by Albert Cohen
He raised his head, looked around him vaguely, munched a biscuit to drive away a sudden intimation of his own mortality, and looked at his watch. Eleven fifty. Forty minutes to kill. Call in on the duty quack and have his blood pressure taken? No, best go for a turn in the lobby downstairs. The Sixth Committee was meeting today, a tremendously political body with heaps of terribly important people on it.
'Look lively, ducks, we're going to meet some big nobs.'
CHAPTER 11
In the lobby, the ministers and diplomats circulated, gravely discussing, knowing-eyed, doubting not the high importance of their ephemeral concerns with ant-heaps soon to pass away, and no less convinced of their own importance, soberly exchanging futile points of view, ludicrously solemn and dignified, stalked by haemorrhoids, faces suddenly wreathed in beaming pleasantries. Affability as an obligation of rank, bogus smiles, courtesies delivered with a cruel curl of the lip, ambitions sugar-coated with the noblest of airs, calculated machinations and crafty manoeuvrings, honeyed words and suspicious looks — the connivance and stratagems of tomorrow's dead men.
Like a beetling dockside crane, the leader of the Swedish delegation leaned wearily over Lady Cheyne, who, blithe spirit, sipped the tea in her cup then unwound her long, supple, nut-brown arms with unlovely ease. Lord Robert Cecil, garnished with large, elegantly degenerate ears, smiling and feeling the cold, round-shouldered, a tall, hunched vulture and romantic actor in a high wing-collar, was explaining an extraordinary golf shot to a diminutive French prime minister of radical persuasion and imposing girth, who understood nothing but listened with electoral attention. The young Marquess of Chester smiled smiles of sterling shyness and in a timid stammer offered well-bred suggestions, 'if I may say so,' to Benès who, to be civil and to avoid compromising the loan, smiled back through teeth which were much too regular to be true. A towering, high-handed horse, Fridtjof Nansen, nodded approvingly at the man from The Times, vigorously wagging his head and the drooping moustache that went with it to compensate for his straying attention. Lady Cheyne doled out the bounty of her graded civilities, matching them to the status of the persons with whom she conversed and beaming between the two lines which, running from her nostrils to the sides of her mouth, enshrined the contempt of the truly rich. Underlings listened to their betters with rapt attention. Peevish behind a goatee, a foreign minister repeated that it was quite out of ze queshiun and that his gumment would never continence. Beneath a turban of gold, his hands ashen and his eyes bloodshot, a lone rajah reflected. The accredited fly on the international wall, an American lady journalist, was interviewing another foreign minister who was saying that this year would be make or break and constitute a turning-point in international politics. The Bulgarian delegate, a nautch-girl run to fat in thick horn-rimmed glasses, ajangle with bracelets and brooches, a poetess with whom a shy young king had lost his innocence thirty years before, exuded sickly perfumes, quoted Bergson's 'spiritual supplement', and then drove home her point, mammaries pitching and rolling, to the Greek delegate whom she was holding by one button of his jacket in her eagerness to convince. Wherever she went, her nose peeling from too much sun, the Secretary-General's beautiful secretary left a trail of the fragrance of pear blossom. Young bulls, silkily multilingual, laughed dauntlessly. Hygienic and thoroughly scrubbed, her pince-nez attached by a ribbon to her bosom, the Danish delegate stood listening, virginal and pure, to a prime minister who, as he belatedly acknowledged the eager greetings of those around him, explained that this year would be make or break and constitute a turning-point in international politics, a view surreptitiously noted by an eavesdropping journalist. The Deputy Secretary-General closed one eye and puffed up his cheeks the better to decipher the hidden meaning of the formal civilities uttered by Titulesco, the beardless guardian of inner sanctums. Injecting a chummy note into his voice, Benedetti, Head of the Information Section, repeated his instructions to his one-armed aide, who was being watched from afar by his jealous secretary to whom he had been promising marriage for years. The almost white-skinned delegate from Haiti prowled, speaking to no one, gloomily carding the wool of his hair. Albert Thomas, irretrievably suburban, wagged a bright-red tongue through the lush growth of his Greek-patriarch beard, over which the lenses of his spectacles glinted mischievously. The Bulgarian delegate circulated, jangling with passionate intensity and spreading waves of cypress in the wake of her tremendous rump, then sprang at Anna de Noailles, who had just appeared looking deathly ill, and fell on her neck with loud cries. One of Luxemburg's ministers, dumbfounded at being taken seriously, cupped a hand to one ear and relished the remarks directed at him by the German delegate who had a twitch which exposed a set of terrifying canines. Two enemies walked arm in arm and as they went squeezed each other's biceps to bruising point. With rage in his heart, Poland's Foreign Minister, a consumptive condor, accepted the congratulations of the Liberian delegate. Spaak, pure in heart, believed implicitly in the good faith of a smiling Belgian ambassador whose head never stopped nodding approvingly. Humpbacked on a chair, with the butt of a dead cigarette glued to his pendulous lower lip, Aristide Briand informed a newspaper editor overcome by gratitude that this year would be make or break and constitute a turning-point in international politics, then looked around with lifeless eyes and with one drooping finger summoned an embassy secretary who, hardly believing his luck, hurried light-footedly forward, with the grace of a ballerina taking a curtain-call, bent down, lent a doting ear and relished the whispered order. Sunk in an overstuffed armchair and enjoying a long cigarette, Volpi, the new Chairman of the Permanent Mandates Commission, sat dreamily thinking up strategies guaranteed to raise him to the rank of Grand Officer.
