by Albert Cohen
'On top of which there's another advantage. If I play my cards right and keep a weather eye open, maybe I'll be able to watch us billing and cooing, which would be too too divine, n'est-ce pas?'
Ogling herself in the mirror, her dress having worked itself up over her knees in the heat of passion, she pouted her lips in complete surrender. She resumed a more becoming pose, then clapped her hands in delight. Yum-yum! not much longer to wait! And now imagine you're him and try and work out if he'll like what he sees when he comes. She got up, stood close to the long mirror, smiled at it and stared approvingly at the face that he would admire when he came. For fun, she forced a squint then pulled dreadful faces so that she might exult in the contrast and in the rediscovery of her beauty when she stopped. Come to think of it, she reflected, she didn't really need him at all. She was alone now, and she was perfectly happy.
'Yes, sweetie-pie, but that's only because he exists at the Ritz.'
She kissed her lips on the cold smoothness of the mirror, admired her eyebrows, and was sorry that she couldn't kiss them too. That would be a job for him when he came. Oh the thought of him! In fearful joy she pinched her cheeks, pulled her hair, shrieked, and jumped up and down. And there would be such kisses, the ripe fruits of their love! She returned to the mirror, poked out her tongue diffidently, and then withdrew it at once, feeling ashamed. She stretched.
'Why doesn't he get a move on!'
But now down to serious matters. Start checking. The roses, all red ones, were fine. Three bunches, a dozen in each bunch, were quite enough. More and it would look as if she were grovelling. She ran one finger over the table. Not a speck of dust: Now the thermometer. Twenty-two Centigrade, the ideal temperature for you know what. She smoothed away an unsightly hollow in the cushion of the sofa, raised the lid of the piano, propped a Mozart sonata on the music stand and checked the magazine rack. All in order, no rubbish there. The Vogues and Marie-Claires were safely hidden in the kitchen. And now add a touch of intellectual tone. On the piano she put Pascal's Pensees, and on the sofa a volume by Spinoza, which she left open. That way when he arrived he'd think she'd been reading a serious book while she waited. No, that wasn't right, it would be a lie. Besides it was dangerous to leave the book lying around, even unopened. It wasn't as if she were well up on Spinoza. Knowing about polishing spectacle lenses and pantheism was hardly enough. If he ever brought the subject up, she wouldn't exactly shine. She put the Ethics firmly back on the shelf.
What else was there? On the little table, next to the bowl of best grapes, she set out packets of cigarettes, English, American, French, Turkish, so that he could choose. She opened then closed each packet in turn. If they were left open, it would create an impression of overeagerness, make it shamingly clear that everything was intended for him. Fine, nothing more to be done here. After casting a glance all round, she left the room.
What could she do to smarten up the hall? Put down one of Tantlérie's rugs? No, out of the question, it would mean fetching one up from the cellar, and that was dangerous. Too risky: her nails might get broken, her dress might get dirty, maybe she'd twist an ankle, given the state of those steps. The last thing she needed tonight was a sprain. The easiest solution was not to turn on the lights when he rang. The Deumatitis wouldn't be noticeable in the dark, and she'd show him directly into her little sitting-room.
Damn! Clean forgot about the odourless bath! Seven forty-two already! There was still time, but only just. Right, extra-quick dip with plan of battle! Soap self while counting to sixty, no, make that fifty-five! On reaching fifty-six, rinse off lather, stop when get to sixty-six! Dry with towel, sixty-seven to eighty!
'Come along, darling, I'm going to give you a bath. Give me your hand.'
Back once more in his compartment, he felt himself every inch an A. Relaxing in his plush seat, he yawned, smiled at his wife, and wound his watch, which did not need winding. Quarter to eight. Lausanne in fifteen minutes. To make the most of the luxury which was placed at his disposal free of charge, he laid his head on the middle cushion, a fat sausage held in place by two straps. By God, you wouldn't find Vermeylen travelling first-class! Poor Vermeylen, he'd forgotten to contact him, he would have very much liked to tell him all about his official visit. It was rather nice to think that the train was working so hard on his behalf, making such efforts for him, good old Adrien Deume, who was moving through space without moving a muscle, without lifting a finger, like a little king of creation. With his eyes closed and his head rocking deliriously on the cushion, he began in an undertone to draft the letter he would write tomorrow.
