by Albert Cohen
The moment the door closed behind her, he made a leap for the bottle of Detachol, poured some of it on to his handkerchief, and dabbed vigorously at his sleeve. When the spot had disappeared, he trotted off to the bar, where, reeking of petrol, he ordered a couple of cocktails which he downed in quick succession. Cocktails were dearer here than in town. Couldn't be helped, needs must when the devil drives. Should he pop down and ask the duty medic for a Maxiton pill? Maxiton perked up the brain. But perhaps it wouldn't mix very well with the drinks. If in doubt, don't: better safe than sorry.
In his office, he examined the sleeve. Damn, a ring! He'd have to keep his arm out of sight as best he could, that's all. The summons was obviously about something important, but important in a good sense or a bad sense? What if he rang Miss Wilson to get some idea of what was in the wind? No, he didn't know her well enough, she was too discreet to give anything away to him. Should he say something to VV? No, that would be a ghastly floater. What if he'd been sent for because VV had reported his shilly-shallying and wanted to drop him in it? The British Memorandum? A verbal dressing-down from the USG before the formal warning or even a reprimand was officially issued? (He recited aloud the fatal passage from Staff Regulations.) Disciplinary measures will be notified in duplicate to the official concerned who shall return one copy, duly initialled! O God! He wiped his forehead with the handkerchief, which was still damp with petrol.
But soon the cocktails began to work and he took heart. No, VV would never dare report somebody he'd seen ensconced in an armchair chatting with the USG. And besides and of course there was the pat on the back! A real solid pat too, he'd nearly been knocked off his feet! It was pretty clear, really, all was well. Perhaps the USG was about to put an interesting proposal to him, maybe ask him to join his private office, where the real power lay. Hell's teeth, those cocktails were strong, he felt giddy. But it was not an unpleasant sensation, not unpleasant at all, he smiled, smugly satisfied.
'Yes, old man, he's sent for me to tell me something to my advantage, take it from me, old boy, you'll see, I bet my bottom dollar it'll all go off a treat. And anyway, I do have a brain, so let's have a plan of action. I go in, greet him with a little bow, not too low, though, and I give him a smile, just a small one, no grovelling. He tells me to sit down, I sit, I cross my legs and we chat. It'll all go swimmingly, you'll see. I'll turn the conversation round to the Jewish Agency for Palestine, that'll get him interested. No, it might get his back up, he might take it as an allusion. The most important thing, see, is for me to come across as sound, a touch of humour, a witty remark, be on the ball, drop in a Latin tag just to show I'm not just anybody. Quis, quid, ubi, quihus auxiliis, cur, quomodo, quando. And remember: you're nobody's fool. People take you at your own estimation. I shall be pleasant, yes, but with a hint of authority so he gets the idea that I'm quite capable of running a section. "My own view, Under-Secretary-General, is that the political nub of this particular issue could be summed up like this."'
That damned title of his, Under-Secretary-General, what a mouthful, must be careful not to trip over it. Say it as quickly as possible but taking care not to slur any of the syllables. Five to seven, time to take the vital precaution. Be as totally relaxed as possible so as to be in full possession of all faculties.
'And sharp about it!'
Parked in front of the white porcelain, legs splayed, an easy smile on his face, and eyes misty with alcohol, he began declaiming as he shuddered with terminal relief: 'Under-Secretary-General, I am happy to have been given this opportunity to outline my ideas for the regeneration of indigenous races.' He began this sentence again, replacing 'ideas' with 'own thoughts'. Thereupon, when he was good and finished, he double-checked that he was not improperly dressed in a particular sector of his attire. He even undid his buttons to be quite sure that he had done them up securely, made a point of noting consciously that each button was indeed firmly buttoned to avoid experiencing, just before being shown into the USG's office, any heart-stopping twinge of doubt.
'All done up, every last one,' he muttered. 'Inspected, noted and officially checked.'
Back in his office, he was again seized by panic. Should he draft a note in two parts? Lower-case a, possible replies if a dressing-down. Lower-case b, topics to develop if a non-dressing-down. Yes, on a slip of paper he'd keep hidden. No, three minutes past seven! Too late!
