The Train Was On Time Part 4

"No," said Andreas, "you have to tell me."

"That," she said frowning, "is something you can't pay for."

"Yes I can," he said, "I'll pay in the same coin. I'll tell you my story too. Everything...."

But she was silent. She stared at the floor and was silent. He studied her out of the corner of his eye and thought: she does look like a tart after all. There's s.e.x in every fiber of that pretty face, and she's not an innocent shepherdess, she's a very wanton shepherdess. It gave him a pang to find that she was a tart after all. The dream had been very lovely. She might be standing anywhere in the Gare Montparna.s.se. And it did him good to feel that pain again. For a time it had completely gone. He loved listening to her gentle voice telling him about the Conservatory....

"It's boring," she said suddenly. She spoke with complete indifference.

"Let's have some wine," said Andreas.

She rose, walked briskly to the closet, and in a businesslike voice asked: "What would you like to drink?" She looked into the closet: "There's some red wine and some white, Moselle, I think."

"All right," he said, "let's have some Moselle."

She brought over the bottle, pushed a little table up to their chairs, handed him the corkscrew, and set out gla.s.ses while he opened the bottle. He watched her, then poured the wine, they raised their gla.s.ses, and he smiled into her angry eyes.

"Let's drink to the year of our birth," he said, "1920."

She smiled against her will. "All right, but I'm not going to tell you any more."

"Shall I tell you my story?"

"No," she said. "All you fellows can talk about is the war. I've been listening to that for two years now. Always the war. As soon as you've finished...you begin talking about the war. It's boring."

"What would you like to do then?"

"I'd like to seduce you, you're a virgin, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Andreas, and was taken aback at the way she promptly jumped up. "I knew it," she cried, "I knew it!" He saw her eager, flushed face, the eyes flashing at him, and thought: Funny, I've never seen any woman I've desired less than this one, and she's beautiful, and I could have her right now. Oh yes, sometimes a thrill has gone through me, without my trying or wanting it, and for that split second I've known that it must be truly wonderful to possess a woman. But there's never been one I desired as little as this one. I'll tell her about it, I'll tell her everything....

"Olina," he said, pointing to the piano, "Olina, play the little Beethoven sonata."

"Promise you'll...promise you'll make love to me."

"No," he said quietly. "Come and sit here." He made her sit beside him in the armchair, and she looked at him without saying a word.

"Now listen," he said, "I'm going to tell you my story."

He looked out of the window and saw that the sun had gone down and that only a very little light remained over the gardens. Very soon there would be no more sunlight outside in the gardens, and never again, never again would the sun shine, never again would he see a single ray of sunshine. The last night was beginning, and the last day had pa.s.sed like all the others, wasted and meaningless. He had prayed a bit and drunk some wine and now he was in a brothel. He waited until it was dark. He had no idea how long it took, he had forgotten the girl, forgotten the wine, the whole house, and all he saw was a last little bit of the forest whose treetops caught a few final glints from the setting sun, a few tiny glints from the sun. Some reddish gleams, exquisite, indescribably beautiful on those treetops. A tiny crown of light, the last light he would ever see. Now it was gone...no, there was still a bit, a tiny little bit on the tallest of the trees, the one that reached up the highest and could still catch something of the golden reflection that would remain for only half a second...until it was all gone. It's still there, he thought, holding his breath...still a particle of light up there on the treetop...an absurd little shimmer of sunlight, and no one in the world but me is watching it. Still there...still there, it was like a smile that faded very slowly...still there, and now it was gone! The light has gone out, the lantern has vanished, and I shall never see it again....

"Olina," he said softly, and he felt he could speak now, and he knew he would win her because it was dark. A woman can only be won in the dark. Funny, he thought, I wonder if that's really true? He had the feeling that Olina belonged to him now, had surrendered to him. "Olina," he said softly, "tomorrow morning I must die. That's right," he said calmly, looking at her shocked face, "don't be scared! Tomorrow morning I must die. You're the first and only person I've told. I am certain. I must die. A moment ago the sun went down. Just this side of Stryy I shall die...."

She jumped to her feet and looked at him in horror. "You're mad," she whispered, white-faced.

"No," he said, "I'm not mad, that's how it is, you must believe me. You must believe that I'm not mad, that tomorrow morning I shall die, and now you must play me the little Beethoven sonata."

