by Albert Cohen
'But where is she, this perfect creature of Israel? And how am I to find her?'
Still ruminating, he went on his way. A gendarme hove into view. He crossed the street on to the pavement on the other side, assuming an innocent, unconcerned air which almost got him run over. Naturally he hadn't done anything wrong, for he had always trod the path of righteousness, but with these damned policemen, you never knew. Outside Cornavin station he stopped dead in his tracks and smote his brow for he had just had the most wondrous idea.
'That's it, dear heart! Put an ad in the Jewish papers!'
In the third-class buffet, his hands shaking with impatience, he asked for 'clean writing-paper, a glass of lake water, if it isn't too much trouble, and a piece of Turkish delight'. This last request provoked a reaction of hostile irony in the waiter, so he settled instead for a black coffee, 'but with lots of sugar, if you would be so good'. After swallowing the first mouthful, he slipped on his old steel-rimmed spectacles with the scratched lenses which blunted his piercing gaze, then licked the point of a pencil which he found in a pocket of his frock-coat.
'Gird on thy sword, O mighty champion,' he muttered to himself, 'and mount thy charger to defend the purity of thy race!'
After tracing a few preliminary arabesques in the air, designed to conjure Inspiration, he began to write, pausing from time to time to nod approvingly or, with a highly self-satisfied air, to take a pinch of snuff from his snuffbox. When the great work was done, he read it over in a whisper, smiling with delight and admiring his handwriting. Oh yes, on the calligraphy front he feared no man!
'Bachelor Uncle seeks Wife on behalf of Nephew, Tremendously Handsome, Brilliant Position, higher than Ambassador (not in same class!). Thoroughly deserves Position plus Tie of Noble Order! Colour of tie withheld, discretion better part of valour. Just one small blemish on his amazing Good Looks: small scar over eye, fell off a horse, he tells me! Which proves he Rides! But aforementioned Scar a mere Trifle! A little white squiggle, hardly noticeable! But nothing escapes an Uncle's Eagle Eye! I mention the scar in all honesty! It's the only blemish! But such an attractive blemish! Otherwise, Magnificent Specimen. The successful applicant must be Healthy and without Hidden Defects! And Young! Must be Stunner! Eyes like a gazelle! Teeth like a flock of shorn sheep after dipping! Hair like a herd of goats on the slopes of Gilead! Cheeks like pomegranate halves! And the rest to match! And no flightiness! No hanky-panky in the background with Tom, Dick and Harry! Uncle not amused by Goings-On! Must be of Highly Reputable, Honourable Jewish family! And God-Fearing, naturally! Virtuous and Sensible! With more than her fair share of Common Sense and able to give Sound Advice and Tick Him Off now and then! A spot of Ticking-Off won't come amiss as long as it is done nicely! Needs, in short, to be a Dove: pointless trying to pull wool over eyes and claiming to be Dove if not Dove, because Uncle is a Psychologist and will strain all applicants through the Sieve of Perspicacity! Dowry not essential since Nephew earns a Fortune! Money no object! What we seek is Virtue and Beauty! Reply to Poste Restante, Geneva, marking envelopes S.S.! Enclose recent photo, not old snap taken ten years ago, since Successful Applicant must be Young and Stunning! Also Good Housekeeper and careful with purse-strings! Not the sort to be forever buying Paris frocks! Still, a dowry would be no disqualification! Especially for the sake of the Young Lady, so that she can keep her Independence and is not put in the Humiliating Position of always pestering him, squawking for Money, saying I haven't got this and I haven't got that and I must have a New Hat! But Dowry not crucial. The main thing is that she must be Virtuous and Level-Headed! Also that she knows when to Keep her Mouth Shut and not make life Hell with Idle Chatter like some Well-Heeled Prattling Women do! All the same, she must be Educated and capable of keeping up an Intelligent Conversation! Music! Poetry and Verse! She should be a Modern Girl, but also go to Synagogue! And Pork must never darken their doorstep! And no Snails or Oysters either! Anyhow, they're not good for you! Nor should she be forever going on about what Well-Placed Connections she has, unlike some sisters of the faith! We simply must invite the Prefect's Wife, and so forth! She mustn't be always nagging at him, because he's a Well-Placed Connection in his own right and doesn't need Prefects! Whenever he meets Prefects, he spits on the floor! And she mustn't bother him about Stock Market Prices! It's unbecoming in a Lady! And none of your Theatre-Going and Dancing every night! And no dolling yourself up all the time! No lipstick! A dab of powder is quite sufficient! In short, a Perfect Young Woman!'