'Anyway he can't give me the push, I've got a permanent contract. The worst I can expect if VV really has reported me is a reprimand. From now on, all work to be carried out with immediate effect.'
In a fever of agitation, he combed his hair and brushed himself down. He wiped petrol fumes over his face again, then pulled his dress handkerchief further out of his top pocket, then tucked it in, then pulled it out again and pondered the effect in his reflection in the window pane. Only then did he leave his office, a sickly smile on his lips and feeling weak at the knees. Reeking of petrol, he was so preoccupied that it never even occurred to him to acknowledge colleagues he passed with a smile or a nod of the head according to grade, his rule of thumb being that a person must be able to keep on the right side of everybody, that politeness costs nothing and may be money in the bank.
CHAPTER 8
On reaching the first floor, he filled his lungs with air and saw her sitting there. 'Fourteen minutes past seven, I'm on my way,' he said as he passed her without stopping, making straight for the head porter, who was lounging in a chair reading a detective novel with relish. 'Do you have an appointment?' asked Saulnier in a voice which managed to be both friendly and suspicious. The reply being affirmative, he smiled cordially, for he liked officials who had appointments. While Adrien turned to join her, he got to his feet and proceeded, like an affable priest, in a poetic aura of importance and authority, to announce Monsieur Deume to the principal private secretary. She took her husband's hand in hers to make him stop buttoning and unbuttoning his jacket. He did not even notice.
'What do your instincts tell you?' he asked.
He did not hear her answer, which anyway was negative. Seven seventeen. All at once he felt convinced that the USG must have got to hear about his regular absence on Saturday mornings. Seized by panic, he sat down beside her in one of the deep braided-leather armchairs which were a gift of the Union of South Africa. His knees trembled and he muttered to himself in a barely audible whisper that he was sitting on hippo hide, hippo hide, hippo hide. And then there was the matter of his sick-leave at Valescure. Perhaps someone had seen him playing roulette at Monte Carlo and had ratted on him.
Seven nineteen. When the porter came towards him he stood up, blinking rapidly in deference to this lowly being who saw the USG every day and was lit by the light of the master. 'This is it. Here I go,' he said to Ariane. 'You will wait for me, won't you?' He wanted to have someone there when he came out, after it was over, someone to give comfort or to constitute an admiring public as the case might be.
But Saulnier merely asked him to be patient, as the Under-Secretary-General was still in a meeting with the British ambassador, but it wouldn't be much longer now since the ambassador was shortly due to meet with the Secretary-General. Brushed by so much greatness, Adrien Deume gave Saulnier a humble smile and through a fog heard him speak of the glorious weather they had enjoyed that day, then of the pretty little country house he had bought at Corsier. Ah, nature! Nature was the only reality! You needed fresh air to be healthy, and peace and quiet too. The porter made a point of being friendly to this young man who was perhaps about to be attached to the private office. Adrien listened uncomprehendingly to the cordial chat put out by Saulnier, who, when he sensed he had acquired a future ally and possibly a protector, went back to his novel.
A few minutes later a discreet buzz unleashed the porter who jumped zealously to his feet and shot off with alacrity towards the Under-Secretary-General's office. He emerged almost at once, holding open the door of the Ark of the Covenant. 'Monsieur Deume,' he called with a gravity which combined
benign graciousness with authority and accompanied it with a smile of ecclesiastical complicity which seemed to signify: 'We understand each qther, we two, you know I have always had the greatest regard for you.' With his right hand he held the doorknob and, bowing slightly, with his left described a respectful circle by which he appeared to be telling the young man, clearly a high-flier, that he was delighted to allow him in — more, that it would be a positive pleasure to show him the way.
Rising immediately to his feet, Adrien Deume felt a twinge. God! He wanted to go again! No help for it, have to hold out. He buttoned his jacket one last time, doing it up for various reasons of which he was quite unaware — because when his jacket was done up he felt even more weirdly convinced that he cut a stylish dash; because whenever he tried on suits at his tailor's he always ended up thinking that a buttoned-up jacket showed off his figure better and made him look even more irresistible; because a jacket which is fastened is the ultimate protective coat; because, in a fight, the man who wears loose clothes is in the weaker position; because when he was six Adrien had been terrified by an aunt who had given him a dreadful telling-off when she found him doing 'naughty things' with the little girl from next door; because at this solemn juncture he dared not undertake one last check; and because, if by some mishap he were indeed not decent, his buttoned-up jacket would cover up the scandal.
