Humboldt's Gift (1976 Pulitzer Prize) - Saul Bellow [124]
“Well, it’s working,” I said. I wished that I could spring from this official skyscraper with its multiple squares into another life, never to be seen again. “I am terrified,” I said. “And I’m dying to settle.”
“Yes, but you can’t. She won’t accept it,” said Tomchek, “she’ll only pretend. She won’t hear of settle. It’s all in the books and at every dinner table every psychoanalyst I ever discussed it with told me the same thing—castration, that’s all it is, when a woman is after the money.”
“It isn’t clear to me why Urbanovich is so keen to assist her.”
“With him it seems a terrific fun thing,” said Srole. “I often think so.”
“And in the end most of the money will go for legal fees,” 1 said. “I have asked myself sometimes why not give up and take a vow of poverty. . . .” But this was idle theorizing. Yes, I might surrender my small fortune and live and die in a hotel room like Humboldt. I was better equipped to lead a mental life as I was not a manic depressive and it might suit me very well. Only it wouldn’t suit me well enough. For then there would be no more Renatas, no more erotic life, and no more of the exciting anxieties associated with the erotic life, which were perhaps even more important to me than sex itself. A vow of poverty was not the vow Renata was looking for.
“The bond—the bond is what’s bad. That’s a low blow,” I said. “I really felt that you should-have objected more. Put up a fight.”
“But what was there to fight?” said Billy Srole. “It’s all a bluff. He’s got nothing to hang it on. You forgot to sign a lease. You’re taking trips to Europe. Those might be professional trips. And listen, how come that woman knows every single move you’re going to make?”
I was sure that Mrs. Da Cintra at the travel bureau, the one with the paisley turban, gave Denise information because Renata was impolite to her, even overbearing. As to Denise’s knowledge of my actions, I had an analogy for it. Last year I took my little girls to the Far West camping and we visited a beaver lake. Along the shore the Forest Service had posted descriptions of the beaver’s life cycle. The beavers were unaware of this and went on gnawing damming feeding and breeding. My own case was quite similar. With Denise it was, in the Mozartian Italian that she liked, Tutto tutto già si sa. Everything, everything about me was known.
I now realized that I had offended Tomchek by criticizing his handling of the bond question. No, I had incensed him. However, to protect the client relationship, he took it out on Denise. “How could you marry such a vile bitch!” he said. “Where the hell was your judgment! You’re supposed to be a clever man. And if a woman like that decides to bug you to death what do you expect a couple of lawyers to do?” Already out of breath with exasperation he could say no more but snapped his attaché case under his arm and left us. I wished that Srole would go too, but he felt that he must tell me how strong my legal position really was (thanks to him). He stood in my way repeating that Urbanovich couldn’t impound my money. He had no grounds for it. “But if it should come to the worst and he does lay a bond on you I know a guy who can give you a real buy in tax-exempt municipals so you don’t lose the income of the frozen money.”
“Good thinking,” I said.
To get away I went to the men’s room. As he followed me there I entered one of the stalls and was free at last to read Kathleen’s letter.
twenty-three
As expected, Kathleen informed me of the death of her second husband, Frank Tigler, in a hunting accident. I knew him well, for while putting in my six weeks in Nevada to qualify for a divorce I had been a paying guest at the Tigler dude ranch. This was a lonely rundown god-forsaken place on Volcano Lake. My relations with Tigler were memorable. I had even the right to claim that I had