Бруно Травен - Aslan Norval

In any case, whether certain politicians liked it or not, the project was again the focus of the interest of tens of thousands of people. You could observe the construction of this project. It was something solid, something you could hold on to, something useful, as opposed to indefinite, unknown, feared horrors.

Holved, who had returned a week ago from Indonesia, was sitting nonchalantly in Aslan’s boudoir, flipping carelessly through the evening newspaper.

“You know, Aslan,” he said, without looking up from the paper, “I really don’t feel like spending the evening and the night, maybe until four in the morning, with Elmer Tuckers and his other half. He, Elmer, I mean, is a delightful guy with whom you can have quite some fun when you are alone with him. But she, Minnie, really gets on my nerves. She is so boring that even God would be bored. She only gossips about her neighbors, how often they fight, give each other black eyes, reconcile, and then go to their lawyers a week later to get an irreversible divorce. It could make you go to sleep.”

“Why did you invite both of them, then?”

“Since they are both in New York, I can’t just run around with Elmer alone as we usually do. And since I am saddled with both, you have to participate. One couple with another couple. Business. As you know, Elmer is powerful in the administration of his city and his electoral district. Last year, he pushed three construction contracts our way. When he told me on the phone yesterday that he was in New York and would gladly accept an invitation for a cheerful evening, what was I supposed to do? I offered to show him and his rib New York at night. He quietly hinted he might have a new contract for us in his pocket. The way I understand it, they want to build two significantly larger airports and a new, extremely modern overland bus station out there in Idaho.”

Holved continued to talk without wondering whether Aslan was listening or not. She was sitting dressed in a light housedress in front of the mirror, polishing her nails and lost in thought. Her nails, however, were already in perfect condition.

Without looking up, and keeping her eyes focused on her fingertips, she said: “You know, Holved, I cannot keep any secrets from you.”

“There is no reason to keep secrets. Don’t tell me you shot someone during my absence and need me to get you out of that mess now.”

He was still leafing through his newspaper. He was used to Aslan’s frequent confessions: A collision with another car at a total cost of five hundred dollars, including damages to be paid. Or a confrontation with a police officer; in a hurry, she had hurled about a dozen remarks at the officer, which he had misunderstood since he was in a bad mood, and which had resulted in a citation. Another time, she had had troubles with the cook, who had quit on the fifteenth. Of all things, it had been the cook whom Holved loved particularly because she actually knew how to cook. Usually, Aslan confessed to such incidents, really more to be talking and less because she thought it was her duty to report everything that happened. Holved rarely got excited by her confessions. Since his thoughts were often all over the place when Aslan told him something that was of little interest to him, he hardly listened now when she casually mentioned that she could not keep a secret from him.

Without looking up from his newspaper he said indifferently: “Well, what is it this time that you cannot keep secret?”

“Nothing as embarrassing as a fine or a citation,” she said, picking up her comb to fix her hair in front of the mirror. “It’s very simple. I got involved with a man. That’s it, and I think as your wife, I should confess this to you.”

She said all this so casually that Holved did not understand even half of it. Apparently, her words only slowly took on shape and meaning for him, since he remained unaffected for a few seconds, concentrating on a newspaper article.

Suddenly, however, he looked up, startled, and dropped the newspaper onto his knees. “What did you just say? Did I hear correctly?”

“You did hear correctly, Holved. And it didn’t just happen once, it happened twice. Once late at night and the second time was in broad daylight the following day in the afternoon. Of course, I had drawn the drapes.”

“Well, at least the drapes were drawn. Very careful on your part. Of course you only dreamed all this.”

He was quietly hoping she would admit that it had been a dream and that she would say with a laugh she only wanted to see what he would do if he learned of something like this. And as if she had indeed guessed his thoughts, she said: “I did it for two reasons. On the one hand, I wanted to find out what you would say or do.”

“And on the other hand?”

“And on the other hand, I did it out of curiosity, pure, unadulterated curiosity.”

“Curiosity?”

“Yes, really and truly out of curiosity. And there was no other reason. I wanted to find out personally what kind of difference there is between a man of your age and a man my age, who is built like a boilermaker and could perform as a wrestler at the circus in the evenings.”

“So, it was curiosity. That’s all well and good. And what is the name of this man?”

Aslan was still sitting in front of the mirror and playing with her comb. She looked at Holved from the side. “I didn’t ask him his name.” She was happy with this answer. She avoided lying whenever possible. She was speaking the truth since she had not asked Beckford what his name was, because of course she had known his name for a long time already. It would have been trickier if Holved had asked: Do I know this man? It would have cost her quite some effort to answer that question without lying.

“His job?” asked Holved, more to distract his thoughts from her adventure caused by curiosity than because he was interested in the gigolo’s profession. His name and career could not change anything about the facts.

“I did not ask him how, where, and in which way he makes his money.”

Again, she spoke the truth. She had not needed to ask Beckford how he earned his money, because after all, she knew better than anyone else.

“So, you didn’t even ask that. Strange.”

“No reason to do so. Why should I have asked him anything? He would have lied to me anyway.”

“And where did you amuse yourself in this manner while I slaved away in tropical heat to finish up our contracts?”

“Good God, don’t get sentimental! I would have attempted to still my thirst for knowledge anyways, whether you were at home or as you said so beautifully and cinematographically, whether you had to bake in the sun in the tropics.”

Holved had gotten up and was now pacing in the boudoir, which was not exactly easy due to the tightly packed precious furnishings. However, he felt he had to do something. And if a wife gives an unsolicited confession of having talked more or less deeply with another man, there is only one option. Since time immemorial, such a husband has had to pace, whether in an ultramodern boudoir or in front of a stone cave. Usually, a dagger, revolver, or club did not emerge until the husband, whose manhood had been deeply wounded, had decided during his wild pacing which solution would serve his own interests best.

Aslan took off her housedress and put on a bathrobe, sat on the chaise longue and began pulling at her nylon stockings. Her eyes were tracking Holved, however. He downed a whiskey and stopped in front of the mirror to see whether he had changed due to the knowledge that Aslan had successfully quenched her thirst for knowledge.

He was just going to start pacing again when Aslan, who had just pulled off one of her stockings, said: “So, now do you maybe want a divorce from me? Reason: confession of adultery.”