Fear (8 page)

Life was still alluring. Today was one of those typical spring days that sometimes break vigorously out of the bonds of winter, a day with a blue sky so high and wide that it made you feel you were breathing easily again after many dismal, wintry hours.

The children came running in, wearing clothes in pale colours for the first time this year, and she had to force herself not to shed tears in response to their happy jubilation. As soon as the sound of their laughter and its painful echo in her mind had died away, she set about carrying out her own decisions with determination. First she was going to try to recover the ring, for whatever happened to her now, she did not want any suspicion to fall on her memory. No one must have visible evidence of her guilt. No one, least of all her children, was ever to guess at the terrible secret that had torn her away from them. It must appear to be pure chance, and no one’s responsibility.

First she went to a pawnbroker’s to pledge an inherited piece of jewellery that she almost never wore, thus providing herself with enough money, if need be, to buy back the ring that could betray her from the woman who had taken it. Then, as soon as she had the cash in her bag, she went walking at random, earnestly hoping for what, until yesterday, she had most feared—to meet the blackmailer. The air was mild, the sun shone above the rooftops. Something in the wild wind chasing white clouds swiftly over the sky seemed to have infected the people walking in the street, all of them at a lighter, livelier pace than in the bleak days of winter gloom. And she herself thought she felt something of it. The idea of dying, the idea
she had caught in flight yesterday and clasped firmly in her trembling hand, became a monstrosity, eluded her senses. Was it possible that a word from some dreadful woman could destroy all this, the buildings with their bright façades, the surging of her own blood? Could a word extinguish the never-ending flame with which the whole world blazed in her fast-breathing heart?

She walked and walked, but her head was not bowed now. Her eyes searched almost eagerly for the woman she expected to see. Now the prey was in search of the hunter, and just as a weakened, hunted animal, feeling that escape is no longer possible, will turn suddenly with the defiance of despair to face its pursuer, ready to fight back, she too wanted to see her tormentor face to face and fight back with the very last of the strength that the will to live gives desperate creatures. She stayed close to her home on purpose, because it was the neighbourhood where the blackmailer had usually lain in wait for her, and once she even hurried across the road when the clothes worn by another woman reminded her of the person she was after. The ring itself was not her chief anxiety—recovering it would mean only postponement, not release—but she did long for the meeting as a kind of sign from fate, sealing a life and death decision that had been made by some higher power but depended on her own determination. However, she could not see the woman anywhere.
She had disappeared into the endless hurry and bustle of the great city like a rat going down its hole. Disappointed, but not yet hopeless, she went home in the middle of the day and continued her vain search immediately after lunch. She patrolled the streets again, and when she could not find the woman anywhere she felt a revival of the horror that she had almost managed to stifle. It was not the woman herself who troubled her now, nor the ring, but the mysterious aspect of all those meetings. Her reasoning mind could no longer entirely comprehend it. The woman had discovered her name and address as if by magic, she knew all about the hours she kept, she knew about her domestic life, she had always turned up at the worst, most dangerous moments, and now all of a sudden she had disappeared just when she was actually wanted. She must be somewhere in the hurry and bustle of the city, close when she wanted to be close, yet out of reach as soon as Irene wanted to find her. And the amorphous nature of the threat, the elusive proximity of the blackmailer, close to her own life and yet beyond contact, left the already exhausted Irene a helpless prey to her ever more mystifying fears. Nervously now, with a feverish step, she kept walking up and down the same streets. Walking the streets like a prostitute, she thought. But the woman was nowhere to be seen. Now darkness came down
like a menace, the early spring evening cast shadows over the clear colour of the sky, and night was falling fast. Lights came on along the streets, the stream of humanity was making its way home at a faster pace, all life seemed to be swallowed up in its dark current. She went up and down a few more times, scrutinising the street once more with all that remained of her hope, and then she turned home. She was freezing cold.