Adrien Deume stepped modestly into the lobby, keeping a sharp eye open for any important personages he knew. Spotting the Marquis Volpi, he paused and pursed his lips as an aid to thought. Why not, what the hell, during the last session he had personally handed documents to him, even explained a point of procedure, and had been thanked effusively for his pains. Seize the moment by the tail, especially since the Chairman was sitting by himself, smoking a cigarette. So walk up to him casually, nod and present your respects, which would provide an excuse for starting a conversation, which might in turn be the beginning of a personal contact. Try to bring the talk round to Leonardo da Vinci or Michelangelo. He buttoned his jacket and bore down on his quarry giving no indication that he had seen him yet so that their meeting would seem to be an effect of chance rather than design. When at last he faced the prey he hoped to bag, he manufactured a sophisticated look of delighted surprise, smiled and bowed low, his right hand at the ready. The Marquis Volpi stared at him without responding and the young civil servant looked away, giving the impression that he was smiling at a delicious thought which had struck him, then took to his heels.
Having retreated to the safety of the far end of the room, leaning against the wall with his hands clasped behind his back, meek and despondent, watching for an opportunity to pounce and carry off a prize, Adrien Deume observed the political comings and goings, fascinated by the proximity of such desirably influential figures absorbed in substantive discussions who, with just one word in Sir John's ear, could magically transmute an A into an adviser. From a respectful distance he watched them with deference, nay, with a reverence that hurt, dewy-eyed and pleading, insignificant and scorned, stationed at the rich man's gate, where he caught whiffs of the life of power of which he was no part — of five-star hotels, entertainment allowances, exchanges of views and overall assessments. With his back against his wall, alone, a person of no importance, he smarted at not knowing any of the dignitaries who were there, within arm's reach, on display but not to be touched. He would have liked so much to go among them and shake hands, say hello how are you, nice to see you, chat to life's royalty, to be brilliant and come out with bright comments as witty as they were profound, and above all to be clapped on the back by an important person. Alas, he knew no one, not a single delegate who
might have introduced him, not even a technical adviser to tack himself on to. Should he opt for the brazen, frontal approach and simply introduce himself to Spaak, who was a fellow countryman after all? He turned the possibility over and over in his mind, but did not dare.
At length, after waiting in hopes which remained unfulfilled, for he was not recognized or even noticed by any dignitary, he abandoned his crow's nest and went roaming further afield, with eyes peeled, but found nothing to harpoon. The big fish, the ministers and ambassadors whom he had never met, were too big for him. The rest, a shoal of which were backed up in a corner, were small fry beneath his consideration, interpreters, secretaries and facetious journalists who slapped each other wise-crackingly on the back, only too delighted to be misinformed three hours before the general public was. Alone and ignored, the correspondent employed by a Jewish wire agency smiled at the young civil servant with the complicity of the solitary and held out his hand. Without pausing, Adrien kept him at bay with a hurried hello and quickened his step.
He had his back against another wall when who should he see emerging from the Council Chamber but the Secretary-General, who was putting on a cordially jocular display for the Japanese ambassador, a tiny, wizened old party in gold-rimmed glasses, holding him by the upper biceps to demonstrate the sincerity of his feelings. Suddenly Adrien broke into a cold sweat, convinced that Sir John Cheyne had caught his eye and had frowned. Appalled by the idea that he had been observed paddling idly in this tide of pomp where he had no business to be, he about-turned and made for the exit at a pace which he hoped would seem determined and conscientious, modest but above reproach, the step of a man going about his business. Once he was safely in the corridor outside, he made off at a trot towards the reassuring haven of his office.
CHAPTER 12
Behold the Valiant, the five cousins and sworn friends, newly come unto Geneva, mark them well, these men of silver tongue, these Jews of sunnier climes and even finer words, proud to have remained French citizens within their ghetto on the Greek island of Cephalonia, and loyal to the old and noble country and the old tongue.
First, mark Saltiel of the Solals, uncle to Solal of the handsome visage, an old man of consummate kindliness, without guile, solemn, now seventy-five years of age, so engaging to see with his clean-cut, clean-shaven, pleasantly lined face, with his crest of white hair, the beaver hat tilted over one ear, the nut-brown frock-coat with the inevitable buttonhole, the breeches fastened by a buckle at the knee, the dove-coloured stockings, shoes held by more buckles of antic silver, his earring, the stiff schoolboy collar, the cashmere shawl which keeps his chilly shoulders warm, the flowered waistcoat, and his way of inserting two fingers between the buttons thereof, for he is smitten with Napoleon no less than with the Old Testament and — but tell no man — with the New.
