Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  'Very well,' smiled Solal.

  'Thanks be to God,' Saltiel said, and then sighed: 'And yet he is a man getting on in years.'

  'He has the constitution of an ox.'

  'Thanks be to God,' Saltiel said, and then gave a little cough. 'So, you are happy with world politics. But have a care: if this Hitler fellow asks you to lunch, don't go! Of course, if you absolutely have to accept because of your job, then go, but tell him your stomach's upset and you're not allowed to eat anything. I've just remembered, he keeps a cupboard full of all kinds of poisons. So don't eat anything if you do go, for the love of God, and if he gets angry, pay no attention. Let him get angry if he wants! Let him drop dead! A thousand curses upon him! The thing to do is to keep well in with the French and the English. When you write to them, butter them up, obedient servant and so forth. Anyway, my boy, what have you decided about your dinner this evening?'

  'I shall go.'

  'Lot of important people coming, I imagine?'

  'She is beautiful and Ariane is her name.'

  'Is she Jewish, son?'

  'No. One last time shall I see her this evening and then it will be over, I shall let her be. Goodbye, Uncle.'

  He placed the avuncular hat on the old man's head, kissed him on the shoulder, showed him to the door, and poor Saltiel, feeling lost, found himself in the dimly lit corridor. He walked slowly down the stairs, rubbing his nose and scratching his forehead. Clearly the boy was smitten, obsessed! How was it that only the daughters of Gentiles were pleasing to the boy's eye? First there had been that consul's wife, then the consul's wife's cousin, Aude, she was dead, may her soul rest in peace, and God knows how many others after her, and now there was this Ariane! No denying that all these blonde creatures were charming, but surely there were also plenty of Jewish girls who were charming, educated and fond of reciting poetry. What was it that they didn't have, apart from not being fair of hair?

  With a lugubrious word to the porter, he went out into the street, where seagulls with an anti-Semitic gleam in their eye flew round and round shrieking stupidly, enraged by hunger. He paused at the lake. The water was wonderful, so clean that anybody would pay to drink out of it. These Swiss had all the luck. Setting off again, he addressed his nephew.

  'Don't misunderstand me, my boy, I've got nothing against Christians, indeed I've always said that a good Christian is at least as good as any Jew on an off day. But, do you see, with a girl who is one of us you're part of the family, you can talk everything over with her, like brother and sister if you follow me. Whereas with a Christian girl, even the most delightful and sweetest-tempered of them, you would be well advised not to bring up certain matters if you don't want her vexed or offended. In any case she'll never understand our trials and tribulations the way we do. And besides, even if she is absolutely delightful, she'll always be watching you out of the corner of one eye, thinking something unpleasant about us when you're having a row, something not very flattering. Gentiles don't mean any harm, it's just that they have wrong ideas. They think badly of us because they believe they're right, poor misguided souls. I'll have to write a book to show them how mistaken they are. Besides, you know, every twenty or thirty years, that is in the lifetime of every man, something catastrophic happens to us. The day before yesterday it was the pogroms in Russia and elsewhere. Yesterday the Dreyfus affair. Today the utter beastliness of the Germans, and tomorrow God only knows what. You'll get through the hard times which are coming much better with a good Jewish girl by your side. Oh dear, why on earth did you send me away without giving me a chance to talk some sense into you?'

  Lost in his thoughts, he walked on, rubbing his nose and scratching his forehead. To be sure, Sol had promised that he would let this Ariane girl be. But unfortunately he was smitten with her, he'd said so. So when he saw her tonight at dinner she'd be so willowy and blonde that he'd forget his resolve and pow! he'd look at her in a soul-stirring sort of way, he'd smile, he'd show his teeth, and the poor unfortunate girl would be ensnared, for he was winning and gentle and they liked that. For consider: had not the rogue, when barely sixteen, carried off the luscious wife of a French consul, as wide as she was tall? He sighed.

  'Only one thing to be done: find one of our girls for him.'