'Dear Mumsy, I send a loving kiss and hope you're not cross with me for deciding to bring forward the date of my return to Geneva so suddenly, but you must see Mumsy that it wouldn't have been fair now that my diplomatic mission to Brussels is over actually it finished yesterday to let another week go by without seeing my poor wife who must be feeling pretty bored all by herself, come on Mumsy smile for your ickle Didi, you'll never guess but I met someone awfully interesting, just as we were leaving Brussels this well-dressed chap got into my compartment and I sensed at once that here was someone I could get along with, very casually I glance at the visiting-card dangling from the handle of his case and I see that the person in question is Monsieur Louis-Lucas Boerhaave Director-General of the Belgian Foreign Office which means that he outranks Monsieur van Offel, my intuition hadn't let me down it's the little undefinable things that enable you to pick out distinguished persons, adopting the ploy of asking if he was bothered by my cigarette because as you can imagine I would never have dreamt of smoking my pipe in such company I struck up a conversation and it all went off very nicely, that's the advantage of travelling first-class you meet such interesting people, I should say that to start with he answered with a certain coolness but when he found out that I'd been staying for a few days with the van Offels who are socially on a par with him he immediately thawed and was tremendously friendly because he'd got me pegged, naturally I managed to slip in something about my lengthy official visit, in short he sensed that he was up against someone from his own social background, we chatted pleasantly about this and that, international situation, books, I found it most enjoyable, he's a very cultured man he reads Virgil in the original quotes bits of Greek but he likes a joke, for example we were talking about places to stay in Switzerland and he said there were inexpensive but very pleasant little hidey-holes in Gruyere and he didn't mean the cheese, we had a good laugh about that, unfortunately he got out in Luxemburg and I was sorry to see the back of such a charming man I mean I had taken a real shine to him, he ranks with ambassadors and will be part of the Belgian delegation to the Assembly in September he'll be assistant delegate while Monsieur van Offel will be merely a technical adviser, we exchanged cards and I told him we'd be delighted to have him to dinner when he came to Geneva in September, so it's all fixed, pity we don't have a guest room that's bigger and especially more elegant, a decent guest room is the key to personal contacts, if we had one that was really decent I might have offered it to Monsieur Boerhaave there and then, which would have put us on an instant close footing, in fact we ought to have two guest rooms like the Kanakises do, then we could have both Monsieur Boerhaave and Monsieur van Offel to stay, we'll have to discuss it some time, don't forget to convey my warmest wishes and my thanks to Madame van Offel for her delightful hospitality along with, my sincerest regards to Monsieur van Offel, and be sure you use the words "warmest wishes" "delightful hospitality" and "sincerest regards", they'll be noted and appreciated, I'm counting on you Mumsy not to leave this letter lying about on account of the comparison in terms of rank between Monsieur Boerhaave and Monsieur van Offel, the last named might perhaps take umbrage, but on the other hand you can mention casually that I got on very well with Monsieur Boerhaave.'
He gave a great yawn, stood up for something to do, staggered out into the corridor, pressed his face to a window, stared at the telegraph poles which went down like dominoes
, at the grass less garish now in the gathering dusk, and at the mountains which stood out against the still light, still blue sky. He closed his eyes and prodded his stomach to check if it was upset. It wasn't, but all the same he'd best keep away from the restaurant car because the hors-d'oeuvres he'd eaten at lunch still lay heavy on him. Pity, it would have made the time pass more quickly. He'd have something light to eat when he got home. Home sweet home.
'Hello, darling! How are you? Glad to see me?'
*
Crumbs! Nine minutes past eight! She stood up hurriedly and soaped herself, counting rapidly. At fifty-six she suddenly collapsed back into the warm water, which splashed in all directions. She shut her eyes so that she would not see the devastation. Then, plucking up courage, she turned her head carefully by small, fearful instalments towards the dress she had hung over the stool, and finally opened one eye. Her light linen ducky was dripping with soapy water! Ruined! She was done for! O God, it would have been so easy not to have flopped into the bath, such a simple thing to have taken three seconds longer and got back in patiently, in a civilized manner! Oh for a miracle! If only she could turn back the clock one minute and not have rinsed herself yet and been able to submerge herself gently!
'Damn you, water!'
