Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  'Heartiest Congrats,' she concluded, and she dropped a curtsy to her reflection.

  Still feasting her eyes on herself, she essayed a sweet smile and judged the result a success. Then, using her little looking-glass, she inspected her back in the long mirror, noted that all was perfect, especially in the hindquarter division. In the matter of her profile, remember to show the right side.

  'Come on,' she cried, suddenly delirious with glee, 'get your skates on, fat-head, yes, I mean you, Solal, that's right, you absolute fathead!'

  Revelling in the sacrilege, she raised one hand to her mouth to cover a shocked grin. Then, after a further dab at the same wisp of hair and a final adjustment, she walked to and fro in front of the mirror, glancing into it slyly for glimpses of herself in motion. The dead girl's dress showed her hips much too blatantly, her sumptuous hips of which she had been ashamed once upon a time, disclosed much too clearly the light, lilac-scented, curved pubic arch. A bit blush-making, too revealing, too much on display. Heigh-ho, everything was his by right.

  'Should I take just a peep at them? Just a little one, then, so I know what kind of impression they'll make on him. After all, if he's entitled to see them, why not me too? I mean, they are mine.'

  After making herself decent once more, she again inspected the thermometer. Perfect. Good job there was no need to light a fire, the heat would have made her cheeks go all scarlet. Should she take a stroll in the garden to fill her mind with suitable thoughts? No, walking about might well spoil her face. The most sensible course was just to sit down and move as little as possible so as not to mar her perfection.

  She sat in an armchair, holding her hand-mirror to ensure that the rose of her beauty did not wilt, and kept a watchful eye on her complexion for worrisome signs of deterioration. Paying particular attention to her nose, which she feared might well begin to shine in the warmth, she sat still and straight, like a model pupil, not stirring and hardly breathing to avoid spoiling her exquisiteness, a sacred idol which was yet fragile and beset by multiple dangers, scarcely moving her head and preferring to swivel her eyes whenever she glanced up to see the time by the carriage-clock. At intervals, still peering into her hand-mirror, she pouted her lips sensuously, or rearranged a fold in her dress, or raised one hand to her hair, to straighten, though without appreciable effect, some minutely errant strand, or inspected her nails, or lovingly contemplated her gilt sandals, or rectified another fold, or tried a smile which was altogether finer and subtler, or studied her teeth again, or checked the time, trembling all the while lest her beauty might fade as she waited.

  'This light is no good at all. Too harsh. It's the white lampshade that's wrong. I'm already starting to look a bit red. By the time he gets here it'll be even worse, I'll look like a farmer's widow who's just put away an enormous dinner.'

  She went out and came back clutching a red silk scarf which she draped over the lampshade. Standing on an armchair, she gazed round the room and felt better. The light was just right now, mysterious and suffused. Sitting down again, she consulted her hand-mirror and liked what she saw. The new light had banished the flush from her cheek, which was now clear and pale, like jade. Yes, fine, sort of enigmatic chiaroscuro effect, terribly Leonardo da Vinci. Twenty to nine. 'Another twenty minutes,' she murmured, breathless with excitement. Why couldn't the beast come a bit early? At this instant she was quite perfect. Smoke a cigarette to calm nerves? No, might stain teeth. Anyway, if there were to be fruity kisses it wouldn't do to reek of tobacco. Incidentally, when he rang, don't forget to eat a couple of quick grapes before answering, just one or two to keep mouth fresh, indispensable for snorkelling.

  'And even when he's here, munch a surreptitious grape or two from time to time, taking care he doesn't see you, or, if he does, making it seem all very casual, though really it will be to maintain oral freshness. Awfully petty this, of course, but what do you expect, I'm a woman and a realist, the point being that it's absolutely crucial that he should find unadulterated pleasure in you know what. At this moment my mouth is a little dry because I'm excited. But he'll think that the freshness of the grapes comes from me, an amazing, natural freshness. That's how it is: a girl's got to think of everything.'