'That should knock this Ariane girl into a cocked hat!' he concluded.
Feeling suddenly tired, he supported his head on one hand, closed his eyes, and immediately fell asleep, for he was old. He woke again almost at once, reread his advertisement and saw that it would serve no purpose. Who could do battle with the most lustrous of Christian girls, a virgin like unto a full moon above a calm sea on a summer's night who doubtless knew whole reams of poems by heart? The answer — that was it! — was to turn this Christian girl into a Daughter of Israel! Fight, he would see to it! He would talk meltingly to her, he would speak of the sanctity of the Commandments, of the greatness of the Prophets, of the tribulations of the Chosen Race, but above all he would explain that God was One and Indivisible, and lo and behold! she would see the light and become a true convert!
'Well now, Sol, I've given the matter careful thought and the answer's yes. Since it is your destiny, go ahead, marry the girl! Your happiness comes first, when all is said and done, and maybe it's God's will. Who knows, how can anybody know? After all, didn't our King Solomon marry wives who were not of our people? So it is agreed, and if you want, as your spiritual father as you put it in the splendid letter you wrote me, I always carry it around with me, you know, in my wallet, if you want, I'll speak to her parents, tell them that I give my consent, that I give my permission in my capacity as your spiritual father, and then ask for her hand on your behalf, it will be more suitable coming from me, and finally raise certain matters with them. I shall dress for the occasion, white gloves, buttonhole, everything as it should be. And, if you'll allow me, I'll have a little word in her ear when you're engaged, make her see things in the right light. And who knows, I mean with God's help, something good might come of it.'
Who knows, perhaps she'd even ask him to teach her Hebrew. He nodded his head with a smile at the prospect of pious conversations and delightful lessons in the sacred tongue. Every day, two hours of tuition, one devoted to Hebrew and the other to the Bible, with commentaries on the Sacred Commandments to dot the i's and cross the t's. She sitting beside him fervent and all ears, and he eloquent, inspired. How could she fail to be converted with that pretty face of hers? And then the wedding in synagogue, the happy couple standing side by side under the wedding canopy, she so sweet, with a blush on her cheek! He would have no difficulty surely in obtaining permission to celebrate the marriage instead of the Rabbi. Didn't he know as much as any rabbi? He could see himself drinking from the ritual cup, then offering it to Sol and the blushing bride, and finally pronouncing the blessing in Hebrew. He recited it in a whisper.
'"Mayest Thou delight this loving couple as of old Thou didst rejoice Thy handiwork in the garden of Delight. Lord our God, may there soon be heard in the cities of Judah and streets of Jerusalem the voice of joy and the voice of gladness, the voice of the bridegroom and the voice of the bride, the voice of wedding jubilation, bridegrooms in their festivities and youth in their festal song. Blessed art Thou, Lord, who rejoicest the bridegroom with the bride and who blessest their welfare!"'
He pulled out his handkerchief to wipe away his tears of joy, sniffed, then smiled. After the blessing, he would partake once more of the wine and offer it to Sol and the new bride, ravishing in white lace, then he would pour the wine away and smash the cup in memory of Jerusalem Lost. Later he would escort them to the train which would whisk them away on their honeymoon, and he would repeat his blessing. Yes, he would embrace the young woman, respectfully — she was his niec
e after all.
Leaving the station buffet, he ambled slowly along the Rue de Chantepoulet, head bowed and back bent, turning over pleasant thoughts in his mind. Make that a kiss on both cheeks. 'Thank you for everything, Uncle dear,' she would say. 'May God protect you, child, and mind you take care, don't do anything silly, and no jumping, especially after the third month.' And nine months after the wedding the first-born would arrive, and then a second, and a third. Two boys and a girl. Perhaps the second would be named Saltiel if the young mother was agreeable. Anyhow, he'd have to see. Trust in the will of the Almighty.