She made herself cry, and lashed out with her foot at the damned water. What should she do now? Rub the dress through quickly, then rinse and iron it? Sheer madness! It would take at least three hours for it to be dry enough to iron! But hold on, all was not lost, there were the rest of Volkmaar's concoctions. She got out of the bath, dripping wet but determined to put up a fight and save her love.
In her room, naked and only half dry, she got out Volkmaar's dresses and suits and threw the empty boxes, which got in her way, out of the window. Too bad, strolls in the garden with him were off the menu, boxes causa. Blast, the swing-mirror wasn't there. Try the lot on in the bathroom. To be able to see herself in the mirror she'd have to stand on the stool. She set off at a run, laden with a jumble of clothes.
No point even thinking about the four suits, none of them were any good. Heave-ho! And she tossed them one after the other into the bath, where they became waterlogged and slowly sank. Alternately climbing on to the stool then stepping off it, she tried on the dresses. The white crêpe was too full, though she'd told the stupid oaf over and over. One, two, three! And she drowned it with the unhinged smile of the desperate. As to the so-called sporty number with wooden buttons, there was absolutely no point in trying it on, it was the beastliest of the whole bunch, that much she'd realized at the last fitting but had been too cowardly to say anything! She had been as cowardly at the dressmaker's as she had been at the registry office when the man had asked her if she took you know who to be her awful wedded husband. Husband a fiasco, dresses a fiasco! This vile rag was much too short, and besides the stupid material was rough, stiff and heavy, she'd positively melt in it. Give it the old heave-ho! Into the drink! And now for the black velvet, her last hope. It was a fright! A long fatuous sack, and to boot it gaped at the neck even when she was standing perfectly straight! A neckline that gaped when you leaned forward was perfectly in order, but one that positively ballooned when you were standing up! Volkmaar was a swine! Oh, if she could she'd cut off his nose in slices, and each time she cut a slice she'd wave one of his dresses in his face! Away with you! Into the bath you go, black velvet! She watched it as it foundered and joined the others. Oh what a mess. My God! Twenty-five past eight!
'Keep cool. Look through the old ones.'
From the wardrobe in her room she took the white dress she had worn at the Ritz. Nothing doing, it was obvious that it had been worn, it was all creased. And she'd had weeks and weeks to get it washed and ironed! Damn Mariette, who should have thought! Never mind, ship on the white linen skirt and the sailor top. No, too awful. All those dresses she had ordered, all those stocks she had sold so that she could end up wearing a morning outfit at nine at night! She went back to the wardrobe and riffled frantically through all the clothes on their hangers. Keep calm! Cool head! How about the green? It was old but possible!
Back in the bathroom, she stood on the stool, held the dress against her nakedness, and inspected the result. The green made her look waxen, like a lemon. Overwhelmed by misery, she did not even think about drowning the offender, took it back with her to her room, where she stood by her bedside table, turned the photo of Sol to the wall so that she wouldn't have to see him, lit a cigarette, and then stubbed it out at once. Noticing a length of string left over from one of Volkmaar's boxes, she picked it up, started pulling at it, trying to snap it, yanking and tugging, twisting it this way and that in a flurry of nerves. Half past eight. Sunk, she was completely sunk, she did not have a thing to wear, and when he rang the doorbell, and he would be ringing it soon, she wouldn't be able to answer the door and he'd go away. She yanked the string, disaster staring her in the face, hauled on the rope of her misfortune. 'Sunk, sunk, sunk,' she chanted to beguile and numb her unhappiness and be lulled by it. She picked up the green dress, gripped one end between her teeth, and pulled hard on the other. The material tore with a protesting groan.
'Now where's that got you, you moron, you imbecile, you silly silly cow,' she snarled, hating herself.
She dropped the dress, kicked it away, picked up the string, and dazedly resumed her grim sport, pulling it this way and that and mouthing meaningless words which smothered her wretchedness. She brandished her fist at heaven, which was to blame, and then collapsed in a heap on the bed. Sunk, she was completely sunk, she had nothing to wear.
'Stupid cow! Rotten old God!'
Suddenly she sat up, jumped off the bed, grabbed a key, and ran out of the room. As she used to when she was a little girl, she mounted the banister and slid down it, the feel of the wood against her bare skin reminding her that she was wearing nothing. No matter, there was never anybody about outside at this time of night. She raced through the garden, which was littered with Volkmaar's boxes, darted into her Dreamy-House, opened the wardrobe, snatched Éliane's dress and sandals, and ran back indoors, ambered by moonlight.
