Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  Tirelessly crooning their duet, they declared their love for each other, and their banalities filled them with transports of delight. Closely embracing, they smiled, almost laughed aloud for joy, kissed then broke off to proclaim the wondrous tidings all too quickly confirmed by renewed collisions of lip and tongue in hungry exploration. Conjoined lips and tongues, the language of the young.

  Those first moments of love, the kisses of those first moments, awesome chasms of their fate, oh those first embraces, there on this sofa handed down by generations of the stern and the dead, their sins tattooed upon their lips. The eyes of Ariane, her eyes now raised in reverence, her eyes now devoutly closed, and her unskilled tongue suddenly, marvellously proficient. She pushed him away so that she might look at him, her mouth still open though the kiss was done, to see and know him, see this stranger who was the only man in her life. 'I am your woman, 'tvoya zhena,' she said falteringly, and if he made to break free she held him closer still. 'Never leave me,' she faltered, and they raised their cup to life, to their intertwined lives.

  Those first moments. Oh kisses, oh pleasure found by the woman on the lips of the man, rising sap of youth, sudden truces, and they gazed at each other entranced, then, breaking the spell once more, kissed each other furiously, fraternally on cheeks, on forehead, on hands. Tell me, is this not God's doing?' she asked with a bewildered smile.

  'Tell me, do you love me? Tell me you love only me. Tell me there is no one else,' she said, and she injected golden inflections into her voice to please him, to swell his love for her, and she kissed the stranger's hands, then laid her hands upon his shoulders and pushed him back, then sealed her adoration with a look of divinely sulky petulance.

  Those first moments, this night of their first embraces. She yearned to break free of his embrace, go upstairs to her room, fetch gifts and lay them at his feet, but how could she bring herself to abandon him, abandon his eyes, abandon his dark lips? He held her, and because he held her so close it hurt, but it was such sweet hurt, and she told him once more that she was his woman. 'Your woman, your woman,' she said madly, proudly, while outside the nightingale resumed its fatuous serenade. Overwhelmed by the thought of being his woman, her cheeks lit up with tears. He kissed the tears on her cheeks. 'No, on the mouth,' she said, 'kiss me,' she said, and their mouths met in frenzy, and again she leaned back in his arms to adore him. 'My archangel, my fatal attraction,' she said, though she scarcely knew what she said, smiling, melodramatic, tawdry. I'll be your archangel and fatal attraction for as long as you want, he thought, but I cannot forget that you only talk of archangels and fatal attractions because I have thirty-two teeth. But I adore you, he thought immediately, and God be praised for my thirty-two teeth.

  Those first moments. Kisses of youth, loving supplications, absurd and tedious petitioning. 'Tell me you love me,' he said, and, seeking a firmer purchase on her lips, he leaned on her, leaned on her thigh, and at once she brought her knees together, closing her knees in the presence of the male. 'Tell me you love me,' he said again, insistent with his crucial question. 'Yes, yes,' she answered, 'all I have to give you is a paltry yes,' she said, 'yes, yes, I love you as I had never hoped to love anyone,' she panted between kisses, and he inhaled her breath. 'Yes, darling, I love you. I love you yesterday, today and always, and it will always be today,' she said, husky-voiced, hare-brained, unhinged by love.

  *

  Those first moments. Two strangers suddenly, wondrously close, lips toiling, tongues searching, tongues ever questing, tongues reaching out and blending, tongues jousting, joining, loving, hating, the sacred toil of man and of woman, saliva mixing in mouths, mouths feeding on each other, on the food of youth, tongues conjoined in impossible desire, glances, ecstasy, the living smile of two mortal souls, wet-lipped murmurings, pet-name calling, childish kisses, innocent kisses on the corners of eyes and mouth, new beginnings, sudden surging explorations, saliva exchanged, let me kiss you, kiss me, kiss me again, tears of happiness, salt tears tasted, love exacted, love declared, oh the wondrous tedium of it!

