Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  She stood up, read the title of the books on a shelf, and forced a yawn.

  'Have you ever seen this baroness?'

  'Countess,' he corrected her. 'Higher rank altogether. Old Hungarian aristocracy, oodles of diplomats in the family. Of course I've seen her, she's always at the Assembly, comes to meetings of the Council, committees, anywhere he's likely to be, can't take her eyes off him. It wouldn't surprise me if she were downstairs this very minute, hanging about in the lobby, especially since she knows all the best people, she would, wouldn't she, seeing that her father was such a high-up. What's the matter, darling?'

  'Nothing. I don't much care for such goings-on. That's all.'

  'Well, he's not married and she's a widow, so they're both free.'

  'They should get married, then.'

  'Some of the very best people have affairs, you know. What about Louis XIV and Madame de Maintenon?'

  'That was a morganatic marriage.'

  'All right then, Aristide Briand has been having an affair, everybody knows, but no one thinks the worse of him on that account.'

  'I do.'

  He looked at her, his eyes large and kindly behind his glasses. What was biting her? Better change the subject.

  'So, great and high-born lady, you don't think too badly of my little chez moi! Obviously, there aren't any Gobelin tapestries on the wall like in the USG's office, but it's not too awful, is it? If you'd seen the offices they have in ministry buildings in Belgium, you'd realize how luxurious things are here. Besides, it's a pretty privileged set-up. In this place, we're on a Diplomatic footing, you know. Hours, for example. In the afternoon we generally make a start at three or even later, but if required we've got to stay on until easily seven, eight at night, as they do in the Quai d'Orsay or the Foreign Office. Here the atmosphere is very different from the International Labour Office, where everybody has to go at it hammer and tongs, I say "has to" but in fact they love it, it's another world, you know, all those trade unionists and left-wingers. Here the tone is Diplomatic Service and life's very pleasant. Look, I'll show you, I'll tot up the days when I don't work. (Highly pleased with himself before he had even begun, he took out a propelling pencil and a pad and ran his tongue over his lips.) To kick off, every month, there's the day's leave every official can take without having to send in a doctor's certificate, article thirty-one of Staff Regulations. I make the most of that, as you'd imagine. (He made a note.) So, twelve extra days a year off work.'

  (This calls for a word of explanation. The said article thirty-one was intended to cover an indisposition unique to women, but the prudish men who had drafted the Staff Regulations had not dared be so specific. It followed therefore that male officials also had the right to be indisposed on one day every month without the requirement to supply medical evidence.)

  'So,' repeated Adrien Deume, 'twelve extra days a year off work. Are you with me? (With his handsome gold propelling pencil and a relaxed, easy smile, he carefully noted the figure twelve.) Then twice a year I can wangle special sick-leave, as long as I can provide a doctor's certificate. Overwork, say. Incidentally, what they put on the last certificate was a peach. Reactive stress. Isn't that just marvellous? So, two lots of sick-leave, a couple of weeks apiece, say, no inching on. So, another thirty extra days off work! Thirty plus twelve makes forty-two, that's right, isn't it, agreed? Forty-two it is. (When he had written the figure down, he acknowledged it with a delighted "ta-ra!") Then we have the thirty-six working days of official leave a year, the normal leave, all above board, article forty-three of the Regulations. Right! But note they are working days!' he exclaimed excitedly. 'So in practice, it comes to more than thirty-six days off! There are five and a half working days in a week. That means that my annual leave of thirty-six working days turns out in fact to be forty-five days when I don't have to come in! We'd got up to forty-two extra days' leave. Add the forty-five for official leave and that brings us up to eighty-seven! That's correct, isn't it? (Eagerly:) Will you do the adding-up the same time as me, darling? (He passed her a piece of paper and a pencil. He was civility itself.) So, eighty-seven rest days! Next,' he whispered like a guilty but playful schoolboy owning up, 'there are the fifty-two Saturday mornings which should be worked in theory but never are, when Lord Adrien of Deume sits back and enjoys the good life! (Riding high on his buoyant mood and forgetting the need to maintain his dignity and manly, sober bearing, he let out one of his braying schoolboy laughs which emerged from a tremendous clearing of the throat.) It's all above board and you can't say different, what can anybody do in an hour or two? It really isn't worth traipsing in all that way from Cologny to the Palais for a couple of hours' work at most, because even chaps who come in on a Saturday are away by noon! There's no point. Anyway, VV never turns out on a Saturday, come Friday evening he shoots off in a plane to look after his VIPs from The Hague or Amsterdam, which means a lot of sucking-up. So why should I put myself out? So, fifty-two Saturday mornings amount practically speaking, note the practically, to twenty-six special little days off. Eighty-seven plus twenty-six, that makes a hundred and thirteen, unless my maths have let me down. Aren't you totting it up too, to check I've got it right?' he said anxiously. 'Oh well, please yourself. So we'd got up to a hundred and lovely thirteen. (Sticking his tongue out, he wrote the figure down.) One hundred and thirteen!' he hummed. 'Oh, and then we mustn't forget the fifty-two Saturday afternoons and fifty-two Sundays. But let's get this absolutely right: I've counted six of each in my official holiday already plus four of each when I was adding up my sick-leave. Are you with me?'