She stared at him, aghast, and murmured: "But...but that's impossible."

"I'm absolutely certain and you have told me the last thing I needed to know, Stryy, that's it. What a terrible name, Stryy. What kind of a word is that? Stryy? Why must I die just this side of Stryy? Why did it have first to be between Lvov and Cernauti...then Kolomyya...then Stanislav...then Stryy. The moment you said Stryy I knew that was the place. Wait!" he called, as she rushed to the door and stood staring at him with terrified eyes.

"You must stay with me," he said, "you must stay with me. I'm a human being, and I can't stand it alone. Stay with me, Olina. I'm not mad. Don't scream." He held his hand over her mouth. "My G.o.d, what can I do to prove to you I'm not mad? What can I do? Tell me what I can do to prove to you I'm not mad?"

But she was too frightened to hear what he was saying. She merely stared at him with her terrified eyes, and all at once he realized what a dreadful profession she had. If he were really mad, she would now be standing there helpless. They send her to a room, and two hundred and fifty marks are paid for her because she is the "opera singer," a very valuable little doll, and she has to go to that room like a soldier going to the front. She has to go, even though she is the opera singer, a very valuable little doll. A terrible life. They send her to a room and she has no idea who is inside. An old man, a young one, an ugly man or a handsome one, b.e.s.t.i.a.l or innocent. She has no idea and goes to the room, and now there she is, frightened, just frightened, too frightened to hear what he is saying. It is truly a sin to go to a brothel, he thought. They send girls to a room, just like that.... He gently stroked the hand he was restraining her by, and strangely enough the fear in her eyes began to recede. He went on stroking it, and felt as if he were stroking a child. I've never desired a woman as little as this one. A child...and suddenly he saw that poor grubby little girl in a suburb of Berlin, playing among prefabs where there were some scrawny gardens, and the other kids had taken her doll and thrown it into a puddle...and then run away. And he had bent down and pulled the doll out of the puddle; it was dripping with dirty water, a dangling, frayed, cheap ragdoll, and he had to stroke the child for a long time and try and console her for her poor doll having got wet...a child....

"You're all right now, aren't you?" he said. She nodded, and there were tears in her eyes. He led her gently back to the chair. The dusk had become heavy and sad.

She sat down obediently, keeping her still somewhat nervous gaze on him. He poured her some wine. She drank. Then she sighed deeply. "G.o.d, how you scared me," she said, and thirstily gulped down the rest of her wine.

"Olina," he said, "you're twenty-three now. Just ask yourself whether you're going to be twenty-five, will you?" he urged her. "Say to yourself: I am twenty-five years old. That's February 1945, Olina. Try, think hard." She closed her eyes, and he saw from her lips that she was saying something under her breath that in Polish must mean: February 1945.

"No," she said, as if waking up, and she shook her head. "There's nothing there, as if it didn't exist-how odd."

"You see?" he said. "And when I think: Sunday noon, tomorrow noon, that doesn't exist for me. That's the way it is. I'm not mad." He saw her close her eyes again and say something under her breath....

"It's odd," she said softly, "but February 1944 doesn't exist either...."

"Oh for heaven's sake," she broke out, "why won't you make love? Why won't you dance with me?" She moved swiftly to the piano and sat down. And then she played: "I'm dancing with you into heaven, the seventh heaven of love...."

Andreas smiled. "Come on, play the Beethoven sonata...play a...."

But again she was playing: I'm dancing with you into heaven, the seventh heaven of love. She played it very softly, as softly as dusk was now sinking into the room through the open curtains. She played the sentimental tune unsentimentally, which was strange. The notes sounded crisp, almost staccato, very soft, almost as if suddenly she were turning this brothel piano into a harpsichord. Harpsichord, thought Andreas, that's the right instrument for her, she ought to play the harpsichord....

The popular tune she was now playing was no longer the same, yet it was the same. What a lovely tune it is, thought Andreas. It's fantastic, what she can make of it. Perhaps she studied composition too, and she's turning this trivial tune into a sonata hovering in the dusk. Now and again, at intervals, she would play the original melody again, pure and clear, unsentimentally: I'm dancing with you into heaven, the seventh heaven of love. Now and again, between the gentle, playful waves, she allowed the theme to rear up like a granite cliff.

