Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  'But you said yourself that your boss was annoyed because you were talking to that man.'

  'No, no, darling, you don't understand,' he said cheerfully. 'I'm an old hand and I know my way about. Sure it annoyed him, sure he hates me. But I told you: that won't stop him smarming all over me. And when he knows we're on a sound friendly footing, that is, when I ask the USG round to my house and the USG dines with me at home, he'll go down on his knees before me, literally! I've made a good start with the USG but I'm going to have to strike while the iron's hot and build on the liking he did me the honour of taking to me, yes, honour, I'm not afraid to say it! But for that to happen he'll have to get to know me better. A cocktail party I invited him to would pave the way to a closer relationship, I could talk to him and he could size me up. Listen, personal contacts with your hierarchical superiors is the top and bottom of success. But personal contacts start in a chap's home, when you ask people round on equal terms. And it's only natural I should invite him. That pat on the back was pretty definite, you know. Inviting him to dinner straight off would be a bit much, a bit over the top. But a largish cocktail party would be a halfway house and would soften him up for a dinner eventually. Of course, the party would have to be a fairly lavish affair. Engraved invitation cards. You must be prepared to splash out when you have to. With RSVP in the bottom right-hand corner, you know, do the thing properly. And remember, if I'm keen to have the USG round at my place, it's basically only because I thought he was a really nice chap. He improves the more you get to know him. Of course, if he gives me a leg-up on the promotion front so much the better, but that's not the main thing. If I didn't like him, there'd be nothing doing, I'd never dream of inviting him, but I feel he's a kindred spirit, you understand. I'll tell you what I really think: it makes me sad for my country that apart from Debrouckere there isn't another Belgian on an A. Belgium deserves better than that. A country that's suffered so much has it owing to her! Her neutrality breached in '14, in spite of being guaranteed by the treaties of 1839! The destruction of Louvain! The agony of the German occupation! Anyway, this party, you can leave the whole thing to me, the hired waiters in white jackets, the drinks, sandwiches, canapes ... All you would have to do would be to put on a stunning frock and be pleasant to everybody, including the USG.'

  He paused, wiped his brow, and smiled: he could see it now! Yes, a top-notch cocktail party! The master stroke would be to have the Belgian ambassador who would be showing up soon for the Tenth Session. That's it, arrange to be introduced by Debrouckere and invite the ambassador for drinks. The dodge would be to tell the ambassador, as though it was all fixed already, that the USG would be there. The ambassador would be certain to accept — and then invite the USG mentioning that the ambassador would be coming! On the day, there'd be fifty cars parked outside the villa! Just picture it! The neighbours wouldn't know what had hit them!

  Delightedly he crunched a sugar lump, nibbling at it like a rabbit. He saw himself deep in conversation with the USG, both with cigars in their mouths and a Martini or a port cocktail in their hands, an exchange of pleasantries between equals. Just before the guests arrive, a tot of whisky to give him confidence and make him sparkle. No, don't bring up promotion straight away at the party, don't give him the impression that he was invited for a reason. Be patient. The top brass always got annoyed if people talked about promotion. Don't mention top of grade B until they were friends.

  Oh yes, from now on a high-profile social life! New Year cards to all his acquaintances! But not to anybody below member of section! Expensive cards for As and above! And with a short handwritten greeting! It was money in the bank! Contacts, for God's sake! A man was only as good as his contacts! No: a man was the sum of his contacts! Top priority: rent a villa with cook and valet-cum-butler! Every day, quality guests for lunch and dinner, that was the secret of success! The butler buttling in white gloves! Big spending on these things was money in the bank! Very haute cuisine — more money in the bank! The Adrien Deumes keep a very good table! Knock down the wall between two rooms and have one huge reception room, nothing like it for making your name! And in the middle of the room, a grand piano, as a status symbol! And bridge once a week! With bridge, you not only made contacts, you kept them! And a sumptuously appointed guest bedroom! Whenever the Assembly was in session, whenever the Council met, invite the highest-ranking Belgian delegate to stay in his home! So much nicer than a hotel, Minister. And then one evening, after dinner, as they stroll in the garden, the sudden confidence dropped in a mild, wistful tone of voice, That's the position, my dear Minister, I've been stuck at the top of grade A for umpteen years now.' And then a sigh, just a sigh, that's all. And with the joint, fully coordinated backing of the principal Belgian delegate and the USG, behold Adrien suddenly promoted to the rank of adviser or even made head of section!