  He clapped his hands. Yes, put this Mademoiselle Ariane up against a virginal Jewish paragon with good looks, good health, expensive clothes, a taste for poetry, the piano, daily baths and modern-style skiing. When a suitable candidate was found, he'd praise her charms to his nephew, he'd overpower him with words, for his words would be like a needle in the hands of an expert etcher. Yes, baffle him with eloquence, marry him off whip and spur, and put a stop to all these silly notions!

  'Forward march! First stop, the Rabbi's. Let's find out what he's got on offer!'

  CHAPTER 14

  At two o'clock that afternoon, Madame Deume and her adopted son settled themselves in the drawing-room, she in a salmon-pink camisole and he in plus-fours. Tied under their shoes were detachable felt soles, the kind used to protect parquet floorings.

  'Well now, darling, and how did it all go at the Palais on your first morning as an A?' enquired the bony lady with the head of a sententious dromedary. Under her chin hung a short ligament of skin ending in a small adipose lump which was constantly on the move, like a clapperless bell.

  'Swimmingly,' said Adrien simply. He was determined to appear nonchalant, as one to the manner born. 'Swimmingly,' he repeated, 'except that the lock on my glass-fronted bookcase turned out to be faulty. Well, it did work after a fashion, but you had to try ever so hard to turn it every time, so as you can imagine I told the little man from Equipment what he could do with it and he sent up a locksmith on the double. An A gets the full VIP treatment.'

  'Of course, darling,' said Madame Deume approvingly, and she smiled, her long upper incisors coming to rest at an oblique angle on the soft cushion of her lower lip. 'Listen, I hope you'll make allowances for this poor excuse for lunching, just sandwiches, hardly the thing to set before an A, but on a day like today I've had other things on my mind, and anyway you'll have all the more appetite for dinner this evening. (She stopped talking suddenly and played with her adipose lump, a living trinket which she fingered in her more meditative moments, savouring the feel of its spongy texture.) What's the matter, Didi? You've got your worried face on all of a sudden. Is it on her account? You can tell Mummy.'

  'It's that damned note on her door. Always the same old story — she's asleep and mustn't be disturbed. Nasty habit she's got into, taking those sleeping-pills.'

  Again her hand strayed to the dangling meatball. She poked it with expert fingers, sighed, but decided this was not the moment for saying exactly what she thought. Not now, not on a red-letter day, when they were expecting the Under-Secretary-General of the League of Nations to dinner. Didi needed every ounce of his strength.

  'It's not surprising, what she needs is an interest in life,' she could not prevent herself from saying even so. 'If only she could bring herself to do a few things around the house! It's staying in her room for hours on end reading novels that stops her sleeping, poor pet.'

  'I'll have a serious heart-to-heart with her tomorrow when we won't have the invitation to worry about,' said Adrien. 'And you realize that the sleeping-pill was because it was midnight when we got back from the Johnsons'. Incidentally, I didn't have time this morning to tell you how the dinner went. Awfully smart, nothing but the best, there were eighteen of us. Faultless service. Everything in the very best of taste. I got invited on the strength of my A, of course. I'm somebody now, the Johnsons actually notice me. The USG was there, very sprucely turned out, but he hardly said a thing. Just exchanged a few words with Lady Haggard, who is pretty thick with the Johnsons, they're on first-name terms, the Johnsons calling her Jane at every opportunity. She's the one who's the wife of the British Consul-General, who in fact ranks as a full minister given how important his posting is in Geneva, it happens sometimes, anyway he was
n't there, had the flu. She's a looker, a lot younger than her husband, thirty-two at most, only had eyes for the USG. When we moved into the drawing-room, the biggest of them, because believe it or not there are three en suite ...'

  'The van Offels have three drawing-rooms en suite too,' broke in Madame Deume with a modest smile, and she exhaled noisily through her nose.

  'So anyway, when we moved to the drawing-room, Lady Haggard sat down next to the USG and did nothing but talk to him, literally threw herself at him, and then, since the conversation got on to some cave or other the Johnsons have in the grounds, she offered to show him round it. Exactly what happened in the cave I couldn't say. Veil drawn over proceedings! And then, just as she was leaving, she offered him a lift in her car back to the Ritz since he hadn't brought his, perhaps it was being repaired, though I'd be surprised, since he's got a Rolls. What went on between them, well now, I'd sooner not speculate, least said soonest mended! I forgot to mention that among the guests there was also a counsellor from the Romanian legation, he was sitting on Madame Johnson's left with the USG on her right. So you see the kind of company my A gets me into!'

