by Albert Cohen
CHAPTER 19
At ten minutes to seven, the three Deumes took their places in the drawing-room, grave-faced and dignified. When she had sat down, exuding mothballs, her cheeks aflame with the lavender water she had rubbed into them, Madame Deume declared that since their guest was not due to arrive for another forty minutes, at seven thirty, they should make the most of the time to put their feet up, sit back in their armchairs and relax, closing their eyes if they could. But these words of wise counsel were soon forgotten in a welter of nervous toings and froings and brittle smiles.
There was a great deal of sitting down and standing up. Severally they got up to move a table a wee bit closer, to open the plush curtains just a trifle wider, to push back a coffee-table, to rearrange the liqueur bottles by size, to put the curtains back as they were because they were far far better like that, to check if that was really a spot down there or just a shadow, to move an ashtray, to make more of a display of the cigar- and cigarette-boxes, for Adrien had an eye for creative disorder which he strove constantly to refine with the aid of his limited-edition de-luxe art books.
For her part, Madame Deume left the room seven times: to give Orders to 'the domestics'; to make sure the hall did not smell of potage bisque; to dab a little more powder on her face; to cast a final look over the dining-room table and the downstairs lavatory; to straighten her choker; to remove any excess powder and smooth her eyebrows; and, finally, to take that last-minute precaution which was followed by the clank of a cistern and the rushing of mighty waters. When she returned, flapping her hand over her hindquarters, she advised both Hippolyte and Didi to follow her example, one after the other.
'What does your watch say?' she asked for the third time.
'Seven thirteen,' said Adrien.
'Another seventeen minutes,' said Monsieur Deume, who went on reciting to himself pieces of advice from his etiquette book.
Do not mop up the gwavy on your plate with a piece of bwead. Fine, that was an easy one. It should be left to the senior person pwesent to inauguwate the conversation. That was fine too. But if this chap didn't inauguwate the conversation did it mean that they weren't allowed to speak? It would be a weal wum do, a lot of people sitting awound looking at each other waiting for the chap to make a start. And what else was there? Ah yes, when guests are first introduced, the talk should be of common acquaintances. But he didn't have any acquaintances in common with the chap. Apart, that is, fwom Didi. They'd talk about Didi. But he couldn't keep going on the subject for long, except to say that he was extwemely fond of him. In his heart he knew they should have stayed on in Bwussels and not come hawing back to Geneva for this blessed dinner party. It was all her fault, she was simply itching for a chance to be a gwand social hostess.
'Didi, it is the case, is it not, that your wife will come down the moment he gets here?'
'Oh yes, Mummy, I've told Martha exactly what she's to do. She'll go up and call her the minute he arrives.'
'Talking of Martha,' said Madame Deume, 'it will be her job to answer the door, I've just been to tell her.'
'But why not the butler? It would be much smarter.'
'He'll see the butler soon enough since the butler will be serving dinner. But I also want him to have sight of the maid, housemaid rather, I'll get her to wear the littel embroidered apron and white cap I bought for her yesterday. Seeing as how we've got a housemaid and butler we might as well show them off. I've told Martha exactly what to do, how to open the door, how to say good evening, how to take his hat, how to show him into the drawing-room where we'll be waiting. (Old Monsieur Deume gave a shudder.) I also bought her a pair of white cotton gloves, like the ones at Madame Ventradour's.
I've already told her to put them on, so that she doesn't forget them at the last moment. She's such a scatterbrain. So, barring accidents, which can never be ruled out, everything is well in hand.'
'Listen, Mummy, I've had a thought,' said Adrien, who stopped his pacing and stood hands in pockets. 'There's something been bothering me: the hall, it looks rather bare. That abstract painting in my bedroom, I think I'll fetch it down and put it in the hall. It was done by an artist who's all the rage just now. It'll go well there instead of that engraving, which doesn't amount to anything much.'
'But Didi, there's no time!'
'It's all right, it's exactly twenty past seven. It's not going to take me ten minutes to do it.'
'But what if he gets here early?'
'High-ups never arrive early. Come on!'
'But at least I won't have you carrying that picture yourself, it's far too heavy. It's a job for Martha.'
At seven twenty-four, perched on a stool which had been placed on a chair, Martha was attempting to hang the picture, which positively churned with spirals and circles, while Madame Deume held her firmly by her thick ankles.
'Careful you don't fall!' shouted Monsieur Deume.