  The tea-lady came in to remove the tray. He teased her, mildly flirtatious, about her perm. Then he apologized to Ariane for having to pop out for a few moments and left the room in an aura of cocktail parties to come, invitations back and milkable Belgian delegates sleeping in the guest room. He walked quickly along the corridor. He wanted to run, shout, kiss his hands with delight. So happy it hurt, biting back the squeals that queued up in his mouth, he felt madly pleased with himself. 'Adrien, you love, you treasure, I adore you,' he murmured.

  'Pat on the back, pat on the back!' he said aloud in a deserted lavatory. 'Adrien Deume, the conquering hero!' he proclaimed in a voice of brass as he stood at the urinal where perpetual waters flowed.

  Returning to his wife, he sat down gravely, clasped his hands behind his head, propped his feet on the edge of the desk, and again began see-sawing gently in his chair, like van Vries, but now also trying to make his face expressionless like the Under-Secretary-General's. But again, suddenly struck by the thought that VV might burst in at any moment, he put his feet down and stopped see-sawing. To make up for the loss of advantage he derived from his rakishly displayed feet, he pushed out his lower lip and chin once more, like the Italian dictator, and stiffened his neck.

  'You know, on second thoughts, I honestly think we could go ahead and invite him to dinner straight off, or at any rate lunch, take the plunge, and not bother with the cocktail party, in the light of that pat on the back, do you follow me? It's an altogether nicer occasion than a party. Yes, best invite him to dinner, there's more time for conversation when the meal's over. I wouldn't mind making it a candlelit affair, like the ones the Kanakises give, it would lend a touch of class. Incidentally, we'll have to check and see if everything's in order at home, you know, dinner service, plates, knives, forks, different sizes of wineglass, tablecloths, napkins and so on and so forth. Because everything will have to be just right, he's used only to the very best, you know. (He resisted the temptation to insert a forefinger into one nostril and, as second best to giving his nose a good raking, settled for stroking it gently.) I say, this Hitler chap really is a beast, he's taking a pretty strong line with those poor Jews who are people like anybody else, with failings and qualities. Anyway, Einstein's a genius. But to come back to the question of the table, we've got a decision to make, assuming we do in fact invite the USG to lunch or dinner: there's a tablecloth problem. I wonder if we oughtn't to dispense with a tablecloth altogether because I have this feeling tablecloths for formal dinner parties are out nowadays. It's no good saying the Kanakises always have one, because what's set me wondering is that in Art and Decoration, you know, the glossy mag I persuaded Periodicals to order, I've seen photographs of top people's dining-rooms with tables made of precious kinds of wood, and they didn't have tablecloths, just a napkin under each plate, the effect was absolutely marvellous. Anyway we can talk about it when we've got more time.'

  The ringing of the phone made him jump and brought his chin back to a less imperious angle. He sighed with a weariness born of impatience, said that there was no peace in this place, and picked up the receiver.

  'Deume. Yes, sir. I most certainly do
have it and I shall bring it up at once. (He got to his feet and buttoned his jacket.) That was VV, he gets on my wick, a dratted nuisance, wants the verbatim record of the Third Session of the PMC, damn it all I'm not the section archivist, that man is getting to be a real pain in the neck. (He unbuttoned his jacket and sat down again defiantly. To keep VV waiting for a few minutes was not to run much of a risk, and Ariane would see that he was not a slave at everybody's beck and call. He'd tell van Vries that it had taken him some time to unearth the verbatim record, which was old. Anyway, what the hell, there was the pat on the back.) So, high and mighty lady,' he went on, 'what do you reckon to this grand dinner party in honour of our beloved Under-Secretary-General?'