And mark Pinhas of the Solals, whom men call Eater-of-Nails but also Commander-of-the-Winds, bogus barrister and unqualified doctor of medicine, tall and consumptive, with forked beard and tortured face, wearing as always a top-hat and a double-breasted frock-coat over the hairy chest beneath, but today sporting shoes with crampons which he has pronounced indispensable for getting about in Switzerland. So much for him.
Next mark Mattathias of the Solals, known as Gum-Chew but also as Widowman-by-Choice (wives being an expensive item), a tall, gaunt figure, unemotional and circumspect of manner, sallow of face, with blue eyes and pointed ears or rather twitching appendages permanently attuned to the rumour of profit. He has only one arm, for the right ends in a large brass hook with which he scratches the top of his shaven head when estimating how much each potential borrower is good for.
Now mark this perspiring, impressive man of fifty years, by name Michael of the Solals, gold-brocaded usher to the Chief Rabbi of Cephalonia, a gentle giant and devout chaser of skirt. On his island, when he walks through the huddled streets of the Jewish quarter, one hand on hip and the other clenching a bubble-pipe, it is his delight to sing in his deep bass voice and draw the submissive glances of the girls, who admire his immense stature and his large, dyed moustache.
And last, mark the youngest of the Valiant, Solomon of the Solals, seller of apricot-juice in Cephalonia, a sweet, chubby little thing a metre and a half tall, so engaging to behold, with his round, beardless face dotted with freckles, his turned-up nose and the quiff which stands permanently erect over his forehead. A cherub, always admiring, always respectful, dazzled by trifles and readily entranced. Solomon, pure in heart, my best and closest little friend, at times when life disgusts me.
'Well now, gentlemen,' began Uncle Saltiel, standing hand on hip and legs bowed. 'With the help of the tutelary goddess, I have obtained an electrical coupling of the apparatus which transmits the human voice, with the corresponding apparatus inside the League of Nations, and I have informed a refined voice of the opposite sex that I wished to have speech with my nephew. And then there burst forth, like a flower suddenly blooming, another female voice, yet more refined and melodious, luscious as Turkish delight, which proclaimed itself keeper of my nephew's privy secrets. To it I communicated the intelligence that we have this moment, this thirty-first of May, incontinently arrived in Geneva in accordance with the directions of my dear Sol, informing the same that our personal toilettes being completed by means of total immersion in the baths of the aptly named Hotel Modeste, we were at the entire disposal of His Excellency, even adding, to bring a smile to those charming lips, that Solomon had anointed his quiff and forelock with vaseline in the foolish hope of making it lie down. Whereupon, on learning that I was an uncle on the mother's side, the voice like spun gold informed me that my nephew had delayed his return to Geneva, having been obliged to travel as a matter of urgency to divers capitals on secret business.'
'Did she actually say secret?' asked Naileater, somewhat put out.
'No, but the meaning was clear from her tone. He is to return tomorrow, and yesterday he was thoughtful enough to leave a verbal message for me, by the long-distance telephone!'
'All right, all right, we all know you're his pet!' said Naileater. 'Just give us the verbal message and let's have done with these interminable blatherings!'
'The nub of the communication transmitted by the refined lady, who must earn a handsome emolument if we may judge by her voice, is that I am invited to present myself, unaccompanied, tomorrow, the first day of June, at nine o'clock ante meridiem, at the first-class Ritz Hotel.'
'What do you mean unaccompanied?' said Naileater angrily.
'Unaccompanied, she said, and can I help it if he wishes to speak to me in private?' said Saltiel, who opened his snuffbox and took a delicate pinch. 'No doubt your turn will come within the next few days,' he added, not without a hint of malice.
'I see. So I had a bath for nothing,' said Naileater. 'Saltiel, you're going to have to make it up to me, because you needn't think that I braved the waters for my own good pleasure! If that's clear to you, I'm going out. I get edgy if I'm shut up inside too long.'
'Where are you going?' asked Solomon.
'I shall put on my white gloves and leave my card with the Vice-Chancellor of the University of Geneva, a simple courtesy which I must discharge as a former Vice-Chancellor of the Jewish and Philosophical University of Cephalonia which I founded with such success, as I believe you know.'
'What university?' asked Mattathias while Uncle Saltiel shrugged his shoulders. 'Its premises were your back kitchen, and you were the only professor.'
'My dear fellow, quality is much more important than quantity,' retorted Naileater. 'But enough. Let's have no more envy. What I've done is to make a visiting-card by cunningly writing my name so that it looks as if it has been professionally printed. I listed my previous functions, then wrote simply: "from one colleague to another, distinguished greetings", then added the address of our hotel should he in turn feel inclined to drop by and leave his card and invite me to share a polite conversation between Vice-Chancellors over a helping of the Swiss dish known as
"fondue", which is made with cheese, garlic, white wine, nutmeg and a slurp of kirsch which must be added at the last moment. It will all depend on whether he's a man of breeding. Farewell, gentlemen.'