by Albert Cohen
Genthod-Bellevue. Geneva soon, not long to go now before the station. At the start of their affair, when she'd gone to Paris to be with him, she'd found him waiting for her at the barrier, tall, hatless, his hair dishevelled, looking rather absurd standing next to the ticket-collector. She recalled his smile when he had caught sight of her, the way he'd taken her arm. She had been surprised to see him on the platform, it wasn't his style to wait for trains at stations. In the hotel, the Plaza, he had undressed her immediately. Her dress had split across the top, he had carried her to the bed, and she, the fool of her forty-two years, had been so happy and so proud. But she was old then, already old, so why had he bothered? Why couldn't he have let her alone? All the effort she had made for three years to make herself attractive. What had been the good of going to all those beauty parlours? Hair went on growing on the legs of corpses for several days. As far as she was concerned, it could grow. Here's the station, gateway to nowhere. Stir yourself, life must go on.
The driver had been so absurdly overtipped that, impelled by a sense of class solidarity, he gave the nod to a porter, who, taking the hint, rushed forward, grabbed her bag, and asked which train. Not knowing what to say, she licked her lips. 'Marseilles, lady?' 'Yes.' 'The seven twenty. You can just make it. Got your ticket?' 'No.' 'You'll have to get a move on, then. Can't afford to hang about. I'll wait for you by the train. First class, is it?' 'Yes.' 'Best foot forward, lady, you've only got four minutes, it's the last window along. Look sharp!' Alone in the world, mastering an urge to be sick, she set off at a run, hat askew, repeating Marseilles, Marseilles to herself as she went.
An hour after the train got in, she left the hotel, ran across the Canebière, almost got herself knocked over, turned down a narrow street, and pulled up short in front of a poodle tied to an iron railing next to a grocer's waiting for its mistress who had gone inside. It waited anxiously, fretting, restless, pulling on its lead, trying to see into the shop. When would she come? Why was she so long in there? Had she forgotten him? Oh he suffered torments! Whimpering with almost human distress, straining with all his might, trying to inch forward, he tugged relentlessly on his lead, chafing to be near his cruel mistress, to make her come more quickly, waiting, hoping, suffering. She bent down and stroked him. He was unhappy too. She crossed the road again, went into a chemist's, and asked for veronal. The man peered at her dishevelled hair through his spectacles and asked if she had a prescription. No? In that case, he could not let her have veronal. She said thank you and left. Why had she said thank you? Because I'm a loser, that's why. Then on to the Rue Poids-de-la-Farine. She was glad she'd said in the letter she'd written him that she was going back to Hungary, that way he wouldn't worry. The main chemist's. Same refusal. The woman in the white coat suggested Passiflorine, a herbal sedative. Yes please. She paid, left the shop, looked right then left, left the Passiflorine at the foot of a wall, and stared at it for a moment. Why couldn't he have let her alone? Should she go to a doctor's for a prescription? She didn't have the strength, she was so tired. Rent a little furnished flat with a gas cooker? But where would she find one? She didn't have enough life in her. Even to die you needed to have life. In England, rooms in provincial hotels always had gas rings. Ought she to go to England?
She stopped. In the window of a shop, a sweet little basset-hound lay on straw behind wire netting, looking bored and mournful, nibbling one paw. Couldn't be more than a year old. She stroked the glass of the window. Delighted, the puppy stood up, leaned its front paws against the window, licked the glass just where the lady who was making a fuss of him had put her hand. Inside the shop, parrots, monkeys, a flock of assorted little birds, an old woman with hair that had been hacked rather than cut, and a young effeminate-looking man in slippers sporting a fringe and a white silk scarf. She went in, bought the basset, a pretty collar and a lead, and then left, holding the little dog in her arms, already aquiver with love.
