The Dogs and the Wolves (16 page)

He went back into the library. Laurence placed a small table next to his armchair that held his ashtray, the book he was reading and a glass of sherry, then she switched on the lamp. Each of her gestures was graceful, Harry thought once more. No one could arrange flowers, light a fire, adjust a lampshade better than her. At the beginning of their marriage, Harry thought he would never tire of watching her coming and going, doing the simplest of things. During their secret engagement, this was what he most often, most happily imagined: walking beside her, sitting opposite her during meals, silently contemplating her face illuminated in
the lamplight. Was everything as he had hoped? Is anything ever as one hopes? He wasn’t ungrateful to Laurence, not at all. More than anything, he wished to make her happy. And she was happy . . . sometimes even too readily, too easily pleased by a pretty outfit, a bouquet of fresh flowers, an unexpected gift. It was strange . . . he was grateful she was like that, but, at times, simultaneously wary, worried. He could not believe she was really so easily satisfied. In the early days of their marriage, he continually asked her: ‘Are you really happy? Is everything exactly as you dreamed it would be?’ He asked so often, sounding so sad that Laurence became irritated (but she was wiser than him and so said nothing). But then again, she had never felt that insatiable thirst for happiness, had she? Dear Laurence . . . He took her hand as she handed him the paper knife that he was looking for without realising it. (He wasn’t even aware he’d been trying to find it.)

‘You know what I want before I do,’ he said.

She smiled.

‘I watch you all the time. I read your face like a sailor who studies the shape of the clouds to predict calm waters or a storm.’

Such goodness and solicitude, her sweet disposition and even temper made her the best of women, he mused.

‘My kind Laurence,’ he said, sounding calm and affectionate. Why could he find nothing to say to her?

He had loved her so passionately! But she had yielded to him with modesty and mockery . . . Oh, a very slight mockery, but still . . .‘Your Oriental love, your wild love,’ she would say. But he could only love passionately, madly, with total abandon, or . . . cease to love. And so they sat side by side, without saying a word.

‘So you really like what that young woman does so much?’ she asked, leaning towards the fire while slowly toying with her jade necklace. ‘Did you see the painting on the easel when we went in? That low sky, those foreign men with curls falling down their cheeks, walking in the snow behind a coffin set diagonally across a sleigh?’

‘A Jewish funeral,’ said Harry.

‘It’s sinister, sordid, don’t you think? And of course, it’s not new. We’ve seen those brownish grey tones and that flowing silvery white a hundred times before.’

‘But you can’t imagine how real it is, how true,’ said Harry, suddenly animated and leaning towards her. ‘You shouldn’t look at it as an art lover, do you see? Her technique is weak, but the way she paints affects me in a way that makes me forget the picture and allows me to rediscover myself, the real me. And that is undoubtedly what she is aiming for in her work. Along those strange, twisting paths, I find myself . . .’

He fell silent.

‘And yet,’ he continued, stroking Laurence’s hair, ‘I never actually saw anything like it. I belonged to a privileged class where the dead were buried with more pomp. And everyone took such care to make sure I was protected from any painful sight that I don’t think I ever saw a dead person or animal throughout my entire childhood. When a funeral procession was passing by in the street, my governess had orders to keep me distracted by any means possible. Yet all I had to do was close my eyes to discover, within me, the sadness from which I was so carefully protected.’

‘And now,’ he thought, ‘it’s here again . . .’

He continued in a low, emotional voice:

‘Yes, Laurence, even without having seen it, I know that it is true, true in its detail and especially in its immortal essence. The light snow that sometimes falls straight down because there isn’t a hint of wind: that’s surely the first snow in autumn; it disappears into the mud and puddles . . . That coffin, did you notice how it sat on the sleigh? Unsteady, diagonally . . . It hadn’t been carefully placed, just thrown on like a useless object, like a stone . . . and the people who are following it, walking in the deep tracks, did you notice their faces? Coldness towards the dead man who will not
be brought back to life by their tears, no hope whatsoever in everlasting life and, at the same time, such intense concentration, such passion . . . In the foreground, a child with dark eyes that dominate his face, and those thin little legs. I’ve seen so many little Jews who look like him! I, myself, who was cleaner and better dressed, I was a little Jew like him.’

She looked at him with a smile.

