Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  CHAPTER 34

  'Two hundred francs a day if it's a penny, maybe more, I mean to say an entire suite, with de-luxe drawing-room and, so Kanakis reckons, dining-room as well, but that can't be right, he just wanted to give the impression he was in the know, but even so a whole suite of rooms, and in a five-star hotel, no it must add up to more than two hundred a day plus the extras which don't come cheap in five-star hotels breakfast meals in the restaurant laundry barber taxes tips, and on top of that wages and expenses for the personal valet and the chauffeur, the Annamite valet kitted out with a white linen jacket smart as smart the whole lot must cost at least, but we can work that out later when there's more time, of course he can afford to do himself proud on the money he gets, I mean take the restaurant bill he just signed without even looking at it, and the hundred-dollar note he gave the head waiter as a tip can you credit it, all in all dinner went off rather well, it was downstairs in the restaurant, still perhaps Kanakis is right perhaps there is a dining-room too but in that case why the restaurant, probably more practical for two the service is quicker, perhaps he only uses the dining-room for official dinners, anyhow the dinner went off a treat he took it well when I spun that tale about a headache and how sorry she was she couldn't make it, he might have been cross but no, just a smile as he looked at me and he said 'Of course', but what did he really mean by that, still the whole thing couldn't have gone better, really super-duper dinner-do, though I wasn't in the right frame of mind to make the most of it, I must say he turned on the charm for me, even the business of leaving me here by myself while he's changing into his dressing-gown, you might say that was a bit odd and you'd be right, but it was also considerate very decent of him treating me like a friend, and downstairs just now he couldn't have been more attentive did I like this and did I prefer that, marvellous dinner too, the cuisine couldn't have been more haute, but when we play the return fixture he won't regret it, when I get back from my official visit we'll lay on a slap-up do for him, we can think about it we've plenty of time for that, meanwhile I've eaten too much, it was his fault, he ordered half the menu and it was really all just for me, he hardly touched a thing, just smoked and drank champagne, but I was obliged to stuff myself, could hardly do otherwise, just to be polite.'

  He was having trouble digesting all that rich food: caviare, then lobster au gratin, then quail conserve, then venison as well, the works. Basically, the reason he had eaten so much was the silence. At least if she'd been there the table talk would have been easier. Moreover, he had bolted his food: he put that down to nervousness. Right, he'd have to get busy with the bicarb when he got to his sleeper, there was some in the case he'd packed with the things he needed on the journey, ask the guard for a small bottle of Vichy. He really oughtn't to have called her horrible and said damn you. That was going too far. She was a woman and women get moody, probably she was about to be off colour, or, in her words, to get the dragon. Heigh-ho, he would write her a nice letter from Paris. Yes, it was that awful silence in the restaurant, but ever since we came upstairs the USG has been extremely kind, couldn't have chatted more amicably. So very nice of him to talk about the place where he was born. Odd idea, though, being born on Cephalonia.

  'But the best bit of all, old bean, was when he said the two of us might go there together some day.'

  How was that for chalking up a personal contact! If they ever made the trip together, that would be the time to bring up the reorganization of the section, tell him about everything that didn't work, especially the documentation side. The thing would be a lot easier when the two of them were stretched out side by side on the sand facing the sea. Lying there on the sand, he'd feel free to speak his mind, say frankly what he thought of VV, his lack of dynamism, he'd be able to voice all his criticisms while he and his boss were getting a tan in the sun like the best of pals. Atmosphere of intimacy and trust, administrative shop not on the agenda. Keep it on the personal level, see. Golly, he's certainly taking his time putting his dressing-gown on, though. Soon as he gets back, be self-assured, sparkle like billy-oh. But careful, go easy on Picasso, test the waters first, start by giving pros and cons then proceed according to the chief's reactions. If necessary, forget the three sentences from the article. But there was no denying it, it was really nice of the chief to say they'd go swimming together in Cephalonia. What a marvellous thought, a super-chief and a mere A swimming together in the sea, shouting to each other, joking! And then stretched out on the sand, chummy as anything, chatting and letting the sand run through their fingers.

  'Following which, old bean, bounced up to adviser! I tell you, it's in the bag!'

  He got to his feet, impressed by the sumptuous heavy black silk dressing-gown which gaped over a bare chest and reached down to a pair of bare feet encased in slippers. At a gesture from Solal, he sat down again in his armchair, minding his Ps and Qs, captivated, sucking saliva with faint, deferential suspirations, crossing his legs and then uncrossing them while the Annamite valet, smiling brownly, served coffee and cognac. To fill the silence, the young official picked up his cup and sipped his coffee fastidiously, taking care not to slurp the contents. He accepted a silently proffered cigarette, lit it with trembling hands, took several pulls on it while shooting covert glances from time to time at his host, who was fiddling with a string of amber beads. What on earth was going on? Why wasn't he saying anything? So pleasant only a few moments ago and now not a dickybird.

