towards the edge: Henriette was a hopeless nymphomaniac (she had fallen in love) who lacked any sense of values (the man was broke); she was at the same time a grasping neurotic (having sunk her savings in the gallery, she wanted a return with fourteen per cent interest).
“You must be thankful you finally got rid of her,” said Lydia Cruche. “You must be wondering why you married her in the first place.”
“I felt sorry for Henriette,” he said, momentarily forgetting any other reason. “She seemed so helpless.” He told about Henriette living in her sixth-floor walkup, working as slavelabour on a shoddy magazine. A peasant from Alsace, she had never eaten anything but pickled cabbage until Speck drove his Bentley into her life. Under his tactful guidance she had tasted her first fresh truffle salad at Le Récamier; had worn her first mink-lined Dior raincoat; had published her first book-length critical essay, “A Woman Looks at Edgar Allan Poe.” And then she had left him – just like that.
“You trained her,” said Lydia Cruche. “Brought her up to your level. And now she’s considered good enough to marry a teacher. You should feel proud. You shouldn’t mind what happened. You should feel satisfied.”
“I’m not satisfied,” said Speck. “I do mind.” He realized that something had been left out of his account. “I loved her.” Lydia Cruche looked straight at him, for once, as though puzzled. “As you loved Hubert Cruche,” he said.
There was no response except for the removal of crumbs from her lap. The goddess, displeased by his mortal impertinence, symbolically knocked his head off her knee.
“Hube liked my company,” she finally said. “That’s true enough. After he died I saw him sitting next to the television, by the radiator, where his mother usually crouched all winter looking like a sheep with an earache. I was just resting here, thinking of nothing in particular, when I looked up and noticed him. He said, ‘You carry the seed of your death.’ I said, ‘If that’s the case, I might as well put my head in the oven and be done with it.’ ‘Non,’ he said, ‘ce
n’est pas la peine
.’ Now, his mother was up in her room, making lists of all the things she had to feel sorry about. I went up and said, ‘Madame,’ because you can bet your boots she never got a ‘Maman’ out of me, ‘Hube was in the parlour just now.’ She answered, ‘It was his mother he wanted. Any message was for me.’ I said that if thatwas so, then all he needed to do was to materialize upstairs and save me the bother of climbing. She gave me some half-baked reason why he preferred not to, and then she
did
die. Aged a hundred and three. It was in
France-Soir
.”
The French she had spoken rang to Speck like silver bells. Everything about her had changed – voice, posture, expression. If he still could not see the Lydia Cruche of the Senator’s vision, at least he could believe in her.
“Do you talk to your husband often?” he said, trying to make it sound like a usual experience.
“How could I talk to Hube? He’s dead and buried. I hope you don’t go in for ghosts, Dr. Speck. I would find that very silly. That was just some kind of accident – a visitation. I never saw him again or ever expect to. As for his mother, there wasn’t a peep out of her after she died. And here I am, alone in the Cruche house.” It was hard to say if she sounded glad or sorry. “I gather you’re on your own, too. God never meant men and women to live by themselves, convenient though it may seem to some of us. That’s why he throws men and women together. Coincidence is God’s plan.”
So soon, thought Speck. It was only their second meeting. It seemed discourteous to draw attention to the full generation that lay between them; experience had taught him that acknowledging any fragment of this dangerous subject did more harm than good. When widows showed their cards, he tried to look like a man with no