Marching towards his destiny, he absently smartened his tie by primping the knot. Ignoring his wife, his mind blank with fright, and with a virginal smile on his lips and the pallor of death on his face, which with all his anguished strength he tried to make witty yet serious, refined but alert, cultured but determined, grave yet relaxed, respectful but dignified, a face that was interesting but more to the point already interested in the fine, substantive, fruitful views which deserved to be written down at once and become law, the same sacred views, that is, which were about to be uttered by his hierarchical superior to whose cause he was utterly devoted, as indeed he was to all causes and matters of international concern, the junior official, exuding an air of deference and worldliness, hurried towards the sacred shrine with a pleasant look of administrative keenness on his face and, in his loins, an incomprehensible, inconvenient urge which really was most unfair.
God! What a long way it was to the door! Hardly knowing what he was doing, his mind in a whirl, an all-too-willing slave-in-waiting, Adrien Deume quickened his step, believing utterly in international cooperation but equally prepared to give immediate and unconditional support to whatever other topics, human or divine, trifling or dire, would be pleasing in the sight of the Mighty One who held in his hands not only the plentiful manna of promotions, official visits and special leave but also the crackling thunderbolts of official warnings, cautions, reprimands, reductions of salary within the grade, demotion, removal from office and dismissal without notice. Reverential and apprehensive, irresolute, without a clear thought in his head, he passed through the portals, looked up, saw the Under-Secretary-General at the far end of his enormous office, and felt suddenly lost.
Saulnier closed the door reverently, withdrew a couple of paces and smiled at Ariane, who was obviously a delightful person since she was an appendage of a delightful and highly gifted official. Turning round, he suddenly noticed that the door was not quite closed. Galvanized into action, he pulled it to him with a mother's tenderness. With a brow like Jove, he took his irritation out on Octave, his assistant and butt, a long, thin, anaemic, slow-moving young man.
'You little bastard!' he whispered, his mouth twisted with hate. 'Why didn't you tell me? Have I got to do everything around here? I suppose it's no odds to you if the chief catches cold!'
And, unleashing another smile at Ariane, he trod hard on Octave's corn. Octave moved his chair uncomplainingly and went on in slow motion making animals out of twisted paper, which were, as was only right and proper, smaller than the ones made by his superior. She got up, asked the porter to tell her husband that she would be waiting for him downstairs in the lobby. Priest-like, Saulnier inclined his head in boundless comprehension, sat down, and wiped his forehead, for he felt tired. Then he ran his comb through his stubble-cut hair, over a sheet of paper intended to catch the dandruff. When enough had collected, he chortled and blew it all away. Taken with a playful urge to do some work, he inserted a pencil into a Brunswick, the large model, of which Octave proceeded to turn the handle. From time to time the head porter told his underling to stop, and he checked the point of the pencil. Finally, when it was just as he wanted, he raised his left hand, uttered a Napoleonic 'Halt!' and put the pencil on his desk.
'Three hundred and fifty!' he announced, for he kept count of the number of pencils he had sharpened since his arrival in the Secretariat of the League of Nations.
The door to the office opened, and Adrien, after courageously declining to walk through it first, then dared to obey. Followed by the eyes of the porters, whose paper animals were nowhere in sight, the two officials strolled round the waiting-area, the senior man talking and the junior listening with his head turned reverently towards Solal, who suddenly grasped his arm.
Chaste and shy, overwhelmed by this contact sublime, by so much kindness, his mind spinning deliciously in free fall, Adrien Deume walked on air at the side of his superior. He walked, and as he walked he worried that he would get out of step and fail to keep his feet synchronized with the august progress. Soulful and dazed, smiling and perspiring, stunned at having his arm grasped by a high-ranking hand and too bewildered to be sipping the sweetness of such close contact, he proceeded with smooth and dignified tread, listening for all he was worth and understanding nothing of what he heard. Bewitched and feminine, trembling and insubstantial, ethereal as a virgin seduced or a shy bride led to the altar, he floated on the arm of his superior, and his maiden's smile was delicately sexual. Intimate! He was on intimate terms with a chief! Personal contact at last! Oh happy the arm that had been grasped! It was the finest moment of his life.
