The Temptation of Jack Orkney: Collected Stories Volume Two. Doris Lessing

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СКАЧАТЬ her pearl. She held it out to him.

      ‘I never sold it,’ she said.

      And now he looked at her – sternly, as he had done before.

      She said, in the pretty English of those who have learned it from governesses: ‘I have sometimes needed food, I’ve been hungry, you know! I’ve had no servants …’

      He looked at her. Oh, how she knew that look, how she had studied it in memory! Irritation, annoyance, grief. All these, but above all disappointment. And more than these, a warning, or reminder. It said, she felt: Silly white goose! Rich little bitch! Poor little nothing! Why do you always get it wrong? Why are you stupid? What is a pearl compared with what it stands for? If you are hungry and need money, sell it, of course!

      She sat in that sudden stillness that says a person is fighting not to weep. Her beautiful eyes brimmed. Then she said stubbornly: ‘I’ll never sell it. Never!’

      As for him he was muttering: I should have brought food. I was a dummkopf. What’s the use of these things …

      But in the hungry eyes around him he read that they were thinking how even in times of famine there are always men and women who have food hidden away to be bought by gold or jewels.

      ‘Take them,’ he said to the children, to the women, to the old people.

      They did not understand him, did not believe him.

      He said again: ‘Go on. Take them!’

      No one moved. Then he stood up and began flinging into the air pearls, opals, moonstones, gems of all kinds, to fall as they would. For a few moments there was a mad scene of people bobbing and scrambling, and the square emptied as people raced back to the corners they lived in with what they had picked up out of the dust. It was not yet time for the myth to start, the story of how a soldier had walked into the town, and inexplicably pulled treasure out of the fountain which he flung into the air like a king or a sultan – treasure that was ambiguous and fertile like a king’s, since one man might pick up the glitter of a diamond that later turned out to be worthless glass, and another be left with a smallish pearl that had nevertheless been so carefully chosen it was worth months of food, or even a house or small farm.

      ‘I must go,’ said Ephraim to his companion.

      She inclined her head in farewell, as to an acquaintance re-encountered. She watched a greying, dumpy man walk away past a fountain, past a church, then out of sight.

      Later that night she took out the pearl and held it in her hand. If she sold it, she would remain comfortably independent of her own family. Here, in the circle of the family of her dead husband, she would marry again, another engineer or civil servant: she would be worth marrying, even as a widow with a child. Of course if she returned to her own family, she would also remarry, as a rich young widow with a small child from that dreadful war, luckily now over.

      Such thoughts went through her head: at last she thought that it didn’t make any difference what she did. Whatever function Ephraim’s intervention had performed in her life was over when she refused to marry Paulo, had married Carlos, had come to Italy and given birth to two children, one dead from an unimportant children’s disease that had been fatal only because of the quality of war-food, war-warmth. She had been wrenched out of her pattern, had been stamped, or claimed, by the pearl – by something else. Nothing she could do now would put her back where she had been. It did not matter whether she stayed in Italy or returned to the circles she had been born in.

      As for Ephraim, he went back to Johannesburg when the war finished, and continued to cut diamonds and to play poker on Sunday nights.

      This story ended more or less with the calling of the flight number. As we went to the tarmac where illuminated wisps of fog still lingered, the lady from Texas asked the man who had told the story if perhaps he was Ephraim?

      ‘No,’ said Dr Rosen, a man of sixty or so from Johannesburg, a brisk, well-dressed man with nothing much to notice about him – like most of the world’s citizens.

      No, he was most emphatically not Ephraim.

      Then how did he know all this? Perhaps he was there?

      Yes, he was there. But if he was to tell us how he came to be a hundred miles from where he should have been, in that chaotic, horrible week – it was horrible, horrible! – and in civvies, then that story would be even longer than the one he had already told us.

      Couldn’t he tell us why he was there?

      Perhaps he was after that tin of Ephraim’s too! We could think so if we liked. It would be excusable of us to think so. There was a fortune in that tin, and everyone in the regiment knew it.

      He was a friend of Ephraim’s then? He knew Ephraim?

      Yes, he could say that. He had known Ephraim for, let’s see, nearly fifty years. Yes, he thought he could say he was Ephraim’s friend.

      In the aircraft Dr Rosen sat reading, with nothing more to tell us.

      But one day I’ll meet a young man called Nikki, or Raffaele; or a girl wearing a single pearl around her neck on a gold chain or perhaps a middle-aged woman who says she thinks pearls are unlucky, she would never touch them herself: a man once gave her younger sister a pearl and it ruined her entire life. Something like that will happen, and this story will have a different shape.

       An Unposted Love Letter

      Yes, I saw the look your wife’s face put on when I said, ‘I have so many husbands, I don’t need a husband.’ She did not exchange a look with you, but that was because she did not need to – later when you got home she said, ‘What an affected thing to say!’ and you replied, ‘Don’t forget she is an actress.’ You said this meaning exactly what I would mean if I had said it, I’m certain of that. And perhaps she heard it like that. I do hope so because I know what you are and if your wife does not hear what you say then this is a smallness on your part that I don’t forgive you. If I can live alone, and out of fastidiousness, then you must have a wife as good as you are. My husbands, the men who set light to my soul (yes, I know how your wife would smile if I used that phrase), are worthy of you … I know that I am giving myself away now, confessing how much that look on your wife’s face hurt. Didn’t she know that even then I was playing my part? Oh no, after all, I don’t forgive you your wife, no I don’t.

      If I said, ‘I don’t need a husband, I have so many lovers,’ then of course everyone at the dinner-table would have laughed in just such a way: it would have been the rather banal ‘outrageousness’ expected of me. An ageing star, the fading beauty … ‘I have so many lovers’ – pathetic, and brave too. Yes, that remark would have been too apt, too smooth, right for just any ‘beautiful but fading’ actress. But not right for me, because after all, I am not just any actress, I am Victoria Carrington, and I know exactly what is due to me and from me. I know what is fitting (not for me, that is not important) but for what I stand for. Do you imagine I couldn’t have said it differently – like this, for instance: ‘I am an artist and therefore androgynous.’ Or: ‘I have created inside myself Man who plays opposite to my Woman.’ Or: ‘I have objectified in myself the male components of my soul and it is from this source that I create.’ Oh, I’m not stupid, not ignorant, I know the different dialects of our time and even how to use them. But imagine if I had said any of these things last night! It would have been a СКАЧАТЬ