Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)
Page 44
Captivatingly clothed in grace, light as snow and slowly turning, she looked up once more to see herself dancing in the tall mirrors where she existed exquisitely, gazed up at the fair and beloved of her lord, so elegant in a peasant dress embroidered in red and black, attended by a kindly, barefoot, old Greek woman on an isle of delight girt with myrtle-, mastic- and circass-trees.
CHAPTER 37
On this night, their first night, together in the little sitting-room which she had so wanted to show him, they stood at the open window looking out over the garden, breathing the star-spattered night, listening to the softly stirring leaves of the trees which whispered their love. Hand in hand, the blood coursing creamily in their veins, they stared up at the glorious heavens, gazed up at their love enshrined in the pulsating stars which shone down blessings from on high. 'Always,' she murmured, awed by his presence in her very own room. And then, aiding and abetting her happiness, invisible upon its branch, a nightingale sang its wild entreaties, and she squeezed the hand of Solal so that they might both share the unseen piper now striving, contriving to proclaim their love. Suddenly it stopped and there was only the innumerable silence of the night and from time to time the vibrant whirr of a cricket.
Gently she freed herself and went to the piano, like a noble but absurd vestal, for she knew that she must play for him and sanctify with a Bach chorale this their first hour spent alone together. Seated before the black and white of the keys, she waited a moment, head bowed in honour of the music soon to be. Now that she had her back to him, he picked up a silver-handled mirror lying on the table, beheld the face of a man who was loved and smiled at him. Oh the perfect teeth of youth!
Oh sparkling teeth, oh joy to be alive, oh this young and loving woman and the tedium of her te deum offered as an oblation! Piously she played for him, her face aglow with faith, transfixed. On the stool as she played, her full hips swayed and swayed him, moved and moved him, for they were his, they were promised.
He watched her and he knew, reproved himself for knowing, knew that she was ashamed, though perhaps she was not fully aware of it, ashamed of having danced too close to him at the Ritz, ashamed of her ecstasy at the prospect of running off to the sea with him, and he knew that the moment they had entered her little sitting-room she had felt an obscure need to atone. There was atonement in the stargazing, the 'Always', the chaste squeeze of his hand so different from the Ritz where she had snuggled so close to him, in the respectful hearing given to that overpraised warbler the nightingale, cliche thou ever wert too, not bird. Atonement too in the chorale, which was designed to purify the surge of love, to infuse it with soul, to show her that she was brimful of soul so that she might taste the joys of the flesh without shame.
When the last chord had died away, she remained motionless on her stool, head bowed over the keys, honouring the sounds which had died away. After this bridging interval, which brought her from the celestial spheres back down to earth again, she turned to him and gave him her heart with a serious, almost imperceptible smile. She's not very bright, he thought. She stood up, but resisted an urge to sit by him on the faded silk of the sofa. Instead, she deposited her hindquarters in an armchair and sat expectantly, waiting for his comments on the chorale. In the garden, a nocturnal woodpecker took soundings. Solal said nothing, for he loathed Bach, and she put his silence down to an admiration too deep for words, and felt a thrill of pleasure.
Intimidated by the silence but also because he was tall and slim and so elegantly arrayed in white, she crossed her legs, pulled down the hem of her dress, struck and held a poetical pose. Darling girl, he thought, moved by her weakness and her pathetic attempts to please. Feeling awkward under her reverential gaze, he lowered his eyes. She gave a start when she saw the scar. Oh she would kiss his eye, erase the hurt she had caused him and ask his forgiveness. She cleared her throat so that her voice would be pure and true. But he smiled at her, and she stood up.
Near to him at last, at last the flecks of gold so near, nestling at last in the haven of his shoulder, at last he held her. She drew back her head to see him more clearly, then brought her face closer, opened her lips like a flower in bloom, opened them reverently, with her head tilted back and eyes languishing, blissful and accessible, a saint in ecstasy. Goodbye chorale, goodbye nightingale, he thought. On solid ground now that she's got the soul routine out of her system, he thought, and he rebuked himself for harbouring this demon inside him. Oh yes, it was patently obvious, if he'd been four front teeth short there'd have been no enthralled' 'Always', no nightingale, no chorale. Or if teeth all present and correct but out of a job and in rags, again no 'Always' nor nightingale nor chorale. Nightingales and chorales were for the owning classes. But never mind, she was his true love, so hold your tongue and keep your damnable psychology to yourself!
On the sofa of faded silk, the sofa which had once belonged to Tantlérie, they tasted each other's sweetness, mouth on mouth, eyes closed, drinking long and deep, oblivious, assiduous, insatiable. At times she pulled away to see and know him, gazed at him in adoration with wild, staring eyes, and inwardly spoke two words of Russian to him, the language she had learned for love of Varvara which now enabled her to tell a man that she was his. 'Tvoya zhena,' she said to him in her heart of hearts as in her hands she held his stranger's face, then drew close and surrendered, while outside two cats raucously broadcast their love. 'Tvoya zhena,' she said to him in her heart of hearts with each pause, each time they paused to draw breath, said it in her heart of hearts so that she might feel more deeply, more humbly, that she was his and dependent on him, feel it primitively, like a bare-foot peasant with the smell of earth in her nostrils, feel that she was his woman and his servant who from that very first moment had bent her head and kissed the hand of her man. 'Tvoya zhena,' and she surrendered again and they kissed, with the haste and fury of youth, in quick, repeated surges, or according to the unhurried rituals of love, and then they stopped, looked at each other and smiled, breathless, glowing, easy, and then came the questions, then began the litany.
Sacred, obtuse litany, wondrous canticle, joy of poor human kind doomed to die, love's sempiternal two-voiced unison, the eternal love-duet which makes the earth to multiply. She told him over and over that she loved him. She asked him, for she knew the miraculous answer, asked him if he loved her. He told her over and over that he loved her. He asked her, for he knew the miraculous answer, asked her if she loved him. Love's first burgeoning, so tedious to others, so engrossing to those concerned.