Celebrity Chekhov by Ben Greenman Page B

misunderstanding, and I am afraid of it.” His pale face was distorted by a wry smile. He put his arm round my waist and went on in an undertone:
    â€œYou are my true friend; I believe in you and have a deep respect for you. Heaven gave us friendship that we may open our hearts and escape from the secrets that weigh upon us. Let me take advantage of your friendly feeling for me and tell you the whole truth.
    â€œMy home life, which seems to you so enchanting, is my chief misery and my chief terror. I got married in a strange and stupid way. I must tell you that I was madly in love with Catherine before I married her, and was courting her for two years. I asked her to marry me five times, and she refused me because she did not care for me in the least. The sixth, when burning with passion I crawled on my knees before her and implored her to take a beggar and marry me, she consented. What she said to me was: ‘I don’t love you, but I will be true to you.’ I accepted that condition with rapture. At the time I understood what that meant, but I swear to God I don’t understand it now. ‘I don’t love you, but I will be true to you.’ What does that mean? It’s a fog, a darkness.
    â€œI love her now as intensely as I did the day we were married, while she, I believe, is as indifferent as ever, and I believe she is glad when I go away from home. I don’t know for certain whether she cares for me or not—I don’t know, I don’t know; but, as you see, we live under the same roof, call each other ‘thou,’ sleep together, have children, our property is in common. What does it mean, what does it mean? What is the object of it? And do you understand it at all, my dear fellow? It’s cruel torture! Because I don’t understand our relations, I hate, sometimes her, sometimes myself, sometimes both at once. Everything is in a tangle in my brain; I torment myself and grow stupid. And as though to spite me, she grows more beautiful every day, she is getting more wonderful. I fancy her hair is marvelous, and her smile is like no other woman’s. I love her, and I know that my love is hopeless. Hopeless love for a woman by whom one has two children! Is that intelligible? And isn’t it terrible? Isn’t it more terrible than ghosts?”
    He was in the mood to have talked on a good deal longer, but luckily the auto repairman called. Our car was ready. We walked over there, and Gary Busey followed us, and suddenly, with an aggrieved look in his eyes, spoke to Michael Douglas.
    â€œLet me come back to work for you,” he said, blinking furiously and tilting his head on one side. “I am dying of hunger!”
    â€œOkay,” said Michael Douglas. “Show up tomorrow. Work a week, and we’ll see.”
    â€œCertainly, sir,” said Gary Busey, overjoyed. “I’ll come today, sir.”
    It was a five-mile drive home. Michael Douglas, glad that he had at last opened his heart to his friend, spoke cheerfully, telling me that if everything had been satisfactory in his home life, he should have returned to Washington and worked for a think tank. The country could have used him, he knew. America needed new policies; to turn away from that was not admirable. He generalized with pleasure and expressed regret that he would be parting from me early next morning, as he was catering an event.
    And I felt awkward and depressed, and it seemed to me that I was deceiving the man. And at the same time it was pleasant to me. I gazed at the immense crimson moon that was rising, and pictured the tall, graceful, fair woman, with her pale face, always well-dressed and fragrant with some special scent, and for some reason it pleased me to think she did not love her husband.
    On reaching home, we sat down to supper. Catherine Zeta-Jones, laughing, mocked our purchases one by one, and I thought that she certainly had wonderful hair and that her smile was unlike