Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  He crept cautiously down, avoiding the creaking middles of the stairs, keeping close to the banisters. When he got to the bottom, he winked at his mackintosh, which was hanging in the hall. Yippee, happy days were here again! In the kitchen, he put the kettle on, rubbed his hands, and hummed a snatch of Mozart:

  With willing marriage kiss,

  In Hymen's temple true,

  Strew our path to wedded bliss

  With flow'rs of every hue.

  Rather! The path to wedded bliss! Morning, sweetie-pie! Did my little sweetie-pie sleep well, then? Here's some nice tea for my sweetie-pie! He loved watching her drink her tea, still soggy with sleep, she seemed such a baby. If she woke up full of beans and didn't want to go back to sleep after her cup of tea, he'd suggest an outing and an early start.

  'Listen, Arianny, I've had a spiffing idea. It's such a marvellous day, can you guess what I'm going to suggest? Give up? Well, I vote we get our skates on this morning! At nine o'clock we'll hop in the car and drive out into Savoy, what do you say? I've heard there's this marvellous restaurant at Talloires, three stars in the Michelin, which can't be bad. It's where all the biggest names in politics go when they want a slap-up do, you know, Briand, Stresemann and the rest of them, so it must be pretty good. So what do you say to treating ourselves to a gourmet lunch at Talloires? What do you reckon to that? No, watch it, don't say "reckon to that" say "Does that tempt you?" But if she'd rather go back to sleep after her morning tea, heigh-ho, we'll make it later in the day. Hello, kettle's boiling. Warm the pot first, go by the book. Right, I've warmed the pot. Jolly well done, old man. Now put the water back in the kettle, absolutely essential water be at one hundred degrees Centigrade, or should we say Celsius? Perfect. Quick now, two heaped spoonfuls of tea, no make it three, no expense spared is the management's motto. And now, look slippy, pour the water, then on with the nice fat cosy and allow to stand for the regulation seven minutes. Got what it takes, old man, showed a real interest in my official trip, if you could have seen the way she listened. Between you and me, I would have rather, I felt you know, dammit all, I'd been deprived of home comforts for months, I wouldn't have said no to a spot of conjugal duty, believe me, but when it came down to it, when I began my move, she made it perfectly clear, not tonight, Josephine, carried it off nicely but firmly, oh she wasn't being deliberately awkward or anything, it was the surprise of seeing me back so unexpectedly, a week before I was due, it was the shock, she'd thought I wouldn't be arriving till the thirty-first of August, it knocked the stuffing out of her and brought on a terrible migraine, so obviously she was hardly in the mood for, you know, so as far as the two-backed beast was concerned, nothing doing, you can whistle for it, and all very understandable of course because I realize now that I was a brute turning up unannounced like that, I thought she'd be pleased, a nice surprise for her, but women are fragile creatures, very highly strung, awfully delicate, old man, you have no idea. But she'll be none the worse off for waiting. Her migraine will certainly have gone by this morning and there'll be twanging of bed-springs in the old town tonight, you can take it from me! Still, she'd have every right to be cross with me for turning up on the doorstep without warning, but no, not a bit of it, she was very sweet, didn't chunter, just kept on asking questions about my trip. But what really got me, old man, was that notion she had of trying a dry-run with a view to August thirty-first. Her best frock, the flowers, the red lights, the whole thing set up just to give her an idea of how she'd have everything organized for when I got home on the thirty-first. A dress rehearsal, she called it. Now if that ain't love, old man, then I dunno what is! Only she could dream up something as romantic as that. And what about this scheme of hers for having her little sitting-- room completely redone and the woodwork repainted for my benefit, isn't that love? I tell you what, from now on we'll be able to do our entertaining in that little sitting-room, much cosier than the drawing-room. Let's go into the sitting-room, my dear Under-Secretary-General, we'll be more comfortable there. It'll be one in the eye for the Kanakises too, we could invite them when we have the USG over. Perhaps we should call it The Den, much smarter than sitting-room. Come off it, old bean, the Kanakises are definitely out, you must be mad. It would be utter folly to give Kanak an opportunity to make a personal contact with the USG. Invite the USG by himself or with a few hand-picked guests, people from outside the firm, not members of staff, because those little swine would be only too glad of a chance to ask him round to their own dos. Oh by the way, Arianny, I forgot to tell you. Last night, when the train stopped at Lausanne, I bought a copy of the Journal de Genève and what did I find but that Petresco and his wife are dead, car accident, it happened on a level crossing. So it was just as well I didn't invite them here with the Kanakises after all, it would have been totally unproductive from my point of view since they're both dead now and, as far as personal contacts go, there wouldn't have been any mileage at all in it for me. Of course, it means that there's an A slot going begging, I wonder who'll get it, I shouldn't be at all surprised if . . . but we'll have to wait and see. Hey, this is no good, you're wasting time, get yourself upstairs and make yourself irresistible. My poor heart's going pit-a-pat at the thought of seeing her. I'd even go so far as to say it's going pat-a-pit.'

  Back in the kitchen, wearing clean pyjamas, hair brilliantined, wispy beard neatly combed and nails clean, he looked admiringly at himself in Mariette's mirror. Prince Charming in person. And now for a few thoughts about tactics.

