The Story of My Wife Read Free Page B

untouched that we discover the tastes, the uses, of this world. And besides, I am convinced that anyone who wants to delve into the souls of nations must eat their foods.
    That is what I have done. I can't think of a single dish, not even overspiced dried mutton that burns like the sand of the Sahara, that I wouldn't eat. I walked through Eastern bazaars where meats sizzle on open, communal fireplaces. I watched dough rise on a pastry chefs stand in Persia. The Mohammedans do make wonderful pastries, and prepare them tastefully and cleanly too, in spotless aprons, and serve them in hot bronze dishes. You get sated with the fragrance, it stays with you for months. When I had no pressing business, I would sit for days on end in those bazaars and souks —it was my way of relaxing. I couldn't imagine anything more fascinating than the ceaseless bustle, the stream of alien color, the strange tongues, the laughter. If after a time all this did get to be a little too much, I ordered one of their dishes and continued daydreaming.
    My friends thought I was a savage, mainly because I ate everything, though for other reasons as well. No job was too hard for me; I tackled everything. I would think nothing of sweating and slaving for three months straight. Needless to say, the shipowners knew this about me, too.
    "You buffalo, you," said one of my mates, a kid named Eberstma-Leiningen. I had to laugh at his squeamishness—I always found work, whereas he didn't. I am a buffalo, eh? So be it. The buffalo's a very useful beast. And anyway, I can do something a buffalo can't, which is going without eating or sleeping. To repeat, nothing was too much for me when it came to enduring hardship. But then, nothing was good enough when I felt like letting go. If there were limits to pass, I passed them, and not only in attacking a job but also in seeking out pleasure . . . But gone are those heroic days. I listen to myself tell my tale and it's as though I am talking about somebody else. I listen with some sadness, I do admit.
    About my soul I used to think: a painful frill. And that's exactly what it was.
    Then again, I became a shipmaster rather early on. While still a smooth-faced youth, I was entrusted with all sorts of fine wares, precious cargo worth fortunes. Now and then I struck my own deals, private deals, on the side. There are ways. I began to prosper, and before I reached thirty I had accumulated a handsome fortune.
    But then something happened, a minor accident. Not even so minor, actually. The nemesis of seafaring men. Stomach trouble. It felt as if an armored plate was pressing on my belly ... I couldn't eat. Here is how it happened.
    We were laid up in Naples, and I bought some things in a delicatessen shop. I like to shop in Italy: the merchants are high-spirited and their stores well-stocked. In this shop, too, there were first-class foodstuffs: smoke-cured ham, poultry, even game, from woodlarks and thrushes and tiny quails to good-sized ducks, some already roasted, others uncooked and therefore pleasantly yellow, with their heads tucked under their wings, looking as though they were made to rest plumply on a marble slab. I could watch them for hours, as well as the appetizing breadstuff, the nuts, the clusters of grapes, the pyramids of apples and chestnuts, even the golden-yellow dessert wines which remind one—who knows why?—of cheerful old women.
    I ended up with quite a selection; and as I fingered my crisp banknotes I anticipated the swishing sound the little packets would make. (I walk down the street and they begin their little chatter. I like that sort of thing.) But then I thought: Why carry all those packages? They can be delivered. I had to stay in town to attend to a few things and thought of inviting a few people to my boat.
    "Ah, ah, Jacopo, carissimo amico mio." My Italian acquaintances greeted me with noisy effusiveness; they even flung out their arms. The Italians love this sort of self-generated