by Albert Cohen
Then she would go indoors, try on dresses, try to make up her mind which she would wear tonight, and she would gaze at herself in her mirror, wallow in the admiring way he would look at her tonight, strike goddess-like poses, imagine that she were him looking at her, trying to imagine what he would really think of this or that dress. 'Tell me, do you love me?' she asked him in her mirror, and she would make a precious, pouting face which, alas, was wasted. Or she might write him a letter, for no reason, simply to be with him, to be doing something that involved him, to speak to him in graceful, intelligent sentences and be admired for them. She would send her letter by express, or she might take a taxi and deliver it personally to the Palais and hand it to the porter herself. 'It's very urgent,' she would say to the porter.
Or else, overcome by a powerful urge to hear his voice, she would telephone, but not before evicting any potential frogs in her throat and practising a few golden inflections of her voice, and ask him liltingly in English if he loved her, saying it in Enghsh on account of the cleaning-woman with the flapping ears. Then, still in Enghsh and heavenly-voiced, she would remind him unnecessarily about tonight at nine, ask him if he could bring that photo of him on a horse and also if he would lend her his Commander's tie, it was so pretty, thanks awfully, would inform him that she loved him and again ask if he loved her, and, his answer proving satisfactory, she would smile into the mouthpiece like a child opening a Christmas present. When the call was over, she would put the receiver down, her left hand still clutching at a lock of her hair, tugging at it as she used to when she was a little girl mortified at having to speak to a grown-up. Then she would let go of her hair and when her fluttering heart returned to normal would smile again. Yes, she had carried it off well, no catches in her voice and no tripping nervously over her words. Oh yes, she had pleased him! Hooray! Hooray!
One Sunday, in the middle of a call to him at the Ritz, her voice had suddenly roughened and she hadn't dared clear her throat to unclog it because that would have made a squalid noise and disgraced her and he would love her less. Without further ado, she had hung up abruptly, evicted a large family of frogs, tried a few words to make sure that her voice was once more in heavenly trim, then had rung back, calmly explained that they had been cut off, asked him if he'd looked at her photograph the moment he woke up, and what was he wearing, oh a dressing-gown, which one? And did he love her? I'm so glad, I do too, madly, and you'll never guess, my love, I popped into a church just now so I could think of you, a Catholic church, because a Catholic church is the best sort of place for thinking. By the way, would you like me to wear my Romanian dress tonight or the wild silk? The Romanian? Fine. Unless you'd prefer the red one I think you said you liked. You'd rather the Romanian? Sure? You're not tired of it? The Romanian it shall be then. Tell me: do you love me?'
When the phone call was over, she sat without moving, still holding the receiver, delighted with him and highly pleased with herself. I've suddenly remembered something else. On another occasion, as she was phoning, she felt a sneeze coming on. She hung up on him so that he wouldn't hear the degrading sound of the sneeze. But that's enough of that.
Hours of waiting untouched by tedium, for there was so much to do for him, so many preparations she could get on with the moment she was free of the watchful eye of the cleaning-woman, whom she christened the ninny, who left at the beginning of the afternoon when she had finished her work. Alone at last and free to do as she liked, amorous Ariane immediately went and checked her sitting-room, where she would take him tonight, and was never happy with the way the ninny had left it looking. So, wearing a swimming-costume, she would set to with a will, sweeping, polishing, waxing the floor, wiping everything in sight like any uncombed housewife, brushing the armchairs and the sofa, the precious sofa for tonight, dusting every visible surface though there was no need, running the vacuum over the faded pink Persian carpet, arranging her flowers then pausing to look at them, hiding her copy of Vogue, displaying two or three dull but quality tomes on the sofa, Heidegger or Kierkegaard or Kafka, that sort of thing, putting a few logs in the hearth just in case, burning a piece of paper in the grate to be quite sure the chimney was drawing properly, working out a system of subdued lighting which would encourage cosy intimacies, moving the armchairs, popping into the kitchen to iron a dress already ironed by the ninny which she wanted to wear tonight, toing and froing, occasionally thinking about the letters from her husband which she had left unanswered, tossing her mane like a mare bothered by a horsefly and from time to time singing, with feeling, some silly refrain she had heard on the radio. 'Paaarlez-moi d'amooour?' she crooned, deliberately choosing a voice which made her sound like some lovesick factory girl. Never mind, she liked it. 'Me wits is turning,' she said. 'But there, isn't that what us girls is for?'