Lord! How mighty God was! The God of Abraham, of Isaac and of Jacob! This evening he would go to the synagogue to mark the coming of the sabbath and sing praises to the Almighty with his brothers and kiss the scrolls whereon the sacred law of Almighty God was writ! Oh the joy, the honour of belonging to the people which was the chosen of God! What grace and favour! Carried away, he stamped his foot three times, very hard, paying no attention to the curious, mocking stares which came his way.
Paying no heed to the curious, mocking stares, he walked on, invincible and praising the Lord, invincible and praising Him who was his strength and his tower, his strength and his tower, singing praises with all his heart, stamping his foot with all his soul, raising his hat now and then to any passers-by he liked the look of, smiling at them because God ruled sublime in his heart, then stamping his foot some more and singing the praises of the Almighty.
CHAPTER 16
The bedroom of Monsieur and Madame Deume senior, by day occupied exclusively by Madame, her mental fatigue requiring solitude and concentration.
Mixed smells: camphor, methyl salicylate, lavender and mothballs. On the mantelpiece, a gilt bronze clock surmounted by a uniformed standard-bearer valiantly dying for his country; a bride's posy under a glass dome; everlasting flowers; a small bust of Napoleon; a terracotta Italian mandolin player; a Chinese peasant sticking out his tongue; a small trinket case covered with blue velvet and decorated with sea-shells, a present from the Mont-Saint-Michel; a little Belgian flag; a miniature coach made of spun glass; a china geisha-girl; a fake Dresden marquis; a dinky metal shoe stuffed with pin-cushion velvet; a large pebble, a souvenir from Ostend. In front of the fireplace, a painted screen showing two puppies fighting over a croissant. On the walls, a huge fretwork heart inset with smaller hearts containing photographs of the van Offels, the Rampals, assorted Leerberghes, Hippolyte Deume at six months with no clothes on, Josephine Butler and dear Doctor Schweitzer; a selection of Japanese fans; a Spanish shawl; the chimes of Big Ben; verses from the Bible picked out in poker-work or luminous paint or sewn in satin-stitch; two oil-paintings, one of a small chimney-sweep playing marbles with a little pastry-cook's boy, and the other of a cardinal at lunch teasing a fluffy white cat. Over the head of the bed, an enlarged photograph of the first Madame Deume, plump and smiling, with the dates of her birth and death. Here, there and everywhere, little cloth tidies; pads under the lampstands; fringed lampshades; crocheted antimacassars; footstools, footmuffs and footwarmers; screens to ward off the cold and block insidious draughts; a set of brushes with tortoiseshell backs; glove boxes; an arrangement of green sponge with artificial flowers stuck in it; divers ferns; embossed pewter plant-pot holders; glassware by Gallé; a bald dwarf containing matches; paperweights; smelling-salts; marshmallow-flavoured cough lozenges.
Interminable and bony, prone on her bed, with her brown-warted hands crossed over her bosom, Madame Deume was taking her belated nap, snoring with the certainty of the just, her squinting teeth resting on the pallid pillow of her lower lip. Waking suddenly, she threw back the counterpane and, attended by her red-painted fingernails, got up, scantily, unattractively but sensibly clad, for, since the days still grew cool towards evening, she had thought it prudent to take off her calico bloomers and don a pair of man's loose woollen combinations which came down to her ankles and hung slackly about her. This garment, split fore and aft and lined inside, was of a mustard hue, a most practical colour, and the seat was strengthened by a patch of muslin decorated with mauve flowers.
After putting herself through a yoga routine to get herself in harmony with 'the Universal' (she had recently read a vaguely Buddhist book, had understood very little of it, but had been greatly taken with this Universal), she stretched out on the carpet, raised both legs, propped them on a low stool and relaxed. She then closed her eyes and bent her mind to thinking calming and constructive thoughts, which included the keen interest which God took in her. At four thirty she rose, for it was time to get ready since the butler would be arriving in an hour. After allowing her eye to linger lovingly over her ample hoard of household and personal linen ranged on the shelves of her mirror-fronted wardrobe, she put on a bright orange camisole, then a petticoat, and finally stepped into her new dress with the diamante motifs. With Aunt Lisa's watch duly pinned to her chest, she poked a lavender-scented handkerchief into her chaste, flaccid sponge of a bosom, then round her waist looped a chatelaine from which hung an assortment of gold trinkets: a four-leafed clover, a number 13 enclosed in a square, a small horseshoe, a general's cocked hat and a tiny lantern. In full harness, she proceeded majestically down the stairs, more decorous than any queen mother.