  Paralysed by the silence, proof horrible and positive that his boss was bored with him, Adrien Deume could think of nothing to say. His face froze into a fixed smile, the refuge and recourse of the weak who try to please and find favour, a continuous, feminine smile of which he was quite unconscious, a smile which was at once a sign of submission, a display of ready-and-willingness and an indication of the pleasure he took in the company, even the silent company, of his superior. He smiled and was unhappy. To exorcise the silence and fill it, or to appear natural and at ease, or to give himself courage and come up with something to say, he downed his cognac in one tragic swallow, Russian-style, which made him cough. O God! What could he talk about? Proust was off, he'd talked about him downstairs over dinner. Ditto Mozart and Vermeer. He daren't bring up Picasso, too risky. He could not for the life of him remember any of the other conversational topics he'd carefully written down, duly numbered, on his scrap of paper. His face assumed a mildly constipated expression as he tried to activate his memory, but it was no use. Moving one hand to his hip, he could feel the life-saving sheet of paper, he felt it there, rustlingly alive in the pocket of his dinner-jacket, but how could he get it out without being seen? Say he wanted to wash his hands and take a quick peep at it while he was out of the room? No, too embarrassing, and it would only make him look boorish. The silence was now terrifying, and he felt it was all his fault. He inspected the bottom of his empty glass with absorbed interest, screwed up his courage, and looked up timidly at his superior.

  'I believe you write. I'd like to hear about it,' said Solal.

  'I scribble a little,' Adrien told him with a mincing smile, overwhelmed by such flattering attention and with eyes suddenly moist with gratitude. 'I mean, I do as much as my professional duties leave time for. So far all I've perpetrated (he gave a delicate little smile) are a handful of poems, in my spare time, of course. A slim volume, published last year, in a limited edition for private circulation only. Just for my own amusement and, I hope, for the amusement of a few friends. Poems with a vocation to express rather than to communicate. (Pleased by this noble turn of phrase, he sucked in another gobbet of refined spittle and then decided to strike a great blow.) I'd be delighted if you would allow me to offer you a copy, with my compliments, imperial format, on Japanese paper. (Encouraged by a nod of acquiescence, he resolved to press home his advantage and strike another great blow while the iron was hot.) But I'm seriously thinking of writing a novel. In my spare time, of course. It will be unique of its kind, I think, it won't have a plot and, in a way,
it won't have any characters either. I absolutely reject all traditional forms of fiction,' he concluded, suddenly throwing caution to the winds under the impetus of the cognac, and he poked out his tapered tongue and then put it away again.

  There was a silence and the poor, foolhardy wretch sensed that his chief had not been impressed by this outline of his novel. He grabbed his glass, raised it to his lips, realized it was empty, and put it down again on the table.

  'Actually, I haven't finalized anything in my mind. I might still come round to a more classic form. In point of fact I'm thinking of a novel about Don Juan, a character who has haunted me for ages, obsesses me, and has to some extent taken me over. (A glance, just testing the water, at the impassive Solal.) But ultimately what really interests me,' he smiled timidly, 'is my work in the Mandates Section, which I find absolutely absorbing.'

  'A novel about Don Juan. Sounds very interesting, Adrien.'

  The young official gave a start. His Christian name! This time, he'd made it! Personal contacts!

  'I've been turning it over in my mind. I've made quite a lot of notes,' the future novelist said eagerly, transported by enthusiasm for the greatness of his subject which had suddenly been revealed to him.

  Yes, he'd made it! He could already see the signed photo. Don't speak, wait for him to ask questions. The chief was thinking about Don Juan; he sensed he was about to ask him something. Not an adviser straight off, of course. Maybe next year. Meanwhile get stuck into Don Juan since the chief was so interested. When he got back from his official visit, draft a couple of chapters and canvas his opinion. That would provide opportunities for friendly chats, perhaps even discussions where each of them defended his point of view. 'Oh no, Adrien, that won't do, I don't agree, it doesn't fit in with the Don's character.' Now that's what you called a personal contact! Well now, he'd steered a canny course after all.

  'Tell me about what happens in this Don Juan of yours,' Solal said, breaking the silence and taking a cigarette, which Adrien, lighter levelled, immediately lit for him. 'What does he do in your novel?'