When the man on the radio spoke of political overviews and frank and cordial discussions which afforded hope of an easing of international tension, she listened in open-mouthed amazement. So there really were people who took an interest in such things, whose life it was! 'Pack of fools' she said to them, and she stopped the man on the radio dead in his tracks. In reality, there was only one matter of any importance: getting herself ready and being sure that he would find her attractive. Or else, if the Sunday sermon was on the radio and the preacher said that people should devote themselves to the service of the Lord, she concurred wholeheartedly. 'Yes, my darling, to your service!' she exclaimed, and she rearranged the flowers with renewed zest.
Suddenly, for no earthly reason, as she rummaged through a drawer, she would say: 'How are tricks, then?' Realizing that she had been speaking to him, she would cover her sacrilegious mouth with one hand, shocked but really quite proud of her boldness.
All at once she would stop working, decide it was time for fun, sit at her writing-table, write the name of the man she loved twenty or thirty times, and then his other names, Lalos, Alsol, Losal. Or else, she would stand in front of her mirror and say she loved him, say it in a variety of tones of voice so that she could decide which was best and use it tonight. Or else, wearing a black silk dressing-gown and his Commander's tie round her neck, she played at being him, the better to be with him. 'I love you, Ariane,' she said in a deep man's voice, and on the glass of the mirror kissed the lips which he would kiss tonight.
A cigarette-end which he had discarded last night. She lit it, and oh the bliss of inhaling smoke from the sacred butt! Or else she wanted. to see the look on her face when she had kissed his hand last night, to see if it had pleased him. Standing before the mirror, she leaned forward while she kissed her hand, which made it rather difficult for her to get much of a view, but she managed it by straining her eyes until the whites showed. Or else, still standing in front of the mirror, she repeated snatches of things she had said the night before. 'Keep me by you, keep me by you always,' she said, and the words brought her close to tears. Or else she opened her dressing-gown, looked at her breasts in the mirror, her breasts which he would kiss tonight. 'Congratulations,' she said to her breasts, 'you are my glory and my prop,' she told them. 'He's a lucky devil, say what you like!' she concluded. Or else she dropped her dressing-gown on the floor, eager to see her nakedness objectively, in the mirror. 'A stunner, the girl's a stunner,' she said. 'Do you realize just how privileged you are, my good man?' she asked him through her nose, pinching it between two fingers, which made her sound like her aunt.
*
One afternoon she slipped into an unbleached linen dress which buttoned all down the front, and closed the shutters. In the luscious gloom, she undid the buttons down to her waist, flapped the bodice like wings, and promenaded, whispering to herself that she was the winged Victory of Samothrace come to life. 'Darling, I think you're the absolute tops,' she told the mirror. 'After him, you're the one I love most in the whole world.' Feeling rather guilty, she made herself decent, curtsied to the King of England, showed him to a chair, and then sat down herself. Crossing her legs, she exchanged a few words with His Ma
jesty, asked him to ban that dreadful Canadian song about plucking poor alouette, yawned, felt proud of her teeth, undid the top of her dress, produced one opulent breast and on it, with a fountain-pen, wrote the name of the man she loved.
Abruptly serious and conscious of her responsibilities, she plastered her face and neck with the grey mud which was called a beauty mask, sat as though turned to stone in the service of love, without speaking or singing, for fear of cracking the dried slime, now and then doing her nails but drawing the line at varnishing them which she thought vulgar and fit only for Catholics. Next came washing her hair. 'Tonight, tonight,' she murmured under the lather, hands scrubbing, eyes closed.
