably had to do with the fact that her body was the only thing I could hold on to—her inner life she kept partly hidden. Her body could be grasped, as almost nothing else about her could, and her tendency to make herself mysterious, and thus interesting, gradually started to drive me up the wall.”

  “Hold on,” said Loos, “I’ve got to go.” “So do I actually,” I said. We stood, as we had the night before, off the edge of the road. “There are flowers,” Loos said, “that don’t open unless the sun shines on them. They feel the sunlight as a sort of acceptance, something protective, and its lack makes them withdraw into themselves, hide themselves, as it were.” “Very poetic,” I said, “very metaphorical. Can you put it more directly?” “Yes,” said Loos, “I can do that: I feel sorry for this woman.” “First of all, I’m not a monster,” I said, “and second, she knew exactly what, and what kind of person, she was getting involved in and with. If she was looking for a safe haven, then she would have steered clear of me.”

  Loos was quiet. He needed more time than I did, so I went a few steps ahead. When he started coming after me—I heard only the metallic tap of the umbrella tip on the
pavement—I was hit by a wave of anxiety for several seconds. I felt pursued, for no reason I could think of, as if I were about to be hit with a blow from behind. Loos caught up with me. “I wasn’t going to attack you,” he said, as if he knew about my bout of panic. But he went on without alluding to it: “You’ve made me feel I know Valerie, the way you did with Tasso; you’ve aroused my sympathy for her, that’s all.” “I’m relieved, then” I said, “because I felt your sympathy as a reproach, and I have nothing to reproach myself with really, unless it’s my cowardice. I hesitated too long about pouring her a clear glass of wine, so to speak, about telling her that a separation would be better for both of us. And yet even my hesitation had its reasons. I was trying to be considerate of her nervous condition, which was never optimal and during the third month of our relationship deteriorated alarmingly. Crying fits, sleeplessness, convulsions: it was a virtual torture. Naturally I asked her whether she knew what was causing the trouble, and she spoke of problems in the handicapped-home, the grueling work, conflicts among the staff, etc. I advised her to do something about it, see a psychiatrist. She did that after a protracted resistance. The doctor recommended a stay at the Cademario Sanatorium, and she travelled down there in June. I called her up from time to time; she seemed rather cool and never said that she missed me, which was every bit as much of a relief to me as her telling me she was feeling better every day. I assumed now, actually, that the distance from me and the relaxing escape from daily life had given her the chance to take stock of herself, to realise, in other words, that the time had come to separate. I thought it would be possible for us to do that amicably, and during the third and last week of her stay, I pulled myself together for it. To wait until Valerie got back would be lazy, and not altogether advisable, since we had to worry about sinking back into the old habits and losing our nerve for the final stroke. I called her the day before I visited. She was looking forward to seeing me—more than I liked.

  “So I drove down and arrived at Cademario in the afternoon, just before four. She was sitting on the terrace of the sanatorium restaurant drinking coffee with an extremely attractive woman in a white uniform. Valerie looked relaxed, greeted me affectionately, and introduced me to Eva, a respiratory therapist. They seemed to have become good friends. Eva wanted to go, but Valerie wouldn’t let her. She said jokingly that I found it hard to be alone, and that she should keep me company, now that we were introduced, while she went and got herself ready for the evening. I was in top form talking to Eva, effortlessly casual. She was exactly my type: sporty, lively, sexy. I can say that I have a certain amount of experience in this sort of thing, but the fact that there was such a quick spark between us surprised even me a little. Her catlike eyes flashed unambiguously—I’m not blind! And since I’m also not a fool, I told her it was a pity that her coffee break would soon be over. She said she couldn’t spare me that pity, but on the other hand she was free the whole next day, if I were still in the area. I said that I had planned to go home tomorrow, but was ready in an emergency to alter that plan. ‘Here—for the emergency,’ she said, giving me her card, and left the terrace with an elastic step. You’re probably surprised how unembarrassed she was about coming on to me, despite knowing for a certainty that I was connected with Valerie. I myself was not much surprised, because in these things women are without scruples—I’ve seen it many times. As soon as a man arouses their erotic interest, they treat the woman he’s with like a negligible quantity if not a rival. The female nature knows nothing of sisterly regard.”

  Loos stopped, breathing heavily in a slightly stooped posture with both hands propped on the umbrella. It was so deathly still I could hear him clacking his teeth together a few times. “Are you all right?” I asked. “Yes, yes, of course” he said. “It’s just that the strain of admiring you tires me out. You acted with brotherly regard for Valerie’s husband when you went after his wife. You had a hundred scruples about flirting with Eva while Valerie was making herself beautiful for you. The male nature is simply nobler. Let’s go, it’s almost midnight.”

