Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  The other heads of section nodded in agreement, and all acknowledged the absolute necessity of having a specific project. Specific projects were always in good odour in the Secretariat. It was not clear what value 'specific' added to 'project', but a specific project looked altogether more pondered than a penny-plain project. In reality, no one knew the difference between a project and a specific project, and nobody had ever bothered to ask what the precious adjective meant and what purpose it served. People were only too happy to talk about specific projects and left it at that. When a project was said to be specific, it immediately acquired a highly esteemed aura of mystery, became a marvel pregnant with the promise of fruitful action.

  Next to take the floor was Basset, Head of the Cultural Section, who pointed out the need to work closely with the relevant voluntary organizations. But everything should be open and above board! interjected Maxwell, Section Head of Plans and External Liaison, and it had to be made crystal clear from the word go that the Secretariat would retain overall control of the specific project! That was all very well! cried Johnson, but the whole matter craved wary walking, and nothing should be done without the full agreement of the member states! To this end, the first and indispensable step would be to circulate various governments with a questionnaire, the responses to which would serve as the basis on which the specific project that was to constitute the programme of action would be drawn up. Orlando considered that their best option would be to contact the Education Ministers of member states with a view to setting up a programme of school talks on the theme of the goals and ideals of the League of Nations.

  Returning to the charge, Basset — his real name was Cohen, surname of the descendants of Aaron, brother of Moses, but the little stinker had chosen to hide behind Basset — argued that 'since the specific project is to provide for a programme of action which must be not only systematic and concrete but also coordinated, it follows that special action is required to establish the parameters of coordination on the one hand between the various sections of the Secretariat and, on the other, between the Secretariat and the various intergovernmental agencies, so as to avoid crossed wires, arguments about who is responsible for what and general duplication, and that the specific project should lay down as its ultimate objective, after consultation with the relevant governments, the creation within the Secretariat of a new section with particular responsibility for promoting the goals and ideals of the League of Nations. I thank you for your attention,' he said and he bowed his head, no less proud of his little speech than he was of being a faithful little basset. His colleagues backed the principle that a new section should be created, for they were all aware of the reorganizing fever which periodically gripped the Secretary-General. Like a little boy with a Meccano set who never wearies of making and unmaking things, old man Cheyne was never happier than when taking his fine box of tricks apart and then putting it together again, closing this section down, dividing that one into two, inventing some brand-new one, though it was always on the cards that he would go back to the old structure within a matter of months.

  Anxious to shine in the presence of their silent chief, this fine body of men went at it with a will and improvised enthusiastically, conjuring up in the strange language of the Secretariat 'avenues to be explored', 'the consensual accord to be sought, on the repartition of responsibilities both in the organizational and the operational contexts', 'perceived models of approach to this problem', 'the published track record of the specialized agencies', 'the provision of back-up equipments which governments, if approached in a spirit of cooperation, might be incited to take on board', 'past experience which gives a favourable inference to a high profile vis-a-vis the urgent need for concrete action', 'the penury of viable alternatives', 'practically nonexistent difficulties', 'the convergent vocation of recent interventions in Council debates'. And so on and so forth, the whole interlarded with confused and contradictory proposals which were all conscientiously noted by the stenographer, who could not make head nor tail of any of them, for she was an intelligent girl.

  Suddenly there was a silence. The waters had been so muddied that no one knew quite where they were or what had been decided. Maxwell saved the day by mooting the usual lazy face-saver, the setting up of 'a working party to explore avenues and to present, to an ad hoc committee to be constituted at a later date and composed of members delegated by national governments, the draft of a specific project setting out concrete proposals which shall form the broad framework of a long-term programme of systematic and coordinated action designed to promote the goals and ideals of the League of Nations'.

  Kicking himself for not having thought of suggesting this himself, and most anxious to make a good impression, van Vries proposed that, on the basis of the discussion which had just taken place and the recommendations made, a note for guidance should be 'drafted and forwarded to the as yet unconstituted working party which would serve as both its broad brief and its terms of reference'. Proud of this little piece of sabotage and delighted to land a rival with a nasty chore, he suggested that Maxwell might care to look after drafting the note for guidance, which needed to be done quickly so that it could then be submitted to Sir John for his approval.

