by Albert Cohen
'Listen, Didi, why don't you tell us a bit about our guest, I mean about his private side, his character, so we get to know him a littel. I'll start: does he believe in God?'
'Haven't a clue. All I know is a couple of things which show what an amazing chap he is. Castro was only saying to me this morning, oh I must tell Ariane, it was Lady Cheyne, who told Castro who often gets invited to her house, so it's authentic. By the by, I must have Castro round to dinner one of these days, he's a sound chap, ever so well-read.'
'Yes, yes, but what about these things you know?'
'First, there was this fire in a hotel in London. By all accounts he risked his life to rescue two women.'
'Oh, lervely!' exclaimed Madame Deume. 'That means he must believe in God!'
'And then here in Geneva there was a poor girl, a midget, who used to play the guitar in the streets, a beggar in other words. Well, he saved her from poverty, rented a little flat for her, and they say he even pays her an allowance, so now she doesn't have to beg any more, she does voluntary work for the Salvation Army. Quite simply, he completely changed the poor little thing's life.'
'Oooh, I just know that he and I are going to get on!' exclaimed Madame Deume.
'They say the two of them have been seen out walking together. Imagine it: him very tall and her very short, with stubby legs, in her Sally Army uniform.'
'Sounds a vewy decent sort,' said Monsieur Deume, smoothing the wings of his moustache to make them lie flat, 'wouldn't you say so, Antoinette?'
'I always commend charity,' she said. Though in his position I don't really think he ought to be seen with a person of lower social rank, especially a person who has been a professional beggar.'
For something to do, the old gentleman hummed quietly to himself, then from the waistcoat pocket of his dinner-suit produced a cheap, thin, black cheroot which he prepared to light, not because he felt like a smoke — he was too nervous about the introductions for that — but so that he would have something to cling to when their guest walked through the door. His wife removed the cigar from his mouth and put it away in a drawer.
'Brissago cheroots are common.'
'But I have one evewy evening after dinner!'
'And you are wrong to do so. It makes you look like a post-office clerk. Adrien, you will please turn the conversation round to The Story of My Life, which will bring us on nicely to Her Majesty the Queen of Romania, oh and you can mention dear Dr Schweitzer too. That'll give me a chance to get a word in. The bombe glacée! she exclaimed, changing course without warning.
'What about it, Mumsy?'
'We can offer him the bombe tutti frutti!'
'But Mumsy, we can't possibly. You don't offer guests bombe glacée at ten o'clock at night. Whatever would he think?'
'Yes of course, you're right, Didi. But it's such a shame. It won't keep till tomorrow night, it will have melted by then, even in the fridge. We'll have to buy a new fridge, with a deep-freeze compartment, if we can get a good part-exchange on the one we've got. Hippolyte, go this minute and tell Martha she can eat as much of the bombe glacée as she wants, it'll be a treat for the poor girl and besides it will be a Good Deed.'
Monsieur Deume obeyed with alacrity and hurried away to bring the good tidings to Martha. In the kitchen, he made great inroads into the bombe glacée, shovelling it down until his teeth chattered. Returning to the drawing-room, disguising his shivers, he ventured to ask Antoinette if he could pour himself a small cognac, saying: 'I feel cold all of a sudden, can't think why.'
At nine fifty Madame Deume judged the moment had come to go up to her room and repair what was, in truth, the irreparable. After anointing her bangs with oil of heliotrope, she took a piece of cotton wool and dusted her face with a white powder called Carina, which she used only on special occasions and kept under lock and key in the secret drawer of her dressing-table. Then behind her ears she dabbed a few drops of Floramye, a forty-year-old fragrance. Alluring, with fresh heart, she went downstairs and made her entrance into the drawing-room, the perfumed embodiment of moral worth and social presence, wearing the doleful air of the truly refined.
'What's the time?' she asked.
'Three minutes to ten,' said Adrien.
'Just thwee minutes now,' said Monsieur Deume, holding himself stiffer than a candle.
