No More Lonely Nights

by Nicole McGehee

  “Bonjour, Madame Renard, c’est Marie. Pourrais-je parler à Anton?”

  Dominique replied in French. “This isn’t Anton’s mother, but I’m Madame Renard. He’s not here, though. May I take a message?”

  Silence.

  “Hello, are you still there?” Dominique asked.

  “You’re Anton’s wife?” The woman sounded stunned.

  “Yes,” Dominique said impatiently. Was this an old girlfriend?

  “May I take a message?” She leaned over and picked up the pencil that lay near the phone. Dominique was disturbed to hear the woman burst into laughter. “Why are you laughing?” she asked uneasily.

  “Welcome to the club!” said the woman with cynical cheer.

  Dominique’s grip tightened on the phone. Her mind was racing ahead. “The club?” Her voice rose anxiously. She dreaded what was to come.

  “How much did he take you for?” the woman asked with bitter amusement.

  Dominique’s pulse roared in her ear as she pressed the receiver closer. “You were married to him?” she asked in a voice that was deceptively calm. The eraser of her pencil shot across the room as her thumb mashed into it, tearing it from its anchor. Dominique slumped into the couch, yanking the phone from the table to her lap. “Tell me!” she commanded, too distraught to phrase it politely.

  The woman let out a mirthless bark. “I was his second wife. He ran through the dowry of the first one in five years. A Canadian… Montreal I think. Her father owned hardware stores or something like that. My father has vineyards in Bordeaux.”

  Dominique listened in stunned silence—at the pit of her stomach, a grinding anger.

  The woman went on. “And you? Not from France, I’ll wager; he keeps a distance between wives so their families don’t find out about him.”

  “Egypt,” Dominique whispered. She thought of Anton’s hands on her at night, his loose, white body—of what she had endured out of a sense of duty! She squirmed with revulsion. She had been so worried about keeping her word. Worried about staying with the husband she had married for convenience. She had thought she owed him. And now she was faced with a betrayal so vile that it was almost unimaginable!

  “Ah, yes… Anton has family in Egypt,” Marie was saying. “Unfortunately, he has family in many countries and I don’t think any of them know about his schemes.”

  Dominique thought of the Renards. She and her mother had known them for years. They couldn’t have known about Anton! Couldn’t have betrayed her, too! Dominique shook her head vehemently. “What schemes?” she rasped.

  Marie’s voice filled with disgust. “He’s a con artist! He robbed my father of the last of his savings! But the sickening thing is, he didn’t do anything illegal!” She spoke fast, clearly relieved to talk about it. “Father was almost ruined by World War II. But he had enough for a dowry to ensure that I ‘married well,’ as he put it. He thought Anton was a good match. The Renard family is highly respected in France. Anyhow, it wasn’t until after the marriage that I realized Anton had a gambling problem. When I told Father, he hired a private detective to find out just how much he was losing, and how often. That’s how I discovered his first marriage.”

  “Gambling problem?” Dominique said dully. She was going to be sick to her stomach. She didn’t trust herself to say another word.

  “Ha! You didn’t think he was playing cards for pennies, did you?”

  Dominique cradled her head in her hand. It was spinning, the room fuzzy. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” she said weakly. Solange played cards every day and there had never been a money problem. Dominique tried frantically to think if there had been other clues she’d missed. But what? “I don’t understand.” Her tone was suddenly belligerent. She wanted to find a gap in Marie’s story. Wanted to believe that Anton was no longer gambling away his money. “If he keeps losing money, how can he afford this house? All those nice things?”

  “The house!” Marie’s voice was incredulous. “It isn’t his, it’s his mother’s!” She paused. “Does he still have that fancy bedroom?” Her voice was filled with scorn. At Dominique’s silence, Marie continued. “Paid for with my father’s money!”

  Dominique caught her breath. “What about Anton’s business?” she choked.

  “I see he didn’t change one line of his story,” Marie said dryly.