  'Excellent. We are all in agreement,' said Solal, and he bit his lip again. 'Maxwell, go to it. Thank you, gentlemen.'

  When he was alone, he pictured what would happen next. Maxwell would send for Mossinsohn, currently on temporary transfer to Plans and External Liaison, and tell him that the whole stenographic record of the meeting contained all he needed to draft a note for guidance, that the work had been virtually done for him and that all he, Mossinsohn, had to do was to lick the thing into shape and get it down to a reasonable length. It shouldn't take him more than an hour or two. 'Go to it,' he too would say, 'it's a piece of cake, though do take care, be alive to the political dimension and steer clear of anything that might offend national susceptibilities, aim for the flexible approach, avoid anything that might upset governments, keep it general, blur the edges, and let me have it first thing tomorrow morning.' And the unfortunate Mossinsohn would go to it all through the night, stayed with coffees innumerable. In the end, fogged down by the inconsistencies in the verbatim record, despairing of ever getting to the bottom of their mysteries, he would simply make up what the six heads of section had decided and concoct a suitable note for guidance out of his own head. And so an insignificant Jew without friends at court, employed as a temporary clerk at five hundred francs a month, would dictate the decision which Sir John Cheyne KCB, KCVO would then proceed to take. — 'Miss Wilson, would you ask van Vries to come and see me?'

  Tall, neurasthenic and horsy, his red hair parted in the middle, the Head of the Mandates Section, shoulders drooping and guilty in advance, entered in fear and dread of the dressing-down which was always on the cards. Solal waved him to a chair and, letting his gaze wander, asked him if he was satisfied with young Deume. Van Vries manufactured a minor coughing fit to give him time to come up with the right answer. Deume, whom he loathed as much for his reputation as a man of letters as for his sloth and chronic lateness, had recently been made up to an A by direct selection. Ergo the little swine was well regarded in high places. Ergo say nothing but good of him.

  'Very satisfied. An excellent official. Punctual, lots of ideas, works well with colleagues.'

  'I'd like you to send him on an official visit now and then.'

  'As it happens, I was thinking along those self-same lines myself this very morning,' van Vries lied quickly. "In fact, I was just about to send you a note recommending that he should be sent to Paris and London to make contact with the relevant ministries. There's nothing like the personal touch for creating an atmosphere of trust and collaboration. Moreover, he'll be able to bring back very useful information, since information is always easier to gather on the spot. I also had half a mind to suggest that he should then be sent on to two areas which pose particularly delicate problems, I mean of course Syria and Pal
estine.'

  When he had finished, he coughed respectfully and waited with a look of devotion on his face. Solal gave his approval, and van Vries went away elated at having got through the interview unscathed. Once in the corridor, he stepped out straight-backed and exuding authority once more. It had all turned out well, he'd be rid of Deume for two, no three months. Mossinsohn, the temp, a workhorse if ever there was one, would make an excellent replacement.

  CHAPTER 29

  'I tell you, old man, that went down a treat,' he said, buttoning his trousers while the cleansing cascade boomed round the pan of his favourite lavatory. 'Congrats, old bean,' he added, and he emerged feeling an urge to frisk and gambol like a puppy celebrating duty done in the tender morning grass.

  Outside in the corridor, he wondered what he could do now. His daily dose of sodium cacodylate had been administered by the duty nurse. His morning coffee had been duly drunk. All that remained now was to get down to work. That Danish nurse was an absolute corker. 'To work, to work,' he hummed as he pushed his office door. No sooner was he settled at his desk than he opened his newspaper and stared at the kindly face of the new Pope, who had been elected the previous day.

  'Now that's what I call promotion!' he murmured to His Holiness. 'Still, I haven't done too badly myself!'

