Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  Excellent. Congratulations. And now for some thought to other couples to invite who would be on the same wavelength as the Rassets. The Kanakises, of course. They were owed. VV too, best keep in with the swine. He'd see about the other couples tonight when he got home, he'd look in his card-index of addresses. On the whole, it would be a good idea to mark the cards with little metal tabs of different colours according to social rank. For example, red for really top-drawer people. It would simplify the whole business of invitations. Reds would be asked only with other Reds, and Blues only with other Blues. If a B was promoted to grade A, all that was needed was to remove the Blue tab and substitute a Red one, and when the index was mostly Red he could get rid of the Blues altogether. Dump the Blues in the waste-paper basket!

  'Right. That's enough time wasted. Now to work. But first a little wander round, just a couple of minutes to stretch the old legs and clear the tubes before we get back to it.'

  In the grounds, he joined a group of four colleagues who had all stepped outside for the same purpose. He was immediately drawn into the conversation, which covered three issues of great moment. To begin with, there was the matter of mouth-watering travel plans for the fast-approaching holidays, which were outlined and listened to with equal absorption by the five civil servants, who communed in a delightful sense of caste and solidarity in privilege. Next, cordially colluding in their own good fortune and well-disposed towards each other because they all shared the same comfortable life, they elaborated, in a mood of charmed optimism, on the make of their next car, which they had already decided on.

  Then, moving to the last subject, they talked heatedly of unfair promotions looming on the horizon. Garraud, a B in the Economics Section, spoke of the selection process for a grade-A post details of which had just been advertised. The qualifications required, in terms of nationality and linguistic competence, were so specific that it was as clear as day that the whole thing had been deliberately rigged for the benefit of Castro, the section's Chilean B. Everyone grew hot under the collar. It was a put-up job, it was obvious! And all because, of course, Castro was the darling of his delegation! 'Sickening, unadulterated favouritism,' exclaimed Adrien. Whereupon, Garraud declared that if Castro was appointed, then he would ask for an immediate transfer to another section! Work under somebody like Castro? Never! Yes he would, he'd get a transfer. And they would have no choice but to manage as best they could without him!

  'Sorry, I have to- go,' said Adrien. 'Duty calls. I've got a big job waiting for me.'

  Back in his office, he stared at his fingernails and sighed. An incompetent like Castro! He laughed bitterly as he recalled the draft of a letter which the ignoramus had begun with an 'I write to officially state' and ended with a 'militate these drawbacks'! And they were about to make an ass like him a grade A with a leather armchair, a glass-fronted lockable bookcase and a Persian carpet! If they did, then the denizens of this rotten hole would have seen the lot.

  Dipping from time to time into the box of fondants he had taken out of Limbo, he mused dreamily about whether he should buy a monocle. Huxley was terribly smart with his. Too bad if a monocle was less convenient than glasses, he'd just have to get used to it. Only how could he prevent his colleagues thinking he was making a spectacle of himself? One glimpse of him turning up one morning wearing one and they would laugh, especially for the first couple of days. Huxley was a different matter altogether. They had been used to seeing him with a monocle ever since he had first joined the Secretariat, and anyway he was related to Lord Galloway. Heller too was frightfully smart with his. Those two had all the luck. According to Kanakis, Heller was a baron, an ancestor of his having been raised to the peerage by the Emperor of Austria. Baron de Heller. Baron Deume: now that would be something!

  'I'll have to find some dodge to help the monocle go down. Could I say my optician has discovered that my sight is weak in my right eye only? Maybe, though it's a shade premature. Wait until I'm an A, I'll have more nerve then. Anyway, a monocle might annoy that stinker Solal. What on earth did he do to manage to get himself appointed Under-Secretary-General? A Jew-boy born in Greece who now has French nationality, it's enough to make anyone puke! Obviously, the Jewish mafia! In any case, if it really is true that Castro's going to be put up to an A through sheer, rotten influence, then I'm not going to take it lying down! I'll stage my own go-slow, oh yes! And halve my productivity!'