It was almost dark now, it was getting chilly, but he didn't care; the music sounded so beautiful that he wasn't going to get up and close the window; even if subzero air were to come in through the window from the gardens of Lvov, he wasn't going to get up.... Maybe I'm dreaming it's 1943 and I'm sitting here in a Lvov brothel wearing the gray tunic of Hitler's army; maybe I'm dreaming, maybe I was born in the seventeenth century or the eighteenth, and I'm sitting in my mistress's drawing-room, and she's playing the harpsichord, just for me, all the music in the world just for me...in a chateau somewhere in France, or a little schloss in western Germany, and I'm listening to the harpsichord in an eighteenth-century drawing-room, played by someone who loves me, who is playing just for me, just for me. The whole world is mine, here in the dusk; very soon the candles will be lit, we won't call a servant...no, no servant...I shall light the candles with a paper spill, and I shall light the paper spill with my paybook from the fire in the hearth. No, there's no fire burning in the hearth. I shall light the fire myself, the air from the garden, from the grounds of the chateau, is damp and cool; I shall kneel by the hearth, tenderly place the kindling in layers, crumple each page of my paybook, and light the fire with the matches she noted down. Those matches will be paid for with the Lvov mortgage. I shall kneel at her feet, for she will be waiting with tender impatience for the fire to be lit in the hearth. Her feet have grown cold at the harpsichord; she has sat at the open window in this damp, cool air for a long, long time, playing for me, my sister, she has been playing so beautifully that I wouldn't get up to close the window...and I shall make a lovely bright fire, and we won't need any servants, no indeed, no servants! Just as well the door is locked....

1943. A terrible century; what awful clothes the men will be wearing; they will glorify war and wear dirt-colored clothes in the war, while we never glorified war, war was an honest craft at which now and again a man got cheated of his rightful wages; and we wore cheerful clothes when we worked at this craft, just as a doctor wears cheerful clothes and a mayor...and a prost.i.tute; but those people will be wearing horrible clothes and will glorify war and fight wars for their national honor: a terrible century; 1943....

We have all night, all night. Dusk has only just fallen in the garden, the door is locked, and nothing can disturb us; the whole chateau is ours; wine and candles and a harpsichord! Eight hundred and fifty marks without the matches; millions lying around Nikopol! Nikopol! Nothing!...Kishinev? Nothing!...Cernauti? Nothing!...Kolomyya? Nothing!...Stanislav? Nothing! Stryy...Stryy...that terrible name that is like a streak, a b.l.o.o.d.y streak across my throat! In Stryy I'm going to be murdered. Every death is a murder, every death in war is a murder for which someone is responsible. In Stryy!

I'm dancing with you into heaven, the seventh heaven of love!

It was not a dream at all, a dream ending with the last note of that melodic paraphrase, it merely tore the frail web that had been cast over him, and now for the first time, by the open window, in the cool of the dusk, he realized he had been crying. He had neither known it nor felt it, but his face was wet, and Olina's hands, soft and very small, were drying his face; the rivulets had run down his face and collected in the closed collar of his tunic; she undid the hook and dried his neck with her handkerchief. She dried his cheeks and around his eyes, and he was grateful that she said nothing....

A strangely sober joy filled him. The girl switched on the light, closed the window with averted face, and it was possible she had been crying too. This chaste happiness is something I have never known, he thought, as she crossed to the closet. I've always only desired, I've desired an unknown body, and I've desired that soul too, but here I desire nothing.... How strange that I have to find this out in a Lvov brothel, on the last evening of my life, on the threshold of the last night of my earthly existence that is to come to an end tomorrow morning in Stryy with a b.l.o.o.d.y streak....

"Lie down," said Olina. She indicated the little sofa, and he noticed that she had switched on an electric kettle in that mysterious closet.

"I'll make some coffee," she said, "and until it's ready I'll go on with my story."

He lay down, and she sat beside him. They smoked, the ashtray lying conveniently on a stool so they could both reach it. He barely needed to stretch out his hand.