  When he had folded his paper, he looked dotingly round his office, which was the office of an A, digging his feet into the Persian carpet so that he felt its reassuring presence, allowing his eyes to linger fondly on the glass-fronted lockable — ah yes, lockable — bookcase filled with fine volumes from the library which were quite useless but were bound and therefore looked decidedly smart.

  'And if they ask for them back, sucks to them, I'll say I have to have them on permanent loan! A chap's got to be able to stand up for himself in this hell-hole!'

  Delighted with his invigorating cacodylate, which he got given free, gratis and for nothing, and feeling as breezily fit as any man ought who enjoys trouble-free digestion, he moved the picture of his wife on his desk slightly to one side with the most gratifying results. With it angled thus, he would not be the only one to get the full benefit. Any B he invited to take a pew in his leather armchair would see it too and could sit and admire. In the antique silver frame, she looked very high-society, dress revealing just enough, a beautiful woman. And she was his wife, dammit all, and he could get his hands on her whenever he felt like it. Pinching his nostrils between thumb and forefinger, he gave a delighted, nasal 'quack-quack'. The photo was a brilliant move, very senior-civil-servanty. Pity they had no children. A picture of a pretty little girl in a nice dress would have been very section-headish. But there it was. At any rate, he'd reorganized his office jolly well since being put up to an A. The non-figurative painting on the wall suggested the cultivated official who needed an artistic environment. The box, also of antique silver, was another good idea, a useful status symbol.

  'I lift the lid and shunt it towards any Bs who trickle respectfully along with a request for information. "Cigarette, Carvalho?" "Cigarette, Hernandez?" Best of all, old man, would be to have a personally signed photo of the USG: "To Adrien Deume, with all good wishes." Or perhaps warmest regards. Warmest regards would be tickety-boo! Just imagine the expression on VV's face as he came in and read it! Yes, except that I don't know him well enough yet. Watch your step, old man, no mess-ups, don't get impatient, bide your time! The signed photo will depend on how our personal relationship develops. But for starters, tomorrow, the evening of Friday the eighth of June, dinner at the Ritz as guests of the USG! Me in bib and tucker and she in her best evening frock! That's right, m'dear fellow, dinner with the Under-Secretary-General of the League of Nations! I was bursting to tell VV, it took every ounce of my self-control to stop myself blurting it out! No, let's wait until we're on really close terms with the USG. Agreed, not a word to VV until my position is unassailable. His letter to Ariane struck just the right note. "Please convey my apologies to all concerned." Prettily said, eh? And on top of that he sent her his good wishes. Say what you like, I've come a long way in a short time. (He went through his "quack-quack" routine again.) If all goes well tomorrow night, I won't mess about, I'll go ahead and organize a party and ask him to come. On second thoughts, make that an invitation to dinner, especially now that Mummy and Dada are going away tomorrow evening and won't be back for at least two months. Come to think of it, it was just as well he couldn't come the other evening, stroke of luck! That's it, invite him to dinner! I'll simply be returning his invitation, right? Just him, Ariane and me in the quiet of our own home. Butler in white gloves. Quack-quack. But the main thing for the moment is to make a good impression tomorrow night. Take a couple of Maxitons an hour beforehand, at seven, to make certain I'm on the top of my form. I'll be cultivated, witty, amusing. If he laughs, if he sits up and takes notice, we're in, Meredith! And remember, don't be late! No fooling around, is that clear? His letter says eight. So come eight o'clock tomorrow night on the dot, enter Lord Deume of A Grade, preceded by his delightful wife. She's in a good mood these days, thank God, and has been since, well, you know. Women need it. Now that's all very well, chum, but you're going to have to sparkle and catch his eye. To which end go home this afternoon and fetch back here everything you've got on Mozart, Vermeer, Proust, and swot it all up between two and six so you'll be able to draw on a supply of well-informed, freshly minted views on the aforementioned so you can amaze him with your wealth of knowledge. The thing is to get to that moment when all of a sudden he sits up, gives me an old-fashioned look, and says to himself: "This young Deume's a dark horse, must see more of young Deume." Oh, and don't forget to ask him if he's been to the Picasso exhibition, it'll give me a chance to hold forth. (He sniggered. Smart move, memorizing those three wizard sentences from that review of the Picasso show. They'd have the most electrifying effect.) But say them slowly, as if I'm searching for my words, as if I'm making it up as I go along. Damn! What if he doesn't like Picasso? In that case I'll be shooting myself in the foot if I come out with my three sentences! Test the water first, find out whether he likes Picasso or not, all right? Agreed. You'll see, everything will be fine on the night. Keep the tone lofty, shove in a few "albeits", "explicates" and "assume responsibility for our acts". Yes, and also make a list of other suitable topics which will permit displays of culture and wit. Deep thoughts, but keep 'em light. That's the ticket, make him laugh, but don't lower the tone. If he laughs, it's the friendship stakes! Because if he laughs, horizons open up, signed photo and the move up to adviser! Because get this straight: I've no intention of letting my A grow whiskers! Because I'm already starting to feel fed up with being an A when Petresco, for God's sake, has been pitchforked up to adviser! Still, I suppose it's not really surprising, he keeps a photo of that minister of his, Titulesco, on his desk. It makes you sick. Favouritism, that's what it is. Petresco's a nasty piece of work. Now I've seen just about everything in this dump. Oh yes, old bean, you heard, adviser! And sharp about it! But to pull it off you're going to need to get his respect and his friendship. Objective: earn his respect and friendship. Scribble list of conversational topics on piece of paper you can take a peep at in case mind goes blank. If that happens, a quick peer under the table, all casual-like. Set your mind at rest, old man, not only shall I be brilliant but I'll have Ariane there for back-up, looking stunning and driving him crazy. No, scrub the Maxiton, it can have side-effects, just a little whisky for courage during those first ten minutes. I'll keep the large signed photo here on my desk, it'll be my safe conduct in dealing with VV. Don't talk about promotion over dinner, not even a hint, that'll be a feather in my cap. It's in my interest to act disinterested. But look here, old sport, that's enough chatter for now. Don't let this go any further, but you haven't done a stroke all morning.'