Another chemist's. She went in. Surely a woman with a little dog would not arouse suspicion. Yes, the basset inspired confidence, but try to look cheerful, stroke him, say I'm having a lot of trouble getting to sleep, I'd like some strong sleeping-pills, but easy now, act cautious, they're not dangerous are they, how many is it safe to take, is a whole one too much? I'd like twenty, I live out of town, you see. But first ask for face-powder, dither about the shade, the man wouldn't suspect anything if she dithered about the shade.
Leading the dog on the leash, she walked out of the shop and discreetly poked her tongue out at the chemist. She'd pulled the wool completely over their eyes! Oh no, they weren't the only ones who could look out for themselves. 'Properly speaking, I really ought to ask you for a doctor's prescription, but you seem a responsible sort of person. Do be careful, though, they're very strong, don't take more than one at a time, and not more than two over a period of twenty-four hours.' She'd managed to smile and say she had absolutely no wish to die. The amber eau-de-Cologne had helped. 'Pulled the wool right down over their eyes. And all thanks to you, my little darling. Let's take that nasty lead off and you can trot along all by yourself, my little Boulinou. Happy to be off the leash, the dog shook his collar to ease his neck, raced some distance ahead, came back at a run, and fell in behind her, full of himself, feeling important because someone loved him and knowing in whom he believed. Oh the great heart of little dogs.
He was now trotting along in front of her once more, independent, freed from the durance vile of the pet-shop window, wagging his tail, happy as the mayor and corporation, but stopping from time to time to turn round and make sure his new friend was still there, for how could he live without her, then running back to stare at her and get a pat on the head, which he enjoyed immensely, then running off to have fun and games, sniffing out fascinating smells and, having found one that was absolutely first-rate, turning round again so that she would take note, then racing back to tell her about the smell, at ease with himself and the world, then shooting off again and knowing that she was following, which meant that everything was fine, oh and how about a winkle, yes why not, always a pleasure, especially since here's a tree that's positively asking for it, then scurrying back to tell the nice lady all about it, he couldn't imagine anyone nicer, and looking up at her with such earnest sincerity, then scampering off again, tail held at an optimistic angle, leading the way while she followed staring so hard at the ground that she bumped into a child. 'Can't you look where you're going!' shouted its mother. Panicking, she hurried away, followed by the basset, who was delighted by this new game. Oh, he was having a lovely time with his friend!
In the Allees de Meilhan she sat down on a bench. Above her head the leaves of a plane-tree scarcely stirred. All this would go on without her. Trees and flowers would go on being, and she would lie in the earth all alone. It would be ideal if you could die without the bother. The bother was the worst part. Let them try it, they'd find out how easy it is. Will my name be in the papers? Only in the Marseilles papers, which meant he'd never know. She wiped her nose and stared into her handkerchief. That snot there was life. She felt a need to urinate. So her works were still functioning. She felt her abdomen. Soon she would no longer be able to touch her poor body which was still doing its duty, its duty to go on living. Across the way were a couple of lovers. Kiss him, kiss him, you little fool, you'll see where it gets you. Wagging his tail in passionate devotion, Boulinou looked desperately up at her, hoping for an affectionate word. The word did not come, so he jumped up on to the bench, sat down beside her, and worked his nose into the crook of her arm. 'My love,'she said to him.
