WHAT SENSE did Sophie make of her life on the plane bound for New York when she was heading there to arrange her affairs so that she might settle properly in Paris? None.
What sense did Sophie make of her life on the plane leaving New York after having had a happy love affair? None.
What sense did Sophie make of her life as she boarded the plane at Orly, going to see her lover again? What sense would she make of her life after she arrived, a week, a year, ten years after—?
Thinking about the sense of one’s life, trying to make sense of it, was an idle and useless preoccupation, Sophie had always believed. Worse than useless, it was positively unhealthy. In short, a bad habit. And like most bad habits, this one was foisted on you and fostered by other people, their judgments whether in asking or stating. Confronted with the senselessness of other people’s judgments, Sophie naturally preferred her own brand of senselessness. In time she learned that if she was to avoid arguments she must be more agreeable. There was no appeasement through keeping one’s peace, even nodding and smiling was not enough.
People wanted a statement. Mostly Ezra spoke for her. When he expressed her view in company, she thought it was just as well he did. She would never express herself in such a way, certainly not as artfully or persuasively as Ezra; she couldn’t have—she could never make a statement of this sort at all. When Ezra made statements for her or about her, he put them together from their conversations, her remarks on the books he had her read. The statement that came out of this would be neither true nor false; it was simply Ezra’s creation for a roomful of people who might otherwise have been offended by his wife’s silence.
It was strange, slightly embarrassing, to have Ezra speak for her and about her in her presence as if she were in a trance or absent. It is true she would not be listening—not even aware of not listening. She did not forget, however, that she was Ezra’s wife sitting in company; that it was under this cover that she could be anywhere or nowhere, anyone or no one. Perhaps she enjoyed it too much, as Ezra reproached her in private. He complained how she made him do all the talking, she who regarded talk so much shit, made him, poor fool—! Wasn’t it easy for her, wasn’t she fortunate to have a faithful servant and interpreter. What would the Delphic oracle be without an interpreter? Ein stinkendes Loch. While Ezra was parodying himself and her in these roles, Sophie may have wondered where she really stood.
Even when Sophie couldn’t bear Ezra, she loved the marriage. It was a many-layered shroud whose weight she relished. To carry it eased, simplified entering a room full of people, it justified her presence in the room. There it was, a costume ready-made for public occasions. Ezra’s wife; this was the answer to anyone who wanted to know her. She was the woman Ezra Blind married. It had weight and power: like an impermeable cloak it warded off the inevitable swarm of prying, talky, argumentative, interrogating people. The shroud served to receive the obligatory marks and tags, it absorbed unavoidable stains, its fabric wrinkled and stretched obligingly. It saved her skin. How not cherish a garment so serviceable?
As for Ezra, he may have joked and complained about his wife but he knew he had a treasure. She was not like any other woman. He told her about other women while they lay in bed, women he knew before her, or was just coming from—because he had lied, he hadn’t been in the library or taking a walk with Rabbi X; he could tell her the truth now in bed together because she was the only woman whom he loved. “I don’t know why,” he said, and gave a stream of reasons why he knew he ought to love her and yet it was unnatural for him to do so. “I really don’t know why I love you,” he said, because she was not like other women he had known or desired. She was difficult and impossible, yet not in the way other women were, with their nagging and clinging and demanding—except when she was in despair, then at least he knew what to do with her: mock her, beat her, screw her, flatter, abuse, comfort; then she was just like other women. But not enough, Ezra complained. He told her what other women did in desperation, depths to which they sank, obscenities, perversion; how they were ready to mortify, demean themselves, begging to be trampled on. She was not masochistic essentially, he sighed. The beatings were functional, not an erotic experience like with another woman who crawled around on all fours begging to be whipped, wanting to eat his shit; yes, she implored him. Sophie wasn’t impressed. She couldn’t even be properly jealous or offended. Her father had explained to her when she was a girl why men needed obscenity to get pleasure, why it couldn’t be simple. So now here it was. And if she still wanted it simple, it was, Ezra pointed out, because she was a child and hopelessly romantic. If Ezra’s practices did not appeal to her that was a matter of personal taste; to judge him by society’s rules, as a principle she refused. She hadn’t asked for a bourgeois marriage; and if ever the depressing thought took hold of her that she was trapped