  'O my love, hold me close, I am yours in all purity,' she said. 'Who are you, what did you do to overwhelm me completely, body and soul? Hold me, hold me closer, but spare me tonight,' she said. 'In my mind I am already your wife, but not tonight,' she said. 'Go, leave me, leave me to think of you, to think about what is happening to me,' she said. 'But say, please say you love me,' she stammered. 'O my love,' she said, blissfully, tearfully, 'there was no one, my love, no one before you, and there will never be another. Go, my love, leave me, leave me alone so that I may be closer to you,' she said. 'No, no, don't leave me,' she begged, holding him fast with both hands, 'all I have in the world is you, I could not go on living without you,' she begged, wild-eyed and clinging to him.

  Love and love's temerity. Lamp suddenly extinguished by his hand and she afraid: why? what would his desire be? Breasts bared to the night, a faint luminescence of breasts, a man's hand on a breast gleaming with moonlight, a woman's sweet shame, expectant lips half open, afraid and happy in subjection, trepidation and sweetness, a man's face bending over, boldness in the dark, boldness enjoined by love, boldness permitted by she who surrenders, yields and soon actively consents, oh her long-drawn sighs and moans, the self-same sounds that she will make in the hour of her certain death, oh her deathbed smiles, her pale face in the moonlight, her dazzled eyes the eyes of the living dead, suddenly revealed to herself, perplexed and fulfilled, running her hands through the hair of the man now nuzzling her breasts, her hands slyly caressing, hands playing an accompaniment to her happiness, grateful hands, light hands which said thank you, I love you, and asked for more. Love, thy sun shone bright this night. Their first night.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 38

  Oh first days of their loving, the making shift to be beautiful, the crazy compulsion to be beautiful for him, the joys of waiting, the moments of his coming at nine and she invariably at the door waiting, at the door beneath the roses round the door, in the Romanian dress he liked, white it was with wide sleeves nipped at the wrist, oh those early days, the wild greetings when they saw each other again, the loving evenings, the never-ending hours spent gazing at each other, talking to each other, oh the joy of gazing at each other, telling each other everything about themselves, embracing, and when he left her in the small hours, left her in a star-burst of kisses, he came back sometimes, an hour later, two minutes later, oh the wonder of seeing her once more.

  Oh his passionate homecomings, 'I can't live without you,' he said, returning, and for love's sake would kneel before her just as she for love's sake knelt before him, and then the kisses, she and he, transfixed, sublime, embrace upon embrace, a great black flapping of winged kisses, deep and endless kisses, oh their closed eyes, 'I can't live without you,' he'd say between the kisses, and he stayed for hours on end, for he could not, no he could not live without her, stayed until the dawn broke and the birds began their gossip, and it was love, he in her, victoriously, and she receiving and with all her soul approving.

  New dawns, eagerly awaited morrows, eternally fresh-coined wonder of being beautiful for him, handsome for her, oh blissful reunions, the hours of jubilation, the joy of being together, of talking endlessly together, of being perfect and admired, the hostile interruptions of desire, tender adversaries probing, each seeking to fuse into the other.

  Ariane: who would wait for him at her door, fair of form in her white linen dress. Ariane: the outward form of a goddess, the mystery of her beauty which unmanned her lover. Ariane: her arch archangelic face, the turned-down corners of her mouth, her high-minded nose, her walk, her breasts, which were both pride and challenge, her tender petulant lips when she set her eyes upon him, the sudden flare of her skirt when she turned and ran to him, came running to ask him, with lips outstretched, to ask him if he loved her:

  Oh the joys, all their joys. The joy of being alone, but joy too in being with others, the joyful complicity of exchanging glances in th
e presence of others, of knowing they were lovers in the presence of others who did not know. The joy of going forth together, the joy of going to the cinema and holding hands in the dark and looking at each other when the lights came up, and then returning to her house the better to love, he filled with the pride of her, and passers-by turning their heads as they passed by, and the old suffering to see such love, such beauty.