  'I'll tell you . . .' she began, resolved to reveal the whole story.

  'Just a moment, darling. I'll have to stop you there. I've just thought of something. (VV did not like to be kept waiting, and his voice had sounded rather sharper than usual. Besides, it would create a bad impression if he said he'd had to look high and low for the verbatim record. It would make him look like the kind of disorganized civil servant who can't find his way round his own files. He got up, opened a filing-cabinet, took out a document, and did up his jacket.) Listen, darling, on second thoughts, I'd rather go now. Though generally speaking I take a great pleasure in making old VV wait. But just for once I want to have a bit of peace to chat things over with you, so might as well get it over and done with at once. I'll be off then, but I'll be back straight away. What a bore! Right then, see you shortly, all right?' he said with a smile, and headed for the door, slowly, to cover up the fact of his capitulation.

  Once he was in the corridor, he set off at a run towards the rocket he felt was coming his way. Van Vries's tone had not been reassuring. Outside the door of his hierarchical superior, he prepared a smile, knocked gently, then turned the knob gingerly.

  CHAPTER 6

  He came in, casual in manner and whistling through his teeth. He sat down, drummed on his desk-top with his fingers, closed the three files, and smiled.

  'What's up with you?'

  'Nothing, nothing at all,' he said, all innocence. 'Just the opposite, everything's fine. Feeling a touch liverish, that's all,' he said after a moment's silence, and he got to his feet, pressed his hand to his right side and smiled again.

  'Oh come on, you'll get round to telling me all about it in the end. Is it your boss?'

  He collapsed into his chair and gave her a shipwrecked look.

  'He threw the book at me. On account of the British Memorandum. Because I hadn't submitted my comments yet. How he thinks anybody can work in the middle of constant interruptions . . . (He paused, hoping she would ask questions. But she said nothing, so he went on.) He's going to put my shilly-shallying in my annual report, anyway what he calls my shilly-shallying. That means goodbye to my annual increment, and it could perhaps mean I'll get an official warning or even a reprimand from the Secretary-General. So that's how things stand. (His fingers drummed scales of stoical despair on his desk-top.) Naturally it's going to put paid to any chance of promotion, it'll be a black mark in my record. Stuck with it. Like Nessus's tunic, you know. But I've done my best, I told him I'd forward my comments tomorrow morning first thing. He said it was too late, and then he brought up the Cameroon Acknowledgement. Scathing he was, really scathing. So there we are, it's a disaster. (Again he drummed out the tragic submission to destiny.) I wasn't going to say anything to you, no point you suffering too. (In silence, he glumly turned the handle of the pencil-sharpener.) Retaliation, that's what it is, I'm pretty sure it's because he saw me talking to the USG, it'll be his way of getting even. Jealousy — I told you, didn't I? It didn't take him long. (He looked at her, hoping for support.) You get something like that in your annual report and you're for the chop, curtains, a B for life. So that's it, I've had it, bang goes my future in the international civil service,' he concluded, with a brave smile.

  'You're imagining things, it's not as bad as all that,' she said, sensing that he was deliberately exaggerating the seriousness of the situation as a way of extracting words of comfort.

  'How come?' he asked eagerly. 'What do you mean?'

  'If you let him have the work tomorrow, he won't be cross any more.'

  'You think so? Do you really think so?'

  'Of course. You can do it at home tonight.'

  'Two hundred pages,' he sighed, and shook his head several times, looking like a chastened schoolboy. 'You do realize, don't you, that it'll take me all night?'

  'I'll make you lots of black coffee. I'll keep you company, if you want.'

  'So you really think it will all turn out all right?'

  'Of course it will, don't be silly. Besides, you've got someone on your side now.'