They waited, not daring now to look at each other. Intermittently, to fill the vacuum, a sentence rang out hollowly with a remark concerning the temperature, or a comment on how efficient the flush in the downstairs lavatory had been since it had been repaired, or a comparison of the respective merits of the teas of China and Ceylon, the first having a more subtle aroma and the second more body. But hearts and ears were elsewhere. 'Yes,' Madame Deume recited inwardly for the benefit of the ladies she would see the following Monday at the next meeting of the sewing-circle in aid of the converts of the Zambezi, 'the other evening we sat up ever so late, oh a small private function, a family affair really, we had the Under-Secretary-General of the League of Nations round, just him, no one else. An intellectual treat! He's such a charming man, terribly naice and very unaffected, well he was unaffected with us at any rate.'
Ten o'clock was struck simultaneously by the Neuchatel clock and the three other clocks in the house, all scrupulously kept to time by Monsieur Deume. Adrien stood up and his adoptive father followed suit. It was a solemn moment. The mistress of the house caressed her neck to ensure that her velvet choker was perfectly positioned, then adopted a pose of dignified expectancy, and smiled with the aforementioned doleful air which left her squinting teeth highly visible.
'Aren't you going to get up too, poppet?'
'The lady of the house remains seated when she receives a gentleman,' said his poppet, who, having spoken with the voice of authority, shut her eyes.
After, running a comb through his wispy beard, Adrien suddenly decided that the de-luxe art books he had bought the day before would be better if arranged in a geometric order. Then he mixed them up again because on second thoughts they were better as they were, looked more intellectual. Madame Deume gave a start, and her adipose lump swayed like a gracefully dangling bauble.
'What is it?' she asked.
'Nothing,'said Monsieur Deume.
'I thought I heard a car.'
'Just the wind,' said Adrien.
Monsieur Deume opened the window. No, there was no car.
At ten minutes past ten it was agreed that the Argentinian dinner had probably started late, it was the sort of thing you had to learn to put up with from South Americans. Furthermore, perhaps the Under-Secretary-General had embarked upon some weighty discussion with the delegates, exactly the sort of thing that happened over the coffee and cigars. 'He could hardly get up and go just as some important decision was about to be taken,' said Madame Deume. 'Wather,' said Monsieur Deume.
At twelve minutes past ten, Ariane, in a black crêpe dress, finally put in an appearance. After issuing smiles to all those present, she enquired, with an innocent flutter of her eyes, if they were waiting for the Under-Secretary-General. She could jolly well see that they were waiting for him, replied Adrien, who made the muscles of his jaws stand out to lend his face a look of indomitable energy. There had been a minor misunderstanding, explained Monsieur Deume. At what time was the Under-Secretary-General coming? she asked, meticulously separating each of the syllables of the long title. About ten o'clock, replied Madame Deume tardy.
'I'll wait with you,' Ariane said pleasantly.
She sat down. She crossed her arms and observed that it was a trifle cold in the drawing-room. She crossed her legs. Then she stood up, asked to be excused for a moment, said she was going to get a fur wrap. When she returned, her mink stole over her shoulders, she sat down again quietly and stared at the floor. She sighed. Then, as good as gold, she crossed her arms again. A moment later, she unfolded them and yawned politely.
'If you're tired, why not go and have a lie-down,' said Madame Deume.
'How kind. I
must admit I do find waiting here in the cold a little tiring and I am rather sleepy as a matter of fact. So I'll say goodnight, Madame. Good-night, Da-Da, good-night Adrien. I do so hope your guest won't be long.'
At ten twenty-seven Adrien rearranged his art books symmetrically and then remarked that the wind was getting up. Monsieur Deume added that in his opinion there was a storm bwewing, that it had gwown noticeably cooler, and that it might be a good idea after all to light a few sticks in the gwate. Madame Deume said there wasn't any more wood in the cellar, and in any case lighting a fire on the first of June was quite unheard of. At half past ten she announced that her back was playing up. 'Shush! a car!' warned Monsieur Deume. But none of the cars that passed the house ever stopped. At ten thirty-two, a loud burst of the 'Marseillaise' played on the piano came from the second floor and rang throughout the house. This was followed by a slushy tune from the ballet Coppélia. 'An odd way of feeling sleepy,' commented Madame Deume.
