by André Alexis
I Thank You…
Gudrun Lindemann
He should have had another drink with her, although a man in his position had to be careful. Rundstedt decided to walk. He skirted Les Halles. The night was starless, wet, and cold, the streets uncrowded. So much for the city of light. He passed something Egyptian as he crossed Place de l’Hôtel de Ville and then, miraculously it seemed to him, he found the Seine. By then, however, it had begun to rain and he’d had enough. Rundstedt hailed a taxi and, once inside, struggled to remember the address.
– Onze…rue…Chevert.
– Yes sir, said the driver.
As he stepped from the taxi, he was thinking how much he missed Edwina, Edwina who spoke French so much better than he did, Edwina who might have found this city charming, Edwina who would have had them taking tours and attending embassy functions. He was not thinking of Miss Lindemann, but it was she who preceded him into the small lobby of the hotel. He was beside her, at her elbow, as she turned away, without seeing him, and took the stairs up to her room.
Rundstedt was startled. He did not think to call her name, to follow her, to thank her, to wish her good night, and by the time he recovered from his surprise, the night clerk had repeated
– What is the number of your room, sir?
Well, well. Will wonders never cease. What were the chances of them sharing a hotel?
Rundstedt approached his room thoughtfully, heavy key dangling. He had just put the key in the lock when he turned to see, two doors away, Miss Lindemann struggling with the lock on her door. This time, she turned towards him and
– Herr Rundstedt?
She seemed upset.
– Please? Why do you follow me?
Rundstedt laughed.
– I know it looks bad, he said, but this is my room.
– So. You are staying here also?
– Yes, I am. Listen, thanks for the dinner.
– It is nothing. Good night.
She turned away and continued struggling with the door.
– Can I give you a hand? asked Rundstedt.
Some of the spirit seemed to go out of her, at his question. Her (padded) shoulders sagged; she sighed; she stepped away from the door.
– Perhaps you will be able to open it, she said.
– Sure. Let me, said Rundstedt.
With no effort at all, he turned the key and her door opened.
– You just have to push it when you turn the key.
– Thank you so much, said Gudrun.
Her room smelled of rose water. Its windows looked out onto Rue Chevert. Her bed was neatly made.
– I am disappointed I cannot invite you to spend the night, said Gudrun. You are married. However, I am very lonely. Will you come in to talk?
They were standing before her doorway, a hand span between them. Miss Lindemann’s coat was open and Rundstedt, not much taller than she, could see the freckles that began between her breasts. He was both relieved and disappointed he would not spend the night.
– Sure, he said. Why not?
Though many might not believe it, talk is what they did: with him in a chair, coat across his lap, and her beneath the covers of the bed, unselfconsciously naked save for a brassiere and a St. Christopher’s medal.
And what did they talk about? Home, his wife, her parents. It was wholly innocent and completely satisfying. For the first time in his life, Rundstedt had the pleasant feeling that he was…no, not desirable. He knew he was that, to Edwina, but…strong, strong is the word: confident and self-assured enough to, after a few hours, relax in the company of a woman he found attractive. That is, a woman who was not his wife.
{31}
WHAT IS IT, PAUL?
In the year and more since he’d turned his wife out, Paul Dylan’s life had been unsettled, all aspects of his life constantly disturbed. Had he not founded Dylan Programming, for instance, were he not “the boss,” he might well have been shown the door. He would certainly have dismissed himself, circumstances permitting. There was no justifying his absence. He was at his desk every morning at nine and he left in the evening, well after everyone else, it’s true. But it had been some time since he had done more than sign the documents that needed signing and approve decisions made by his more dedicated employees. In fact, his head of operations had, for at least a year now, been the company’s most important employee.
In his own defence, he might have pointed out that he had not interfered with operations and the company had thrived. He might also have asked if he were not entitled to coast, from time to time, seeing as it was his business.
Yet, no one had questioned his entitlement or his right to coast. For months there had been peculiar looks and polite queries about “things at home.” Then, after a while, there was a kind of abatement. Those who worked closely with him accepted that his was the kind of burnout that accompanied success. It wasn’t that he did not keep up with the latest developments – the move from C to C++, for instance. He did, and for some time now, that and his support for new ideas were all they expected of him.
He had tried to be more involved in work but, despite his efforts, he could not shake the woman who had been his wife or, more exactly, he could not shake her lawyer. What had he done to deserve the hounds? He had behaved honourably, he felt, and, considering the circumstances, with restraint. He hadn’t ended his marriage. Its end had been decreed; this though he had (more or less) looked the other way at his wife’s infidelity. But over time, it became clear his wife had been wounded by his silence, his withdrawal, and his discretion. She wanted his house, his money, and even his assent: his assent that she was within her rights, his assent that she had behaved fairly, his assent that she was entitled to whatever she thought herself entitled.
Evidently, Mr. Nenas, her lawyer, thought she was entitled to whatever she wanted. Nenas had summoned him, as if he were a two-bit lackey, but Paul refused to have anything to do with him until his own lawyer had advised him to meet the Polynesian bastard. It was imperative. Paul stood to lose half of everything he owned if he did not agree to meet with his wife and her lawyer. So, he had gone, though he would have preferred to burn every little thing he owned and let her sift through the ashes.