  Dominique was frantic—her knuckles white from grasping the phone so hard. She had to get away from Anton! Her muscles twitched with the urge to throw down the phone and run. No! That wouldn’t help. Slow down and think, she commanded herself.

  “Are you all right?” The woman’s voice pierced her conscience.

  Dominique took a tremulous breath. “I… I don’t know… I don’t know what to do… I…” She was silent for a moment, then she blurted out the thought that was uppermost in her mind. “I have to get away from him!”

  “That would be my advice,” the woman said sympathetically.

  But how could she leave? She imagined herself going upstairs, packing her clothes, going to a local hotel. But she had only five dollars in her handbag. And the bank wasn’t even open on Saturdays. She would have to go to a cheap hotel, the kind that demanded payment in advance. Until Monday, she could do nothing. And then what? Her confused mind was unable to focus. She needed time to think.

  Dominique appealed to the woman. “Please! I know you’re angry at him. I know you called to talk to him. But please don’t let him know you spoke to me. I need some time to plan. Do you understand?”

  “I certainly do!” the woman said fervently. “But be careful. Be smart. Just because you leave him, don’t think you’re finished. As long as he thinks he can get money from you, he’ll keep trying.” She paused, then said sourly, “Anyhow, I only called to tell him to stop pestering me. He already cost me my job. I’m going back to France and he’ll never get another penny from me! We’ll see how he likes that!” she snarled. Then she let out a satisfied chuckle. “But knowing that you’ll have your revenge is delicious. I hope you get the best of him.”

  With fumbling movements, Dominique placed the phone back in the cradle. She held the cold object on her lap and stared straight ahead like a sleepwalker. She wanted to leave. Now. Never come back. But as she considered her alternatives, envisioned the consequences of leaving, she realized it was too soon.

  You’ve made a mistake. Don’t make it worse! She had to be cunning, more cunning than Anton. She had to plan carefully, to look after herself. “Be smart,” Marie had said. What was the smartest thing to do?

  She could try putting aside more money, but whatever meager amount she could save would last only a short while. She would have to ask Solange for money. If only she could call her! But telephone communications in Egypt were primitive. Dominique would never get through on the first try. The operator would have to call back. And what if Anton or his mother were home by then? A wire wouldn’t do either; it would cost far too much to explain everything. And she had to explain everything so that Solange would be as outraged as Dominique. A letter would be best. In the meantime, though, every instinct told Dominique that she had to conceal from Anton what she had learned.

  Dominique bolted up decisively. She would write the letter and mail it before Anton or his mother returned. And she would warn Solange to send her response to Dominique in care of the bank. After everything else he had done, Anton would hardly shrink from opening her mail.

  Dearest Dominique,

  The turn of events you have described is, of course, disastrous. I had such hopes for your marriage to Anton and your new life in America.

  As you requested, I have refrained from contacting his family here; however, I am most anxious to discuss this with them as soon as possible. It is inconceivable that such fine people could have known about his past. This is a matter I cannot leave unresolved.

  It distresses me that I can be of no help to you. Foreigners’ assets here are more closely watched than ever, and we are now forbidden to send any m
oney out of the country. In fact, cash withdrawals at banks are limited to an amount that barely enables me to cover my household expenses.

  You will have read that the British spent the month of June evacuating the Suez Canal Zone. No one knows what the Nasser government will do next. Our friend the deputy minister fears for his position, as he is considered one of the “old guard” and not well looked upon by some influential members of the new regime. Extremists in the government are urging the president to nationalize the Canal, which, as you know, would be perilous. Britain and France would almost certainly go to war to defend their access.

  Cousin Rene’s textile manufacturing plant was nationalized right after you left. He was promised compensation, but the terms are laughable. In exchange for an operation which brought him millions a year, he has been given Egyptian government bonds with various terms of maturity. In effect, they have stolen the factory. Rene hopes to emigrate to France, but the government has told him he must continue on at the plant to train the new director. He and his family will be arrested if they try to flee.