  'You mean the Under-Secretary-General? (He knew very well that was who she meant, but wanted to hear her say it. Moreover, he found it comforting to say the prestigious title aloud in full and through its majestic syllables conjure up the shadow of a guardian angel. A magical incantation, in other words.) The Under-Secretary-General?' he repeated, and he gave a wan smile, drew his chair closer, and with one hand clutched his wife's skirt.

  'Who else? Judging by what you told me, he was very sweet to you just now.'

  'That's right, the Under-Secretary-General,' he said with another smile. He reached mechanically for his pipe, sniffed at the bowl, which was now cold, and put it down again on his desk. 'You're right. Very sweet.'

  'You said he asked which section you worked in?'

  'Asked very nicely too, really, wanted to know what I specialized in, if I liked my work, took an interest. And he called me Deume.'

  'And he asked you to sit down and you chatted.'

  'Man to man. Never made me aware of the difference in rank.'

  'And then there's the pat on the back.'

  'Oh yes, the pat on the back,' he beamed, and he knocked his pipe out and refilled it.

  'I believe it was a hefty pat?'

  'Very. Just here, it was. I bet my shoulder is still red from it. Would you like to see?'

  'No, don't bother. I believe you.'

  'And coming from someone who is more important than the Deputy Secretary-General!'

  'Or even the Secretary-General,' she said, going one better.

  'Quite! Because Sir John, you know, is golf, golf and golf, apart from that he's just a figurehead who says amen to whatever the USG tells him to. So you see how important that pat on the back was!'

  'I do see,' she said, and she bit her lip.

  He lit his pipe, sucked in a sweet, calming lungful, then got up and paced around his small office, wreathed in a cloud of tobacco smoke, with one hand in his pocket and the other round the bowl of the pipe.

  'I'll tell you shumthing, Arianny,' he said, without removing the pipe from between his teeth, which made him slurp his words like van Goelerkhen's fat wife, 'I'm shertain VV won't take it any further, hish bark'sh louder than hish bite, sho don't worry your head about it, and even if he putsh in a bad report on me it doezhn't bother me none, shee? I'm not schcared of the shwine, the mountain will bring forth a moushe! (He sat down again, propped his feet on his desk and see-sawed. His pipe, still airily clamped between his teeth, purred damply at intervals.) But the charm of the man! You musht have notished it at the Brajilian reshepchion. An indefinable miksh, don't you think? The impreshion hish mind'sh elshewhere when you talk to him, that short of shcornful tilt of the head, like a marble busht, and then all of a shudden that disharming shmile of hish, sho attractive. He'sh a real charmer. Anyway, Countesh Kanyo and I shee eye to eye on that, take it from me. Did I ever tell you about the woman who doesh for Petrechco?'

  'No,' she said. (He put his pipe, now out, in the ashtray.)

  'It's quite fascinating. I forgot to tell you. Yes, Petresco lives at Pont-Ceard, not far from the Countess's chateau.'

  'I've been to Pont-Ceard. There's no chateau there.'

  'Well, a rather splendid house, then. But that's be
side the point. The woman who looks after Petresco is very pally with the Countess's personal maid, which means that Petresco has a pretty good idea of everything that goes on at the Countess's. He told Kanakis, who told me in strict confidence. Apparently the Countess waits in for the USG every night. (Privily, excitedly, slyly, guiltily, deliciously shocked by this titbit of rather scandalous gossip, he poked out his tapered tongue.) Apparently every night she dolls herself up to the nines, sumptuous dinner on the table, bowls of super-duper fruit, flowers, the whole shoot. She waits for him for hours. (He gave a perfunctory glance to right and left and lowered his voice to a whisper.) Apparently more often than not he doesn't show up. Every evening, she gets ready as if he's supposed to be coming, sits for hours by the window watching to see if he'll turn up in his Rolls, and then he doesn't. Highly significant, wouldn't you say?'