The Story of My Wife (13 page)

"It might just be a parable," I repeated hoarsely. "Interpret it as you wish. One thing is certain: acts such as these don't make one bit of sense. Why should one choke a woman to death? She, too, is a human being, you say to yourself—she needs air. Yet people do it, even if it means interfering grossly with the natural order of things. But we know all that, he knew it too, and yet he did it. And what did he gain by it? He kept on suffering and pining for the woman just the same. 'You were one big fool, Peter Kilian,' I said to him in the end." (That was the man's name.)

He was over it by then, I think. He was no longer a scalemaster, of course, but helped out on the docks, where they don't ask too many questions. But what he said to me was this:

"The days I spent in jail, they were God's own days, captain. But I'd do it again, I tell you. And he laughed. There are times, you see, when nothing helps. You may be a smart man, captain, but only if you tried it, could you understand how it feels. Finally, he leaned over and whispered in my ear: 'I was a fool for divorcing her ... If you really want to know, that's what started it.'"

"You see," I said to the poor devil.

My story ended here. But I swear my heart almost gave way, I really thought I was going to fall dead on the floor. That my wife really loved me I could no longer doubt.. . . And this wife of mine was sitting just a few feet away, trembling. And already my heart ached for her; I could cry. But all I did was pace a little more.

It says here in my journal that I did the right thing. I did indeed. It was time I shook her up a little, brought her to her senses ... It was all rubbish, though. As if it were possible to do the right thing.

There are even threats in that journal. That I was fed up with my chivalrous attitude, the cup ran over, etc. When she was ill, that was one thing. But she had no business being sick, I noted, love-sick, that is, over someone else, in my home. Because if that's the case I throw her out. If she feels like being in love, I feel like throwing her out.

I still remember how furious I was, how humiliated I felt—I kept making entries in my notebook all night long.

It's easy not to be jealous, I wrote, easy to dismiss the Ridolfis of this world, when you don't really care. But now it was different—I did care. About her. So she had to decide what she really wanted. After our last conversation our future was placed in her hands. It was she who had to speak.

For it was much too comfortable for her until now. All she did was criticize and make faces. If she was that unhappy with her lot, let her do something about it.

Let it be on her head now.

I jotted this down too.

And in the morning I left the house, and stayed away the whole day. But then, a surprise: though I got home quite late, she very humbly waited with supper, she even toasted my bread herself, which was quite extraordinary—never before was I treated this royally. And after supper she came over to me.

"Please, Oncle Croc Croc". . . And then: "Listen to me, Monsieur Houine." (She called me by two names now, which was also peculiar.) "Can I say something?" she asked meekly.

"Yes, do."

"I will then: You are one big fool. . . But it's all right. . . And don't you be angry with me." And she touched my vest with her finger, as was her custom. It
is
all right, I thought, everything is.

People say that we Dutch make good planners, good builders. But when it comes to sorting out our own lives, heaven help us— we are as inept as can be. Yet, we stick to conventions and forms, I could never understand why. Take a clean-cut young man, for example; how come he knows how to sit at the table and hold his tongue, and lower his head when the host wishes to drink, and lift his beer glass skyward just at the right moment. . . ? But that's us, all over.

God, are we a strange lot. Naturally, we have our difficulties with the sanctity of family life, with the virginity of our buxom daughters . . . But laughter is somehow beyond us, and that's the main problem. The French are of course different; they can laugh, though their laugh is like a cold stream hit by sunlight—happy and cruel.

And that's just the point I want to make.

That we are a joyless people, drab and without spirit. Well-intentioned but hard. Unhappy, in short. Can people bound to duty and reason have any flair? People who try to understand the world—this impenetrable tangle—with their heads?

Those who want to be consistent
all
the time?

"Why shouldn't I be open to the Holy Spirit?" she asked me not long ago, and I couldn't figure out why she'd want to go to church all of sudden. It happened to be a holiday, but still. She of all people, who was not the least bit religious, who treated devout people with haughty disdain. (A pious friend of hers, a certain Madame Lagrange, for instance.)