"I needn't tell you," she began quietly, "that you musn't ever speak to anyone about it. Even if you...if you were not to die-you would never betray my secret. I know that. I had to swear by G.o.d and all the saints and by our beloved Poland that I would never tell a soul, but if I tell you it's as if I were telling myself, and I can't keep anything from you any more than I can keep anything from myself!" She stood up and poured the bubbling water very slowly and tenderly into a small coffeepot. Each time she paused for a few seconds she would smile at him before continuing to pour, very slowly, and now he could see she had been crying too. Then she filled the cups that were standing beside the ashtray.

"The war broke out in 1939. In Warsaw my parents were buried under the ruins of our big house, and there I was all alone in the garden of the Conservatory, where I had been flirting, and the director was taken away because he was a Jew. Well, I just didn't feel like going on with the piano. The Germans had somehow or other raped us all, every single one of us." She drank some coffee, he took a sip too. She smiled at him.

"It's funny that you're a German and I don't hate you." She fell silent again, smiling, and he thought, it's remarkable how quickly she's surrendered. When she went to the piano she wanted to seduce me, and the first time she played I'm dancing with you into heaven, the seventh heaven of love, it was still far from clear. While she was playing she cried....

"All Poland," she went on, "is a resistance movement. You people have no idea. No one suspects how big it is. There is hardly a single unpatriotic Pole. When one of you Germans sells his pistol anywhere in Warsaw or Krakow, he should realize that in doing so he's selling as many of his comrades' lives as there is ammunition in that pistol. When anywhere, anywhere at all," she went on pa.s.sionately, "a general or a lance-corporal sleeps with a girl and so much as tells her they didn't get any rations near Kiev or Kishinev or some such place, or that they retreated only two miles, he never suspects that this is jotted down, and that this gladdens the girl's heart more than the twenty or two hundred and fifty zlotys she's been paid for her seeming surrender. It's so easy to be a spy among you people that I soon got disgusted with it. All one had to do was get on with it. I don't understand it."

She shook her head and gave him a look almost of contempt.

"I don't understand it. You're the most garrulous people in the world, and sentimental down to your fingertips. Which army are you with?"

He told her the number.

"No," she said, "he was from a different one. A general who used to come and see me here sometimes. He talked like a sentimental schoolboy who's had a bit too much to drink. 'My boys,' he would groan, 'my poor boys!' And a little later on the old lecher would be babbling away to me about all kinds of things that were vitally important. He's got a lot of his poor boys on his conscience...and he told me a lot of things. And then...then," she hesitated, "then I'd be like ice...."

"And were there some you loved?" asked Andreas. Funny, he thought, that it should hurt to know there were some she might have loved.

"Yes," she said, "there were some I really loved, not many." She looked at him, and he saw she was crying again. He took her hand, sat up, and poured coffee with his free hand.

"Soldiers," she said softly. "Yes. There were some soldiers I loved...and I knew it made no difference that they were Germans whom actually I ought to have hated. You know, when I gave myself to them I felt I was no longer part of the terrible game we're all playing, the game I had an especially big part in. The game of sending others to their death, men one didn't know. You see," she whispered, "some fellow, a lance-corporal or a general, tells me something here, and I pa.s.s on the information-machinery is set in motion, and somewhere men die because I pa.s.sed on that information, do you see what I mean?" She looked at him out of frantic eyes. "Do you see what I mean? Or take yourself: you tell some fellow at the station: Take that train, bud, rather than that one-and that's the very train the partisans attack, and your buddy dies because you told him: Take that train. That's why it was so wonderful just to give oneself to them, just abandon oneself, and forget everything else. I asked them nothing for our mosaic and told them nothing, I had to love them. And what's so terrible is that afterwards they're always sad...."

"Mosaic," asked Andreas huskily, "what's that?"

"The whole espionage system is a mosaic. Everything's a.s.sembled and numbered, every smallest sc.r.a.p we get hold of, until the picture's complete...it slowly fills out...and many of these mosaics make up the whole picture...of you people...of your war...your army...."

"You know," she went on, looking at him very seriously, "the terrible part is that it's all so senseless. Everywhere it's only the innocent who are murdered. Everywhere. By us too. Somehow I've always known that-" she looked away from him-"but, you know what frightens me is that I didn't grasp it fully till I walked into this room and saw you. Your shoulders, the back of your neck, there in the golden sunshine." She pointed to the window where the two chairs were.