‘But you’re rambling, my poor Harry . . . I’ve seen photos of you when you were seven or eight, and I can assure you that you look nothing at all like the people in Madame Ada Sinner’s works. You were a lovely little boy with beautiful curls. You looked healthy and very happy to be alive and held a magnificent Persian cat tight against your chest.’

They said nothing for a moment.

‘And as a woman,’ Harry asked, automatically continuing to stroke Laurence’s hair, ‘do you like her, as a woman?’

She hesitated, torn between an instinctive aversion to Ada and the desire to be loyal, which caused her to say something very fair:

‘It’s difficult to speak of her as a woman . . .’

‘Yes, that’s true, that’s very true,’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘I was wondering what there was about her that was different from other women: there’s absolutely nothing feminine about her . . . She looks like a child . . . But you, my dear Laurence, if you suddenly found yourself on a deserted island, the very moment the confusion had ceased, you would go and collect some little feathers and seashells to dress yourself up for me, if I were with you, or in memory of me, if I were dead.’

‘Of course. Thank goodness,’ said Laurence. ‘These young girls, these foreigners have no sense of style, no sensitivity, no feeling.’

‘Is that what you think, my darling?’

‘Ambition, well, that they have,’ continued Laurence, sounding
distinctly irritated. ‘She cloaks her arrogance in a kind of modesty that I find quite despicable.’

Harry gently pushed her away, looked for a cigarette and carefully lit it.

‘I don’t believe,’ he finally said, ‘that her modesty is totally feigned. I see in it more an extreme mistrust of herself and of others.’

‘Why mistrust? We accept her, treat her as an equal. Why do we deserve her mistrust? It’s unfair.’

‘We mustn’t forget the unique situation of her life . . . The poverty, the loneliness and, at the same time, the awareness that she is, if not better than other people, then at least set apart from them; talent always does that to such unhappy souls when it takes hold of them. I’d like to help her, Laurence. People should meet her. We should invite some friends around to meet her one evening.’

‘Here?’ she asked, looking at him.

‘Naturally.’

She didn’t reply immediately. She got up from her chair, stood in front of the fire and stretched out her hands towards the flames.

‘No, Harry.’

‘Why not?’

‘I for one do not wish to become a kind of patron to this young woman. I cannot vouch for her: I don’t know her.’

‘You talk about her as if it were a question of smuggling some tramp into a wealthy home so she can run off with the silver!’ exclaimed Harry, angrily.

She looked at him coldly.

‘How excitable you are, Harry!’

‘And you reproach her for being mistrustful! You’re the one who’s mistrustful and unfair! Why must you assume these people are thieves?’

‘Because I don’t know them. You don’t open your doors to people
you don’t know; do you understand? You bought her paintings, you talked about her, you introduced her to people. That’s enough.’

‘Charity, but given at the doorstep, at the entrance to the beautifully polished reception room, in the way it is given to peasants,’ he said.

‘Yes. Don’t you understand that it’s more a question of dignity than prudence? And I don’t even want to go into the element of base curiosity that was just as odious to you as to me today! I only invite people into my home if I can treat them as friends, not as exotic animals.’

He stood up and took a few steps away from her.

‘Laurence,’ he said eventually, walking back over to her, ‘I beg of you, don’t refuse me this. I feel guilty about this child, I . . .’

‘What do you mean? You don’t even know her.’

‘Yes, I do. I met her once . . . in my country, in
our
country . . . But Laurence, don’t ask me to explain all that to you. You wouldn’t, you couldn’t understand. Trust me. Say you’ll allow me to receive her in our home, to welcome her . . . It’s very important, Laurence.’

‘It’s a whim.’

‘So you refuse?’

‘I don’t like her. I don’t like anything about her. Forgive me, Harry, but you’ve said this yourself many times: that mixture of arrogance and servility, which is specifically Jewish, is . . .’

She stopped.

‘I didn’t mean it,’ she said.

He said nothing. His face had suddenly gone pale and tense; his lips were quivering.

‘Harry, I detest men who are irritable,’ she said with a harshness of which she was perhaps unaware. ‘I’m used to you being more in control of yourself . . .’

‘And I’m used to you being more tolerant . . .’

‘Sometimes, you display an hysterical side of you that is . . . extremely unpleasant. I have often noticed it.’