"Come now, why are you so surprised?" she said then. "How stupid those people are who decide never to humble themselves."

But this is just what I am getting at. The woman was devoted, on that I am willing to stake my life. At times it seemed her heart was filled with nothing but devotion. She was also a cheat. There are people, alas, who, try as they might to change their true nature, are forever tempted, charmed by it. By their own falseness and duplicity. It's enough to drive a man to distraction.

From such a creature I expected constancy? When the very thing I admired in her, and hated and envied, was her playfulness, yes, the teasing, dubious games she played with everyone . . . And of course her laughter.

How that woman could laugh! And at the littlest things, at everything, really. She fairly swam in it, splashed about like a child in the bathtub.

And I can't even laugh any more, I noted at the time. Is it any wonder, then, that in spite all my bitterness, in spite of the promptings of my soul, I said to myself at times: Maybe she is right. Maybe that's how one ought to live, that's what life really demands. It's there in my notebook, summed up in a single phrase. No one reading it would know what's behind that simple, lonely phrase: "Maybe she's right."

But I do; it cost me, but now I really do.

And with that a chapter in my life came close, and a new one began, a whole new period that was suspect from the start, if only because it was so sweet, so disconcertingly, tantalizingly sweet.. . .

What my wife may have been up to remained a mystery. I stopped searching for clues, I was just too tired. A case in point: Why was my soup lovingly stirred and cooled now? For it was. And why were my slippers placed exactly where they belonged, whereas before they weren't? And in general, why was everybody so goddamn solicitous of me in my own house? Why all this mockery? But let's take an example.

It's early in the morning; from somewhere in the house I hear her voice: "Sloppy again; definitely sloppy." And before I know it, she is standing next to me in the bathroom, watching me shave, straightening my robe; she even gets up on a stepstool and starts brushing my hair.

"Don't make me look ridiculous," I tell her gently.

No, no, she'll have none of that: "This is a married man's privilege. Especially after he has returned to home and hearth," she adds with a chuckle.

"To hearth, in spring?"

"A cool hearth, then," she says.

"A cold one, you mean."

"Go on, you know you're not cut out for love. What's all this fuss?" And she starts tapping my nose with her finger. And I let her.

"And why am I not cut out for love?" I insisted. But there was no answer. Instead, she began to knot my necktie, nice and slow, as one would a young boy's. In the old days the mere thought of somebody pawing my neck would have sent me into a rage. But now I said nothing. I had the feeling I was getting fat. So help me, I suddenly experienced the uncomfortable sensation of being overweight.

"Now you are all right, you look handsome," she declared, turning my face this way and that, to get a good look. "Yes, quite handsome."

"I handsome?"

"Yes, you; look in the mirror."

"No I won't. Why am I not cut out for love?"

"Well ..."

"Come on, out with it."

"Well, is this what lovebirds supposed to look like?" And she asked this the way a schoolmistress might quiz her unruly class, or the way boarding school girls toss out naughty riddles, at night, after the lights have been turned off in their bedrooms.

"My, you're being mysterious. What
is
a lovebird like?"

"Brazen," she said without hesitation.

"And what am I?"

"Honest."

"You don't say. . . (As though she read what I jotted down the other time.) In other words, I shouldn't be honest? I ought to be a scoundrel, I suppose."

Then, changing tack, I said:

"You know something, I am not even that honest. But let's hear more about this pigeon of yours."

She started hedging again: "Well . . ."

"Come now, don't be shy."

"It's mischievous, it bites, it's not nearly as gentle as you may think . . . You don't have to be that manly, you know." Or that tough.
Mon capitain.
(She always liked to poke fun at my profession.)

"I shouldn't be manly, you say. Fine. How would you like me to be then? Tell me."

"How should I know that? Be impudent, I don't know. Be a scoundrel, like you said, just make it look good . . . Women are gullible, you know. They're like hungry calves, you can feed them anything, just make sure your teeth are bright and your smile is rougish. Pretend you've ruined all the virgins around and you'll be all right . . . Now you understand? Do you?"