Wearily, she went up to the apartment. She heard the children being put to bed, but she avoided going in to say goodnight to them, wishing them well for that one night while she herself thought of the eternal night ahead of her. Why go in to them now? To sense the unclouded happiness of their exuberant kisses, see the love in their bright faces? Why torment herself still further with a joy that was already lost? She gritted her teeth—no, she didn’t want the sensations of life any more, the kindness and laughter that linked her to so many memories, when all those links must be violently broken tomorrow. She would think only of unpleasant things, ugly and vile, her own undoing, the blackmailer, the scandal, everything that was driving her to the edge of the abyss.

Her husband’s return interrupted her dismal, lonely reflections. He was in a good mood and struck up a lively conversation, trying to come close to her, at least in words, and asking a great many questions.
She thought she detected a certain nervousness in the sudden concern he showed for her, but remembering yesterday’s conversation she was not going to involve herself in another like it. Her fears kept her from letting love bind her or affection hold her back. He seemed to feel her reluctance, and be rather troubled by it. For her part, she was afraid that his concern would lead to another approach to her, and she said goodnight early. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he replied. Then she left him.

Tomorrow—how close that was, and how endlessly far away! She passed a sleepless night, monstrously long and dark. Gradually the noises of the street died away, and from the reflections falling into her room she saw that the lights there were going out. Sometimes she thought she could sense the breathing of her family in the other rooms of the apartment, the lives of her children, of her husband, of the whole world, so close and yet so far away, almost lost to her now. But at the same time she was aware of an indescribable silence that seemed to proceed not from anything natural, anything around her, but from within, from some mysteriously rushing source. She felt coffined in endless silence, and the darkness of the invisible sky weighed down on her breast. Now and then the hours chimed a number in the darkness, and then the night was black and lifeless, but for the first time she thought
she could understand the meaning of that endless, empty darkness. She was not thinking about farewells or her death any longer, only of how she could go to meet it, while sparing her children and herself, as far as possible, the shame of creating any sensation. She thought of all the ways she knew that led to death, all the possible methods of doing away with herself, until with a kind of happy surprise she suddenly remembered that the doctor had prescribed morphine for her when she was suffering from insomnia during a painful illness. She had taken the bitter-sweet poison in small drops out of a little bottle, and had been told at the time that its contents were enough to induce a gentle slumber. Oh, not to be hunted any more, to be able to rest, rest for ever, not to feel the hammer blows of fear on her heart any longer! The thought of that gentle slumber seemed immensely desirable to the sleepless Irene. She already thought she could taste the bitter flavour on her lips while her senses softly faded away. Quickly, she pulled herself together and put on the light. She soon found the little bottle, still
half-full,
but she was afraid that it might not be enough. Feverishly, she searched her chest of drawers until she finally found the prescription that would allow her to have a larger quantity made up for her. She folded the prescription, smiling, as if it were a banknote of a high denomination. Now she held death in her hands.
Shivering slightly with cold, yet reassured, she was going back to bed when, as she passed the illuminated mirror, she suddenly saw herself approaching in the dark frame, ghostly, pale, hollow-eyed, and wrapped in her white nightdress as if in a shroud. Horror came over her. She put out the light, fled freezing to the bed she had left, and lay awake until day began to dawn.

In the morning she burnt her letters and put all kinds of small matters in order, but as far as she could she avoided seeing the children and everything else that was dear to her. She wanted to hold life at arm’s length now, not clutch it to her with desire and feel its enticements. It would make her decision harder to put into practice if she hesitated, and hesitation could only be in vain. Then she went out into the street once more to try her luck for the last time, hoping to see the blackmailer. Once again she walked restlessly up and down the streets, but no longer with that sense of heightened tension. Something in her was worn out, and she could not go on with the struggle. She walked and walked for two hours as if it were a duty. The woman was nowhere to be seen. That did not hurt her now. She almost stopped wishing for the encounter, she felt so powerless. She looked at the faces of people in the street, and they all seemed strange to her, all of them dead and gone. Everything was somehow far away, lost, and did not belong to her any more.