At ten thirty-five old Monsieur Deume sneaked his fifth biscuit, smuggled it into his mouth, and let it dissolve secretly inside his closed jaws. He coped with the business of swallowing it as best he could. At ten forty he was on to his ninth, and this time managed the thing with rather more recklessness, for Madame Deume's eyes were now closed in silent martyrdom. From the second floor, the funeral march by Chopin crept lugubriously downstairs, while the silence in the drawing-room deepened, the wind moaned outside, Monsieur Deume masticated the decreasingly appetizing biscuits with cheerless pleasure, and, stationed by the door, the shivering Martha, dressed up like the maid in a farce, continued to stand guard. The wind-increased in strength, and it was Adrien's turn to remark that a storm was brewing. Then the silence closed round them again and Monsieur Deume shuddered. Should he get his coat? No, it would only make her cross.
'By the way, Antoinette,' he asked a moment later, 'under what heading do we enter the cost of the dinner party in the household accounts?'
'It will be added to Adrien's personal contribution,' she said, and she stood up. 'Good-night. I am going to bed.'
At ten forty-five the drawing-room was empty save for two men and six biscuits. Monsieur Deume, now swaddled in his woollen greatcoat, suggested that it was time for bye-byes, adding that he had aching legs and an upset stomach. Adrien said that he would hang on for another few minutes, just in case. Monsieur Deume said goodnight and made for the door, looking like sciatica personified. When he reached it, he turned and said: 'If you ask me, something wum's happened.'
After telling Martha she could go to bed, he made himself a scalding hot-water bottle for comfort, checked the assortment of locks and bolts on the front door, turned off the gas, and decided he would sleep in the guest room so as not to disturb Antoinette. In reality he went somewhat in awe of her this evening and preferred to keep his distance.
Monsieur Deume slipped blissfully between the cool sheets and surrendered to joys which, because they were modest and self-contained, were impervious to disappointment, ordering his toes to perform a refreshing little jig, rootling about with his feet for the hot-water bottle and playing little games with it, taking his feet off it to be cold for just a moment, putting one instep under it and raising it an inch or so, for a delicious little change. He was snug in his bed, so too bad if Adrien's chap hadn't come.
Suddenly, outside, brilliant bursts of lightning instantly extinguished, angry claps of thunder which rolled in waves, and the clatter of a violent downpour. 'A weal storm,' murmured the old gentleman and from the comfort of his bed he smiled. How well off a chap was under his own roof, snug in the shelter of this lovely home of theirs! Those poor tramps with no place to call their own, he thought, putting his feet on the hot-water bottle, which was just right, hot but not too hot. Yes, those poor unfortunate tramps, who were at this very moment raking the roads, sheltering under trees, poor creatures. He gave a sigh of genuine compassion, while in her bedroom next door his wife was examining, spread out on the counterpane, the bearer bonds issued by Nestle, which she had told no one she had bought.
He plugged his ears with blobs of wax, a present from Madame van Offel, switched off his bedside lamp, and turned his face to the wall with a smile. Oh yes, he felt pretty fit. Good for another twenty years at least. Tomorrow he must tell Martha that he had a great deal of sympathy with the socialists. That way, if there was a revolution, she would be able to speak on his behalf. He smiled another smile. That white paint he'd put on the pipes in the kitchen had turned out very well. He'd been careful to use the best-quality gloss and given it three coats. In the morning, he'd check to see if the third coat was dry. Maybe it was dry already. Should he pop down now to see, just for a moment?
In the kitchen, wearing only nightshirt and slippers, he bent down over one of the pipes and ran his finger over it. Yes, dry as a bone! He beamed at the pipes, which beamed back dazzling white, and his heart went out to them.
Adrien stood in the middle of the drawing-room and undid his tie, downed a whisky, munched the last biscuit, and looked at his watch yet again. Ten past eleven. Better stay on for another couple of minutes. Oh he knew he wouldn't come now, but just in case he phoned. All the same, it would show a little courtesy to the family if he phoned to apologize or at least explain, dammit. 'Stood-up! And how! It's a bit thick! Unless he's dead.' Obviously if he was dead then he had a perfectly valid excuse. If he was, then he'd have to go to the funeral, he owed him that much. When senior ranks were buried, there were opportunities for making useful contacts. But he wasn't really dead, he knew it in his bones, he wasn't the type to turn up his toes just like that, he still looked pretty young. What he couldn't make out, though, was that he'd definitely told Mummy he was coming. So what the dickens had gone wrong? Nobody had the right to pull a stunt like that! First he wasn't coming to dinner, and they'd got all that caviare in, for God's sake, then he gave his solemn word he'd be arriving at ten, and in the end, zero! Oh no, such behaviour was totally indefensible! 'Or perhaps he forgot the address?'