'What's the matter with you, yelling like that?' asked Madame Deume without turning round.
'Sowwy I'm sure,' said Monsieur Deume, who didn't dare admit that he was merely getting his socially acceptable raised tone of voice in trim.
At seven twenty-seven, as the picture was finally hung, the doorbell rang and Madame Deume gave a sudden start which sent Martha tumbling off her perch, while further down, the hallway a voice bellowed: it was the exchange angrily informing the subscriber that the phone had been left off the hook. As Monsieur Deume helped up Martha, whose nose was bleeding, Adrien hurriedly put the chair and the stool back where they belonged, the doorbell jangled impatiently, the phone brayed, and, in the kitchen, the butler and the caterer's man from Rossi's split their sides.
'You see! He did come early!' whispered Madame Deume. 'Wipe your nose, you silly creature, it's bleeding!' she muttered to Martha who, panic-stricken, reeled round and round and snorted blood noisily into the handkerchief which was held out to her. 'There! That'll do, it's stopped bleeding. Go and change your apron, and be quick, it's got blood all over it! Get another apron! Smile! Apologize for the delay! Say you had a littel accident! Smile, girl, smile!'
The three Deumes scurried into the drawing-room, closed the door, and stood motionless, hearts thumping, forcing a steadfast smile, already shaping for the gracious welcome. 'You and your last-minute ideas about changing the pictures,' muttered Madame Deume. This said, she refashioned her smile to cover her fury. The door opened but it was only Martha, apron skew-whiff, who said 'It's the bomb, mum.' Madame Deume let out a 'Phew!' But of course, the bombe glacée! She had forgotten all about it.
'Are you waiting to take root, you stupid girl? Get along with you, and wash your face! And put your apron straight! Give me back my handkerchief! On second thoughts put it with the dirty washing, not in the bin, put it in the bag with the fine things! Go on, and comb your hair! As for you, Adrien, wanting to hang up pictures at the last moment, well, I just can't think what got into you! Still, it could have been worse. Let's hope she doesn't manage to break a leg. All we need now is for that girl to have an accident and we'd be saddled with her hospital bills. What's the time?'
'Seven twenty-nine.'
'One minute to go,' said Monsieur Deume in a constricted voice.
Madame Deume ran her eyes over her two men. Had they dirtied their clothes in the excitement? No, thank the Lord. Monsieur Deume was chewing the cud of fear. He was sure he'd make a mess of saying how delighted he was when Adwien intwoduced him. And he remembered that there was a lot of palaver in his etiquette book about pwinces and high dignitawies and how they were always at home whewever they went and by wights ought therefore to be put in the host's chair. This chap of Adwien's was a high dignitawy, so maybe he shouldn't be put on Antoinette's wight. Moreover there was the conversation over dinner. The book said that one should never discuss politics but talk about litewature instead. Now that was all vewy well but he didn't know the first thing about litewature and in any case the chap was pwobably pwetty keen on politics, given his job and so forth. But if they
did start talking about litewature he'd listen and nod his head appwovingly, that's what he'd do. Besides, Antoinette didn't weally know an awful lot about litewature either, did she? Still, there'd be Adwien and Awiane.
All three went on just standing there, not having the courage to sit down and behave normally. They waited in silence, awkward under a veneer of ease. The minutes ticked by but the smiles stayed put. Eventually Madame Deume asked what time it was.
Thirty-nine minutes past,' answered Adrien. 'When he rings,' he added, rigid with tension, in a voice barely' audible through lips which hardly moved, 'I shall count to fifteen to give Martha time to open the door and take his hat. Then I'll go and greet him in the hallway, it's more friendly. You two can stay here in the drawing-room.'
'You must introduce me first. The hostess is generally supposed to take precedency,' whispered Madame Deume in a stiff-backed, starched undertone.
'Why on earth do you want him to intwoduce you?' breathed Monsieur Deume, no less rigid, with only his lips moving. 'You know he's Monsieur Solal because we're waiting for him. We've been talking of nobody else for the past month.'
'What's the time now?' asked Madame Deume without condescending to reply.
'Seventeen minutes to eight,' said Adrien.
'I make it sixteen,' said Monsieur Deume.
'I set my watch by the radio,' said Adrien.