  For the first time, I, too, am uneasy about my prospects here. I have insisted that Nanny go to her sister in France. But I suppose I will die here. I don’t wish to leave, despite everything. As long as I remain, I believe I’ll be able live as I always have. It is those foreigners who seek to leave who fall under government suspicion.

  I hope by the time you receive this letter you will have found a solution to your dilemma. Divorce is a drastic measure and one to which our family has never resorted. I know that what Anton has done seems heinous, but reflect carefully whether you wish to be a divorcée. Life can be difficult for a woman alone, most particularly for a woman without financial resources. Sometimes even the worst of husbands can smooth a woman’s way in the world. I gather that you fear no physical threat from Anton. You might consider at least waiting until the November cotton sale. Since that takes place overseas, I feel confident I will be able to forward him the profit to which his shares entitle him (I regret now that I did not put them in both your names, but, of course, it is the husband who manages the money). Perhaps that will make your life with him easier.

  I know this is not the answer you were anticipating and that the situation appears hopeless, but if you could view it through my eyes, through the perspective of greater experience, you would perhaps understand why I am not certain that divorce is the best solution. I know that things are more liberal in America, but I must remind you that divorce is still considered a disgrace among our people—a last resort born of desperation. I beg you not to act with your usual impetuosity.

  Love,

  Your mother

  Dominique reread the letter twice as she leaned against the partition in the ladies’ room. She had shut herself into the little stall, wanting no interruptions from curious co-workers. Now, in shock, she kicked down the toilet lid and collapsed onto the seat. She was stunned by the hatred—the sheer, desperate hatred—for Solange that boiled through her. With trembling hands, she tore the thin paper into tiny pieces, clutching the debris in her fists. Overwhelmed with despair, she closed her eyes.

  She had waited five weeks for the letter in her hand. Five weeks with a husband she despised. It had been endurable only because she had been sure that help was on the way. She had counted on Solange. Now Solange wouldn’t help! But the final blow, the most wounding, was that Solange seemed to assign some blame to Dominique. The letter’s closing line stung. “I beg you not to act with your usual impetuosity.” Was it impetuous to want to leave a liar and a swindler? Was Solange so afraid of disgrace that she would ask Dominique to endure the marriage? There had to be a way to get money out of Egypt. Dominique opened her clenched fists and looked at the tiny pieces of paper in her hand. A dull, gnawing pain started in her stomach. She clenched her fists and huddled close to the wall, her teeth chattering. It was hard to think logically. Rocking unconsciously to and fro, she tried to regain control of her emotions. She inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm herself. In. Out. A few more breaths and she was able to think more coherently.

  Where could she go? How could she start a new life with less than two hundred dollars? Today was Friday, so she could take her entire check and decamp. But even that would add only fifty dollars to her meager savings. What she needed was a place to stay until she could save more. But the idea of even one more day with Anton was too detestable to contemplate. On the other hand, if she left, he would surely make trouble for her at the bank. He would insist that she stay with him until November as insurance for the payment of her dowry.

  She had to leave San Francisco! And that meant she had only one possible refuge. Her sister, Danielle. But Danielle had a family now. What if they didn’t have room for her? Dominique jumped to her feet. She would call right now and ask.

  Moving with frantic haste, she jerked open the door of the stall so hard that it crashed against the wall. Oblivious to the noise, she rushed from the ladies’ room. When she reached her desk, she realized she was still clutching Solange’s shredded letter. With a vigorous swipe of her hands, she brushed the bits of paper into the trash. Only after she sat down and picked up the phone did she hesitate. What if Danielle refused? What if she, too, advised Dominique not to divorce? And how would Danielle’s husband, Ronald, react? Impossible to say. The last time Dominique had seen him, she had been thirteen. Only a sketchy image of him remained in her memory—a swaggering American naval officer with sunshine blond hair. Her sister had met him in Alexandria just after World War II, at a time when all Americans had been regarded as heroes. They had fallen in love and married quickly. Danielle had been eighteen, young by American standards, but just the right age for marriage in Egypt, even among Europeans. Then they’d gone back to America, where Ronald had entered the field of advertising.

