Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [117]
“Yakov?”
“Raisl?”
“Yes.”
As she unwound her shawl—her own dark hair cut short, the hairline damp—and he looked fully into her face, at the long exposed neck, both eyes sad, she was staring at him with fright and feeling. He tried twice to speak and could not. His face ached and mouth trembled.
“I know, Yakov,” Raisl said. “What more can I say? I know.”
Emotion blinded him.
My God, what have I forgotten? I’ve forgotten nothing. He experienced a depth of loss and shame, overwhelming—that the feelings of the past could still be alive after so long and terrible an imprisonment. The deepest wounds never die.
“Yakov, is it really you?”
He shook away the beginning of tears and turned his good ear to her.
“It’s me. Who else could it be?”
“How strange you look in earlocks and long beard.”
“That’s their evidence against me.”
“How thin you are, how withered.”
“I’m thin,” he said, “I’m withered. What do you want from me?”
“They forbade me to ask you any questions about your conditions in this prison,” Raisl said in Yiddish, “and I promised not to but who has to ask? I have eyes and can see. I wish I couldn’t. Oh, Yakov, what have they done to you? What did you do to yourself? How did such a terrible thing happen?”
“You stinking whore, what did you do to me? It wasn’t enough we were poor as dirt and childless. On top of that you had to be a whore.”
She said tonelessly, “It’s not what I alone did, it’s what we did to each other. Did you love me? Did I love you? I say yes and I say no. As for being a whore, if I was I’m not. I’ve had my ups and downs, the same as you, Yakov, but if you’re going to judge me you’ll have to judge me as I am.”
“What are you?”
“Whatever I am I’m not what I was.”
“Why did you marry me for I’d like to know? ‘Love,’ she says. If you didn’t love me why didn’t you leave me alone?”
“You can believe me I was afraid to marry you, but you were affectionate then, and when a person is lonely it’s easy to lean toward a tender word. Also I thought you loved me although you found it hard to say so.”
“What can a man say if he’s afraid of a trap? I was afraid of you. I never met anybody so dissatisfied. I am a limited man. What could I promise you? Besides that, your father was behind me, pushing with both hands: If I married you the world would change, everyday a rainbow. Then you got me in the woods that day.”
“We were to the woods more than once. You wanted what I wanted. It takes two to lie down, one on top of the other.”
“So we got married,” he said bitterly. “Still, we had a chance. Once we were married you should have been faithful. A contract is a contract. A wife is a wife. Married is married.”
“Were you such a fine husband?” Raisl said. “Yes, you always tried to make a living, I won’t say no, though you never did. And if you wanted to stay up all night reading Spinoza I had nothing against that either, though it wasn’t Torah, except when it was at my expense, and you know what I mean. What bothered me most were the curses and dirty names. Because I slept with you before we were married you were convinced I was sleeping with the world. I slept with no one but you until you stopped sleeping with me. At twenty-eight I was too young for the grave. So, as you advised, I stopped being superstitious and at last took a chance. Otherwise I would soon have been dead. I was barren. I ran in every direction. I flung myself against trees. I tore at my dry breasts and cursed my empty womb. Whether I stayed or left I was useless to you, so I decided to leave. You wouldn’t so I had to. I left in desperation to change my life. I got out the only way I could. It was either that or death, one sin or worse. I chose the lesser sin. If you want to know the truth, Yakov, one reason I left was to make you move. Whoever thought it would come to this?