  Ariane, nun of love. Ariane and her long huntress legs. Ariane and her gaudy breasts, which she gave him, loved to give him, and she lost herself in his sweetness. Ariane, who would telephone at three o'clock in the morning to ask if he loved her and say that she loved him, and they wearied not of this marvel that was their loving. Ariane, who walked him home, then he walked-her home, then she walked him home again, and they could not be parted, could not, and then the bed of love would open for them, handsome and affluent couple, the vast bed where she said that no man else before him and no man else after him and she wept tears of joy beneath him.

  'You are fair,' he would say. 'I am fair, fair for my lord,' she would smile. Ariane: the sudden frightened look in her eye when, masking his love, he feigned coolness so that she would love him more. Ariane, who called him her joy and her pain, her tormentor and her Christian-baiter, but also her soul-brother. Ariane the ebullient, Ariane of the twinkling toes and perpetual sunshine. Ariane, inspired sender of telegrams a hundred love-words long, sender of many telegrams so that her loved one travelling far away should know within the hour, should know soon how much, how constantly his loving beloved loved him, and one hour after dispatching the wire sat reading her rough copy, reading the telegram at the same time as he, to be with him and also to savour the happiness of her beloved, the wonder of her beloved.

  Her jealousies, goodbyes for ever, reunions, tongues intertwined, tears of joy, letters, oh the letters of those early days, letters sent and letters received, letters which, together with the preparations she made for the one she loved and the waiting for his coming, were the honey of their love, letters painstakingly penned, striven for through discarded drafts, letters penned painstakingly so that each thing which reached him from her was admirable and perfect. For him, the rush of blood in his heart when he recognized her handwriting on the envelope, and he would take the letter and keep it with him wherever he went.

  Letters, oh the letters of those first days, letters from the loved one travelling far away, the times she waited for the postman to come, she would walk along the road to watch for his coming and, quickly now, the letter. At night, before sleep, she would prop it by her bedside to know that it was near as she slept and also to know that it would be the first thing she saw next morning, the letter which she read and reread on waking and then bravely let it lie, kept well away from it for hours on end so that she could come to it fresh and again feel all its savour, the treasured letter in which she buried her face so that she might believe she could detect the fragrance of her lover, and inspected the envelope too, studied the address he had written and even the stamp he had licked, and if it were firmly stuck straight in the right-hand corner then that too was proof of his love.

  Solal and his Ariane, soaring naked at the prow of their tossing ship of love, princely commanders of sea and sun, immortal figureheads on the prow of love, and they looked at each other without end in the glorious lunacy of their beginning.

  CHAPTER 39

  The hours of waiting, oh joy, the waiting hours from early morning through the day-long day, the waiting for the evening hour, oh joy of knowing all the livelong day that he would come at eventide, at nine o'clock, and it was a foretaste of bliss.

  The moment she woke, quickly she opened the shutters to see if the weather would be kind this evening. Yes, it would be fine, the night would be warm with countless stars which they would look at together, and there would be the nightingale which they would hear together, and she would snuggle up close to him as on that first night, and then they would go walking and strolling in the woods, walking arm in arm. Whereupon she walked around her room, one arm linking, anticipating. Or she might switch the radio on and if in the early morning it blared out a military march she would parade with the regiment, hand to temple by way of a salute, because tonight he would be there, so tall, so slim, and oh the way he would look at her.

  Sometimes she would close the shutters, draw the curtains, lock her bedroom door, stuff earplugs in her ears so that she would not be distracted by outside sounds, which this pretty creature, in her pedantic way, called hostile constrainers. Prone in the dark and the silence, she would close her eyes and smilingly tell herself what had happened last night, all the things they had said and done, tell it over to herself as she lay curled and coiled, going into details, adding comments, treating herself to a feast of chatterage, as she put it, and then she would tell herself about what would happen tonight, and at such moments it was not unknown for her to stroke her breasts.