  Now, as Dominique sat at her desk, her hand frozen on the telephone, she realized that so much time had passed that she couldn’t predict what sort of welcome she might expect from either Danielle or Ron.

  Suppose, though, that she simply showed up in New York. They could hardly refuse her a place to stay for a few nights. Dominique was confident she could find a job as quickly as she had in San Francisco. That was the way to do it, she decided boldly—present them with a fait accompli.

  Dominique carried her valise to the phone booth of the New York Port Authority bus terminal and closed the door on the cacophony of the station. She dialed Danielle’s number, her stomach fluttering with anxiety as she waited for the call to go through.

  “Hello.” A weary male voice came over the telephone line. It didn’t sound like anyone Dominique knew.

  “Hello, is this the Marks residence?” she asked tentatively.

  “Yes, this is Ronald Marks.” More inviting this time, with a note of expectation.

  Dominique made her voice as pleasant as possible. “Hello, Ronald, it’s Dominique. How are you?”

  There was a pause. “Oh, hi. Okay I guess.” His voice sank, his disappointment almost palpable. “You want to speak to Danielle?” He didn’t wait for a response.

  Dominique heard him lay down the receiver. In the background, a child cried. “Danielle!” the man bellowed. “Phone!”

  The receiver clanked a few more times, then Danielle, sounding short of breath and harassed, said, “Hello?”

  “Danielle, c’est moi,” Dominique automatically reverted to the language they always spoke together.

  “Dominique! How are you!” The fatigue in Danielle’s voice was replaced by excitement.

  “Fine. Fine. But, listen, I have something important to tell you.” Dominique wanted to get it over with. She was bone tired after the endless hours on the bus. She was dying for a hot shower. All she wanted was to be with Danielle and relax.

  “What is it?” Danielle sounded alarmed.

  Dominique blurted out, “I’ve left Anton.” She held her breath as she waited for her sister’s reaction.

  “What!” Danielle’s voice was sharp,
unbelieving.

  “He hasn’t called looking for me?” Dominique asked apprehensively.

  “No… I don’t know, we were at Ron’s mother’s this weekend.” Danielle sounded stunned.

  “Danielle, I need your help.” Now the words spilled out of Dominique in a torrent. “Anton lied about everything. He’s been married twice before. He finds wealthy women and he—”

  Danielle interrupted. “Where are you?” she demanded, sounding worried.

  Dominique didn’t answer for a moment. Then, in a small voice, she said, “In New York. At the bus station.” Then the torrent of words resumed. “I should have warned you, but I was afraid you’d try to talk me out of it, and I didn’t have anyone else to turn to! I’m sorry to be a burden, but can you put me up for a while? Just until I find a job. It won’t be long. I found one right away at the bank in San Francisco. Of course, I can’t use them as a reference since I’ve quit so sud—”

  “Come right away,” Danielle interrupted her. “We sold the car so we can’t pick you up. I’ll meet you at the subway stop.”

  Dominique eagerly fished a pencil from her purse. “Give me the directions.”

  It was bliss to be with family again! To share fond memories and a common background. To find refuge. Now that the excited greetings, the initial hugs and kisses, were out of the way, the sisters were chattering at high speed about their lives. Their rapport was as comfortable as it had always been—as though they’d never been apart.

  As she and Danielle emerged from the stale-smelling subway, Dominique paused, bombarded by impressions. People rushing by, carelessly bumping into them. Loud voices, strange accents. Car horns. High-pitched police whistles. Trucks clattering down the narrow street. And the heat. August mugginess that was a mixture of steam and diesel fumes. It came off the pavement in waves. It was at least twenty degrees hotter than San Francisco. “God, this reminds me of Egypt,” Dominique said in wonder.