She said all this with such passion, I began to wonder. But there was one more reminder:

"Don't expect life to cater to your whims. For if you do, it will play you for a fool."

That's just what my wife gave me to understand. That life will play me for a fool. A curious warning. Or her way of letting me know what sort of man was her ideal? Perhaps.

"There now," she concluded, "you've been properly instructed. Now go and play the ladies' man for a while."

"For a while?"

"Yes," she said firmly.

And that's what our life was like in those days. As I said, it was an unnerving, crazy period, dreamlike almost. And in this dream my wife was as mysterious as ever, and I as apprehensive.

I knew, however, that there are always two possibilities. You can either give up a race or go for that last push, hopeless though it may seem. I for one gave up, threw away the oars. Does she love me? Doesn't she? I no longer asked. Dedin didn't trouble my thoughts, either. I simply forgot about him.

But this was only part of the story. The other part was that I became quite interested in that little Irish girl. For she was still here. She came over from London for what was to be a short excursion but didn't feel like going home. And she told me she was in love with me. She said it in jest but really meant it, I could tell. And that's what made it so strange. . . .

At any rate, the young lady gave me to understand the following: that I was just like Micislav Mickievic. We were sitting in the garden terrace of a hotel; my wife left to try on some hats. She wanted the kind our Irish ladyfriend was wearing: a floppy one with ribbons that fluttered when she walked.

"But who is Micislav Mickievic?" I asked the little miss.

She dreamed about him, she said. Somebody approached her in a dream and said: "My dear young lady, I'd like to present Mr. Micislav Mickievic." And this dream vision of a man was very much to her liking . . .

Her nose quivered with excitement as she said this, her eyes gleamed—this young thing was teasing and mocking me with all her being.

And then she had the cheek to ask: "You don't believe me?" Sounding just like my wife did when she was this young and wanted me to swallow some big lie.

But she breezed on. She's been looking for this man ever since, she said, he became her ideal. And now at last she found him, in me. I had to laugh.

"And you never met him before, this Micislav fellow?"

"No, but I found him now."

"Listen dearie, that's not very nice of you," I tried to tease her back. As much as I could, that is. For my voice was getting a little shaky. In short, I was smitten, and drawn into this game fast. What did it, I wonder. Her wonderful smell perhaps, that virgin smell, the smell of dolls still unwrapped . . . But I kept up the banter:

"It's just not nice of you," I said again. "You are a heartless young lady, it seems, making fun of a poor old Dutchman. I weigh well over two hundred pounds, in case you didn't notice; how can you compare me to an apparition, a dream. . . ?" Then, I thought about it, and declared, quite simply:

"I love you." And took her hand.

And choked up as I did. And no wonder. Rarely in my life had I come out with such a statement, and never so abruptly. I felt as if I was on fire. And the same with her: her eyes were aflame.

"I love you too," she said, all flushed, but remaining still.

I upped the ante: "I adore you." And felt the blood rushing through my veins. I switched to French, for that seemed more intimate:

"What if I followed you to London?" This was sheer madness, of course, but I loved it.

We were soon at the point where you lose your voice, your throat goes dry, your eyes pop out, and you want to smile but can't. As I always said, such is the power of the spoken word, the peril of outer limits, which dare you to decide how far you will go. As soon as she uttered the words "I love you too," I could almost see the blood engulfing her heart. We were excited all right. Terribly excited. Like wild children. But then we had to come down, for it was impossible to go any higher.

"Look at that horse and buggy," I said, just to distract her.

"Oh, yes, yes," she mumbled, dewy-eyed, as though she had just tumbled down from the sky.

Well, that's how it all started. And an adventure-loving, funny kid she turned out to be. But the thing to remember is that I really meant what I said about leaving my wife and going after her—I meant all that giddy nonsense.

This girl was even younger . . . Oh God . . . And wouldn't it be wonderful to be free of . . . well, what? Of all the perplexities, the questions, the doubts—to be free of my wife, in short. . . . Yes, let's come out with it; it's the truth. Ah, but to live this way from now on, to be able to say things like "love" and "adore" . . .