  Feeling a twinge of guilt and dreamily twirling his secret teetotum, then playing with his cornelian marbles which went click-click, and beguiling his gloom by banging his stapler in slow motion, none of w
hich gave him any pleasure, for his sloth pained him like a wound, he tried to find excuses for himself. There were no two ways about it, working on Thursdays was enough to give anyone the hump. Because, dammit, Thursday was practically the end of the week, you felt you didn't have a decent run at anything, there was no incentive. Still, he had a good hour still to go and he supposed he ought to do something to earn his pittance, it was a matter of professional conscience. He parked his marbles and the teetotum next to his two magnets (another clandestine possession which gave him hours of harmless fun) and opened the Cameroon file.

  'O holy law, which levies universal toil, In this wise are thy ways set,' he intoned, and he unscrewed the cap of his pen.

  At that moment the phone rang. He swore crossly and screwed the top back on his pen. God in heaven, there was never any peace in this place! He snatched at the receiver and said his name in an aggressive tone of voice. It was van Vries. 'Yes, sir,' he said meekly, 'I'm on my way.' Damn! There he is, just getting into the swing of it, on the point of setting to with a will, and he gets disturbed! Absolutely no chance of getting on quietly with his work! Really, what a madhouse!

  'Stir your stumps! There's no rest for the wicked,' he muttered as he stood up.

  What did VV want now, he wondered in the corridor. Was it to be a telling-off? He stopped, unfastened his jacket, and scratched his head. VV must have spotted him sloping off to the cafeteria with Kanakis. Rats to that, he couldn't care less! Wasn't he having dinner with the USG tomorrow night? He did up his jacket again and yanked and tugged it till it was straight. Besides, he was an A now. But standing outside the door of his boss's office he knocked quietly and entered like any B.

  'Sit down,' said van Vries, who, after a quick sideways glance in his direction and without raising his head, went on with what he was writing.