  'Yes.'

  'So let's say fifty-two Sundays take away ten, forty-two. We'd got up to a hundred and thirteen. So a hundred and thirteen plus forty-two takes us to a hundred and fifty-five rest days, plus fifty-two Saturday afternoons take away ten, forty-two, which gives us another twenty-one days off. A hundred and fifty-five plus twenty-one comes to a hundred and seventy-six days of little me sitting about twiddling the old thumbs! The diplomatic life! You can't beat it!'

  'True.'

  'And now we've got to add on bank holidays. Christmas, Good Friday and so on, a dozen public holidays, article forty-nine. A hundred and seventy-six plus twelve — one hundred and eighty-eight non-working days. That's the lot, isn't it?'

  'Yes.'

  'Oh but it's not, darling!' he exclaimed, his face lighting up, and he thumped the top of his desk. 'There are the bonus days they give us when the Assembly rises, what about them? It's two generally but three if it's been tough going. So a hundred and eighty-eight plus two, you see I'm being conservative, gives us one hundred and ninety. What do you say to that?'

  'So,' she said.

  'I'm sorry?' he said, taken aback.

  'So.'

  'So what?'

  'Your so. The so you say all the time. I just said it before you did.'

  'Oh, I see. Fine. (She had mixed him up. He did his sums again.) I got it right. So, one hundred and ninety days of restful respite. (He drew sunbeams all round the exquisite number of one hundred and ninety. Then all at once he unleashed a fiendish snigger.) Darling! there's more! (His hand smote the desk-top.) What about the official visits! The official visits, for God's sake! On average, two two-week tours a year, each involving two days' proper work, because, you know, when you're on an official visit you don't push yourself too hard, you're your own boss, no one breathing down your neck, you go at your own speed, and the work you do on a tour consists mainly of inviting a lot of people to slap-up meals. So, four days' actual work for both tours, that leaves us, and tell me if I've got it wrong, that leaves us a net gain of twenty-six days for rest and assorted play which, in jolly mood, we shall now add to the hundred and ninety we've brought forward! So, that gives two hundred and sixteen non-working days per annum!'

  He looked up in triumph, exuding happiness so pure, so childlike, that she brushed his hand with her forefinger, overcome by something very much like pity. He stared at his darling wife, his eyes glisten
ing with gratitude.

  'Just a sec,' he whispered, 'I'll show you a secret.'

  From the middle drawer, he produced a large sheet of squared paper covered with columns of microscopic figures which had been entered with exquisite care: they looked like columns of ants.