"I know that now. When they sent me here, when Madame told me: 'There's someone waiting for you in the bar, I don't think you'll get much out of him but at least he pays well'-as soon as she said that I thought: I'll get something out of him all right. Or it's someone I can love. Not one of the victims, because there are only victims and executioners. And when I saw you standing over there by the window, your shoulders, the back of your neck, your stooping young figure as if you were thousands of years old, it came to me for the first time that we also only murder the innocent...only the innocent...."

The soundlessness of that crying was terrible. Andreas rose, stroked the nape of her neck in pa.s.sing, and went to the piano. Her eyes followed him in astonishment. Her tears dried up at once, she watched him as he sat there, on the piano stool, staring at the keys, his hands spread apprehensively, and across his forehead there was a terrible furrow, an anguished furrow.

He's forgotten me, she thought, he's forgotten me, how awful it is that they always forget us at the very moment when they are really themselves. He's not thinking about me any more, he'll never think about me any more. Tomorrow morning he will die in Stryy...and he'll waste no more thoughts on me.

He is the first and only one I've loved. The first. He is absolutely alone now. He is unbelievably sad and alone. That furrow across his forehead, it cuts him in two, his face is pale with terror, and he has spread his hands as if he had to grasp some dreadful animal.... If he could only play, if he could only play, he would be with me again. The first note will give him back to me. To me, to me, he belongs to me...he is my brother, I am three days older than he is. If he could only play. There's some monstrous cramp inside him, spreading his hands, turning him deathly pale, making him fearfully unhappy. There's nothing left of all I wanted to give him with my playing...with my story, there's nothing of all that with him now. It's all gone, he's alone now with his pain.

And indeed, when all at once he attacked the keys with a fierce rage in his face, he raised his eyes, and his eyes went straight to her. He smiled at her, and she had never seen such a happy face as that face of his above the black surface of the piano in the soft yellow lamplight. Oh how I love him, she thought. How happy he is, he's mine, here in this room till morning....

She had imagined he would play something crazy, some wild piece by Tchaikovsky or Liszt or one of those glorious lilting Chopin pieces, because he had attacked the keys like a madman.

No, he played a sonatina by Beethoven. A delicate little piece, very tricky, and for a second she was afraid he would "mess it up." But he played very beautifully, very carefully, perhaps a shade too carefully, as if he did not trust his own strength. How tenderly he played, and she had never seen such a happy face as that soldier's face above the polished surface of the piano. He played the sonatina a little uncertainly, but purely, more purely than she had ever heard it, very clear and clean.

She hoped he would go on playing. It was wonderful; she had lain down on the sofa, where he had been lying, and she saw the cigarette gradually burning away in the ashtray: she longed to draw on it but dared not move; the slightest movement might destroy that music; and the best part of all was that very happy soldier's face above the black, shining surface of the piano....

"No," he said with a laugh as he got to his feet. "There's not much left. It's no use. The fact is, you have to have studied, and I never did." He bent over her and dried her tears, and he was glad she had cried. "No," he said softly, "stay where you are. I was going to tell you my story too, remember?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Tell me, and give me some wine."

This is happiness, he thought, as he went to the closet. This is bliss, although I've just discovered that I'm no good at the piano. There's been no miracle. I haven't suddenly become a pianist. It's done with now, and yet I'm happy. He looked into the closet and asked over his shoulder: "Which would you like?"

"Red," she said with a smile, "a red one now."

He took a less slender bottle out of the closet, then he saw the sheet of paper and the pencil and studied the paper. At the top was something in Polish: that would be the matches; then came "Mosel" in German, and in front of that a Polish word no doubt meaning bottle. What charming handwriting she has, he thought, pretty, feminine handwriting, and under "Mosel" he wrote "Bordeaux," and below the Polish word for bottle he made two dots. "Did you really put it down?" she asked, smiling, as he poured the wine.

"Yes."

"You wouldn't even cheat a madame."

"Yes I would," he said, and he suddenly remembered Dresden station, and the taste of Dresden station, painfully distinct, was in his mouth, and he saw the fat, red-faced lieutenant. "Yes I would, I once tricked a lieutenant." He told her the story. She laughed. "But that isn't so bad."

