As he neared home he found that, despite the walking, nausea finally overtook him in direct proportion to the fading of his hope. What if Fran?ois, like Iago, had hated him all along, and Jacqueline was innocent? This proposition, which he excitedly presented to himself, brought no relief. Was Fran?ois justly punishing him for having fallen in love with élodi? Or was Fran?ois projecting upon Jacqueline his own promiscuity and transgressions – of which she would be innocent.
Or was Jacqueline, in what Dante would have called “her second age,” when she had risen from flesh to spirit, reprimanding him for having turned away as if he thought that, her mortal life finished, her good had died with her? That we can merely sense the soul and prove it only by beauty and indirection allows it the possibility of life when all the things that can be proved are gone, and now it seemed that they were.
Had the ghostly Jacqueline observed, disapproved, and set Fran?ois to lie? That could not be. But how could Jules have betrayed her when, in the beauty of élodi, he partly found her? That was a poor excuse. What he had done was cruel to Jacqueline, who was betrayed and replaced, and cruel to élodi, who deserved better than to share her finite existence with the ceaseless calling of the timeless dead.
He dared not admit that élodi was in love with him, for fear that she was not, but he knew she was. She could not feel, as he could every day, that which was in store for him quite soon. Age, mortality, and the past standing in his way made what might have been simple infatuation all the more compelling. If Jacqueline had betrayed him, he ought now to be free, but he was only bound to her more strongly.
When had it happened, and for how long? Jules had never strayed, taking control of his attraction to students who were at the time not much younger than he, mastering it so that it fused with and dissipated its energy in the music. Was it then, as his infatuations were transforming into art, that Jacqueline was in their bed with Fran?ois, or others? How could something so tawdry be so painful?
UPON REACHING SHYMANSKI’S gate, Jules found himself in the dusk. Alone on the street in the remnant light of a dark red sunset and in lovely weather that once would have enthralled him, he froze in place. On the wall, drawn as large as a man, was a swastika, although it was not accurately reproduced, as the right-angle extremes pointed down in the nine-o’clock position rather than up. The Nazi swastika was like a waterwheel that would catch water if it turned counterclockwise. But not this one, which despite its inaccuracy was no less powerful.
He told himself not to be overwhelmed by the strengthening cascade of events, because although sometimes things happen all at once, seldom does everything collapse without some part of it springing back. Were he to hold through he might see a break in the line, and something good arise. Still, he was frightened beyond reason of just a symbol some imbecile had drawn on the wall, frightened of crossing his own threshold, of seeing Jacqueline’s photograph, of sitting in the silence of his rooms. Now she was truly gone, and he could no longer take comfort in his wish to join her.
But when he did cross the threshold, and when he did force himself to sit down opposite her photograph, raise his head, and look straight at her, she was the same as she always had been. You could see in her face that her beauty arose from her purity and goodness. It had lasted from infancy to and through her death. Her photograph showed that no matter her faults, she was yet irreproachable, which made it intensely more difficult for Jules, who might never put the contradiction to rest as long as he might live. He still loved her. Even with the hollowness he felt – which was defeat – he loved her.
Just as it had been after her death, returning home to silence was impossible to sustain. He wanted never to speak to anyone again, and yet he desperately wanted a confidant. The Bentley was parked in front of the house rather than in the garage, which meant that Shymanski was home. For years – like a servant who must trade on function as the passport to his betters – Jules had gone to speak to him only about practical matters, and now he had just such a practical matter.
He went the outside way, through the dark. The beige pea gravel on the driveway made a sound beneath his feet like several truncated chords, or the sound of a brushed snare drum disciplined by a felt damper. Though the light in the huge porte cochère was off, it was probably too early for Shymanski, even at his advanced age, to have retired. After Jules rang the bell, a servant whom he didn’t know came to the door. He had to tell her that he lived in the lower part of the house. She was with Shymanski in the South, and knew little of what went on in Paris. “It’s late,” she said.
“It’s seven-thirty.”
“It can’t wait until tomorrow?”
“Is he up?”
“Yes.”
“Is he dressed? I know his reluctance to see people, but he knows me.”
“Yes, he’s dressed, but he doesn’t even like to see people he knows, even those closest to him.”
“It’s always been like that, and I imagine it’s worse now. I understand.”
She was beginning to close the door, but Jules said, “Is he busy?”
“No, he’s not busy.”
“Is he well?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“Then why shouldn’t I see him?”
“All right, I’ll ask.”
After a while, she came back. “He says okay.”
“Then if he says okay it must be okay,” Jules told her, his tone conveying the message that she might think more for herself.
“I don’t make decisions for him,” she shot back. “I’m not his keeper, and he’s not that far gone.”