  The packets of cigarettes closed like that made the place look like a tobacconist's. To open them all would obviously be taking things too far, but opening just a couple would do the trick, it wouldn't make it look as though she were falling over herself to please him. How was that? Yes, very good, much more friendly, altogether cosier. And now a ticklish question. What sort of welcome should she lay on for him when he came? Wait for him at the front door? No, that would suggest overkeenness and make her look like a housemaid. Wait for the bell to ring and then open the door? Yes — but what then? She stood up, again made her way to the long mirror, and held out her hand to it with a hostessy smile.

  'Good-evening, how are you?' she said in her most breathily aristocratic voice.

  No good, that made her sound like an overeager Scoutmistress. Besides, that 'how are you?' wasn't exactly romantic. How about leaving it at good-evening, and lingering over eeevening in an untamed, whispery sort of way, with a hint of sensuality thrown in? 'Good eeevening,' she said, trying it out for size. Or perhaps she could just hold her hands out and not say anything at all, as though there were not words enough to express the moment, and then collapse into his arms like a bird with a broken wing? That was a possibility. Of course, saying 'Good evening, how are you?' when he got there would have the advantage of establishing a suitably disturbing contrast between the respect for social convention shown by the question and the aforementioned collapse and the subsequent hungry kiss which would have to follow immediately if full advantage was to be taken of the grapes.

  'No, not feminine enough. Wait for him to make the first move.'

  She moistened one finger, rubbed a mark on her left sandal, inspected her nostrils in the hand-mirror, checked them for come-hitherness by making them dilate, and redirected a dozen hairs to the right. This light was definitely too dim, he wouldn't be able to see her properly. It was too red, it was oppressive, ambiguous and really quite louche. That was because the silk round the lampshade was double. Just make it the one layer. She climbed on to the armchair once more and made the change. The lighting was unassailably respectable now, with no hint of bawdy-house or lewd dancehall.

  Nine minutes to nine. She improved the arrangement of a few of the roses, removed one which was wilting, and put it away in a drawer. Then she repositioned one of the vases and put another at a safer distance, because it was too near the sofa and might get knocked over. Seven minutes to nine. She munched two grapes and moistened her lips. Everything was now under control.

  Six minutes to go. She had thought of something a little while back. What was it? Ah yes, don't draw his attention to the new rug, don't give the impression that one had gone to a great deal of bother for his benefit. He must think that it all looked divine without being able to put his finger on why. That way she wouldn't lose face. If he did notice the new rug, react casually. 'Do you like it? Yes, it's not bad.'

  Oh no! The cigarette packets were all full! He would realize she'd bought them specially for him. How shaming to show so obviously that one danced such attendance on him. She half-emptied all five packets. Where could she put the cigarettes she'd removed? Crikey, four minutes to nine, he might be here any time now! She threw the cigarettes under the sofa. No, that wouldn't do. If he sat down in any of the armchairs he'd see them for sure! She hitched up her dress to avoid creasing it, got down on hands and knees, and collected up all the cigarettes one by one. Throw them out of the window? No, if they did go for a stroll in the garden after all, he'd see them there. Hide them upstairs! The coolness of the evening reminding her she wasn't wearing any panties, she headed for the stairs at a run, both hands full of cigarettes. How stupid! She was always forgetting her panties! From now on, hang a sign on the handle of her bedroom door with the word panties followed by an e
xclamation mark.

  When she reached the top floor, she gave a sudden start, felt her heart leap, and the blood surged to her face, which promptly turned scarlet. The doorbell! She flung the cigarettes into the bath, rushed into her bedroom, grabbed a pair of panties, and wasted time telling herself that it was a waste of time putting them on. Heigh-ho, forget the panties!

  On the first-floor landing, she did an about-turn, went back up to check with the mirror in the bathroom. Damn, why had her nose chosen this of all moments to start shining? Where was the face-powder? Never mind, talc would have to do! She dabbed her nose with it, decided it made her look like a clown, reached for a towel, and removed the talc as the doorbell rang again. Shout down that she was coming? No, that would scatter the magic.

