Бруно Травен - Aslan Norval

“Belonged? Not anymore?” asked Beckford, looking at her as if he were seeing a completely new person.

“No, not anymore. Since I got married, about three years ago. Sometimes, I feel nostalgic for the time I spent working in movies.”

“Unhappy marriage? Is that why?”

As soon as he asked, he realized again why he was in this house and what this woman expected of him.

“Unhappy marriage? Me? You guessed wrong. Completely wrong. I’m happily married. I’m blessed that I met this man, my husband, and that he married me.”

“So, then you are not planning to—”

He coughed then so he wouldn’t say anything wrong.

“Planning to what? What are you talking about?”

“I—I—I thought—that maybe you—um—wanted to get a divorce.”

“You thought I wanted a divorce? But my dear, you didn’t even know that I was married until a second ago. How could you think about a possible divorce?”

“Well, it’s not unheard of to guess something like that about a beautiful young woman like yourself, who always drives around alone in her car and invites a man her own age all over the place and gives him all kinds of presents.”

“Invites a man all over the place? Just once, to an Arab restaurant! And here today. In my house. And presents? Oh, you mean the office, right?”

“Exactly. The office. You might consider that a present, don’t you think?”

“The office! Oh, the office. If you only knew what that office means to me.”

“Well, what does it mean?”

“It’s hard to explain. It’s pretty complicated. If everything goes as planned, you might understand later tonight why I need that office.”

“Your husband is obviously very rich.”

“Very. He earned it all with his vision, energy, and enterprising spirit. Everything he touches turns to gold.”

“You too, when he touches you?” Beckford grinned, because he thought he had shown her he could be funny.

“Yes, me too, if you must know.”

“Is he good-looking?”

“Not particularly. To me he’s the best-looking man in the world, of course.”

“Young?”

“Depends what you consider young. To me, he’s young.”

“Okay, so he’s old. Just like I thought.”

“As you wish. But if you’re thinking that I’m planning an affair with you for whatever reason, then you’re way off, really way off.”

Indifferently, or at least in a tone that he thought would imply that he was not interested, he replied: “That may be. But admittedly, I thought I could compete for your love one day.”

“My love? And to you my love is probably just good enough to brighten your dreary daily life. My love is worth more than that, I think. Don’t try to get romantic. At least not with me. That’s not your role at all. You would do better playing a wrestler.”

“I never thought of being romantic. Believe me.”

“Maybe I’ll even believe that you seriously considered competing for my love. A second whiskey?”

“Yes, please, ma’am.”

He looked at his drink for a long time, turning the glass around in his hands without taking a sip. His eyes focused on the glass, he said quietly: “Yes, it’s true. I thought you were an easy conquest and that all I’d have to do is take your hand in mine as I am holding this glass right now. Given the way you were offering yourself to me—”

“Offering myself? Now, wait a minute! You’re saying I offered myself to you? I never considered doing that even for one second.”

“A misunderstanding again. It seems I express myself rather clumsily, since every time I say something you misunderstand me. When I said offering yourself, I meant the way you sought my friendship from day one and saddled me with that breathtaking office.”

“Saddled you! Good God, you really do use the weirdest expressions. The fact that I am interested in you and want to help you doesn’t mean that I expect you to start an affair with me out of gratitude. I may have my own reasons why I’m intensely interested in you, but it never had anything to do with love.”

Her own reasons, he thought. So, it’s the husband she wants to get rid of after all.

“And you know what, even if I had ever thought about an affair with you, which was never the case, it would definitely be too late now. If one day I were to get soft around you and some limited intimacy were to ensue—I’m not made of stone, you know—I assure you, it would not last very long. Less than three days.”

As she mentioned the remote possibility, he grew more brazen. He was not about to let this opportunity go by. It would probably never come again. Turning the glass in his hands, he looked at her sharply. He felt himself blushing slightly as he said: “So you would never allow me to love you?”

To buy time, she took a long slow sip of her curaçao. She did not want to scare him off because she still needed him for her purposes. She turned the glass around between her two index fingers, as if searching for the right words.

“You know, Mr. Beckford,” she finally said, lifting her glass, “you can do all kinds of chemical magic with this liqueur.”

“That may be true. However, I am not interested in this liquor at all at the moment. What I want to hear is your answer to my question.”

She put down her glass, nodded, and with a motherly smile said: “‘Never’ is a strong word in this case. You should not have used it. It’s hard to answer a question with that word in it. There’s no such thing as ‘never’ in life.”

“Don’t try to avoid the question,” said Beckford, getting impatient.

“Okay, then. Since you should only use the word ‘never’ in exceptional situations, I cannot say: never. It’s not the right answer in this case. I’m leaving you with a small, very small glimmer of hope. Maybe one day. Maybe. But never love.”

“If not love, then what might be a reason for an affair?”

“You might say for scientific purposes. I would not give myself entirely. I would only give a part of me, in order to discover new things, without sentimental side effects. I would do it without letting it turn into love, since that would be the most embarrassing situation. But a constant affair, or one that’s on and off—never. In this case, the word is the right one.”

“Maybe I have to wait for five years.”

“That may be,” she answered, “it’s very possible. Maybe ten years.”

He thought about getting up and kissing her hand now. However, he repressed his desire and only said: “Thank you for this answer.”

“You are welcome. It’s the only honest answer I can give without losing anything.”

He finished his whiskey in one gulp and slammed his glass onto the table between them, and as if she had offended him, he asked coldly: “How old is he?”

“Which ‘he’ do you mean?”

“Mr. Suthers. Who else?”

“Oh, Mr. Holved Suthers. My husband?”

“Yes, how old is he?”

“You mean, the age he gives when he gets a new passport issued?”

“Of course that is the age I mean. What else?”

“You can interpret young and old in all kinds of ways. I have known men and women in the industry of illusions—”

“Industry of illusions?”

“Film industry, I should say. I knew men and women there who looked so washed out, so tired and without any interest in life at age thirty-five, that they were useless to anyone, even to themselves. So what does the number of years really have to do with the age of a person?”

“Your husband still turns around to look at girls’ legs on the street.”

“That’s very possible. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Nevertheless, I am sure he is much older than you are.”