  When he had finished the last fondant, he gave a little whinny of pleasure. The day after tomorrow was the opening meeting of the Tenth Session of the Permanent Mandates Commission! He loved the sittings of the PMC. No need to stay stuck in an office, you could listen to the debates and feel at the centre of politics with all that string-pulling in the lobbies, all those confidential tip-offs, and no VV bothering you with draft letters or sending over more files, you could give your full attention to the Commission, it was fun, it was high drama, comings and goings, quick fetch a document, come back and sit at VV's right hand, whisper a word in the ear of some high-up on the Commission, smile knowing smiles, savour the double-dealing and above all chat on an equal footing, well almost, with the delegates during the recesses, hands in pockets, trickling over to VV to repeat something said in confidence by a delegate, in short it was high politics. Very subtle that move of his with Garcia. The really clever bit was getting hold of the latest slim volume of poems by the Argentinian delegate and learning one by heart.

  'Ambassador, may I venture to say how very much I admired "The Galleons of the Conquistador"?' and he would go straight into a recitation of his putrid poem, intone it with eyes downcast, a big performance long on emotion, it should come across very sincere, in short lay it on thick and then something about how the French Academy honoured itself by honouring him, etc. He'll love it, we'll talk about books, we'll see each other again, we'll have lunch together, and at our third meeting I'll let slip I'm at the top of grade B! He'll have a word with Sir John and I'm in!'

  He gave a stage snigger, like a triumphant villain in a play, then laid his head on the desk and groaned. Straightening up, he opened the Cameroon file. He leafed right through it unseeingly, turning his yawns into little tunes. He shut it, took out his lighter and flicked the wheel. Was the flame not just a trifle too low? He examined the wick, decided reluctantly that it was the right length, removed the flint, noted that it was worn right down, replaced it with a new one, humming the while. How satisfying to know that there was a new flint in one's lighter. 'You can't complain, I look after you,' he said to the lighter. Then he frowned. No, it was not certain that his Garcia ploy would work, not certain at all.

  In fact his only real guarantee was a personal intervention by one of the bigwigs. Oh yes, the top men knew exactly how to work the promotions racket, manipulate the budget, arrange for posts to be transferred from one section to another and so forth. And the most suitable bigwig was Solal whose word was law throughout the organization. Give him five minutes and the swine could get you made up to a grade A. Hell's teeth! to think that your fate was in the hands of a yid!

  'But how can I get him to do the necessary for me?'

  He cupped his head in his hands, leaned forward again until his forehead was on the desk, and remained there for some time without moving, breathing in the depressing smell of the imitation-leather top. All at once he sat up. Aha! he exclaimed at the prospect opened up by an idea which had just emerged. Aha! how about toddling off and loitering in the vicinity of the Under-Secretary-General's office? If he hung around long enough he would be bound to see him pass by sooner or later. He would say good-morning or whatever and, who knows, perhaps the yid would stop and they might exchange a few words.

  'Right. I'm all for it. It's worth a try. So, gentlemen, the matter is settled,' he declared as he stood up and buttoned his jacket with gusto.

  No sooner said than done. He did his hair, combed his beard, looked at himself in his pocket mirror, straightened his tie, undid his jacket, pulled on it to improve the hang, refas
tened the buttons, and then left his office, gripped by a vague uneasiness.

  'The battle for survival,' he murmured in the lift.

  Getting out on the first floor, he had second thoughts. Was it dignified to hang about in the hope of meeting up with the Under-Secretary-General? His conscience came up immediately with the answer that it was his duty to fight. There were chaps who were As but didn't deserve to be. He did. Therefore, by trying to catch the eye of the USG, he was fighting for right. Besides, if he were indeed to be promoted to a grade A, he would be in a position to serve the cause of the League of Nations more effectively, for he would then surely be entrusted with serious political business, duties which were worthy of him. And in any case, with the higher salary, he could do a lot of good in smaller ways, like lending a helping hand to good old Vermeylen. And, not least, the honour of Belgium was at stake.