  'Yes, darling,' said Madame Deume, happy for her adopted son's social success but inwardly seething at having no part of it and far from eager to be told about a world which behaved as though she did not exist.

  'But that's enough of that. Tell me, Mumsy, there's just one little thing that bothers me. Poor Dada looked awfully low in his den after lunch. The way you sent him packing was a teeny bit obvious, you know.'

  'Nothing of the sort. I put it to him very naicely that I needed a quiet word with you about the arrangements for this evening. I even called him "dearest Hippolyte", so I don't see how you can say that.'

  'Yes, but he feels left out of things.'

  'Not at all, he has his etiquette manual. Oh, I forgot to tell you, you won't credit it, but this morning he shot off to town bright and early to buy himself a guide to good manners and never told me, would you believe, never asked me what I thought. Oh no, his lordship wanted to confront me with a fait accompli. I know it comes out of his pocket money, but even so he might have shown a littel more consideration. But I've forgiven him and no bad feelings. It would have been something if it had kept him happy, but all blessed morning while you were out at the Palais, he insisted on following me around reading out bits from his book, I only listened with one ear, believe me, I had far too many other things on my mind.'

  'Why not try to get him to join in a bit more. He never said a word all through lunch, the poor old boy obviously feels excluded.'

  'But I do get him to join in. This morning I had him traipsing up and down the corridor. You can't beat felt soles for giving a parquet a good finish. He was only too glad to feel he was helping.'

  'Fine. (He punctuated this monosyllabic comment by knocking his pipe out with the brisk flourish denoting the man of action which Madame Deume observed with admiration. Yes, Didi took after her, a true Leerberghe. All the same, she made a mental note: "Get Martha to give the ashtray a wipe over and tell her to hoover under the coffee-table.") Anyhow, Mummy, how far have we got with the arrangements? Our guest will be arriving at seven thirty. I should have said eight.'

  'Why?'

  'Because it's much more the thing. Dinner at the Kanakises' always starts at eight, same goes for the Rassets and the Johnsons too. The thing is I was a bit flustered, understandably so, when I dangled the invitation on the end of my line. (He was pleased with the image.) But too bad, what's done is done. What's important is that I'm the only one in the whole of my section to have the USG to dinner. Unless VV ... no I don't think so. Anyway, fill me in about where we're up to with the preparations, what's been done and what's left to do, you know, a brief report on the state of play, to give me some idea of where I stand, but it'll have to be quick because it's already twenty past two and I have heaps of errands to do in town. If I could have swung it, I'd have taken the morning off too, but not with VV's temper the way it is these days. Between you and me, he just can't stomach my A, espeeially since he obviously sees me as a potential successor.'

  'Yes, darling,' she said, gazing at him fondly.

  'As it is, I was jolly lucky to get the afternoon off and I could hardly tell him outright it was on account of this dinner party for the USG, now could I, because that would have put me in his bad books once and for all.'

  'Of course, dear, you're right. But what are these errands you've to do?'

  'Candles for a start. We'll have a candlelit dinner. Lots of people are doing it nowadays.'

  'But, darling, we have plenty of candles!'

  'No,' he said in a categorical voice. (He relit his pipe and pulled masterfully on it.) 'They're the twisted sort, dreadfully passe. We've got to have straight ones, like they do at the Rassets. (Madame Deume's face turned to stone: the Rassets had never invited her to anything.) And there's something else. I'm going to change the wines. Goretta, if you please, sent me up a 1924 Bordeaux and a 1926 Burgundy. They're quite good vintages and he thought they'd pass muster. But I'm going to insist on Saint-Emilion 1928, Chateau Lafite, also 1928, and a 1929 Beaune, both excellent years, indeed I'd go as far as to say they are exceptional. (Recent expertise this, picked up from a book about wine he had bought the previous day.) Rather than phone, I shall call in myself and see to it that the order is changed there and then. They thought they could see me coming, but I'll show them exactly the sort of person they're dealing with!'