Her room at the Hotel de Noailles. The waiter has just set down the tray of cold meats. Ham, chicken and roast beef. The basset in his chair is on his best behaviour, as grave and attentive as a parishioner in his pew, trying very hard to be good so that he will be rewarded with the luscious treats which he can smell and is ogling with churchgoing eyes. He looks from the bountiful lady to the viands and back again with respectful fervour, afraid that he is
not quite a good doggy, but holding out his front paws and waving them mildly in a show of well-mannered but very real hunger. Look here, is she going to come across with the goods or is she not? If she doesn't want any, that's fine, that's her business, but if she's not going to give him some it's a bit thick, what with him being absolutely ravenous. He makes a diffident, begging gesture with his right paw, containing with some difficulty the urge to help himself, for he must make a good impression. At last! she's got the message, and about time too! He snatches the slice of ham she holds out to him and gulps it down quick as a flash. Ditto with three more slices of ham. This is getting a bit monotonous. The old girl has absolutely no imagination. He puts out one paw and then another, eyes glazed with the effort of trying to make her understand that he is ready to have a stab at the chicken and the beef She rings. The waiter comes and picks up the tray. Devastated, Boulinou looks at him beseechingly and does a little agitated jig. Hang on, what about the beef and especially the chicken, chicken is my favourite! You can't do this to me! What's got into the old girl? Never saw the like! But heigh-ho, so be it, she gives the orders around here. Now he looks at her and gives a discreet little whine. He has had something to eat, for which many thanks, but his soul still hungers. He would like to be stroked, life really isn't worth living if you don't get stroked. A dog cannot live on ham alone. He raises both front paws and leans them on the kind lady. She shies away. The only creature in the whole wide world who loves her is a dog. She shuts him in the bathroom.
She woke with a start, looked up at the ceiling-light which was still burning, and thought of the basset which she'd returned to the pet-shop the previous evening. Feeling woozy, she roused herself, sat on the edge of the bed, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, still dressed and with hat askew over one ear. Her watch on the bedside table said seven o'clock. She would stay in bed. Bed was pleasant, even when times were bad. Even so, she got up after a while and drew the curtains. Outside was life, out there were happy people. There was nothing attractive about the old hag in the mirror, with her slits of eyes, prominent cheek-bones, dry hair and overfilled teeth — there was even a bridge in the back of her mouth. That weekend at Ouchy. It was at the start of their affair. On the Sunday afternoon, after they'd walked together along the edge of the lake, she had even refused him a kiss and had run off laughing. And now, just a foolish old woman alone in Marseilles who had fallen asleep still wearing her hat. 'Rotten old God,' she said aloud.
She took her hat off, sat at the table, folded a sheet of hotel notepaper in two and then in four, opened it out, took up her pen, and unscrewed the cap. She would leave a letter for him and say that he had nothing to blame himself for, that he wasn't responsible, that he was entitled to be happy. No, best not a letter, best not run any risk of compromising him. She opened the bottle of pills, counted them, picked up her pen, drew a cross which she turned into a diamond to which she added scalloped edges, and suddenly felt the lust for life return. Of course! The answer was to go back to Switzerland, rent a chalet in the mountains and live there quietly. She'd retrieve the basset, which would make pleasant company for her, and take a train to Geneva, though she wouldn't stay there any longer than she could help, to minimize the risk of meeting him, stay just long enough to get some cash from the bank. Then she'd go to Lausanne, where an estate agent would find her a chalet to rent. In Lausanne she'd buy books, records and a radio. Everything will work out fine, you'll see if it doesn't. A comfortable chalet, a nice little dog, books, pottering in the garden. Nothing more to do with love, good riddance, no more having to do something about those blue veins in her legs. And now have a bath, take a fresh hold on life. She upended the pill-bottle and yanked the lavatory chain.
Stepping out of the bath, she dried herself taking good care not to look at herself in the mirror, and rubbed herself down with eau-de-Cologne. It was pleasant to smell nice and feel clean. That too was another sign that life was returning. She put on her bathrobe, opened the window, stepped out on to the narrow balcony, put her elbows on the parapet, and suddenly he was there, tall, hatless, hair tousled, laughing as he tried to catch her, tried to catch her and snatch a kiss, and she leaned over; leaned over a little more so that he wouldn't catch her, and the top of the rail hurt her stomach and, hands reaching out, she screamed into the void where a black man watched and waited, and then there was another scream, and then there was the unyielding pavement just by the bespattered newspaper stand.
CHAPTER 51
Not wishing to leave anything to chance, she would first make rough copies, two or three and sometimes more. The latest version passing muster, she would wash her hands to avoid any risk of dirtying the writing-paper, a tinted parchment, wash them thoroughly, thrilled by the thought that she was a vestal purifying herself before performing a ritual.