  'It's a thirty-year calendar,' he explained, not without a hint of embarrassment. 'It took me weeks to do. Can you see, each column represents a year. Thirty columns of three hundred and sixty-five days. I've allowed for leap years of course. The days that are crossed off are the ones I've been here. Look, more than five years struck through already! It'll be terrific when I get down to here,' he said pointing to the bottom of the thirtieth column. 'So I've got a bit under twenty-five years still to go, around nine thousand days to cross out. I cross one out every day, you know. But there's a problem with weekends: when should I cross out Saturdays and Sundays? Which do you think? Friday evening or Monday morning? I say Friday evening because, as you know, for the aforementioned reasons, I don't come in on Saturday mornings. So, do I tick them off before or after? Which do you say? (She shook her head to indicate that she had no idea.) No, come on, which, in your opinion: Friday evening or Monday morning?'

  'Monday,' she said, to be done with it.

  Through his glasses, he shot her a grateful look.

  'Yes, I thought Monday's best too. It gets the week off to a good start. First thing when I get here in the morning, bingo, I put a line through Saturday and Sunday! Two days less, out they go! As good as a tonic! (He sighed.) But, you know, the other solution, crossing them off on a Friday before I leave, has got something to be said for it too. Because then, do you see, I can get a kick out of crossing off three in one go: Friday, Saturday and Sunday! And it rounds off the week's work very nicely! Fridays I get away a little earlier than usual, free as a bird! (Pursed lips, rapid flutter of meditative breaths.) On reflection, I'll go for the Monday solution because of the tonic effect, and anyway you thought of it and I like the idea of doing something you thought of. (He smiled at her lovingly. It was simply grand being able to share everything with his wife.) Half a tick, I'm going to show you something. (He opened his index drawer and laid a tenderly proprietorial hand on the cards inside.) See this? All my mandated territories are here. Here,' he repeated with the pride of the good craftsman. (Fondly, his hand executed an erotic slide along his cards.) Everything having regard to. (He winced. Oh the hell with it, he wasn't writing a letter.) Everything having regard to the natives in my territories has been put on file by yours truly.'

  'Are the natives well treated?'

  'Of course they're well treated. Don't worry, they're better off than we are, they dance, they don't have a care in the world. I'd willingly swap places with them.'

  'How do you know they're well treated?'

  'Their governments send us reports.'

  'Are you sure the reports are true?'

  'Of course they're true. They're official.'

  'And when you get them, what do you do with them?'

  He gave her a puzzled look. What had got into her?

  'We forward them to the Permanent Mandates Commission. And this here is my little machine-gun,' he added, gesturing towards his lovely stapler. 'I'm the only one in the section who's got this model.'

  'What exactly does this Commission do to help the natives?'

  'It studies the situation and sends congratulations to the mandatory Power on the civilizing action it has taken.'

  'But what if the natives are badly treated?'

  'Oh, that hardly ever happens.'

  'But I read a book by Gide where he talked about abuses.'

  'Yes, I know,' he said sulkily. 'He exaggerated the whole thing. Anyhow, he's a queer.'

  'Ah, so there has been ill-treatment, then. If that's the case, what does this Commission do?'

  'Well, it comments on the reports, says it has every confidence in the mandatory Power, expresses the hope that there will be no recurrence of similar incidents, and indicates that it would be grateful for any information which the competent authorities would consider appropriate to provide concerning recent developments. Yes, because if there are abuses or if repressive measures are taken — and in any case the press will report them more or less accurately — we always prefer to use the expression "recent developments", which is more suitable, less direct. Look, it's a genuine Bostitch! Forty staples a minute!'

  'But what if the Commission's comments have no effect? What happens if the natives go on being maltreated?'

  'Oh come on, what do you expect? We can hardly go around upsetting governments. Touchy chaps, governments. And besides, they contribute to our budget. But, generally speaking, things go very smoothly. Governments do all they can. We are on cordial terms with their representatives. Forty staples a minute, just watch,' he said, and he brought his fist down on his stapler.

  Moved by the sacred spirit, frenzied and wild-eyed, fervent and warlike, he struck again. Implacably and quiveringly did he strike. Spectacles bouncing, scarcely human, exalted, he struck without mercy while outside, in the corridor, drawn from all directions, his assembled colleagues gave expert and delighted ear to the loud reports produced by the perspiring, ecstatic international civil servant.

  'I'm going for a walk in the grounds,' she said. 'I'll be back in a few minutes.'

