Бруно Травен - Aslan Norval

“I wouldn’t know what to do with a man of your age or even one who was five years younger.”

“So, he is five years older than you?”

“No, he is only thirty years older than I am, so that you finally may know for sure. Maybe even a little older.”

“Only thirty years older? Only? Only thirty years older! Only thirty years.”

Beckford nodded several times, without realizing why he was nodding. But then he thought: I knew it. She wants to get rid of him. No wonder. Thirty years older. And she’s young, beautiful, and full of life. Full of vitality. Maybe I’ll get soft after all. Of course, if he were to find out, it would get rather uncomfortable. However, I am sure she has organized everything to such an extent that it will remain our secret.

“Would you like another whiskey?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts and pointing to his empty glass.

“Half a glass, please.”

He looked at his glass while she was pouring the whiskey and followed her hand with his eyes as she was putting the bottle back onto the cart.

“You married him because of his money, of course?” he asked unexpectedly.

“I wish you would finally guess something correctly in our conversations. But you’re totally wrong, as usual.”

“Well, if a young, beautiful woman like you marries a man who is thirty years older—”

“Then she must be marrying him because of his money, of course.” She finished his sentence. “Do you think a man is only attractive for his money? Money is not a safe bet. One stock market crash, or one unsuccessful business venture can turn a millionaire into a pauper in the span of twenty-four hours. And then what would I do if I had married that man for his money?”

“Well, then you get a divorce and marry one who is more successful in his enterprises.”

“Sleazy. Not my style. But just so you know how wrong you were and how much you underestimate me, let me tell you that my own assets are worth fifty times his.”

“Hard to believe. You worked in the film industry to earn your living.”

“Wrong again. I didn’t work to earn a living, but to do something that interested me. If it hadn’t forced me to live a continent apart from my husband, I would’ve probably never given up my job. I admit, since I left Hollywood, well-paid jobs are slowly evaporating. The film industry suffers from a deadly disease, called television. There’s almost no hope for recovery.”

“That’s all well and good, ma’am. However, there’s still something I don’t understand.”

“And that is?”

“If you were as well paid in Hollywood as you say, and it was such an interesting job, why did you marry a man who is so much older? It appears you didn’t do it in order to play a—let’s say—distinguished role in society?”

“Have you never heard of a little thing called love?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course. Many times.”

“I doubt that.”

“Of course I have,” Beckford protested forcefully.

“What do you know about love? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. When I figured out that I loved my future husband, I had no earthly idea whether he was rich or not. I knew that he ran several construction companies, but that didn’t mean he was really rich. I love him, and he loves me.”

“And you’re still not satisfied?”

“Who told you I wasn’t satisfied? I’m sure I didn’t say anything remotely like that.”

She shrugged and frowned as she looked at him searchingly. “Sometimes I think you can read minds. ‘Not satisfied’ is not the right expression. The truth is I am never satisfied, except in my married life. But something is missing for me to be totally happy. It’s as if there were an emptiness, a vacuum inside of me. As if I were not fulfilled, there’s a drive in me to—to—how shall I say this, to—”

She balled up her fists as if that might help her find the right words.

“—to—to—to—well, in short, sometimes I explode with creativity—I want to create something truly magnificent, something that is visible from far away, something that remains for the ages. A bridge that is twenty miles long, a pyramid that is two thousand yards high, a highway from New York to Seattle, Washington, straight without a single curve. Oh, I don’t really know what I want.”

“What you need is a baby,” Beckford countered dryly and brutally. He probably thought he could find out what she was really missing in this way.

“A baby? That’s not much. Even though it seems like a lot. A baby. Every woman can have a baby. I need something more than a child to feel like a person.”

“Didn’t you just say a few seconds ago that your love fulfills you completely?”

“I did not say that; but it is true, where love is concerned.”

Why is she telling me all this? thought Beckford. Something is just not right with her. First, she lets me think that I am supposed to help her store her husband in a trash can. Then she tells me that she loves him to pieces. And finally, the bottom line is that she doesn’t know what she wants at all. Maybe she wants to be in theater and work in tragedies.

Beckford was thinking about mentioning this to her, when the Negro opened the door, ushering in Holved. After briefly glancing at Beckford, Holved walked over to his wife and kissed her lightly.

“How do you do, my love?” he greeted her.

“Fine, and you?” she said, laying her hand on his cheek.

Beckford had gotten up in the meantime. He had done so casually to indicate that Aslan’s husband did not intimidate him at all.

“My husband,” said Aslan, looking at Beckford and then at Holved. Then she looked back and forth between them again and presenting each to the other she said, “Clement Beckford.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Holved.

“Pleasure’s mine,” Beckford answered rather coolly on purpose.

They shook hands lightly.

Beckford sat back down and Holved pushed a chair close to the others.

“Holved, I invited Mr. Beckford for dinner.”

“Good, that’s very good. You already told me on the phone.”

Aslan filled a glass halfway with ice cubes, poured whiskey over them and filled the rest with soda.

“And you, Mr. Beckford? A new drink?”

“Yes, please.”

“You know, Holved, Mr. Beckford drinks his whiskey neat. He doesn’t even wash it down with a chaser.”

“That’s the only way to do it. As devout as I am, though, I prefer to socialize while holding baptized whiskey.”

He took his glass, tipped it first toward Aslan, then at Beckford, and drank deeply.

Aslan laughed: “Religious? You? Since when?”

“Since when? Since long before I knew you. But ever since you came into my life, I don’t have time to practice my religion.” Now he turned to Beckford: “And you, Mr. Beckford, how do you see this matter?”

“Me?” Beckford shrugged lightly. “Me? I lost all that in Korea between heaps of shredded, whimpering human beings lying in dirt, mud, and pools of blood.”

“I understand, I understand very well. I was also stuck in dirt and mud with half a body or even a quarter of a body from human beings, horses, or dogs in front of and beside me. I only picked up binoculars if absolutely necessary because looking through them, I only saw more bodies struggling to their death in barbed wire—” He interrupted himself and said in a different tone: “Let’s talk about something more pleasant. My wife shudders upon hearing these horrors.”

“Not in the least. I love horror stories.”

“To read, yes. To have to see them with your own eyes without being able to run away is a different thing. Reading! If it gets too horrific, you close the book and the story is over. Not so easy when you are stuck in the middle of it.”