Now I am free

PATSY RUTH MILLER

She awakened in her hotel bedroom slowly, reluctantly. She clung to her dream until a hot beam of light touched her eyelids and she knew she could retain it no longer. With a faint sigh, she opened her eyes.

She knew she didn't want to awaken hut she couldn't remember why. Deliberately, heavily, she looked at every object in the small, over-furnished room. If she closed her eyes again she could imagine she was on a boat. The water was lapping along the sides. Her husband was there, of course. Nick was always with her when she was on a boat. He hadn't been with her the last time, though. . . .

This was too close to remembering. She pressed the button marked '"Kellner." Now she couldn't hold it oil any longer . . . ten o'clock . . . just tell the driver to go to the Civil Law Building. . . . The lawyer's face was so solemn. The doctor who had operated on her last year had not been so solemn. He had been quite gay, and she had joked with him while they were giving her the morphine. Nick had looked hurt, almost angry, and kept saying, "My little soldier.

A soldier and a sailor, she was. She was the whole damned army and navy. Surely a man ought to be satisfied with all that. Well, he hadn't said he wasn't, had lie? She was the one who had said it. She was the one who had said, "Then why is there that other?" She was the one who was to say, "The Civil Law Building, please, at ten o'clock, to a taxi-cab driver in Budapest.

She called out "Herein" to the waiter's knock. She had almost forgotten to think first of "Come in." She could never learn to say it in Hungarian, though. All she knew was, "Jo napot" and "Kezit cóskolom." I kiss your hand, that was. Nick often kissed women's hands. He did it because he liked to, not because it was the custom.

The waiter said, "Guten Morgen, gändige Frau," and she said, "Guten Morgen."

She thought, maybe I ought to order some eggs. Maybe I'm hungry. Sometimes being hungry and being scared gives me the same hollow feeling. I ought to know which is mental and which is physical, but I don't. But she didn't order any.

When the waiter left she got up and took her tub bath and brushed her teeth extra hard. She wished they had more showers in European hotels. A shower makes you feel good no matter what has happened. In books, they always took showers right afterward. It did make you feel better. She and Nick had laughed about that, hut it was true.

There was no reason for everything to he different after you were married, but it was. I he whole thing changed so gradually you didn't notice it leaving, until it was gone. When you had so many other things together, that shouldn't matter. Yet it did. It was then that you started looking for something else ... it was then that Nick. . . .

When her breakfast arrived she ate it with the Paris Herald propped before her. The food seemed to go down better if she didn't think about it. She read about the Baroness de Beauvigny, nee Rachel Feigenbaum, and Lady Brentwood, formerly of the Follies, but the printed words often seemed to be "Ashley versus Ashley."

She regarded herself intently in the mirror. It was getting warmer, and her hair curled tightly around her face. Nick had said she ought always to brush it hard . . . brushing brought out the lights in its blackness. That is, he said that at first. Toward the last he hadn't seemed to notice.

She pondered over using rouge. She didn't ordinarily use it, but they wouldn't know that, and it might look as though she were striving for an effect. She had debated with herself in the same way for her wedding. Brides always seemed so pallid . . . but she had been richly sunburned, so it was not quite the same. She didn't want to be a pale bride sweeping wanly down an aisle. She had come as near to striding as she could, encumbered by a ten-foot train and a cousin.

No one had ever been as frightened as Nick. He was supposed to face the preacher all the long while she advanced down the aisle, but he had turned to look at her, so imploringly. She had had to smile reassuringly at him, although everyone knows a bride should never smile. Her spirit had rushed to him while her feet, in shiny satin, had continued to push against the heavier satin of her gown. Turn, turn, de turn . . . turn, TUM, de turn. . . .

She decided against wearing all black. It was too warm, and would look so—so deliberate. And not white . . . oh, not all white! Blue was all right. Blue was just a color. It didn't mean anything. No mascara, either. If it got in your eyes it smarted.

She ran down the broad shallow stairs.

She felt all right now, even excited. After all, it was dramatic. When she came out into the strong sunlight the excited feeling left her a little. It was going to be a hot day. She felt cold, though. She shivered a little as she said, "Civil Law Building, please," to the driver.

Crossing the great Elizabeth Bridge, she gazed at the shining Danube with hostility. What was she doing here, in a strange country, among people who didn't care?

But she did like Budapest. It was soft and tired and kinder than any other city. She sat back and didn't think any more at all. She just watched the streets as they went by, and tried to pronounce the names to herself. Being alone was all right. Loneliness was much harder to bear among friends than among strangers.

Dr. Daicovich kissed her hand as she joined him in the foyer. He offered her his arm and led her up the smooth, worn steps. Again she had that feeling of excitement. This is like an opening night, she thought. . . .

Their progress through the broad grimy corridor was very stately. She wanted desperately to powder her nose, just before they thrust open the tall hand-carved double doors of the Judge's chamber. She tried to catch a glimpse of herself in the glass of the clerk's booth, hut could only see that a strand of hair had escaped.