  'He seduces,' said Adrien cleverly, and he gave himself a pat on the back for coming up with such a thumping answer. (But was it too brief? Add a few details about Don Juan's character? Make him elegant, witty, cynical? But perhaps that didn't fit in with the USG's idea of Don Juan. Had his answer been thought a smidgen offhand?) 'Of course, sir, if there's any advice you could give me, I'd be most awfully grateful. For example, some aspect of his character which you see as being central?'

  Solal smiled at this creeping crawler who was tying himself in knots to impress. Very well, toss him a small bone.

  'Have you built in a measure of primordial contempt?'

  'Well, er, no, not as such,' said Adrien. (He was about to ask: 'What on earth is primordial contempt exactly?' but this question seemed far too casual, so he opted for a wording that was less direct.) 'When you say primordial contempt, what quite do you have in mind?' he said unctuously, so as to avoid any possible hint of disrespect.

  'Don Juan has very little regard for any of the virtuous women he meets,' began Solal.

  He stopped and sharpened his nose with thumb and forefinger while Adrien adopted the all-eared pose of eager listener. With his neck craned forward the better to catch the pearls about to fall, his expression made keener by half-closed eyes designed to give him that air of hanging-on-your-every-last-word concentration, his chin cupped in his right hand for the contemplative look, his legs intellectually crossed, his face lined by attentiveness as though by age, the deferential curve to his backside running all the way down to the tips of his toes, everything about his appearance bore witness to intense mental application, fervent expectancy, an understanding spirit only too anxious to be convinced and all too ready to agree, plus the anticipated thrill of an intellectual feast, though not forgetting loyal devotion to the cause of Administration.

  'Very little regard,' Solal resumed, 'because he knows that whenever he decides, alas, every woman, however proper and socially respectable, is his for the bedding and will arch her back for him and wriggle like a fish. And why does he know this?' he asked Adrien, who adopted a knowing air of guile but took good care to say nothing. 'But that's enough of that. It's too appalling, and anyway it's not worth discussing.'

  Adrien cleared his throat several times to banish a feeling of discomfiture. Women arching their backs and wriggling like fish! The chief was coming it a bit strong. Probably the champagne.

  'Very interesting,' he said at length, doing his best to inject a fervent gleam into his eye. 'Very interesting. Very,' he added, for he found it impossible to think of a more specific comment. 'I'm quite sure I'll find your insights which you have been kind enough to let me have extremely valuable.'

  He almost added that he was most grateful to receive them, a turn of phrase engrained in his mind. He invariably used it to acknowledge receipt of statistics forwarded from various colonial offices, which in his draft replies he always described as very interesting before immediately and definitively consigning them to his little Boneyard, for these statistics were normally inaccurate and contained many errors of addition.

  'Not worth discussing,' repeated Solal. 'Anyway, what does he want with these women? Their breasts? That's a joke! What does he want with breasts that invariably droop and sag? In the papers, you see hundreds of adverts for anti-droop contrivances, mammary-pouches, or whatever they're called!'

  'Brassières, sir.'

  'They all wear them! It's a confidence trick! What's your view, Adrien?'

  'Well, er, I mean to say . . .'

  'That's exactly what I think,' said Solal. 'And furthermore they're so pathetic with their silly little hats, can't be right in the head, and all that mincing and waggling their hips on their high heels, and their behinds sticking out in those tight-fitting skirts, and how they come to life when they're talking to each other about clothes! "Can you believe it, she went and had a suit made by a dressmaker. My dear, it's ghastly, I blushed for her! A suit's a very tricky thing, especially the jacket, men are much better at it, really. A dressmaker won't get the cut right, she'll stick a haystack of pins everywhere!" And if you're rash enough to offer the tiniest criticism of her new dress she turns very nasty, you become her enemy, she looks at you with hate in her eyes, or else you've brought on her neurasthenia and she feels persecuted and wants to die! So no more women! I've done with them! And there again, you're forced to go on lying beside them when what Michael calls the usual thing is over, and they coo in that lovey-dovey way and they kiss your shoulder, they always do that, afterwards, it's a sort of mania they have, and they expect treats as a reward, for you're expected to say nice things to show your gratitude like how positively divine it was. Really, they could at least leave me in peace to purge my shame! So no more women! If I were to have all my teeth out, perhaps they'd leave me alone, and good riddance! But alas, there is no hope for me, she haunts me,' he groaned, and he stretched his arms out. 'Adrien, dear Adrien, stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love. No, not sick of love, but she haunts my soul. (Elated by the dear Adrien, which was incontrovertible proof of a truly personal contact, but alarmed by the flagons and apples, the young official essayed a look of understanding and sympathy.) You don't mind my calling you Adrien?'