The Story of My Wife by Milán Füst Page A

were right about anything. And if we add to this an extraordinary brother who cared about nothing in the world except his own little pleasures, whose pocket always jangled with money of mysterious origin, and whose head too was full of mysterious schemes—well, if she were to imagine all that, then she would surely see why I left that world behind, and why I didn't care to waste another thought on them.
    I brought all this up because I figured: Why shouldn't she know? It might just make her realize that she could do things if she wanted to. But when I got this far I suddenly stopped and said to her:
    "Now why don't you tell me something?"
    "Me? I don't really have anything to tell."
    "You don't? All right, then. But then what are we to do. . .? What is it with you, anyway?" I suddenly asked, and already felt my blood pressure rise. Here I was talking to her, putting my soul on display, and she won't even respond.
    She did make a move finally; she got out of bed and groped about for something in the darkened room.
    "I was going to swallow this," she said casually, with a laugh.
    "What is it?"
    "A drink," she said, lighthearted still. And lay down again.
    I tasted it: a bitter, vile potion, I disposed of it quickly. So she wanted to poison herself. While in the bath, she wanted to poison herself but couldn't go through with it.
    "Why did you want to poison yourself?" Dead silence.
    "Strange, this silence of yours. But it's all right. Don't speak if you don't want, I will not make you. But I will get to the bottom of this vast silence, I assure you." And put this critical question to her: "Why can't you live with me?"
    I swallowed hard. For this was the touchy area about which I spoke earlier: the area that had been out of bounds for me for so long. But no more rational arguments. I must get through to her somehow.
    "I will not dissuade you from doing anything," I began. "At the same time, there are limits, you can't expect me to condone everything. To live here and at the same time to be thinking of someone else, that's something I can't put up with."
    There, I said it; no more roundabout phrases, no more gentle hints. Why not talk plainly for a change, the way God intended for us to talk?
    "But if you are after the impossible I will give you the impossible. I'll support both of you—you and your lover, how is that? And you won't even have to live in this house. Well, are you willing to go that far?"
    Utter silence.
    "I know, I know, we can entertain wonderful thoughts about the subject. Why shouldn't a woman feel or think as she pleases, right? Especially if she is no ordinary woman? What business is it of another man, of her husband even? Just because I work for you and support you? A contemptible argument, I am sure you will agree.
    "But we can even go further, if you wish. You can't love on demand, that's quite clear. Even I can appreciate that. Either it's there or it isn't—no philosophy can change that. However, if you don't find it in your heart to show some interest, then say so. Because in that case, I will let you go. (I even said that, come what may. I had to know where I stood, once and for all.)
    "Or I shall go away. I can, you know, just as I did years ago, when I left my parents' house."
    She sat there in the dark, perfectly still.
    "And as far as the young man is concerned, he's a first class scoundrel, believe me. (I got to this point perfectly composed. I was proud of myself.) He invited us to go to London, you know. (I told her that too. And that he's had it with her, wanted to get rid of her. I told her everything, in other words, the whole pitiful story.)
    "But only because I want you to see it for yourself," I said. "You are nothing to him, you understand. No, don't even answer, I know, I am convinced it is so.
    "Wouldn't it be better for you to stay with someone who does love you? Think about it. Or does that really make you want to die? Is it such a big crime to love you?"
    And then once more, the