  Sometimes, before she got up, she would sing to herself, quietly, so that the cleaning-woman would not hear, sing Bach's Whitsun hymn into her pillow, replacing the name of Jesus by the name of her beloved, which, though it made her feel uneasy, was such a delicious thing to do. Or else she spoke to her dead father, told him how happy she was, and asked him to give his blessing to their love. Or else she wrote the name of the man she loved in the air with her finger, wrote it ten or twenty times. And if she had not yet had her breakfast, her stomach would rumble suddenly and she grew angry with the rumble. 'Will you be quiet!' she would shout at the rumble. 'It's so sordid! Shut up, I'm in love!' She knew of course that she was being stupid, but acting stupidly was absolutely lovely when she was by herself and free.

  Or else she might decide on a session of thorough lookage and scannage. But first she had to be purified, which meant taking the bath required by the ritual, but remember, swear on your honour, that when you're in the bath you won't start telling yourself about what it will be like tonight, otherwise you'll be at it for hours and it'll hold up the ritual. So, quickly now, into the bath with you, think of him, session of lookage and scannage coming up! Hopping on one leg because she was happy, she made a dash for the bathroom. Standing by the bath, which took an age to fill, she gave the Whitsun hymn everything she had:

  O my believing soul

  Be proud now and content

  For see! there comes thy heavenly king.

  After her bath she went through the same ritual as for the chatterage. Shutters closed, curtains drawn, bedside lamp lit, blobs of wax stuffed in her ears. The world outside ceased to exist, and the ceremony could now begin. With the photographs spread out on the bed, but laid upside down so there was ho way she could peep, she lolled beside them, picked out the photo she liked best, of him on a sandy beach, covered it completely with her hand, and then began the feast of lookage and scannage. First she uncovered his bare feet. Good-looking feet, of course, but not wildly fascinating. She raised her hand a smidgen and revealed his legs. Better, much better already. Should she go higher? No, not all at once, wait until she could wait no longer. And so, a fraction of an inch at a time, she moved her hand, uncovering as she went, feasting her eyes. It was him, he who would be here tonight. And his face, see his face now, the fount of her joy, his face, her pleasure and her pain. That's enough, don't look for too long. If you looked for too long, you lost the feeling. Still, the face was the most important, though the rest was too, the rest of him, even the bits that, quite. Him and everything about him, and she a nun in the service of her lord.

  She wriggled out of her bathrobe and looked from her naked man to her man's naked woman and back again. 'O Sol, I do wish you were here,' she sighed, and she switched off the lamp and thought of this evening, of the moment of his coming, of their mouths. But she did not, would not, forget that she loved him as and for what he was: him, and the look in his eyes. And then would happen what would happen, a man and a woman, the blessed weight of him, her man. With lips half open, moist-lipped, she closed her eyes and drew her knees togeth
er.

  The hours of waiting, oh joy! After her bath, after breakfasting, the wonder of dreaming of him as she lay snugly rugged on the lawn, or face down with her cheeks in the grass and her nose pressed to the earth, the wonder of remembering his voice and his eyes and his teeth, the wonder of humming to herself wide-eyed and rather overdoing the imbecility so that she might feel more acutely the sensation of languishing idly in the smell of grass, the wonder of telling herself how her lover-man would come tonight, of describing it to herself as though it were a play in a theatre, of telling herself what he would say to her and what she would say to him. Really, she mused, the most exquisite moments were when he was not there but was coming and she was waiting for his coming, but also when he has gone and has left me remembering. Suddenly she stood up and ran around the garden, surprised by a fearful joy, and gave a long whoop of happiness. Or leaped over the rose-hedge. 'Solal!' she cried each time she leaped. Like a mad thing.

  Sometimes of a morning, when absorbed in some solitary task, earnestly picking mushrooms or raspberries, or sewing, or reading a book of philosophy which bored her, but she had to improve her mind for him, or guiltily but avidly perusing the agony columns or the horoscope of a woman's magazine, she would overhear herself fondly murmuring two words without intending to or without thinking of him. 'My love,' she would overhear herself say. Then she would say to her absent lover-man: 'You see, my darling, even when I'm not thinking of you, something inside me thinks of you.'