  As soon as the door closed behind her, he pushed the stapler away, suddenly sobered. He oughtn't to have. What he'd been doing was manual work, secretary's work. Nor ought he to have taken her into his confidence and told her about his little wangles for arranging extra holidays. It made him out to be a minor cog, made him look like some sort of cheat. In short, he'd lowered his own stock. And all because of this need to share everything with her, to tell her everything, to enjoy everything together.

  'I love her too much, that's my problem.'

  He raised his right hand as though taking an oath. From now on, no more confiding, no more being so free and easy. It would go hard on him, but there it was. The important thing was to keep his wife's respect. Or perhaps, to combat the crass civil-servile image he'd just created, what if he were to tell her tonight or tomorrow that he'd been hallucinating, that he'd seen a lot of crabs running after him? That would counteract the effect. Hm. Perhaps not. That would be coming it a bit strong, she'd never buy it. So from now on, just be reserved, laconic, a mite distant, that was the way to be admired. When she came back, mention the plan for writing a novel, that would make up for the stapler. And mention casually that if it suited him to turn up at the Palais on any given morning at ten or ten thirty, as the spirit took him, there was nothing anyone could say, he was a senior official. That would help to make it up too. And also point out that L of N officials were much better paid than those in the ILO, who all had to be in on time and were kept hard at it all day. There was no comparison. You see, darling, we're on the same footing as the Diplomatic.

  'And now, to work, let's get down to this Memo. Drat! Quarter past six! Where on earth has the time gone?'

  CHAPTER 7

  When she came back, he leaped out of his seat and kissed her on both cheeks.

  'Listen! Something fantastic has just happened. But first let me get my breath back. It was a jolly good thing I hadn't gone home, he'll have been most impressed when he saw I was still here after normal working hours. And I owe it all to you, because you were so late coming back, thank God! Well anyway,' he said, spacing out his words to hide his breathlessness, 'not ten minutes ago, at twenty past six, his principal private secretary phoned me. The USG's, I mean. What if he hadn't caught me, can you imagine? I'm to see him in his office at quarter past seven — the USG's office, not his PPS's. Nineteen fifteen hours. (From the special pocket in his waistcoat, he took out his spare timepiece, then put it back without looking at it.) I went out into the grounds to look for you at once to tell you, but you weren't there, so I came back here. Doesn't matter. (He tried a cool, collected smile.) Is my suit all right?'

  'Yes.'

/>   'Any bits of fluff on it?'

  'No.'

  'Jacket creased? How about behind?' (He turned his back to her.)

  'No.'

  'The thing is, yesterday I forgot to put my working jacket on. Sitting down in it all day, well you never know. (He discovered a greasy mark on his jacket sleeve. "Drat! how horrid!" he murmured in his feminine voice. From his little drawer, he got out the bottle of Detachol and rubbed the sleeve. But the look his watching wife gave him made him feel uncomfortable, and he put the stopper back in the bottle.) There, done it, spot's gone. Six thirty-three already, another forty-two minutes to go. Look, I think that all things considered I'd rather be left by myself to have a think about all this. Be an angel and wait for me downstairs, I mean on the first floor, in the little waiting-area just outside his office, you'll find it easily enough, it's just where there are always a couple of porters sitting around. That way I'll be able to . . . (He stopped. On no account say that then he would be able to see her one last time before going into the USG's office.) Because that way I'll be able to tell you how it went soon as I come out, see? I'll get there a little early. You be there at seven, five past at the latest, so we'll have a moment to talk, say a few last-minute things. (Without thinking, he inserted a sheet of paper into the stapling-machine, gave it a few half-hearted whacks, stared at the result and then at his wife.) Tell me, what do you think, what's he want to see me for?'

  'I don't know.'

  'You don't know,' he muttered vacantly. (He remained for a moment with his mouth open, then lit a cigarette, inhaled, then stubbed it out roughly in the ashtray to arm himself with courage.) 'Anyway, like I said, we'll meet up on the first floor at five past seven, better make that seven, just in case, so we'll have time to put our heads together if we need to. All right then, see you later, darling.'