He said nothing. He was shaking with rage and wounded pride. The look on his face was so strange, so full of hatred, that Laurence suddenly felt his hatred as a slap in the face, so she continued with an instinctively defensive reaction:

‘I’ve noticed it in your son, without realising that he got it from you.’

It was true; the child would sometimes burst into tears or display excessive joy or anger, revealing an emotional instability that had often alarmed them both. With her confident woman’s instinct, Laurence had struck upon the thing that would hurt Harry the most. But just as someone who has a gun pointing at his vital organs pushes it away, even though it might hit something else, something equally important, equally vulnerable, Harry was determined to change the subject, at any cost.

‘Are you jealous?’ he cried. ‘Admit it! It would be better, more worthy of you!’

‘Jealous? Of that ugly, shabbily dressed girl?’

‘I didn’t find her ugly,’ he said slowly, feigning ingenuousness.

‘If you find women like that attractive, I won’t try to compete with them!’

‘And yet, you’re jealous.’

‘No. A hundred times, a thousand times, no!’

‘Do you know,’ he suddenly shouted, ‘that ever since she was a child, ever since
we
were children in
our
country, she’s been in love with me? Do you remember that book someone sent to me shortly before we were married? We never knew where it came from. Do you know that she was the one who sent me that gift, because she wanted me to think about her, even for a moment, so I wouldn’t think about you?’

‘If she really did that then she’s mad, and if you admire that, if you approve of that, then you’re just as insane as she is.’

‘Well I do! And I would have done exactly the same thing when I was in love with you!’

Both of them, pale and trembling, fell silent.

‘Since you refuse to receive her here,’ said Harry, harshly (when he was angry, his features seemed sharper; his colourless cheeks looked thinner, as if he were sucking them in), ‘I shall ask my mother to have a party for her. You can either come or not, it’s up to you.’

‘She’s married. Will you also invite her husband?’

‘Why not?’

‘But you don’t know anything about him! You don’t know where he comes from, what he’s like. Are you going to associate with some stranger, some opportunist?’

‘Don’t you see that it is your attitude that pushes me into considering this stranger, this opportunist as a brother?’

‘And me, your wife, as a foreigner, is that it? Be careful,’ she continued with growing anger, ‘this is about more than just receiving this young woman: it’s about a deeper, more serious conflict.’

‘Ah! So you understand that, do you?’

‘So in spite of all my efforts,’ she cried out sadly, ‘I’ve never really understood what you were thinking, what you desired? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? I thought you were happy.’

‘No. I’ve never been happy, not for an hour, not for a single minute, never!’

In spite of himself, Harry’s voice sounded shrill; his eyes were blazing. He hid his face in his hands and ran out of the room.

Ada was in a state of high anxiety and excitement as she put on her clothes. Her dress was simple, black. Fortunately, all women’s dresses that year were shifts. She’d paid a lot of money for some silk stockings, and a collar and cuffs made of fine linen. How wonderful it felt to wear them! She studied her shoes for a long time: the heels were still straight, but the crêpe de Chine was rather worn at the edges. They had belonged to Lilla. For a week now Ada hadn’t picked up a paintbrush, so she could cut out and make her dress. Her years as Aunt Raissa’s apprentice hadn’t been a total waste after all . . . She’d done a good job. Her hat was small, dark and made of felt; it was almost masculine but it showed off her face. The real problem was her coat – a horrible, threadbare coat – but she wasn’t too worried about it because she was sure that no one kept their coats on once inside: that’s how it was in Russia. Ben stood beside her and watched, silent and sarcastic.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

She looked away. The presence of Ben spoiled the game, that delightful game she’d engaged in ever since she’d received Harry’s invitation, as if she were in some waking dream. Just as you rewind a film, so she had returned to the exact moment
in time when her true life had been interrupted, her only true life, in spite of appearances: the instant when she had entered the large hall decorated with flowers and little French flags, holding Madame Mimi’s hand, to be introduced to Harry. And now she had managed to sweep aside all the intervening years. She, Ada, had been invited to the Sinners’ home; they were holding a reception in her honour, to introduce her to Parisian high society. Of course, even in the past, she would never have dreamt of such a thing. But in her mind, she gladly confused the past and the present, dream and reality. By some stroke of good fortune, even the day itself was the same as it had been back then: the air still, with a sense of sad resignation that soon it would snow. She walked alongside Ben and looked at him, wondering what he was thinking. Strange, enigmatic Ben.