"Yes it is," he said, "it's very bad. I shouldn't have done that, I should have called out after him: I'm not deaf. I said nothing, because I have to die soon and because he yelled at me like that...because I was full of pain. Besides, I was too lazy. Yes," he said softly, "I actually was too lazy to do it because it was so wonderful to have the taste of life in my mouth. I wanted to get it clear, I remember exactly, I thought: You must never let someone feel humiliated on your account, even if it's a brand-new lieutenant, not even if he has brand-new medals on his chest. You must never let that happen, I thought, and I can still see him walking off, embarra.s.sed and smarting, crimson in the face, followed by his grinning flock of subordinates. I can see his fat arms and his pathetic shoulders. When I think of those pathetic, stupid shoulders of his I almost have to weep. But I was too lazy, just too lazy, to open my mouth. It wasn't even fear, just plain laziness. G.o.d, I thought, how beautiful life is after all, all these people milling about on the platform. One's going to his wife, the other to his girl, and that woman's going to her son, and it's autumn, how wonderful, and that couple over there going toward the barrier, this evening or tonight they'll be kissing under the soft trees down by the Elbe." He sighed. "I'll tell you all the people I've cheated!"

"Oh no," she said, "don't. Tell me something nice...and pour me some more!" She laughed. "Who could you ever have cheated?"

"I'll tell you the truth. Everything I've stolen and all the people I've cheated...." He poured more wine, they raised their gla.s.ses, and in that second while they looked at each other, smiling, over the rims of their gla.s.ses, he drew her lovely face deep within himself. I mustn't lose it, he thought, I must never lose it, she is mine.

I love him, she thought, I love him....

"My father," he said quietly, "my father died from the effects of a serious wound that plagued him for three years after the war. I was a year old when he died. And my mother soon followed him. That's all I know about it. I learned about all this one day when I had to be told that the woman I had always thought of as my mother wasn't my mother at all. I grew up with an aunt, a sister of my mother's who had married an attorney. He made good money, but we were always terribly poor. He drank. I took it so much for granted that a man should come to the breakfast table with a thick head and in a foul temper that later on, when I got to know other men, fathers of my friends, it seemed to me they weren't men at all. That there were men who weren't stewed every evening, and who didn't make hysterical scenes every morning at breakfast, was something I couldn't conceive. A 'thing which is not,' as Swift's Houyhnhnms say. I thought we were born to be yelled at, that women were born to be yelled at, to grapple with bailiffs, to fight terrible pitched battles with shopkeepers and go off and open a new account somewhere else. My aunt was a genius. She was a genius at opening new accounts. When things were at their blackest she would become very quiet, take an aspirin, and dash off, and by the time she came back she had money. And I thought she was my mother; and I thought that fat bloated monster with burst blood vessels all over his cheeks was my respected begetter. His eyes had a yellowish tinge, and his breath reeked of beer, he stank like stale yeast. I thought he was my father. We lived in a very grand villa, with a maid and all that, and often my aunt didn't even have small change for a short streetcar ride. And my uncle was a famous attorney. Isn't that boring?" he asked abruptly, getting up to refill the gla.s.ses.

"No," she whispered, "no, go on." It took him only two seconds carefully to refill the slender gla.s.ses that stood on the coffee table, yet she took in his hands and the pale narrow face and thought, I wonder what he looked like all those years ago, when he was five or six years old or thirteen, sitting at that breakfast table. She had no trouble picturing that fat, drunken fellow grumbling about the jam because all he really wanted was some sausage. When they have a hangover, all they ever want is sausage. And the woman, frail perhaps, and that pale little fellow sitting there, very timid, almost too scared to eat or cough although the heavy cigar smoke caught at his throat; he would have liked to cough and didn't dare because that drunken fat monster would fly into a rage, because that famous attorney would lose control of himself at the sound of that child's cough...

"Your aunt," she said, "what did she look like? Tell me exactly what your aunt looked like!"

"My aunt was very small and frail."

"Was she like your mother?"

"Yes, she was very much like my mother, to judge by the photographs. Later on, when I was older and knew about a lot of things, I used to think: How terrible it must be when he...when he embraces her, that hulking great fellow with his breath and the burst blood vessels all over his distended cheeks and his nose; she's forced to see them right up close, and those great yellow bleary eyes and everything. That picture haunted me for months, once I had thought of it. And all the time I thought it was my father, and I would torment myself all night long with the question: Why do they marry men like that? And...."

