“What a coincidence,” someone said, grabbing him by the elbow.
At first he didn’t really understand, at first he only heard, and then only that the words were directed toward him. And because it was precisely one of those now so frequent instances when he was meandering the merciless spiral that wound around his depraved thoughts, wherein drowned even the memory of his burning ignominy from Benedictine Mill, which he had to dig out from those sucking morasses again and again (for in his present humiliation it seemed to him so pure that he clung to it as to a treasure), because he was now once more on those humbling rambles, he jolted himself like a shamefaced man who’s been found out, and who knows, maybe he wasn’t shy about being addressed by a common cop, who was also sizing him up.
But it was Zinaida. She took him by the elbow and leaned over in such a way that she was both blocking his path and forcing him to look at her fully and slightly from above, for she was much shorter than he.
He recognized her immediately, even though she was wearing her enterprising Sunday smile, through which it was easier to get to her than it had been at the mill, where she carried a servant’s lack of urgency, which one had to step around, and he saw Zinaida, in whom it was as if he’d wiped away the memory of everything that would have made him blush before her.
“What a coincidence!” she shouted cheerfully, and as if she were whispering to him the kind of accent with which to say “Zinaida, is it you?” so that the return of those dark memories would be exorcised forever. — But he said, “What do you want from me?” and in such a way that she turned serious and looked up toward the voice of a person accustomed to no one ever addressing him except to demand a justification, a handout, or a comfort in no way resembling the truth.
“What would I want from you? Nothing. . just show me to the café. I’m waiting for someone. We can talk in the meantime.”
“I’m waiting for someone,” she repeated as they sat down, as though she were savoring it: “yes,” she said, when he didn’t respond.
She said “yes,” not suspecting how timid that sheepish “yes” contrasted with the sticky thought within him, which at first only popped up, and then, as if in its own glue, got stuck and was rotting.
She was talking quickly and easily, radiating a chattiness where, as though in rising water, her interest in him slowly drowned without her actually suspecting. He went from a being to an opportunity, some neutral vessel into which she was pouring scads of her excitement, joy, happiness, a little out of playfulness, a little out of need, and a little out of spite.
Yes, she has the day off; yes, of course she has a boyfriend (how could she not have a boyfriend?); yes, they go dancing; a tour bus driver (a driver! oh, a driver through and through!); no, he won’t be here before eight; what time is it now?; half past seven; half past seven — another half hour; how will she get back to the mill so late?; she’s used to it; for that matter, maybe she’ll spend the night in town; why wouldn’t she spend the night in town?; what’s wrong with spending the night in town?; “Good heavens, what are you thinking?” At the inn, naturally; or possibly with relatives; but why worry your head over it?; how long? — till noon tomorrow;. . yes; oh yes. . What a card!. .
“For that matter, if you want, you can wait until he gets here.”
And if he’s jealous? — Then he’s jealous. — Oh no, he certainly won’t be angry; “I’ll introduce you.”
At Benedictine Mill? — “The Steels? The ladies left for a spa.” — And the gentleman?. .
“Wouldn’t you know it, he gives me his attentions. . But no way. .”
“About you? — Oh yes, they talk about you. . Yes. .”
She looked up, inadvertently stabbing him with her eyes, she felt bad, lowered her head, murmured.
“No. . But no, what for?. . What do you care?” She looked up again; she stared at him slightly askew, slightly from below.
“No. . rather, no. . don’t go there. . You wouldn’t be able to do anything about it — you wouldn’t. With a clear conscience. . How could you with a clear conscience. .?”
“And what would you go back there for? — It’s not like they would even serve you.”
“What are you saying?”
“Really — they wouldn’t serve you,” and Zinaida’s voice spilled out suddenly into a great and shame-inducing pity, and it was so thoroughly that humiliating pity that nothing else went into it.
“You wouldn’t, either?”
“What can I do? I’m a servant. I do what I’m told. . If they were to tell me. .”
He grabbed her hand; he sank into it with his brutal fingers, as though he wanted to dig down to something. — But she broke free from him like it was nothing—yes, like it was nothing, and he was awash in shame at her having extricated herself so easily — and she snapped, not wanting to snap, but unable not to, “What do you think? I served you out of pity!”
The thought that had run aground in its own glue had long since given up hope of ever extricating itself. It had given up so perfectly that nothing of it remained but the smugly impoverished equivocation that it was hope itself that wanted it this way, and it was an equivocation so unavoidably necessary that it had maybe thus become true.
“It’s not too late, it’s never too late. .” The stuck thought turned its hysterically loving eyes toward him: Of course it wasn’t a coincidence; of course Zinaida had ambushed him; of course there’s no tour bus driver. . She was pressing him with a sales pitch as blatant as poorly-counterfeited coins. . But whether she’ll close the deal. . Suddenly, like a bang — the dull “plink” of a fake five-franc coin on the marble countertop: a memory so indecently jolly that it was annoying, like genuine rejoicing at a funeral banquet: the memory of that fake five-franc coin that someone had once pawned off on him; of all the shameful failures in trying to get rid of it at the baker’s, at the smoke shop, in cafés; and then the cash register at the art exhibition: the table laid with green cloth. . The green cloth! The witness with his eyes peeled and tongue torn out. . He threw down his five-franc coin with such bravado! The witness who caught him but could say nothing. — And following the reproach, no steps. He’d hit his mark, and his conscience had cleaned itself off in front of the mark. The mark: really, the sole autocrat, by the grace of God! You’ve passed off a counterfeit five-franc coin, so there is no longer a forged coin. Brass taken for gold is gold, and joy from a deception that’s worked is an agio. — The thought rolling its hysterical eyes was a false thought, but it was his. So who is hurt, who is harmed, if he promotes it to the rank of a thought that is true? And anyway: who knows? Maybe everything is right after all. Perhaps he suspects it of wrong. It can’t be helped: all it takes is something to belong to him, and already he’s casting it mistrustful glances. — A right idea? Appearances, of course, attest to the contrary. Appearances! He, too, had been under suspicion, and appearances were against him as well. And anyway: wrong thoughts are merely lazy thoughts. This one, however, is lively; this one is prodding him. He’s pleased by the thought that Zinaida had been lying in wait for him, that she desired him. It’s a thought that is strong and positive, for it cheers him on. It is therefore not wrong; it’s merely violent. Violent! Right is violence that’s hit its mark. Zinaida had been lying in wait for him, Zinaida had been pursuing him: the wrong idea? Yes — if, like a weakling, he lets it go. But if he seizes it, if he forces it to be the thought he stands up for — as if Zinaida had been lying in wait for him, as if she had been pursuing him, as if she cared for him — he will magically transform it into a true thought, for it will be the thought of a person who wants. He’ll be strong. And because he’ll be strong, Zinaida has come for him, she’s here next to him, offering herself. Fine; that’s how he’ll handle her. By the pool he’d allowed himself to get befuddled; once bitten. . Now he won’t be so stupid. — “She served me out of pity!” — Ha! A ruse, an indirect appeal for him to redress why he had seemed pitifuclass="underline" when she pulled free of his hand? A ruse. .