  'Yes, dear,' said Madame Deume, tickled by her Didi's manly manner.

  'And there'll have to be flowers.'

  'But we have masses in the garden. I was just about to go and pick some!'

  'No, we must have pukka flowers.'

  'What sort of flowers, darling?' she asked, and she neatened her great big man's tie for him.

  'I'll see. Maybe orchids. Or perhaps water-lilies we can put in a bowl of water in the middle of the table.'

  'But wouldn't that look peculiar?'

  'When Lady Cheyne gives formal dinner parties, she always has flowers floating in bowls in the centre of her table, Kanakis was telling me about it only the other day.'

  'Does he get invited there?' she asked, pouncing like a tigress.

  'Yes,' he replied after clearing his throat.

  'But he's not senior to you, is he?'

  'No, but his uncle's a minister. That opens doors.'

  There was a silence during which Madame Deume again poked at her lump, suddenly dejected at the thought of the undistinguished husband which fate had wished on her. She sighed.

  'You have no idea how difficult your poor Dada was all morning, following me around everywhere I went, reading out snippets from his etiquette book. In the end, I had to pack him off to the guest room, I've turned it into a naice littel snuggery for him since we got back so that I can get a bit of peace. If only he could take some of the pressure off you by running a few of your errands. But he's quite hopeless, poor man, gets everything mixed up. Anyway, you may not have an uncle who's a minister but you've got where you are on your own merits.'

  She picked a speck of dust off her adopted son's jacket.

  'Shush a minute! I'm thinking!'

  She respected Adrien's inward communing and turned the silence to good use by running a finger over the top of the coffee-table. She inspected the fingertip. Good, Martha had done a thorough dusting. Through the open door wafted the voice of Monsieur Deume, who was declaiming a thrilling gem out of his etiquette book: '"When the guest unfolds his napkin, he sets his bwead down on his left"! Hear that, Antoinette?' She sang out: 'Yes, thank you!' Again the voice of Dada rang down: '"Bwead should be cwumbled with the fingers and never cut with a knife. Pieces may be bwoken off as and when wequired. On no account should morsels be pwepared in advance of need"!'

  'There! He's been like that all morning. Do you realize the patience I've needed?'

  'Listen, Mummy, I want this to be a really smart dinner party! So I've decided to let him choo
se the wines! Of course, the awfully in thing is to serve dry champagne all through dinner! I'm practically certain that's what he'll prefer and it'll impress him no end, you know. So, just as we're about to sit down to table, I'll say to him, all casual: "Which would you prefer, Under-Secretary-General, the classic accompaniment or just champagne?" I'll have to think about the wording. If he chooses champagne, the Bordeaux and the Burgundy will do for another time. Are you agreed that we shouldn't worry about expense?'

  'Oh absolutely! Not for an occasion like this!'

  'Champagne all through dinner is terribly smart! Best have six bottles so there's no danger of running out. In case he turns out to be a big drinker, though I don't think he is, still you never know. Oh, yes, that's it! Eureka!'

  'Whatever's the matter, darling?'

  He stood up, walked to the window, returned to his adoptive mother, and stood staring at her, hands in pockets, with a smile of triumph.

  'I've had an idea! And if I say so myself, it's utterly brilliant!'

  At this juncture, shuffling gracefully, Monsieur Deume appeared in the doorway, a small seal of a man with a goatee and large, round, prominent eyes which looked bewildered behind the lenses of his pince-nez. He said sowwy to intewwupt, opened his etiquette book at the page he was keeping with his forefinger, repositioned his pince-nez which hung round his neck on a ribbon, and started to read.

  '"On being called to table, wait until the first course is served before starting to eat any bwead. It is not cowwect to begin nibbling one's bwead the moment one sits down. (He waggled his forefinger in the manner of the conductor of an orchestra waving his baton, to underline the following vital sentence.) It is also incowwect to eat large amounts of bwead between courses, as this displays an impetuosity of hunger and a lack of westwaint."'