  “Well, yes,” I said, “I admit my flirting with Eva wasn’t completely above board. Nothing came of it, by the way, except a steamy little roll in the hay the next afternoon, she clearly didn’t want anything more. I called several times afterwards suggesting we get together, but she always put me off, and the thing ended there.” “And what happened with Valerie afterwards?” Loos asked. “How did the evening with her go?” “Subdued,” I said, “although she was as cheerful as she was in our first days together and seemed completely recovered. The only thing was, she had had an injury. I only noticed it when she came back out to the terrace. Her ring finger was in a splint. She had stupidly stumbled over a branch on a walk in the woods, as she put it, and broken her finger in her first week there. When I asked why she had never said so much as a word about the accident in our phone conversations, she simply said that she hadn’t wanted to seem self-pitying. We chatted on the drive to Agra, with a stop in Agno, where I filled the tank and Valerie got cigarettes and a ladies’ magazine. It smelled a little musty in the house, the air was stifling, so I opened the shutters and the windows. Valerie hugged me. I said I had to make a quick business call, poured her a Cynar, and went into the garden, where I called my secretary to ask her to reschedule the two appointments I had for the next day. When I came back, Valerie was sitting on the sofa thumbing through her magazine. She asked if I knew what the longest lifespan of a housefly was. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Only six and a half days,’ she said. I said that was a respectable age compared with a mayfly. She stood up and gave me another hug. “You seem a little shy,” she said. “What’s up?” “Nothing,” I said, “I’m just a little stressed.” She asked if she should massage me. I said I was hungry, and we drove down to the Bellevue. She ate with appetite, but I had a knot in my throat. She was brightly chirping to me about her stay in the sanatorium and how she had gotten to be friends with Eva—did I like her? I said I thought she was really nice, and then I suddenly felt suspicious.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Loos. “I had a moment’s suspicion too, but I don’t think that Valerie, as I know her from your description, would be capable even of thinking of guile. She would never have asked Eva to play the decoy to test your fidelity.” “Your x-ray vision frightens me,” I said. “That was in fact what I suspected, but I too rejected it immediately. To make a long story short, however: I had actually planned to direct the conversation to our relationship and to tell Valerie as considerately as possible that it wasn’t working for me anymore, that I had the impression I was the wrong one for her and wasn’t giving her what she expected. But I couldn’t bring it off. She was so sweet and cheerful, I just couldn’t do it. I bided my time and deliberately kept my talk to a minimum in the hope that she’d ask a second time what was up with me. But she didn’t. I brought her back to Cademario around ten. She was humming in the car. I went with her to her room—she wanted me to see it. There was a table with a bottle of red and two glasses on it, and next to it a television set that she had covered with a small cloth. She opened the bottle—something I would usually have done—and filled the glasses full. She sat on the bed, I in the armchair. ‘To the two of us!’ she said, took a sip, put the glass down on the night table, and lay down. ‘Valerie …’ I started. ‘Thomas,’ she said shyly, ‘come over here for just a minute, I mean in your clothes, just to sit.’ I couldn’t move, and she sat up. ‘I’ll cope with it,’ she said. ‘With what?’ I asked. ‘What you want to tell me,’ she said. Then she listened, calmly, except that sometimes her chin trembled. She nodded when I was through, as if she agreed. She asked no questions. In a soft, hardly audible voice she said, ‘I feel pathetic.’ After a while, she stood up and opened the door. ‘Flee!’ she said.

  “And that’s it. We never saw or heard anything from each other again. I say that without regret and assume that Valerie quickly got over the break-up, otherwise she wouldn’t have kept so consistently out of sight
, she would have raised hell for some time to come.” “Maybe she returned to her traditional anchorage?” said Loos. “Could be,” I said. “They certainly say there are men who take their wives into their arms and console them when they come crying back home after a bitter disappointment.” “Did she have any children at all?” Loos asked. “No,” I said, “she never wanted any. The world was full enough, she once said, and any new soccer fan was one too many. She meant that as a joke, of course, because she knew that I was one. The real reasons she kept to herself, as usual. Why do you ask?” “To round out my picture,” Loos replied. “A waste of time and effort,” I said. “If I can’t even form a picture of this ultimately unknown woman, how are you going to round out yours?” “The blank spaces also belong to the text,” Loos said, “and if it’s the way you think it is, then I’ll simply round out a phantom picture.”