No, that didn't hold water. When you forgot an address, you looked in the phone book. So, unless he'd dropped dead, he had no excuse. Deep down, he knew he wouldn't phone. God Almighty, you couldn't go round playing fast and loose like that, even if you were the Pope. Still, he was an A. Hello, storm's over. An A. So there.
At a quarter past eleven, after a second whisky, he left the drawing-room, slowly climbed the stairs, punctuating each step of his way with an evil-sounding word while Mumsy's angry snores filled the silence. He stopped when he reached the second-floor landing. Should he go and talk it over with Ariane? It would be a comfort, he could work out with her what to do in the morning if the USG didn't call him in to offer an explanation and especially to ask him to convey his apologies to Mumsy and Ariane, who were ladies, dammit! An apology would save face. Yes, if by tomorrow lunch-time he had not been summoned by the USG, then ask to see him, it would be easy enough to arrange, he was well in with Miss Wilson, hadn't he brought her those almond cakes when he'd got back from Valescure? Should he knock on Ariane's door? She was probably asleep already and she didn't like being woken up. No, best not. Especially since she was being rather hard to please these days.
The best thing, of course, would be that he's had a heart attack, apoplexy and so on. That would wipe his slate clean for not turning up. But even if he comes up with some fairy story, who gives a damn provided he does the honourable thing by the family, and by me too, he owes me that, to show he doesn't despise me. Hell's teeth, let him fob me off with some tale or other, that's all I want. So tomorrow, come straight to the point and ask if he was prevented from coming by a sudden indisposition. That'll suggest the kind of yarn he can spin and honour will be saved. Yes, but if I ask to see him after he's stood me up like this, won't it look as if I'm accusing him of something? Damn, damn, damn!'
In his bedroom, feeling thoroughly disheartened, he tossed his brand-new dinner-jacket on to a chair. He got into his old pyjamas and stood at the foot of the bed,
his eyes fixed and staring, contemplating his unhappy lot. Surely he could go and wake her, it was a quite exceptional situation. He took off his pyjamas and put on a new pair, freshly ironed, shuffled into his new slippers, and ran a comb through his thin beard. It was twenty-six minutes past eleven. Yes, why not? He'd go.
'I mean to say, I am her husband after all.'
CHAPTER 21
Stepping out of her bath, she dried herself quickly, because it was terribly important to be tucked up in bed before eleven thirty at the outside, for otherwise the results could be disastrous. (This little rich girl was descended from a long line of tender flowers accustomed to taking good care of themselves, who laid great stress on fatigue, on rest which overcomes fatigue, and on sleep which brings rest. One rule considered self-evident by the Auble clan was that if one retired for the night after eleven o'clock, one ran the risk of not sleeping, which was an abomination and a fate worse than death. The fear of going to bed late, transmitted from one generation to the next, verged on mania in Auble women, who led idler lives than their menfolk and were therefore more addicted to morbid introspection, more preoccupied by what they called the state of their nerves, and they took great care not to become overtired, forced themselves to go on frequent holidays, which did them good, they said, and above all never went to bed late. Which explains why of an evening, after dinner, the genteel drawing-room conversation was regularly interrupted by one of these ladies who, suddenly setting down her crewel-work or embroidery, would exclaim with an anguished start: 'Heaven! Look at the time! Twenty to eleven! There's just time to get ready for bed!' It goes without saying that next morning, at the breakfast table, the first thought of these ladies was to tell each other how they had slept, in a spirit of keen and kindly interest and a specialized jargon of fine detail and subtle distinctions such as: 'Yes, I slept well, perhaps not as well as I might have, anyway not as well as the night before last.' Throughout her childhood and adolescence, Ariane had scrupulously observed the sacred eleven o'clock rule, which Aunt Valérie had invoked on many occasions. She still went in childish awe of it. Yet ever since she had been of age, perhaps influenced by her Russian friend, she had come round to the view that as a grown woman she could put back her bedtime by half an hour. But if she was any later than eleven thirty she panicked at the likely prospect of a sleepless night.)