He and his lawyer, Perry Newman, had waited in a meeting room. The floor was carpeted. They’d sat at an exceptionally long table. There were no windows, and the place was flooded with fluorescent light. If he had not already been on edge, the room would have put him there. Though it was very like the conference rooms in his own building, Paul had never felt so confined by walls and light.
Then, after making them wait, Mr. Nenas had walked in with Louise.
Paul’s anger had turned to loathing. Anger had something of love to it. He’d felt anger when it seemed possible to retrieve what was lost. Now, however, he wanted none of it. He saw Louise for what she was: a perfumed harpy. Every inch of Louise was pathetic: hair, lipstick, the tilt of her head, the way she looked down at the tabletop.
Whereas, previously, the thought of Louise’s suffering would have been gratifying to him, at that moment he’d felt only that he wanted her excised, taken away and put somewhere he would never see, find, or even think of her. (There was a thought: so well hidden, he would not even discover the memory of her.)
The first words from the Polynesian’s mouth had been:
– I think we have a bit of a problem here.
– Why don’t you tell us what the problem is? Perry had asked.
– Your client has been extremely uncooperative.
– How so?
There followed a litany, a nebula of complaints, until Paul said
– I didn’t abandon anyone. I worked twenty years to make a home for my wife, then she abandoned me.
Gently, Perry had put a hand on his arm and said
– Let’s let him finish.
On the other side of the table, Mr. Nenas was sitting up stiff-backed. The former Mrs. Dylan had also straightened up.
– We’re not, said Mr. Nenas, contesting that it was Mrs. Dylan who initiated this separation, but she didn’t surrender her rights by leaving. And you’ve been pretty cruel, haven’t you? You took her money from your joint account. You’ve refused to see or speak to her, and you’ve left us no alternative but to take you to court. If I were you, I’d listen to your lawyer, eh.
Paul couldn’t help himself. He said
– You Polynesian prick.
– Who’s Polynesian? asked Mr. Nenas. I’m from Moose Jaw.
Again, Perry had put a hand on Paul’s arm.
– Let me do the talking for a bit, he’d said gently. Listen, Tim, if you’ve come here to insult my client, we can adjourn right now. First of all, this joint account business won’t fly. Any account the Dylans held in common was for use by my client as well as yours. There was no formal agreement as to its management, so don’t be provocative. Second, it was, as you’ve said, your client who walked away from the marriage. She did not give her husband occasion to express his opinion on the matter. Despite that, here we are, Tim, in your office, talking to you and to your client. Mr. Dylan was not obliged to speak to your client. He waited until he heard from her representative before making himself available, so there again he’s done nothing wrong. If you’d like to be serious instead of provocative, let’s stick to terms. What would Mrs. Dylan like?
That had pinned Nenas’ ears back for him.
– Fair enough, said Mr. Nenas. My client would like exactly what she’s entitled to: her own money back and half of everything Mr. Dylan owns. House, business, assets. The works.
– You must be kidding, said Perry.
– Not at all, Mr. Nenas answered.
– Mrs. Dylan instigated the separation. She does nothing to save the marriage and, as I understand it, she’s the one who had an affair.
Mr. Nenas’ eyebrows had circumflexed.
– What affair? he’d asked. There was no affair.
Until that instant, it had been as if the former Mrs. Dylan did not exist. She’d sat quietly by her lawyer, humiliated that it had come to this: begging for what belonged to her. The issue was Paul’s behaviour, his theft of her money, his refusal to speak to her or, until Mr. Nenas threatened to proceed against him, her lawyer. Now, for the three men in this sterile room, the issue was her morals. With whom had she slept and when? They’d turned to her, waiting for her to deny her infidelity But why should she deny? Why should she swallow the lie beneath all this: that she was entitled to her belongings only if she could prove she had lived blamelessly for twenty years, that she had earned what was hers through fidelity?
– Yes, she said, I did have an affair.
Mr. Nenas was caught off guard, but he recovered.
– It changes nothing and you know it, Perry. Mrs. Dylan is entitled to half of all property and assets accrued during the marriage. So, what we’re doing here, today, is asking for Mr. Dylan’s cooperation. We’ll need his business statements, bank records, the works. We’d rather not go through court to get them, but we will if we have to.
How strange it had been. The sounds of the lawyers’ voices had faded softly or gone out of focus, as if they were speaking through felt. How strange, too, that such an obvious truth
– Yes. I did have an affair
delivered with contempt should have so influenced him.
As if the thought had just occurred to him, Paul had said
– And are you finally going to admit who you slept with, Mrs. Dylan?
Her lawyer had come immediately to her defence, putting his hand up as if to ward him off.
– That’s not our business, he said.
Exactly what she herself might have said but, again, the indignity, the being made to feel these men held the strings to her fate, was too bitter. She had moved Mr. Nenas’ hand from before her and said
– Walter…Walter Barnes.