"And you cheated her too, your aunt, didn't you?"

"Yes," he said. He was silent for a moment and looked past her eyes. "That was terrible. You know, when he was seriously ill at one time-liver, kidneys, heart, his insides were all shot, of course-he was in hospital, and we took a taxi there one Sunday morning because he was to have an operation. It was a glorious sunny day, and I was absolutely miserable. And my aunt cried terribly, and she kept whispering to me, begging me to pray for him to get well. She kept whispering this to me, and I had to promise her. And I didn't do it. I was nine, and by that time I knew he wasn't my father, and I didn't pray for him to get well. I just couldn't. I didn't pray for him not to get well. No, I stopped short at that idea. But as to praying for him to get well: no, that I didn't do. I couldn't help thinking all the time how wonderful it would be if...yes, I did think that. The house all to ourselves, and no more scenes or anything...and yet I had promised my aunt to pray for him. I couldn't do it. The only thing I could think was: Why on earth do they marry men like that?"

"Because they love them," Olina interrupted.

"Yes," he said in surprise, "you know, don't you? She did love him, she had loved him, and she still loved him. At the time, of course, as a young attorney, he had looked different; there was a photo of him taken just after he pa.s.sed his finals. Wearing one of those G.o.dawful student's caps, remember? 1907. He looked different then, but only on the outside."

"How do you mean?"

"Just that-only on the outside. To me his eyes looked exactly the same. Only his stomach wasn't that fat yet. But to me he looked dreadful even as a young man in that photo. I would have seen him the way he was going to look at forty-five, I wouldn't have married him. And she still loved him, although he was a wreck, although he tormented her, wasn't even faithful to her. She loved him absolutely and unconditionally. I can't understand it...."

"You can't understand it?" He looked at her again in surprise. She was sitting up now, had swung her legs down, her face was close to his.

"You can't understand it?" she asked pa.s.sionately.

"No," he said, astonished.

"Then you don't know what love is. Yes," she looked at him, and suddenly he was afraid of that solemn, wholly altered face. "Yes," she repeated. "Unconditionally! Love is always unconditional, you see. Haven't you," she murmured, "haven't you ever loved a woman?"

He quickly closed his eyes. Again that deep, thrusting stab of pain. That too, he thought, I have to tell her about that too. There must be no secrets between us, and I had been hoping I could keep that, that memory of an unknown face, hoping I could keep that gift to myself and take it with me. His eyes remained closed, and there was silence. He was trembling in his anguish. No, he thought, let me keep it. That's my own most private possession, and for three and a half years it's been all I've had to live on...just that tenth of a second on the hill outside Amiens. Why did she have to thrust so deeply and unerringly into me? Why did she have to open up that carefully protected scar with one word, a word that pierces me like a probe, the probe of an unerring surgeon....

So that's it, she thought. He loves someone else. He's trembling, he's spreading his hands and closing his eyes, and I've hurt him. The ones you love are the ones you're bound to hurt the most, that's the law of love. His pain is too great for tears. Some pain is so great that tears are powerless, she thought. Ah, why aren't I that other woman he loves? Why can't I transpose this soul and this body? There's nothing, nothing of myself that I want to keep, I would surrender my whole self to have only...only the eyes of that other woman. This last night before his death, the last night for me too because when he's gone I shall have ceased to care about anything...ah, if only I could have her eyelashes, give my whole self in exchange for her eyelashes....

"Yes," he said softly. His voice was without emotion, the voice of someone on the brink of death. "Yes, I loved her so much I would have sold my soul to feel her mouth for just one second. I've only just realized this-now that you ask me. And perhaps that's why I was never to know her. I would have committed murder just to see the hem of her dress as she turned a corner. Just something, something real. And I prayed, I prayed for her every day. All lies and all self-deception, because I believed I loved only her soul. Only her soul! And I would have sold all those thousands of prayers for one single kiss from her lips. I've only just realized this." He rose suddenly to his feet, and she was glad his voice was human again, a human voice that suffered and lived. Again the thought came to her that he was alone now, that he was no longer thinking of her, he was alone again.