He raised his hand and cocked an ear. The distant sound of an approaching car grew louder and rose above the sigh of the wind in the poplars. 'This is it,' breathed Monsieur Deume in a strangled voice which would have been more at home in a dentist's chair immediately prior to an extraction. But the car did not stop. Erect, their ears straining, studying each and every sound from outside, the three Deumes waited bravely on.
'It's the proper thing to arrive a littel late,' said Madame Deume. 'What's the time?'
'Eleven minutes to,' replied Adrien.
'Oh yes,' she went on, 'people with manners always arrive a little late, in case the hosts aren't quite ready. It's a mark of thoughtfulness, of consideration for others. Quite different than the hoipolloi.'
Quite distraught, Monsieur Deume repeated 'different than the hoi polloi' to himself and soon it became fwent a hopoly, fwent a hopoly. All three remained on their feet, waiting in an aspic of beaming, dismal refinement.
Speechlessly slumped in their armchairs, they looked weary and listless. Old Monsieur Deume hummed inaudibly in an effort to appear natural. Adrien's right shoe, its toe perpendicular to the floor, trembled uncontrollably. With lowered eyes, Madame Deume inspected her long, squared-off fingernails, each with an unsightly five-millimetre white crescent inscribed by the penknife she had cleaned them with.
'How's the time going?' she enquired.
'Ten minutes past eight,' said Adrien.
'I make it eleven minutes past,' said Monsieur Deume.
'I told you, I set my watch by the radio,' said Adrien.
'You're quite sure he said seven thirty?' asked Madame Deume.
'Yes, but he did mention he might be a little late,' lied Adrien.
'I see, well that's something. Still, you might have told me.'
They resumed their waiting, feeling humiliated but hiding their discomfiture from each other. At twenty-three minutes past eight Adrien looked up suddenly and raised one hand. A car door slammed.
'This time it's him,' said Monsieur Deume.
'On your feet!' ordered Madame Deume, who, as she got up, smoothed herself down behind for one last check. 'Don't forget to introduce me first.'
A ring at the door. With a premature smile, Adrien straightened his tie and began counting, waiting till he got to fifteen before emerging to greet his glorious guest. He had got to twelve when a perspiring Martha, looking guilt-stricken, entered and announced to the trio of statues that it was a man for next door who'd got the wrong house.
'Send him packing,' said Madame Deume, now completely flustered.
When the maid had gone, all three looked at each other. Forestalling the question which was waiting in the wings, Adrien said it was almost eight twenty-five. He whistled under his breath for a moment then lit a cigarette, which he stubbed out immediately. More cars went by, but not one of them stopped.
'Something must have gone wong,' said Old Monsieur Deume.
Madame Deume fingered her lump for a moment. Then she said: 'Adrien, go and phone him at the Palais. An hour late! It's really too much, I don't care if he is an important dignitary.'
'He won't be at the Palais at this time of night. We'd be better advised trying to reach him at his hotel.'
'Well, go and phone his hotel then, if that's where he lives,' said Madame Deume, and she added a quick intake of breath which signified that she found it very peculiar that such an important man should not have a home of his own.
'It's a bit awkward,' said Adrien.
Right! If the menfolk didn't have the stomach for it, she most certainly did! Trailing a strong whiff of mothballs in her wake, she stepped out decisively and headed for the telephone in the hall. For the entire duration of her conversation the two men stood quite still, saying nothing. Old Monsieur Deume stuck his fingers in his ears, so ashamed did he feel. For her return, Madame Deume wore an expression of considerable self-importance.
'Well?' asked Adrien.
'You're such a scatterbrain, Adrien Deume,' she said in a tone which was almost good-humoured. 'It was all a terrible misunderstanding. He said that you'd invited him for next Friday! All this trouble I've gone to for nothing! But he said he'll call round at ten, after an important dinner he has to attend, just as soon as he can get away, which is very decent of him, because it's bound to upset his plans. Really, Adrien, I cannot understand how you could be so careless!'
He did not argue, but he was not taken in. The USG's excuse was so thin it was transparent. Why only the day before yesterday he had left a note for Miss Wilson to give to the USG to jog his memory about the dinner party tonight, a reminder, he'd only done what the Hellers did. Fortunately he hadn't mentioned it to Mummy. The USG had forgotten, that was all. Yes, say nothing, it was much better to be thought absent-minded than to be classed as the sort of chap whose dinner invitations get forgotten. Pity, though, about the two hundred grams of caviare, especially since it was fresh. But he was coming, that was the main thing.
'Did you speak to him personally?' he asked.