Karmen knew that she needed him to forgive her then; he was grateful that she had confessed on the morning after it had happened; on the other hand, and this is what truly hurt him, there’d been that previous telephone call, which retrospectively horrified him with its cheerfulness because it had cheered him; he’d believed. That was why he understood that he would never, ever know if Elena were lying to him.
He was a tolerant person, really, and not merely in his own estimation. As many itinerant professionals do, he had enjoyed his share of interludes; he’d found stability in several mutually non-monogamous relationships, in obedience to A. Kollantai’s sex-equals-a-drink-of-water theory; but that these relationships were honest. If from the very start Elena had told him: Roman, I’d like to be with you, but I’m going to go on sleeping with Dmitri Dmitriyevich, then he could have accepted or rejected her proposition; he would have known what he was getting into. Had he accepted it, her nights with Dmitri Dmitriyevich might have hurt him a little, but that would have been his pain, inflicted by him upon himself. The pain which Elena had inflicted upon him was not his. This is why it comprised (and she had used the word) betrayal.
Later, what had happened kept returning to his mind. He wished that he had asked: Did Dmitri Dmitriyevich stay the entire night in your bed, or did he go after you’d completed the sex act? Did he want to stay but you sent him away because you were already remorseful, or did you figure that since you had just copulated with him he might as well stay through the night and maybe you would do it with him one more time?
Such questions as these seemed highly important to his understanding of her behavior, but were they actually important? Didn’t he already know everything that he needed to know? This other man, Dmitri Dmitriyevich, had penetrated Elena, with her consent, while she was supposedly with him. How many times had he penetrated her? Had he entered her slowly? Had he been gentle and careful; had her pleasure been one of his considerations, perhaps even the primary point, in which case the emotional connection between them must be still more dangerous? Or had Dmitri Dmitriyevich simply been intent upon his own need? Had Elena climaxed? In the course of the sex act, had she thought about, and better yet, had she pretended that she was with, a certain Roman Karmen? If she hadn’t, that was very damaging. On the other hand, if she had, then what did that say about her?
He never asked her any of these questions, because he feared hurting her with a lengthy interrogation. He knew all too well how necessary it was to him both in his life and in his work for him to visualize all factors, right down to the smallest detail; in the case of Elena’s infidelity, his reconstruction would always remain far more incomplete than any on-the-spot documentation; he’d never know enough! Let it go.
He kissed her nipples. He wanted to tell her that her breasts were as white and sweet as Viazma gingerbread, but he was afraid that if he did, she would fear all the more that he wanted to consume her.
It’s just a compulsion, Roman, that’s all it is. I’ve thought about myself as you asked me to do, and I’ve even talked with others. I’ve established that I’m normal and you’re abnormal.
But other women never said that about me—
Don’t compare me with other women.
I’m sorry.
Elena looked at him in her gently terrifying way, lit a cigarette and said: You know, when I was a girl I used to be a compulsive masturbator. I was addicted to it. If I didn’t have an orgasm every few hours I couldn’t stand it. I used to spend all my time scheming out another fifteen minutes to be alone. And it was terrible. I finally broke myself of that habit. And I don’t ever want to go back!
I want you to need me the way I need you.
What you want is for me to be unhappy again, the way I was with Vera. I was weak, I was jealous, I was dependent. Whatever she did, it wasn’t enough. She couldn’t make me happy.
But she was unfaithful to you right and left! She was mean to you! And I’m not that way.
I promised myself I’d never go back to that, Elena said. I made progress. I got over being that way. I’m proud of myself for that. And you want me to go back to that. I’m sorry, Roman, but I’ll never, ever go back.
On her desk he saw an opened envelope to his wife from Vera Ivanova. Jealous suspicions crawled all over him. He longed more than anything else to read the letter and learn whether Vera and Elena had maintained their sexual relationship. He actually held the envelope in his hands. Then he said to himself: My God, what am I doing? Don’t I love her? Don’t I trust her?
Elena, he said that night at dinner, have you heard any news from your friend Vera?
Elena lit a cigarette and said: As a matter of fact she invited me to a party but I don’t think I’ll go. I’m feeling tired.
He believed her; he was happy now; he changed the subject.
Every time he begged her to say just once that he was the one for her, Elena flew into a rage. She didn’t want to be pinned down like a butterfly! She kept saying: What if someday you turn into a monster?
You’re the only woman I’ve ever been with who won’t say I’m the one for you.
Maybe I’m the only one who’s honest, Elena replied.
I know it’s unfair, she whispered softly. I know I’m being selfish. I’m sorry…
Love, agony, and strangely erotic pain detonated inside him. This was what she so often said, and whenever she did, he always felt the same.
I know it feels a little unequal, Elena whispered. I’m sorry…
I know it’s hard, Elena gently said.
I can see that you’re sad, Elena said in a beautifully consoling voice. But I know you’re strong.
And Karmen, suffering intensely, longed for the next time that he would speak with Elena and she would reject him.
A certain Comrade Alexandrov, the one who’d brought them together, in fact, took him aside one day and said: I’ll put it to you straight, Roman Lazarevich. Well, maybe I shouldn’t tell you. It’s a secret. Do you want to know or not?
What kind of secret?
It’s about Elena Evseyevna. You should leave her. Forgive me for saying this.
What do you mean?
You must promise to keep the secret. You can’t tell her. Do you promise?
Of course I promise, said Karmen numbly.
There’s a certain individual at the Conservatory who—look, I don’t know how to say this, but in November your wife was seen with him at a party. She was all over him, Roman Lazarevich! I’m very sorry.
I see.
And then last month we saw them together again, drinking. You know, your wife has, how should I say, flirty eyes. I mean no disrespect; that’s her nature; I mean, that’s how she appears, and it’s a charming, engaging quality, especially in a pretty young woman such as she is. So our first inclination was simply to assume—
Who are these others who were with you?
That’s not the point. Anyhow, we watched them, and unfortunately there was more to it than that. The way she was kissing him, and her hands were…
I understand.
But you’re not to betray me to her.