  She tore down the stairs, suddenly noticed that she was holding a pair of pink panties in her hand, and dashed away and stuffed them into the bookcase behind Spinoza. Disregarding the impatient jangling of the bell, she took one last look at herself in the mirror, forcing herself to be calm so that she could take proper stock. Not disastrous. In fact distinctly presentable.

  'All right,' she murmured, 'I'm coming.'

  Good. The fact that he was ringing meant he hadn't gone away. Feeling weak at the knees, she headed for the door to Wonderment, opened it with an exquisite smile, and recoiled. Holding a suitcase in one hand and his thick walking-stick tucked under his arm, there stood her husband, Adrien Deume, with his wispy beard, his hornrimmed glasses and his good-natured grin.

  CHAPTER 73

  That same evening, squatting in the grass of a meadow in the vicinity of the Casa Deume, Naileater, Solomon and Mattathias silently watched as Michael, his back to a hayrick and one leg folded under him, magnificently bedizened with furbelow and engraved silver cartridge-belt, sat languidly smoking his gurgling hookah while the glowing embers sputtered in the gold-brown tobacco bowl. Weary of waiting, Naileater resumed.

  'Come, Michael, O man of mischief and tormentor of our souls, O monstrous issue of Leviathan, O clandestine getter of one hundred and one bastards, will you not break your silence and will you not reveal for what purpose we are gathered here in nature's tedious bosom, lit by the light of a wood fire? Do not think that we shall with patience bear our fate much longer while you sit forever, with your eyes closed, smoking like a sultan! Come now, quit your English reticence and be forthcoming! What is this secret mission? What manner of plot have you hatched? What are we doing here at a vesperal ten fifteen by the light of a full moon? And what is the meaning of the two dangerous white horses which you tied to yonder tree without so much as a word of explanation?'

  'And why have you not sent away yon mobile, internal-combustion-engined conveyance, which, though self-propelling, eats money and has a relentlessly ticking clock?' demanded Mattathias, pointing with his gleaming harpoon-hook at the taxi parked on the roadside with its lights extinguished. 'And why the madness, unknown in rhyme or song, of ordering its guide and shepherd to wait? Have we no legs? In any case, I say to you now that I have no intention to disburse, in whatever degree, even unto the smallest of quotients, the Swiss monies which figure in remorselessly rising succession upon the face of the clock of exploitation!'

  'Come, Michael, unlock the portals of your eloquence, tell us your secret!' commanded Naileater.

  'Yes, explain yourself, dear Michael of ours, because it pains us to walk in the path of ignorance!' begged Solomon.

  Michael closed his eyes by way of signalling his refusal, then opened them again, revived his flagging water-pipe with a few fresh embers, inhaled deeply of the smoke, which he then proceeded to send out in small puffs which he contemplated from a lordly height.

  'Speak! I have been asking you to speak for aeons of time!' cried Naileater. 'If it is my death you want, then out with it! You cannot seriously think that I am the sort of man who can long tolerate living when I know that there is another who knows something I don't?'

  'And I, Simple Solomon, walk in deeper darkness still!' said Solomon, gesturing diffidently. 'All I know, victim that I am, is that this morning I was yet in Athens in the pleasant company of your good selves, dear cousins all, ready to take joyful ship at Piraeus, port of Athens, and sail away to the fair isle of Cephalonia where we were born and which is without compare, and also to a reunion with my revered wife, also without compare, nurturing the great joy of clasping her to my heart after so many sojourns in divers lands, when worthy Saltiel was struck by a sudden desire and bowel-stir of sweet emotion to feast his eyes once more on lord Solal, the nephew of his soul, and this tender and loving uncle forthwith ordered our immediate departure upon the wings and winds of the air! So come, poor Solomon, obey! Obey, O hapless man, and give up the enticing prospect of seeing your wife once more!'

  'Well spoken, tiny one,' said Naileater. 'But I would remind you that your wife has one tooth only, though it is true that it is a handsome tooth, and firm. But pray continue your babble, for you interest me!'

