A Death That Proves Nothing

excerpt I will retell now a typical argument between us which might show that the multiple interpretations that I give to her present silence are not just the games of some sick imagination. She moved to the little country town, so it was in the last phase of our relationship, when, because of the distance and of the new life she was leading, her love was toned down, even if sometimes her professions of love burst out just as passionately as before. She came to Bucharest especially to meet me, and as my whole family lad left for the countryside, I asked her to come to my place. I was curious to see her among my familiar objects, those around which I lived, for whom I cared, and of which I had often spoken to her, and I predicted anxiously her own anxiety, but I was wrong (and this discovery was painful for me!). Preoccupied with extraneous intentions, she hardly noticed the flowers in the vase, which were waiting for her, the books, the gramophone records with good music, the portraits and the vivid fire in the stove. She accepted my embrace, like a stranger, cold, as an obligation, and I didn't know how to turn her into what she usually was, into the way she was when she had left me a week before. I had prepared with great craftsmanship sandwiches and cookies. I had chosen only the ones I knew she would enjoy, or those that would enhance the effect, the shining samovar just waited to be fed with hot embers, and she was waiting with placid arms, her overcoat on, ready to leave, with a vacant look. I tried to be tender, then I started to put on an artificial joy, with different caliber jokes, lined up one after another, like a row of beads, with sudden and perhaps ridiculous gestures, and the noise I made emphasized her silence even more. The atmosphere between us definitely contained something tainted, which I could not discover, making my entire effort at that moment, and my previous preparation, useless and ridiculous. I put some more firewood in the iron stove, some coal in the samovar, soliloquizing through the room and pretending not to notice her aloofness; she let me put myself out for half an hour and when I served her with a glass of tea, she made a vague gesture: "I won't drink anything; I'm not hungry, thank you."I resorted to an ardent request, in which I lay all my hopes of abating her indifference and, before my lamentations, she added: "If you wish," in a tone devoid of warmth, and her acceptance could therefore bring no satisfaction to me. She dipped a cracker in water, bit it at one end, then she put it aside, sipped a few drops, and resumed her motionless posture. I tried to warm her, hug her tightly, kiss her hands, eyes, cheeks, mouth… She let me for a while, then she detached herself slowly and said:"Stay calm Sandu, and listen to me. I have something to tell you."I would finally hear the explanation of her behavior, and I realized that the explanation could bring me no joy. She asked me a question which, by its firmness and out of the ordinary element of it coming from her, cut through the air and hit my ear like a hammer. "What are you going to do with me?" I tried a roundabout way which would have diminished the meaning of the words she uttered, would have made the conversation longer, and would have created the vague atmosphere that would have explained nothing, would have tired her and would have made her re-become the person I knew. "When?" The answer came just as firm: "From now on." I resumed my older theories: "We'll be best friends, we'll see each other as often as possible, proud of the spiritual enrichment that will rise day by day, disregarding the rules of ordinary morality…" "And is this appropriate for me?"Indeed, was this appropriate for her? What should I answer? A woman, always coherent in her judgment, had precise ideas about putting her life in order (reduced to a single form: marriage). After a small silence: "Why don't you marry me?" I didn't marry her because I couldn't give up all my childish plans completely, because I thought she was too insignificant for me, and at the same time I didn't leave her because I felt pity for her and I dreaded my loneliness. A vicious circle in which I didn't know what decision to make, and time was slipping away. Could I tell her that? Explain again, as usual: "I'm not like everybody else, to accept commitments"? For a straightforward question, these sentences, literary embroidery, would have sounded too artificial, and thus I preferred to keep quiet, bending my head a little. It was her eventually, who made the diversion: "You know, the lieutenant proposed to me!..."This time, I was given the possibility to answer, although the sufferance her reply provoked prevented me from making account of the fact that the questions were, at least for the moment, pushed aside. I used the only weapon at hand: sarcasm. "You with a lieutenant! Is this why I made every effort to teach you, to make you invaluable among your girlfriends, to be able to grasp the most subtle ideas?! Wouldn't you feel pity for yourself? A lieutenant who would say instead of Racine, Racin!" (Allusion to a previous incident of which we both laughed heartily.)"Who cares! It'll not happen! He has money, relatives in Florence, where he goes every year; there I will take care of my education on my own!"So, she had an answer to all my interjections, the plan had been well thought of. And as if she wanted to show me that a possible decision would not have been the result of some rashness, she reminded me:"You know very well that I was often determined to end my own life and you prevented me. That would have been a way, too. Now, I am only left with this.""And with whom?""With X.""That imbecile?!""But he's so kind!"The answers came so formidable, stern or frivolous, so characteristic of her, that the battle was useless. You fight as long as you and your enemy are on the same level, but not when you are on parallel grounds. Defeated, I could not hide my despondency; on the contrary, I tried to exploit it so as to move her, to make her give up other thoughts. She predicted this and, in order not to make any imprudence, she resumed her immobile facial expression. Seeing that I was not capable of warming up the little space between us, I joined next to her, tried to pat her first on the cheek, then my hand slipped, as if by accident, under her blouse. She immediately sensed my intentions (although she was so accustomed with my embraces that she could have failed to notice at once), and she tried to free herself of them. Then, I resorted to the last gesture, ignoring the repulsion I had for any kind of brutality. I pulled off her clothes, I removed her boots and the stockings, while she stubbornly tried to defend herself, struggling, trying to hit and bite, throwing the most painful words that I didn't want to hear:"I hate you, beast! Do you hear me? I hate you!"I threw her naked under the eiderdown. Then, when I got closer, I found her motionless, cold, showing no resistance, but without giving herself as in the past, indifferent to what would happen to her. Seeing that her opposition was of no use, and hence, it was futile to continue it, she resorted to another strategy, which would weigh me down. However, she took little account of needs and blood: at first only a few vague startles, then the increasingly heavy and panting breath, and finally the complete turmoil. We found each other dismayed, embarrassed. I said, to break the silence:"It's chilly in here!"I went to put some more wood into the fire, then I reheated the tea water and I refilled the glass in which a piece of cracker was left and, having soaked, had sullied the water. I offered her the drink and she refused again. When I drew near she asked me with the same harsh voice as before:"Why shouldn't I marry Lieutenant X?"This is how we spent all that terrible night: with successive vagaries and, after some firewood, warming-ups of the room, with the sullied-color tea always recurring, with our ardent embraces and then with the cold and inquisitive questions. Her train was leaving very early in the morning. She got dressed in a hurry and we ran, so as not to be late, to the railway station, through the snow-banks, involuntarily making fun of the balance we had to keep on ice, hand in hand, losing our numbness in the rush and in the strong wind that hit us in the face and reddened our skins. We gradually resumed our mood from former times and the unrestrained laughter; the disquieting thoughts went away, and by the stairs of the train we said goodbye, as if nothing had happened (but without the melancholy of farewells). Right when she was leaving, Irina told me: "Don't believe a word of what I told you last night. Everything was just a scheme to make you marry me!"Had I prevailed or was my disaster, at that very moment, determined for good?


by Anton Holban (1902-1937)