  At peace with his conscience, he walked up and down in the corridor, checking from time to time that his flies were not undone. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. If anyone saw him hanging about empty-handed, what would they make of him? He hurried back to his office, returned breathing hard with a fat file under one arm which made him look earnest and busy. Fine, but even so hanging around slowly still made him look idle. So he strode purposefully down the whole length of the corridor. If the USG did appear, then it would look as though he were rushing off to see a colleague with the redeeming file under his arm. Yes, but what if the USG should come by at the delicate moment when he had reached one end of the corridor and was turning to go back the way he'd come? In terms of probabilities, there was little risk of that happening. Anyway, if he were to be taken unawares at the critical instant when he was making his turn, an explanation would not be hard to find. That's it, he'd say he'd changed his mind, that before going to see X he had thought it would be better if first he went and consulted Y. Whereupon he embarked upon his frenzied toings and froings. He marched in hope and perspiration.

  'Oh hello, Arianny, what a lovely surprise, how sweet of you to call. Excuse me just one second, darling.' (He pretended to speak to a colleague who had supposedly just come into his office, and in a superior voice, with his mouth close to the receiver so that his wife would not miss a word, he said: 'Couldn't possibly. I shan't have time to see you today. If I've a moment free tomorrow, I'll let you know.') 'Sorry, darling, that was Huxley wanting some information, you know, the one who rather fancies himself, but that sort of thing doesn't wash with me.' (Huxley, Solal's principal private secretary, was the best turned out but also the most overbearing Englishman in the whole Secretariat. Adrien had selected him as his victim because he knew for certain, alas, that he would never be invited to Huxley's house. So there was absolutely no risk of Ariane's ever noticing that he could be very pleasant to the snob in other circumstances.) 'Well now, darling, and to what do I owe the pleasure of hearing the sound of your lovely voice?' (A flash of his tapered tongue, pushed out and sucked back in at once, a habit he had copied from Huxley.) 'You want to come and see me here? How splendid! I'm delighted! Let's see, it's ten to five now. Take the car and try to come directly, will you? I'll show you my little Brunswick, you know, I told you about it, that improved pencil-sharpener with the handle you turn, I ordered one from Supplies before we went to Valescure, a porter just brought it. I haven't tried it yet but I think it's pretty good.'

  There was no reply. She had hung up. He wiped his glasses. A funny girl, his Arianny, but what charm! Yes, kiss her hand when she arrived, that would be the refined smart thing to do. Then he'd usher her to a chair with a touch of the Quai d'Orsays. Annoyingly, all he had to usher her to was an ordinary straight-backed affair rather than a proper leathet armchair. But 'I write to officially state'! And 'militate these drawbacks'! Patience, patience!

  'Is that all you can say? But there is absolutely nothing I can do, old man, I've done my level best to get to meet that stinker Solal, confound him! What do you want me to do, it's not my fault if that swine Huxley happened to come by and give me a queer look, obviously he was wondering what on earth I was doing there clutching a thick file. So what did you expect? I had to clear off, there was nothing else for it. I'll have another go tomorrow, all right? Right. Fine. Now leave me alone. Anyway, I've got other things on my mind. I must see how our little Brunswick performs. Come on then, pet.'

  Feeling quite excited, he put the first pencil in the slot, turned the handle gently, admired its smooth, well-oiled action, and then took the pencil out. A perfect point. The Brunswick was a good little worker, the two of them would get along like a house on fire.

  'I love you,' he told it. 'And now for the next of the bunch!' he said, picking up another pencil.

  A few moments later the phone rang. He withdrew the seventh pencil from the sharpener and picked up the receiver. It was the porter at the front entrance asking if a Madame Adrien Deume could come up. He replied that he was in a meeting and would phone the moment he was free. He hung up, poked out the end of his tongue, and then put it away again. Good for the image being in a meeting and making her wait a while!

  'In a meeting,' he said, archly articulating, and he put the pencil back into the machine, gave it three turns, removed it, inspected it, decided it was done to a T, and pricked his cheek with it to test its sharpness. A marvel! He would do some more tomorrow. But now, get things ready. He moved the chair she would sit on to the right spot. Alas, it was humble and uncomfortable, a skeleton of a chair which had junior civil servant written all over it! And Castro was about to rise to a' leather armchair for visitors! But to work. First better smarten up. To begin with, expunge all dandruff.