CHAPTER 9
When he was alone again, Adrien Deume was approached by Saulnier who, smoother than ever, gave him Madame's message. Still wearing the sweet, melting smile which was intended for his hierarchical superior, the junior official went downstairs in a dream. When he reached the ground floor, still smiling, the spectral embodiment of happiness, he walked past his wife without seeing her. Her touch on his arm. He turned and recognized her.
'A,' he said.
He grabbed her arm and controlled an impulse to shout out his amazing exultation. Casting a fonder glance than was his wont in the direction of two belated diplomats who stood chatting together — for now more than ever was he one of them — he guided her towards the lift, forgot to let her go first, pressed the button, and closed his eyes.
'A,' he said again.
'What's the matter? Do you feel ill?'
'Made up to grade A,' he explained in a tight voice. 'No. Not here, not in the lift. In my office, just the two of us.'
'Well now,' he began, settling back into his chair and pulling at his pipe to get his feelings under control, 'well, it's like a fairy tale, it really is. But I must tell you everything, from the beginning. (He surrounded himself with smoke. Don't cry now, act the cool, all-conquering hero. Don't keep looking at her, for the admiration he would see in her eyes might squeeze out the sobs he felt building up in his stomach.) Right, in I go, super de-luxe office, Gobelins and so forth. There he was, very impressive behind this huge desk, face impassive, eyes that looked right through you, and then all of a sudden he smiled. I took to him like a shot, believe me, he's really most awfully charming. I feel as if I could go through fire and water for a chap like him. Well anyway, he smiled, but he didn't say anything. He didn't say anything for ages, a couple of minutes perhaps. I don't mind admitting I wasn't feeling a hundred per cent at my ease but, hell's teeth, I could hardly start talking to him while he was thinking, so I bided my time. And then all at once something quite extraordinary happened. He asked me, completely out
of the blue, if I had anything to say to him. It shook me rigid, but of course I said no. He said that was what he thought. To tell you the truth, I didn't quite get what he was driving at, but no matter. So then, not being entirely stupid and in fact with pretty exceptional presence of mind as I'm sure you'll agree, I took the bull by the horns and said that as it happened I did have something to say to him, which was how happy I was to be given an opportunity to say what an honour it is for me to be working under him even if, I added cleverly, it was at several removes. Get the hint there about being appointed to his private office? Neat bit of patter I thought. Next we chatted about this and that, international politics, Briand's latest speech, with me keeping up my end of the conversation very nicely, a proper conversation in his fabulous office surrounded by the Gobelins, I mean a genuine conversation between equals, like it was a sort of social occasion. But hang on, that's not all, there's better to come. Suddenly he takes a sheet of paper and writes something on it. I look out of the window so as not to appear indiscreet. Then he hands me the sheet of paper. It was addressed to Admin. And do you know what was written on it? Well, I'll tell you! My promotion! (He breathed deeply, closed his eyes, opened them again, relit his pipe to choke off an incipient sob, took several puffs to protect his manhood and mask the twitching of his trembling lips.) It said: by decision of the Secretary-General, Monsieur Adrien Deume is promoted to grade A as of the first of June! Just like that! Then he asked for the paper back, signed it, and tossed it into his out-tray. I'd say he'd not even talked it over with Sir John! So it was a personal decision, bypassed the usual channels! What do you say to that?'
'It's wonderful.'
'You bet it's wonderful! Can you imagine? Pitchforked up to an A in one go! And remember I never asked for anything! Can you imagine what sort of bloke he must be, sizing a person up in a couple of minutes, because this afternoon, you know, I didn't talk to him for more than four or five minutes at the outside, but that was enough for him, oh yes, he saw what sort of chap he was dealing with and he drew his own conclusions! He's a very shrewd reader of character! And what a fine man! You know, there's a lot of anti-Semitism about but I must say I don't understand it, it's beyond me! A race that's produced your Bergsons, your Freuds and your Einsteins! (A quick draw on the pipe orchestrated by bubbling dottle.) Oh yes! He saw the sort of person he was dealing with! So, am I in line for congratulations?'