At eight in the evening she had her last bath of the day, which she left as late as possible so that she would be a miracle of pure hygiene when he arrived. In the bath, she played at sticking her toes out of the water and waggling them, imagining to herself that they were her ten children, five little boys on the left and five little girls on the right, pretending to scold them and telling them to have their baths quickly and then go straight to bed, and then she put them back in the warm water. After this, she told herself more stories, told herself that he'd be there an hour from now, very tall, with those eyes of his, and she would look at him and he would look at her, and he would smile at her. Oh how absolutely wonderful it was to be alive!
I'll stay in the bath a little bit longer, but not more than five minutes now, do you hear, yes, all right, five minutes, I promise, and then get dressed quickly, he's probably shaving now, hold it there, that'll do, you're quite handsome enough as it is, be careful you don't cut yourself, come quickly, jump to it, jump in my bath, there's heaps of room, and if there isn't we'll manage somehow, 'cos I know a trick.
Emerging from her bath and still naked, she made a dash for the phone and told him to be on time. 'Darling, it's so awful when you come late, I start worrying you've had an accident, and besides my face gets totally ruined if I have to wait for you. So please, darling?' she smiled, and she hung up and then brushed her teeth one last time. Impatient, toothbrush in hand, her mouth unrinsed and foaming with toothpaste, she again sang the Whitsun hymn and the coming of a heavenly king.
Next on the agenda, with all its attendant angst, was the crucial business of getting dressed. Wouldn't it be better to wear the other dress, the severe one with the pleats, on second thoughts no, how about the red, which would be very fetching in subdued lighting? But then she knew in a sudden illumination that she would only feel right if she wore the little tussore two-piece. Ah, clothes were a state of mind too, anyway he'd said how much he'd liked the tussore only the other day, besides that way she'd be able to wear a blouse, a blouse was so much more convenient if, all you had to do was, whereas with the pleated dress, which had such a high neck and buttoned at the back, stupid thing, there was such a palaver if, but with a blouse it was straightforward if, because blouses unbuttoned down the front.
Oh I love it when, when he, when he kisses them and it goes on for ages and ages, I literally dissolve. Come on, you out there, didn't anyone ever kiss you like that? And if no one ever did, then it's your loss, you can sulk and fume till you're blue in the face, but me I love it, yes it's awkward if you're wearing a dress that only unbuttons a little way down the back, you have to take it off, and it would be me who'd have to do the taking off, it would be like a visit to the doctor's, I'd be so embarrassed I wouldn't know where to put myself, whereas a blouse — or should I say shirt? I've never known the difference — can be unbuttoned without my knowing, really, it's much more decent, especially if the light's not too strong, though if Tantlérie were to, I suppose I wallow in being a woman, and there you are, can't help it.
Dressed now, she proceeded to give herself a final, objective inspection, took three or four paces towards the mirror to try out a few natural, relaxed moves, then retreated to get the effect, placed the back of one hand on her hip to give herself confidence, then experimented with poses and smiles, tested different combinations of faces and voices, the phrase recurring most frequently being 'No, I don't think so', because that made her appear sure of herself, a touch supercilious. Then she sat down and tried to stay absolutely still so as not to disturb her perfection. Anxiously she listened for the sound of a car, lit a cigarette to make her look poised, then extinguished it so as not to stain her teeth or make her breath smell, found sitting down tiring, and besides it was creasing her skirt, best step outside. At the door, surrounded by the warm night, she waited, afraid she might perspire, because if she did it would be awful: her nose would shine.
CHAPTER 40
He lay in his bath and mused that at this very moment she was probably covered in lather too. However eagerly he looked forward to seeing her soon, he could not help feeling that it was ridiculous for two pathetic human beings, simultaneously, and three kilometres apart, to be cleaning and scrubbing themselves, as they might scour pots and pans, just to please each other, like actors making up before walking on stage. Actors, that's what they were, absurdly play-acting. He had been acting the other night when he had gone down on his knees to her. She had been acting too when she had held out her hands like some lady paramount and feudally bade him rise, acting with her 'You are my lord, I proclaim it with trumpets', clearly fancying her chances as a Shakespearian heroine. Tawdry lovers condemned to act out noble parts. Their pathetic need to feel that they were different. He shook his head to drive out his demon. Enough! Torment me no more, an end to derision, malign not my love and let me love her with a pure heart, let me be happy!