Continued on page 66

Continued from page 24

She said good-day to the Judge, who rose as she entered. The other men in the room rose too, then re-seated themselves. That one at the end of the table must be the Court Clerk. I suppose lie's pretty bored, she thought. It's nothing to him but more words to put down on a piece of paper. I wonder what they do with all the papers . . . all the words about men and women who have failed. They wouldn't even make interesting reading, because no one tells the real reason. . . .

Her lawyer opened his brief-case and spread out more papers. A little man, with a very high, very stiff collar, rose, clicked his heels, and said, "Pardon, Madame. I am the interpreter."

She smiled and said, "Oh, yes." She took off her gloves. It was getting warmer, and her palms were damp.

The lawyer smiled encouragingly at her and said, "We await the Coroner."

"The Coroner?" she repeated.

"Have you not in America the Coroner, Madame?"

"Only when someone is dead," she replied. Only when people choose an easier way out than this. "What does the Coroner do?"

"He tries once more to make all in order between the husband and wife."

"Oh," she said. "How does he do that?" Does he try to tear down that wall you have erected between you?

"He look sad and say, maybe you can try once more being happy again in marriage."

"And if you say, no, you cannot?" If you say, God, didn't I try!

"Then he look more sad, and is finished the case."

Is finished the case. Is finished the fine, high plans. Always together, Nick had said. He had said, "How terrible to think that we may only live to he a hundred. That's not long enough to he together." So now, is finished that. Now there is no need to live to be a hundred, no need to live at all.

When tlie Coroner arrived, perspiring and apologizing, the lawyer made a motion to her. They all looked at her then, so she rose. The Judge spoke lengthily in Hungarian. She understood when he said "Ashley Antonia" even though he pronounced it so differently. She rather liked that putting of the Christian name last. After all, the family name is the one to use first . . . then you progress through acquaintance to the familiar name.

The Judge finished and mopped his brow. Dr. Daicovich said, "He asks you, Madame . . ."

"I tell her," interrupted the court interpreter. He bowed to her. "The Judge he says you swear your name is Antonia Ashley?"

She started to raise her right hand, hut no one said anything, so she let it fall. Her gloves dropped to the floor. She wondered if she should pick them up. but decided not to.

"Yes," she said.

"Your husband he is named Nicholas Ashley?"

"Yes, ray husband is named Nicholas Ashley." No, my husband is named Nick. My husband lies in bed while we talk, and twists a lock of hair between his blunt fingers while he listens with the intent absorption of a small boy. My lover was named Nick, too. Or perhaps it was only my lover who was named Nick. Perhaps my husband was always Nicholas. . . .

"Is it true that your husband has deserted you?"

"Yes, it is true." But it was not my husband, Nicholas, who deserted me. It was my lover, Nick. . . .

"You have asked that he shall come hack, and still he will not?"

"Yes." But did I really ask him to come back to me, or was I afraid to plead?

"You have no children?"

"No."

"None . . . you will excuse, Madame, that I ask this . . . none earning?"

"None," she said. Never another smaller Nick to twist a lock of sunbleached hair as he listens intently. . . .

"So now you want a divorce?"

So now I want to go away from here. So now I want to get very drunk. So now T want to remember that this is what I wanted, what we both wanted.

"Yes, now I want a divorce."

She looked at her lawyer. He nodded and she seated herself, picking up her gloves quickly.

The Coroner spoke, with eloquent gestures. He must have rehearsed before a mirror. She couldn't be sure, but he seemed to put great feeling into his voice. She glanced at the other men. They were listening gravely. She adjusted her face to look grave, too.

When he finished, there was a pause. They hadn't troubled to translate it for her, but she shook her head. That was what was expected, apparently, because he seated himself, looking very sad. Well, he had tried. How tragic, to try always, and never succeed.

She wondered if it would make him very happy if she were to say, "You have convinced me. I will return to my husband, Nicholas Ashley." But then maybe he would lose his job. Maybe then all the others would be angry with him for taking a client.

Dr. Daicovich motioned to her again. She started to rise and her hag slipped from her lap. She had to pick it up. She couldn't stand there and listen to the verdict of the Court with her bag lying, clean and blue, on the dirty splintered floor. She hoped the mirror in her compact hadn't broken. She knew her nose was shiny.

She kept her eyes on the Judge as he spoke. The light filtered softly through the dusty window behind his head and gleamed on his glasses. As he looked toward her she had the feeling that he was staring sightlessly. He could probably pass her on the street tomorrow and not know that she was "Ashley versus Ashley": desertion.

They all crowded toward her when his voice stopped.

"Congratulations, Madame."

Congratulations on your birthday, congratulations on having baked the best cake, congratulations on having been a failure. . . .

"Congratulations," said her lawyer. "Now you are free."

"Yes," she said. "Now I am free." She opened her compact and saw the mirror was not broken. She shook out her puff and powdered her nose.