After popping her head round the door of the kitchen, where she did not fail to bestow a gracious comment on the maid ('It's easy to see, my girl, what sort of home you come from') which was immediately followed by the customary smile which committed her inexorably to loving her neighbours, she went off to inspect the drawing-room, where all seemed shipshape. Even so, she moved three armchairs and pushed them closer to the settee to create a cosy corner. So. Herself and Hippolyte on the settee, their guest in the middle, in the best armchair, and Didi and his wife in the other two. Between the settee and the easy chairs would go the naice littel Moroccan coffee-table with the liqueurs, cigarettes and the good cigars. Yes, everything quite in order. She ran her finger over the low table and inspected it. No dust. When they were all sitting down, she would suggest coffee or tea and then they would chat. A good topic would be the van Offels. 'They're old friends, so very refined.' These preliminaries to a full dress rehearsal were interrupted by Monsieur Deume, who, from his eyrie on the first floor, asked if he could come down for a minute, adding that he wouldn't dirty anything: 'I'm still weawing my parquet-pwotectors.'
'What is it now, dear?' she said, already exasperated, as he came through the door and only narrowly avoided slipping on the over-polished floor.
'I've been weflecting and I weally think we ought to start with soup. Perhaps he likes soup.'
'Who?' she said, with a hint of sadism.
'Didi's boss, of course.'
'You could at least take the trouble to give him his proper title.'
'It's such a mouthful I always twip up when I twy to say it. Thing is, maybe he likes soup.' (The old hypocrite was thinking more of himself than of their guest of honour. He loved soup. He often said he was 'a wegular soup-fiend'.)
'I've already told you there wouldn't be any. Soup is common.'
'But we have soup evewy evening!'
'I'm talking about tone,' she groaned. 'One doesn't say soup, one says potage. One never gives important persons soup. Tonight we'll be having potage bisque.'
'Oh, I see. Is it nice?'
'It's what they serve kings and queens with.'
'And what's in it?' he asked, when his mouth had stopped watering.
'It can be made from all kinds of things,' she said prudently. 'You'll see tonight.'
Whereupon, taking his courage in both hands, he said that he would like to know exactly what was on the evening's menu. Yes, he wealized that he had asked particularly not to be told what there would be for dinner, so that he would be 'surpwised, like in a hotel when you're on your hols'. But the suspense was more than he could bear. He was delighted by her readiness to agree to his request. She opened a drawer and took out a long rectangle of stiff card.
'It's
a surprise for Adrien, I just went ahead and ordered printed menus, had them engraved, do you see, with gilt lettering, which was an extra ten per cent, but well worth it. I had fifty done, five to put out on the table and the rest will keep in case we ever give other dinners for Didi's important friends, and if not they'll make a naice show. It cost the same for fifty as for five, might as well have whatever's going. You can have a look if your hands are clean.'
Potage bisque
Lobster Thermidor
Sweetbreads a la Princesse
Snipe Toasties
Foie Gras a la Colmar
Asparagus, Sauce Mousseline
Mixed Salad a la Pompadour
Meringue Glacée
Assorted Cheeses
Exotic Fruits
Bombe Glacée Tutti Frutti
Cakes and Biscuits
Café
Liqueurs
Cigars by Henry Clay and Upmann
Having perused the menu with an excitement which did not exclude a twinge of panic, he read it again more calmly, his lips moving over the words so as to fix them firmly in his mind, while she looked on, basking in the admiration which she felt sure she could see written all over her husband's face. She was proud of her brainchild. She had drawn it up by supplementing her inspiration from royal menus snipped out of newspapers, of which she had a collection. He felt that a compliment was called for, but he tempered his eulogy with a remark which immediately brought her eyebrows together.