Only once did she start. She felt as if, looking around, she had suddenly met her husband’s eyes on the other side of the street, gazing at her with that strange, hard, piercing expression that she had only recently seen in them. Apprehensively, she looked again, but the figure had disappeared behind a passing vehicle, and she reassured herself by remembering that he was always in court at this time of day. Her agitation and her search were making her lose all sense of time, and she was late for lunch. But as usual he was not home yet himself, and did not arrive until a couple of minutes later. She thought that he seemed a little upset about something.

Now she was counting the hours until evening, and was alarmed to find how many there still were. How odd that was—you needed so little time to say goodbye, everything seemed worthless when you knew you couldn’t take it with you. A kind of drowsiness came over her. She mechanically went up and down the street again, at random now, without thinking or looking. The driver of a carriage pulled back his horses at a crossing; she had only just seen the pole of the carriage in front of her in time. The driver swore at her; she hardly turned. An accident would have meant safety, or postponement. Well, chance had spared her the decision. Wearily, she went on. It was good to think of nothing at all, just feel a confused, vague sense of the
approaching end, a mist gently rising and enveloping everything.

When she happened to look up and saw the name of the street, she shuddered. In her confused wanderings, chance had brought her almost to the building where her former lover lived. Was that a sign? Perhaps he might yet be able to help her. He must know the woman’s address. She was trembling almost joyfully. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? It was the simplest solution! All at once her limbs felt stronger, hope gave new vigour to the sad, bewildered ideas in her head. He must go to that person with her and put an end to it once and for all. He must threaten the woman, force her to stop her blackmailing. Perhaps a good sum of money might even get her out of the city entirely. She suddenly felt sorry to have spoken as she did to the poor creature recently, but he would help her, she was sure of that. How strange that this hope of rescue came only now, at the last minute.

She hurried up the steps and rang the bell. No one came to the door. She listened; she felt as if she had heard cautious footsteps on the other side. She rang the bell once more. Silence again. And again a faint noise inside. Then her patience was exhausted—she rang and rang the bell without stopping. No less than her life was at stake.

At last there was movement behind the door, the lock clicked, and it was opened just a crack. “It’s me,” she quickly said.

Now he did open the door, looking as if her visit was a shock. “You … ah, so it’s you, dear lady,” he stammered, switching to a more formal tone and visibly embarrassed. “I was just … forgive me … I wasn’t expecting … wasn’t expecting to see you. Do please forgive my outfit.” He indicated his shirtsleeves. His shirt was open at the neck, and he wore no collar.

“I have to speak to you. It’s urgent. You must help me,” she said—uneasily, because he was keeping her standing in the hall like a beggar. “Won’t you let me come in and listen to me for a moment?” she added, her nerves on edge.

“Well,” he murmured awkwardly, with a surreptitious glance behind him, “it’s just that at this minute … I can’t really …”

“You must, must listen to me. It’s your fault, after all, it’s your duty to help me … you must get back the ring for me, you must! Or at least tell me her address. She’s been persecuting me, and now she’s disappeared … you must help me, listen, you must.”

He was staring at her. Only now did she realise that she was gasping out her words disjointedly.

“But of course, you don’t know … Well, she, I mean your mistress, the other one, the woman saw me leave
you that last time, and since then she’s been pursuing me, blackmailing me … torturing me to death. Now she has my ring, and I must, I must get it back. I must have it by this evening, I said that today I’d … oh, will you help me?”

“But … but I …”

“Will you or won’t you?”

“But I don’t know any such person. I don’t know who you’re talking about. I’ve never had anything to do with any such woman.” He sounded almost angry.

“So … so you don’t know her? She just said so, she plucked it out of thin air? And she knows your name, too, and where I live. So perhaps it’s not true that she’s been blackmailing me? Perhaps I’ve simply been dreaming the whole thing?”