He was now out of his bath, which he had deliberately prolonged to abridge the time of waiting until he saw her once more. Naked and oh so smoothly shaved, smooth-cheeked for her, he danced, danced for the joy of seeing her soon, danced like a Spaniard, with tiny, neat steps, one hand on hip, clicking the fingers of the other, suddenly stamping his heels or shading his eyes with one hand, desperately seeking a glimpse of the woman he loved, then danced like a Russian, squatting and kicking his legs out in front of him, straightening up and clapping his hands, unleashing ludicrous warlike whoops, leaped, whirled, dropped into the splits, got up again, gave a cheer because he would be seeing her soon, smiled at himself, loved himself, loved her, loved the woman he loved. Oh, if he had ever felt alive it was now and for ever!
In the taxi which carried him to her, he sang deliriously, and the sound of the engine covered his singing, and he urged the driver to go faster, to carry him like the wind, and he promised him prodigious sums, even said he would kiss him when they arrived, then he sang again of going to her, sang with such satanic glee that once he had flung his finest ring out of the window into the passing cornfields, and he sang and he sang and he sang endlessly that he was going to her, oh song of impatience and fearful joy, oh preposterous canticle of youth, and he sang and he sang and he sang, endlessly sang the triumph of being loved, and he looked at the man who was loved reflected in the windows of the taxi, was proud of his teeth, proud he was handsome, handsome for her, victoriously going towards her who waited, and lo! he saw her from afar, waiting at her door beneath the roses, oh glory, oh wondrous sight: 'Lo! behold the woman who is loved, unique and full of grace, glory to the Lord, the Lord in me,' he whispered.
CHAPTER 41
Their first evenings together, rapture of conversations interrupted by a myriad kisses, chaste interludes, the fascination and delight of telling the other about themselves, of learning everything there was to know about the other, of pleasing the other. She talked eagerly to him about her childhood, about the games she'd played with Éliane, about the little song she'd made up which they'd sung on the way to school, told him about her uncle and her aunt and Varvara, told him about Magali her owl and Fluffy her cat, two delightful little souls prematurely torn from her tender affections, showed him old photos and homework she'd done as a girl, even gave him her private diary to read, only too happy that he should know all about her, hold sovereign rights over her, or else she told him
gravely about her father, and he put on an attentive, respectful expression to see her breathe more deeply, for she gloried in his respect, which justified their love and made it right.
The miracle, as they talked, of seeing herself with him in the mirror, of knowing that this was for ever, that he was with her and was hers. The miracle of sharing everything with him, of making an oblation of her most secret self, her adolescent passions, her day-dreams, the sometime hermit, now dead, the well-dressed gent she'd gunned down and left in the snow, her trick of soothing her nerves by banging herself against the wall, oh the miracle of feeling that he was her soul-brother who understood her completely, understood her better than she understood herself. Yes, the miracle too of being brother and sister, and of laughing together.
She told him what kinds of music she liked, and occasionally got up and played examples on the piano for him, and she gazed at him when she had finished, relieved if he liked them too, and she would kiss his hands. If he did not like them, she suddenly found them less beautiful, realizing that he was right. Oh this need to feel at one with him, to like only what he liked, to know what books he liked so that she could read them and like them too.
Endless talking, friendly suspensions of carnimalities which comforted her and were to her mind living proof that they were joined in spirit and not simply in body, the never tarnished joy of talking about themselves, of being clever and intelligent and handsome and noble and perfect. Two actors absorbed in outcharming each other, striving and strutting, he thought once more, but what did it matter, it was bliss, for everything about her delighted him, even her good-little-girl-I'm-watching-the-birdie-for-the-photographer-man smile whenever he said something nice about how beautiful she was, even her Genevan accent and vocabulary delighted him. He loved her.