  'And so, uprooted like a flower, without pausing to attend to my morning devotions at the synagogue, and risking death most abrupt, I was forced to take wing by flying-machine and come with you unto this city of Geneva! And now I find myself in the dark middle of nowhere, exposed to the ravages of a sore throat induced by the nocturnal cool, and comprehending not, poor unhappy wretch that I am! O Michael, O cousin of the same aboriginal loin, a Solal as I am myself, tremble lest I too should succumb in the arms of the angel of death! O my friend, take pity on my ignorance and throw me the weeniest word of explanation!' concluded Solomon, holding his hands together and raising his eyes to Michael, who yawned to show just how little he thought of the diminutive petitioner.

  'Be silent!' said Naileater, pushing the little man to one side. 'Hold your peace, O dregs of the spoon and scourings of the macaroni pot! And you, Michael, hear me! What is the meaning of this cruelty, the twin of which is yet unborn? Will you not take pity on me? Was I not made to suffer enough by the grief and tribulations inflicted on me in London by a fair lady of noble extraction? Have I not had my fill of suffering ever since I set my toes once more upon the soil of the land of William Tell? Do you discount entirely the pain I felt when, on stepping out of the distance-eating flying-machine this afternoon, we observed that our beloved cousin Saltiel had been suddenly struck down low by jaundice of the deepest yolk and were obliged to install him in the finest clinic in Geneva at fifty francs a day full board, exclusive of any fearsome bills issued by the pea-brain of a consultant?'

  'And this same poor uncle instructed us to conceal his illness from the lord his nephew who was not to be worried,' broke in Solomon, 'and instead enjoined us to inform him that he had been unexpectedly obliged by a matter of business to remain in Athens, a most thoughtful mark of consideration!'

  'Close your inconsequential orifice, O little toenail, or should I say mere clipping of same?' ordered Naileater. 'Let him speak who has words to speak and the gift of speaking! That said, I now pick up my thread of argument, hand on heart. I was, I believe, telling of my sufferings. O Michael, O true Bengal tiger, I ask you again: Have I not suffered enough? Will you set at nought my feelings of humiliation when, admitted into the presence of the nephew of Saltiel, albeit not until eight o'clock this very evening, we conveyed to him his uncle's heroic stratagem, to wit, that he had remained in Athens, at which the said nephew dismissed my good self, Mattathias and Solomon, incomprehensibly singling you out to be alone with him while, like an outcast, tail between my legs and withered by an unwarranted slur which turned my heart to miry blackness, I left, accompanied by the cousins here, in deepest penitence and severest loss of face, to await your return, which we hoped would be both prompt and fraternal, in the hotel noticeably lacking in running water, where we indeed waited upon your coming, though not without first having laid in a provision, with you in mind no less than myself, of much drink and mouth-watering viands courtesy of the Jewish grocer-cum-victualler from Salonica who stays open until midnight and from whom
I purchased, counting not the cost and with money no object, for expense means nothing to me, because death is my constant companion as are the torments which will necessarily precede it in the shape of spasms, choking fits, lacerations of the chest and divers gargly rattles, which is why I spit on coin of gold both seriatim and privatim, from whom I purchased, as I was saying, his entire stock of ready-to-eat fare, including a consignment of luscious squid just in from Marseilles which he fried in a vast sizzling pan in my presence! Such crispy, crunchy squid which cry out: "Come, ye hearts of oak, come feast on us!" Do you set at nought the generosity which, though consumed by an equine hunger, led me to ordain that all should await your coming so that the said squid should be eaten in your company, in the comradeship of the family bond? In conclusion and fourthly, did not my cup run over when, upon your returning to the hotel, an event which did not occur until as late as approximately a quarter past nine, I, though faint with hunger and gripped by a fever of curiosity, enquired courteously, concernedly and considerately as to the reason for your mysterious tardiness, only to receive a new blow to my authority, influence and honour by your returning the impertinent reply that you had been for a short walk with Saltiel's nephew, which answer you gave with a heart-stabbing absence of detail designed to ride roughshod over my dignity! Was ever man treated more unjustly? O cruel fate! O mother of mine who now lie mouldering in your grave, why did you bring me into this harsh world?'