Saul Bellow - Collected Stories

When you were down, busted, blasted, burnt out, dying, you saw the best of Clara.

So it was odd that she should also have become an executive, highly paid and influential. She could make fashionable talk, she dressed with originality, she knew a lot and at first hand about decadence, but at any moment she could set aside the “czarina” and become the hayseed, the dupe of traveling salesmen or grifters who wanted to lure her up to the hayloft. In her you might see suddenly a girl from a remote town, from the vestigial America of one-room school-houses, constables, covered-dish suppers, one of those communities bypassed by technology and urban development. Her father, remember, was still a vestryman, and her mother sent checks to TV fundamentalists. In a sophisticated boardroom Clara could be as plain as cornmeal mush, and in such a mood, when she opened her mouth, you couldn’t guess whether she would speak or blow bubble gum. Yet anybody who had it in mind to get around her was letting himself in for lots of bad news.

She was prepared always to acknowledge total ignorance, saying, as she had so often said to Ithiel Regler, “ Tell me!” The girl from the backwoods was also sentimental; she kept souvenirs, family photographs, lace valentines, and she cherished the ring Ithiel had bought her. She held on to it through four marriages. When she had it appraised for insurance, she found that it had become very valuable. It was covered for fifteen thousand dollars. Ithiel had never been smart about money. He was a bad investor—unlucky, careless. On Forty-seventh Street twenty years ago, Madison Hamilton had goofed, uncharacteristically, in pricing his emerald. But Clara was careless as well, for the ring disappeared while she was carrying Patsy. Forgotten on a washstand, maybe, or stolen from a bench at the tennis club. The loss depressed her; her depression deepened as she searched for it in handbags, drawers, upholstery crevices, shag rugs, pill bottles.

Laura Wong remembered how upset Clara had been.” That put you back on the couch,” she said, with Oriental gentleness.

Clara had been hoping to free herself from Dr. Gladstone. She had said as much. “Now that I’m expecting for the third time I should be able to go it alone at last. A drink with Ithiel when I’m low does more for me. I’ve already got more doctors than any woman should need. Gladstone will ask me why this Ithiel symbol should still be so powerful. And what will there be to say? When the bag of your Hoover fills with dust, you replace it with another. Why not get rid of feeling-dust too. Yet… even a technician like Gladstone knows better. What he wants is to desensitize me. I was ready to die for love. Okay, I’m still living, have a husband, expect another baby. I’m as those theology people say, all those divinity fudges: situated. If, finally, you get situated, why go into mourning over a ring?”

In the end Clara did telephone Ithiel to tell him about the emerald. “Such a link between us,” she said. “And it makes me guilty to bother you with it now, when things aren’t going well for you with Francine.”

“Never so bad that I can’t spare some words of support,” said Ithiel, so dependable. He disliked grieving over his own troubles. And he was so highly organized—as if living up to the classic balance of his face; such a pair of eyes seemed to call for a particular, maybe even an administered, sort of restraint. Ithiel could be hard on himself He blamed himself about Clara and for his failed marriages, including the present one. And yet the choices he made showed him to be reckless too. He was committed to high civility, structure, order; nevertheless he took chances with women, he was a gambler, something of an anarchist. There was anarchy on both sides. Nevertheless, his attachment, his feeling for her was—to his own surprise—permanent. His continually increasing respect for her came over the horizon like a moon taking decades to rise.

“Seven marriages between us, and we still love each other,” she said. Ten years before, it would have been a risky thing to say, it would have stirred a gust of fear in him. Now she was sure that he would agree, as indeed he did.

“That is true.”

“How do you interpret the ring, then?”

“I don’t,” said Ithiel. “It’s a pretty bad idea to wring what happens to get every drop of meaning out of it. The way people twist their emotional laundry is not to be believed. I don’t feel that you wronged me by losing that ring. You say it was insured?”

“Damn right.”

“Then file a claim. The companies charge enough. Your premiums must be out of sight.”

“I’m really torn up about it,” said Clara.

“That’s your tenth-century soul. Much your doctor can do about that!”

“He helps, in some respects.”

“Those guys!” said Ithiel. “If a millipede came into the office, he’d leave with an infinitesimal crutch for each leg.”

Reporting this conversation to Ms. Wong, Clara said, “That did it. That’s the anarchist in Ithiel busting out. It gives me such a boost to chat with him even for five minutes.”

The insurance company paid her fifteen thousand dollars, and then, a year later, the missing ring turned up.

In one of her fanatical fits of spring cleaning, she found it beneath the bed, above the caster, held in the frame to which the small braking lever was attached. It was on her side of the bed. She must have been groping for a paper tissue and knocked it off the bedside table. For what purpose she had been groping, now that it was discovered, she didn’t care to guess. She held the ring to her face, felt actually as if she were inhaling the green essence of this ice—no, ice was diamond; still, this emerald also was an ice. In it Ithiel’s pledge was frozen. Or else it represented the permanent form of the passion she had had for this man. The hot form would have been red, like a node inside the body, in the sexual parts. That you’d see as a ruby. The cool form was this concentrate of clear green. This was not one of her fancies; it was as real as the green of the ocean, as the mountains in whose innards such gems are mined. She thought these locations (the Atlantic, the Andes) as she thought the inside of her own body. In her summary fashion, she said, “Maybe what it comes to is that I am an infant mine.” She had three small girls to prove it.

The insurance company was not notified. Clara was not prepared to return the money. By now it simply wasn’t there. It had been spent on a piano, a carpet, yet another set of Limoges china—God knows what else. So the ring couldn’t be reinsured, but that didn’t matter much. Exultingly glad, she told Ithiel on the telephone, “/лcredible, where that ring fell! Right under me, as I lay there suffering over it. I could have touched it by dropping my arm. I could have poked it with my finger.”

“How many of us can say anything like that?” said Ithiel. “That you can lie in bed and have the cure for what ails you within reach.”

“Only you don’t know it…” said Clara. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Oh, I am. I think it’s great. It’s like adding ten years to your life to have it back.”

“I’ll have to take double good care of it. It’s not insurable…. I’m never sure how important an item like this ring can be to a man who has to think about the Atlantic Alliance and all that other stuff. Deterrence, nuclear theater forces… completely incomprehensible to me.”

‘If only the answers were under my bed,” said Ithiel. “But you shouldn’t think I can’t take a ring seriously, or that I’m so snooty about world significance or Lenin’s ‘decisive correlation of forces’—that you’re just a kid and I indulge you like a big daddy. I like you better than I do the president, or the national security adviser.”