Sitting at her table, or even kneeling on the floor, an inconvenient position but one which gave her a heady feeling, she would unscrew the top of her best pen, which had an angled nib and made her handwriting look faintly masculine. After a couple of florid but perfectly legible practice runs to get herself warmed up, she would rest her right hand on a sheet of blotting-paper to keep the fine parchment clean, and then begin her letter, poking out the tip of her tongue and wiggling it daintily in time to her thoughts. So intense was her search for perfection that it was not unusual for her to tear up a page which was almost finished because of one badly written word or a tiny smudge which she had just noticed. Or again she might decide to write out the same page two or three times so that she could choose the one which best pleased her eye. When, after much consulting of the dictionary, she was finally done, she would read the letter aloud to get the full effect, read it with mesmeric inflections of her voice, enhancing each especially well-chosen word or expression with dulcet emphasis, pausing at intervals to admire the style, indulging herself with encores of sentences which she thought particularly well turned, imagining that she was him receiving her letter so that she would have a clear sense of the impression it would make on him.
Once she forced herself to write in a most uncomfortable position, stretched out on the sofa, so that she could enjoy beginning her letter 'I'm writing this lazily stretched out on our sofa', which had voluptuous connotations, shades of Madame Recamier. Another time she wrote him a note in his presence which he was on no account to read until he got home, and she'd deliberately refrained from licking the envelope with her tongue, which would have been vulgar, but instead went through a most fetching rigmarole using her decorously moistened forefinger to wet the gum. She had been altogether less decorous on the sofa only minutes before.
When her lover was away on official business, she kept a rough copy of every letter she sent so that she could read it through on the day and at the exact time when she estimated he should have received it. In this way she had a sense of being with him and was thus able to appreciate the admiration which he must certainly be feeling for her. One evening, sensing that she was in touch with him, she was rereading the end of a letter which she considered particularly well turned ('I hold you close and feel our two hearts in counterpoint throb to a single beat'). She inhaled deeply, like a craftsman content with his handiwork. Awfully good that line about two hearts throbbing contrapuntally. His countess couldn't have come up with anything like that, not in a thousand years. Taken herself off back to Hungary, thank God. The order of the words hearts in counterpoint throb also had a definite ring to it. Suddenly, she bit her lip. It was all wrong, because it assumed that he was facing her! His heart, which is on the left, would obviously be opposite my right side, where my liver is, not my heart. For the image to work, his heart would have to be on his right since mine is on my left. That's ridiculous, he isn't a freak for goodness sake. What should she do? Correct it by telegram? No, that would make her sound weird. Oh, I'm always putting my foot in it! As an aid to reflection, she pushed the end of her nose up with her thumb and had a reassuring thought. Yes, of course, it could be maintained that h
e isn't standing exactly opposite me, that's it, he's facing me but well to the west, which gives left side against left side and therefore heart to heart, it's not beyond the bounds of possibility. Anyway, there's a case to be made for it. So let's not worry our heads. Noticing her teddy on his knees on the prayer-stool, she called him a psalm-singing little bigot and moved him to an armchair. 'What! Sleep in the same bed as me? Oh no, darling, that's quite out of the question and has been ever since my gentleman started calling. I'd find it embarrassing, honestly I would. You're far better off in your armchair. Come along now, relax, good-night, sweet dreams.'
Three times a day, long before the post was due, she was out on the road waiting. When there was nothing from her traveller, she gave the postman a pleasant smile though there was death in her soul. When there was a letter, she opened it at once and scanned it quickly. A speedy once-over, just running her eyes over it. She stopped herself taking it in, for she had no wish to get the full gist. All she wanted was to be reassured that nothing terrible had happened, that he wasn't ill, that his return to Geneva had not been put back. A proper reading would come later, when she got indoors. Duly reassured, she would run back to the house and the proper reading, run with her breasts gently bouncing, biting her tongue as she ran to prevent herself from shouting her happiness out loud. 'Darling,' she would murmur to the letter. Or possibly to herself.