She’d spoken Walter’s name clearly, looking straight at Paul for the first time, allowing herself to feel the full measure of her anger.
Paul had blanched, and kept quiet from then until he walked from the conference room.
That first meeting (so far, the only one) had been in March. Louise’s mention of Walter Barnes had had as profound an effect on Paul as she had hoped, but for reasons she could not have guessed. If Paul had been devastated, it had not been, as she’d thought, because he’d felt the humiliation of her infidelity but, rather, because it had become clear to him that she had not slept with Walter Barnes. His conscience, which he had managed to stifle since the day his secretary had mentioned, “Norway, Løne, Lucy, Louise,” returned to torment him. He had hurt an innocent man. From the moment Louise had spoken Walter’s name, he’d recovered his sense.
He understood, the instant she had said Walter’s name, that she was lying. The hesitation, the look on her face, the way she’d spoken. She had lied to protect someone else. When Louise named Walter, Paul understood not only that he had misinterpreted the signs that pointed to Walter’s guilt but that his previous version of Walter, that he was too much the academic to copulate, had been true. He now saw just how circumstantial his evidence had been, and it shamed him to think he had cobbled bits of hearsay, meaningless signs, and the testimony of a college girl into a case against so gentle a man. No, Walter was innocent and Louise was utterly despicable.
What was he to do? It wasn’t only a question of guilt and expiation. The guilt was sharp enough, but it had been a long time since his contretemps with Walter and, besides, if asked, he would have said it had not been his fault. Really, if it came to fault, Louise was the one who’d flattened Walter. She was the one who had driven him to do it. He had been her instrument. He had been used. He and Walter had both been deceived by a woman without morals.
But who was there to warn a man about marriage and women?
There was song, it’s true
– Mujer, si puedes tú con Dios hablar…
but one could not live a life by the bard. And there was the Bible
–…he that heareth, and doeth not, is like a man that without foundation built a house upon the earth…
but how much more dangerous was holy writ as a guide to life.
He was alone, and it seemed to him he’d been alone for decades. The friends he’d had at school had fallen into other lives like pebbles into a deep well. The friends he’d made since had, most of them, for one reason or another, passed from his life. He now avoided the other members of the Fortnightly Club, for instance. His community had dwindled to one, to himself, and its purpose was lost, or its purpose still had something to do with Louise, though it was not clear what that something might be.
Almost without meaning to, having no end in mind, he’d begun to follow Louise. No, that’s too easily said. He did not follow her. Rather, he put himself in her vicinity. It was a matter of curiosity. Weeks after the meeting with Nenas, Perry had told him, gently, that it might have been better had he, from the beginning of the separation, kept the lines open.
– But what’s done is done, Perry had continued.
Barring some fantastic revelation, say that Louise was not who she claimed to be, she was, by law, entitled to half of whatever he had made during their marriage. They could stall. They could prolong the process and, if that was what Paul wanted, Perry would do his best. But was there not, Perry wondered, a chance Louise would still accept less in order to avoid a long wait?
– I could speak to her, said Perry.
– Whatever you like, Paul had answered.
But he’d been thinking on Perry’s fantastic notion: that Louise was not whom she claimed to be. What if Louise were not Louise? And how could one tell if anyone were who they claimed to be? Though Perry had no
t meant the notion seriously, it was an idea that sang to Paul’s psyche. Or, rather, it provided a pretext for his budding obsession to see his wife again. Whatever the case, shortly after this meeting with Perry, Paul had begun to track Louise down, as if she were a science project, waiting to observe her at the places he thought she might be.
The first wait had been tedious. He’d sat in a rented car and watched, from seven o’clock until nine, on a night in autumn, parked across the street from 371 Powell, the house she shared with her friend Fredrika. And what a strange sensation it was to see Louise approach, walking west, pass his car without seeing him, cross the street, fumble with her keys, and step into Powell. He’d felt shame, resentment, and pleasure. His pleasure was an echo of the pleasure he’d once felt at the sight of her. His resentment was more natural; she was, after all, a woman he now loathed. All of these emotions had passed through him simultaneously.
She entered the house at eight. It took Paul an hour to recover, to keep himself from knocking at her door, to reassure himself that he had done nothing wrong (he had done nothing at all), and to resolve never to repeat his “experiment.”
He managed to hold to his resolution for weeks. All was well. As if the incident had led him back to the straight road, he found himself able to work, to concentrate, to put the small matters behind him, to take care of business. He became, again, meticulous. So it was all for the best. It had all been for the best. He had recovered clarity. The strange current that had run through him at the sight of her had been liberating. He knew where he stood. He could dispense with her. He felt such freedom, he imagined he could easily give up his money, his home, his business. He could give it all without flinching. To her, even.
No, actually, no he could not.
His second vigil, two weeks later, had not been like the first. For one thing, he he’d been on foot this time. For another, on this occasion he’d hoped to meet her casually, as if it were unplanned. He would encounter her on his way to, let’s say, a movie at the Somerset, though the Somerset was not that close.
He’d walked along Powell, from Bronson to Bank Street.