  With his pocket mirror propped up against the Statesman's Year-Book, he brushed the collar of his jacket and then his beard, smoothed down his eyebrows, tightened his tie, inspected his nails and pronounced them clean, peered at his round cheeks and found a blackhead.

  'We'll have a little squeeze of you, you little bastard.'

  When the little bastard had been winkled out, he examined it with satisfaction then got rid of it by squashing it on his blotter. After a quick wipe of his shoes with a cloth, he emptied the ashtray into the waste-paper basket, blew his desk-top clean, opened three files to give the impression he was busy, and pushed back his chair. That's it, not too near the desk, leave himself room to cross his legs. Finally, he tucked his handkerchief into his left sleeve, as Huxley did. The Oxford touch, casual elegance, a hint of the queer, but a terribly fashionable queer. Titivations over, she could now be shown up, his meeting was over. No, on second thoughts don't phone the porter, go down and fetch her: that would be more gentlemanly, more British Foreign Office. And besides, she could be shown round the Palais, since this was the first time she'd been since the Secretariat was relocated here. She would be bowled over.

  'Carried, let's bowl her over,' he said, and he stood up, buttoned his jacket, and inhaled great lungfuls of air to make himself feel manly.

  CHAPTER 5

  'Office of the French Under-Secretary-General,' murmured Adrien Deume, glancing with an apprehensive nod of his head towards a tall door. 'That's Solal, you know,' he added in an even lower whisper, as though saying the name aloud was to court danger or infringe some rule. 'They say it's fabulous inside, done out with Gobelin tapestries, a gift from the French government.' (He regretted the 'they say', which made him sound like an underling and showed that he had never yet set foot inside the sanctuary. To counter the effect, he cleared his throat in a soldierly sort of way and, putting on a spurt, stepped out determinedly.)

  As they walked along corridors and climbed staircases, he introduced his wife to the splendours of his own beloved Palais des Nations. Self-important, behaving as though the place were in fact partly his, enamoured of his cushy but noble number and eager to stress its thrilling official character, he proudly pointed out the gifts from various countries — carpets from Persia, wooden figures from Norway, tapestries from France, marble statues from Italy, paintings from Spain and the rest of th
e offerings — and explained the exceptional qualities of each.

  'Of course, the whole place is enormous, you know. Imagine, one thousand seven hundred doors, all with four coats of paint, which ensures that they show up perfectly white, I keep up with these things, as you'd expect, I often used to pop down while the work was being done to see how they were getting on, and, do you see, every door with its own chrome metal frame. And there are one thousand nine hundred radiators, twenty-three thousand square metres of linoleum, two hundred and twelve kilometres of electric cable, fifteen hundred taps, fifty-seven water hydrants and a hundred and seventy-five fire extinguishers! It all adds up, doesn't it? It's enormous, enormous. For instance, how many lavatories do you reckon we've got here?'

  'I've no idea.'

  'Go on, say a number, how many do you think?'

  'Five.'

  'Six hundred and sixty-eight!' he said distinctly, with barely controlled pride. 'And they've got everything, but everything, you know! Mechanized ventilation by fans which extract and replace the air eight times every hour. Automatic flushing every three minutes to cater for people who forget or are too lazy to bother. If you like, I could show you round one.'

  'Some other time. I'm feeling a bit tired.'

  'Right-ho, fair enough, another time. But here we are! This is it! After you, dear lady,' he said, pushing the door open. 'This is my little chez moi,' he smiled, his throat tight with excitement. 'What do you think of it?'

  'It's very nice.'

  'Obviously, it's not the de-luxe model, but it's a neat little set-up, and practical too.'

  Eager to show off its many excellent features and share its delights with her, he explained the various amenities of his new coop, peering at her to see the effect produced by each. He ended with a eulogy of a metal cabinet, a most practical arrangement, with two hangers, one for his overcoat, the other for his jacket, and a Yale lock, so no chance of anything being stolen, and the dinky little drawer under the top shelf, so convenient for keeping those personal odds and ends — aspirins, iodine, indigestion tablets, petrol for removing stains. He gave a little laugh. He had forgotten to show her the most important item! What about his desk, then! It was brand new, as she could see, basically almost exactly the same as the model issued to As, very functional, really well designed.