Free The Story of My Wife by Milán Füst Page A

time?"
    "You know, you are on to something," I said. "But that inn . . . it better be classy. My wife likes only the very best...." I glanced at my wife. My friend laughed. But she calmly continued her needlework, as though she didn't hear a word I said. The little woman was embroidering a pair of slippers, with very fine, brightly colored threads.
    "Well?" I inquired, pressing the point, "what would you two say if I decided to stay home?" But Monsieur Dedin didn't budge either; he kept smoking his cigarette furiously, immersing himself in a magazine.
    "Good meat," I said. And it was, its texture anyway—nice and firm. And I always liked to chew my food properly, I had damn good teeth.
    "And the sauce?"
    "That's good, too."
    "We'll have to make this in our new hotel," he said.
    "Oh yes, definitely." And to myself I thought: Damn that woman. What's with the embroidering all of a sudden? She never used to embroider. And the silence between us, this incredible silence. As if she were saying: Go on, talk to your friend, talk all you like.
    I don't know if others are familiar with the feeling: the intimacy of those long silences between lovers. Picture it, if you will: she peacefully stitching away, he turning the pages of his magazine, but with an air of confidence that said: I know you love me and you know that I love you, and that's all the two of us need to know. Just to illustrate how this silence affected me: Years and years later, in South America I believe it was, I thought about that evening once and promptly flew into a rage. Even then I did, I saw red even then. My wife appeared before my mind's eye just as she stopped sewing for a minute. Like someone emerging from a dream, she lifted her pretty head, to cast a glance at her friend, not even at his face, only at his checkered jacket, his hand, even that was enough. And as if drawing strength from that mere glance, she bit off the end of the thread and continued working.
    This scene, as I say, had such a powerful hold over me, I was ready to explode even years later. But that's the way I often am. Implacable. And then not even rivers of spilled blood can appease me. But let's go on; maybe this book will vindicate me.
    "Who are you making those charming slippers for?" I asked her finally, when I thought I could no longer contain myself. Ah, but these two would not admit a stranger into their own little world. "For Monsieur Lagrange," my wife said. "A surprise." Just like that. Case dismissed. (Madame Lagrange, by the way, was a friend of hers.)
    "You know something," I turned to my friend from Normandy, "we will buy ourselves a little hotel and fill it with little mamselles." I just had to say something. Actually, I wanted to use another word, but they all knew what I meant. In fact, my wife was already gathering up her slippers—she got offended.
    "Let's go home," she said abruptly. "I don't feel well."
    Let's go then. By all means.
    She did look rather pale. We left the café and Dedin of course came with us, he sat in the cab and said he'll see us home. Ah, the faithful friend ... I was trembling already. And at the door, as though I didn't even exist, he took his time saying good-bye, making it sound like a confession. He clasped her hand, gazed intently at her. And all that before my very eyes. But then I had a fiendish thought.
    "You will go to bed, won't you?" he asked very solicitously. Asked her. Asked my wife. "Promise me you'll go to bed right away." This was altogether too much, this tender loving care was too much, when I happened to be right there. I thought I'd give the young man a little scare.
    "Why don't you come up, too, for a drink?" For a moment I had this mad idea that as soon as we got upstairs, I'd seize him, drag him to the window and push him out. We lived on the sixth floor and had a nice view of the park, and the apartment itself was roomy and almost completely empty.
    What the hell makes these two so dreamy? I wondered. They must be over it