She stood in front of the mirror, shut her eyes, and put on the silk dress which still carried the scent of Éliane. Then she opened her eyes and gasped. The dress looked even better on her than the linen ducky! A revelation! A Greek statue! And now for the gilt sandals! Breathless, she fastened the straps, smiling as she did so at her bare legs, which went awfully well with the noble folds of the dress. Oh Samothrace, oh Victory, oh all the birds of the air that flew on fluttering wings of innocence!
Motionless in front of the mirror, she worshipped her new-born soul in this dress of silk so pure, so white, then moved her arms, her legs, to see and admire the way it hung and clung. Oh her darling! Oh she who was his alone! Euphorically, for he would find her beautiful, she smiled at herself in the dress which had once robed the beauty of one who now lay rotting in earth. Absurd in her youth in front of the long swing-mirror, she sang the air of the Whitsun hymn once more, sang the coming of a heavenly king.
The ticket-inspector proclaimed the imminence of Nyon, and Adrien opened the window and leaned out. Working-class houses came into view, and a girl at a window waved her hand. The engine gave a long hysterical whoop, and its billowing smoke was understained by the glow of fire, and more rails glinted and went forth multiplying, and stationary trucks rolled past looking lonely and bored, and then the station arrived, and the train faltered, blew off steam, and finally sighed to a stop in a concatenation of jolts fore and aft while the rails squealed like a beaten dog. 'Nyon,' intoned a voice of fathomless melancholy outside.
He stood up, lowered the window, and smiled with satisfaction. Eight thirty. The time to the minute given in the timetable. Jolly well done! These Swiss trains were spot on. Did you a power of good being on trains that arrived on time. Right then, here we are in Nyon, last stop before Geneva. Geneva in twenty mins. When the train sets off, make self presentable. Brush clothes, remove dandr
uff, comb hair, give nails a thorough scrub.
The engine shrieked like a mad woman, and the wheels groaned then made up their minds after a series of jolts, back-trackings and much clanking of tortured metal, and the train chugged on its way. Eight thirty-one, exactly as per the timetable. Due into Geneva Cornavin at ten to nine! Ten minutes by taxi to Cologny! He rubbed his hands savagely. At nine o'clock, that is twenty-nine minutes from now, he would see his wife and be happy! By the stars, he'd take her up a cup of tea and a half tomorrow morning!
'Morning, slinky-boots,' he murmured, making his way to the lavatory to make himself handsome for her. 'Sleep well, pet? Get a good rest? Here's a nice cup of tea for my sweetie!'
CHAPTER 72
Turning her back on the shipwrecked dresses, she put the finishing touches to her hair with untold strokes of her comb, first bold and expansive, then minute and subtle, circumspect, barely perceptible, a sequence of enigmatic pats and impalpable caresses executed in pursuit of an absolute of such infinitesimal perfection that only a woman could comprehend their relevance or appreciate their purpose. And all to a generous accompaniment of smirks, trial smiles, steps backward, frowns and long, searching looks. Pronounced stunning by self after a final impartial scrutiny, she glided out of the bathroom with soul refreshed and certain of her destiny.
But when she reached her sitting-room a fresh inspection was necessary, because it was here, in this light, that she would be seen by him. Half past eight, she had heaps of time. So, parking herself in front of the long mirror, she embarked on a ruthless quest for imperfections, undertook a meticulous close-range inspection of her face, and emerged from the grilling acquitted of all charges. Everything in order, no further action required. Lips excellent, no shine to nose, hair studiously disarranged, teeth glowing, thirty-two smilers firmly mounted, all present, correct and dazzlingly white, breasts, an indispensable item, as and where they should be, one on the right, the other on the left. Her nose was a bit big, of course, but that was part of her charm. Anyway, his nose wasn't exactly small either. She reset a wisp of hair over her brow, shook her head to rectify the rectification and make it look natural. Then, keeping her left sandal flat on the floor, she angled the right so that the outer side showed and the inside remained pressed to the carpet, her intention being to see if, in a pose which she imagined set her off to advantage, the dress really looked good on her and was neither too long nor too short.