Nice for an afternoon—but too strenuous a business to incarnate some guiding star or even an exotic fish for a floundering millionaire. Has she missed her calling? She recalls backing out of a very attractive offer two years ago: a yacht, villa in Nice, apartment in Paris. Wanted her to fly to San Francisco with him. Took her three days to realize the futility of it. Sorry now? But then other things wouldn’t have happened. As for the tyrannical rich man who was usually on the other side of fifty, that too was impossible in the long run—and anything over a day ran into a long run or just a waste. No, it was just too much trouble to comply with an assured, vain man’s whims, or revolt, or get around him—that was the kind of patience Sophie knew she didn’t have. It naturally occurred to her that she might use a floundering rich man for her ends, indeed this was mostly on her mind. It wasn’t so much a question of the means; it wasn’t at all a moral problem, but simply that if you’ve set your heart on going to Rome, the Shanghai Express won’t get you there. You’re better off walking. The Shanghai Express might be great fun, you might fall in love with a station master, it could make you forget about ever wanting to go to Rome, revolutionize your life or be just an adventure. All this was possible but it wouldn’t get her to Rome.
In her coat pocket is the letter to New York she wrote last night, which she decides not to mail.
─────
Ezra lies on her bed when she comes home late at night.
“Don’t look so shocked,” he laughs. “I’m still your husband.”
“Where is the baby-sitter?” she asks.
“I paid the baby-sitter and sent her home. I am glad to see my wife goes out. But you don’t seem very pleased to see me. Please try to make a friendlier face,” he says rising, his smile affectionately indulgent. “Should I have stayed outside till you returned? I wanted to see the children.”
“You could have let me know that you were coming.”
“Sophie, I have taken this time out from my lecture schedule just so I could see you. I must be back in London by tomorrow noon and fly to New York the next day. It wasn’t easy to arrange and you are not very friendly.”
“All right,” she says, “then let’s settle things. I wrote you a month ago.”
“Yes, I received your letter.” He rises with a gesture of grief. “I didn’t know what to write. Sophie, I would not hold you against your will. But a divorce! Sophie, are you aware of all the difficulties, professional, medical; the real problems we must face together? How do you imagine a divorce—it’s economically unfeasible, I can’t afford it. Divorce is a luxury of the rich. Poor people have to stick it out together. I have been lenient, generous, I have yielded on many issues, too many, but I have let you go too far. It’s obvious you are bent on the destruction of the marriage, a compulsion clear from the beginning. No, I will not permit it, someone has to be responsible.”
“Ezra, you promised.”
“Sign? Out of the question. What kind of papers? You went to a lawyer? I can’t believe it. My own wife to whom I entrusted myself and our children? You went to a lawyer. My own wife has turned into my enemy.” He weeps, but in the next instant collects himself. “It’s unworthy of you,” he says with disgust.
“If you don’t sign the agreement, I’ll take you to court.”
“So that’s what you are. A bitch. Na ja. I am not the first man to...” he mutters to himself, pacing angrily. He wants to see the papers. “Please,” he demands, it is unworthy of her to entertain the thought that he might tear up the papers. He is offended, disgusted. She has no sense of him, sees him as a common brute, uncivilized—only proves how far out of touch with reality—he demands to see the papers, must he scream? Holding the sheets, he stares at the first page. “Legal gibberish, what kind of language is this? A piece of paper. Zum arschwischen.”
“Sometimes one’s life depends on a piece of paper.”
He cannot look at it now. It makes no sense. If she has problems she should see a psychiatrist, not lawyers. It’s a psychiatrist she needs. Or a lover, or a beating. Beat her blue. “I’m not going to beat you. Oh no.” He kicks off his shoes, throws off his jacket, pants, pulls back the bedspread and gets into bed, muttering to himself in German and Hebrew.
She stands glaring, speechless.
“You don’t like me in my drawers? I know I’m ridiculous. You have made me ridiculous.” He lies on his back, smiling, his eyes veiled. “I know you think I’m undignified, a boor,” he mimics the disgust her expressionless mask of dignity conceals. “I know. I know. I know everything you feel and think. Sophie, you are a child. A pure and noble child; I understand you,” asking her to come to bed, his outstretched arm invites her, his smile is seraphic. “Sit down, I am leaving tomorrow. It may be our last chance to...”
She wants to be out of this room. Her coat lies on the back of the chair; she wants to walk out, simply to move and breathe. But she can’t simply walk out because of the children, because she must get him to sign the papers. “Consider it as a business proposition,”