  'Let's have a little ponder about what the best approach would be. We go into her room. Right. If she's sleeping, a state which all the indicators would appear to lead human wit to anticipate, we creep up on her quietly and wake her with a tender kiss on the forehead or the cheek, according to the position of her head, or even possibly on the lips! Fortune audaces juvat!'

  He leered at the prankish thought which had suddenly popped into his head. Yes! Play the same trick on her as Dada did on Mummy. After the kiss, he'd look serious and tell her he'd read an article about how good camomile was for you and so, instead of tea, he'd thought it would be better for her to make a nice camomile infusion. She'd pull a face but, when she saw it was tea after all, how they'd laugh! No, on reflection, as stunts go it wasn't as funny as all that, so just say he'd brought her tea, as usual. 'Here's some tea, lovely tea for my sweetie-pie, a nice morning cuppa!' Motion carried.

  When he got to the first floor, he put the tray down on the ground, knocked quietly, and was not at all surprised to get no reply. The poor lamb was probably fast asleep, so wake her gently. Stick to the forehead for the kiss. Holding the tray in both hands and leaning on the handle with his elbow, he opened the door slowly, said he'd brought tea, lovely tea for his sweetie-pie. On the bed, which had not been slept in, was a single sheet of paper folded in four. The tray slipped from his nerveless fingers and tea spilled all over the carpet. He unfolded the paper and soaked the front of his gorgeous striped pyjamas with his urine.

  CHAPTER79

  Hunched on the sofa in the little sitting-room with the shutters closed, he twisted his hair around his finger then untwisted it again. The flowers and the cigarettes had been meant for the other man. No doubt about it, yes, the pair of them on this sofa, facing the long swing-mirror which had seen everything. But damnation, she had agreed to marry him, so how come? She'd bought tonics for him, and at mealtimes she always reminded him to take them, so why?

  He got up, left the room, wandered through the hall, brushed past the lapels of his mackintosh, stopped by the barometer, and tapped it. They'd have fine weather for their trip. Italy, perhaps, the land of love. 'With willing marriage kiss, In Hymen's temple true, Strew our path to wedded bliss With flow'rs of every hue,' he murmured as he shuffled into the kitchen.

  He sat down at the table, unfolded the letter, rolled it into a cone, then unrolled it, tried to smooth it flat, and was reminded of how, when he was a little boy, he used to spend hours covering his exercise books. He little knew th
en what lay in store for him. Slack-jawed, he looked up and stared at the galvanized clothes-line which ran from wall to wall. It was perfectly straight, absolutely taut. He had put it up himself. He'd never be able to take any pleasure from looking at it ever again.

  There were biscuits on the table. He grabbed two and munched them slowly. The soggy biscuity mess in his mouth tasted of calamity. He pointed a forefinger at the fridge. They'd chosen it together when they were first married, one Saturday afternoon. As they left the shop, she'd linked with him, spontaneously, and they'd walked along arm-in-arm, husband and wife.

  And now she was with somebody else, somebody who could touch her whenever he wanted, and she would let him. Yet she was still his wife, she still bore his name. He rolled the letter into a cone again, unrolled it, and read it aloud.

  'Sunday morning, six o'clock, 'My poor darling, I feel dreadful at the thought of you sleeping peacefully, not knowing yet. You're so good, it's awful putting you through the mill like this. When I left him a little while ago to come back here, I was intending to talk to you and explain, but when I got to the door of your room I just couldn't face it. Forgive me for keeping it from you last night, it was all too much for me. He was due back from a trip too, and it was him I was expecting when you showed up. I would like to have written a long letter to make you see that I can't help myself. But I promised him I'd be back very soon, because we are getting an early train, at nine this morning.

  'Just now, as I got back, I stopped for a moment by your mackintosh hanging in the hallway. Seeing it made me feel queer and upset. I patted the lapels and noticed that the middle button had nearly come off, so I sewed it back on. It was very comforting to me still being able to do something for you. I looked in the fridge. There's everything you need for today. Heat up your dinner, don't eat it cold. Go back to work tomorrow and have your lunch with your colleagues. Don't stay home in the evenings, go out and see friends, and above all wire your parents to come home at once. Forgive me, but I need to be happy. He is the love of my life, the first and the last. I'll write after we get there.

  'Ariane'

  He got up, opened the fridge, picked up a cheese flan, and bit into its icy heart. He, him, he, him, as if he was the only man on earth. And how kind of her to think of letting him know that they'd be leaving at nine o'clock. Should he phone the station to find out where the train went? Wasn't he even entitled to know where she was going or whom she was going with? All the same, she might have told him who the man was. This flan's not up to much. And the nerve of her, saying 'my darling'.

  He raised his eyebrows in stern judgement, then turned the gas taps on, shut them off, walked up and down with one arm bent just like on the day when they had strolled arm-in-arm and she had linked with him, hadn't needed to be prompted. He rounded his arm some more, so that he could picture it more clearly, raised his eyebrows again, and moved off, shuffling his feet with the right-on-my-side dignity of the weak who have been wronged. Pausing by the pile of clean linen which had been left on a chair, he picked up the laundry-book and ran his eye down the list. Just household linen. Obviously her things were too delicate and Mariette washed those. Ticking each item off against the list, he checked through the pile and put everything away in the sideboard. Six sheets? Rather a lot for a fortnight. Of course: must have been all on account of her man. He, him, he, him. Spotless sheets every time, of course. Really, the very idea of doing it in his house, between sheets which had been a present from Mummy, on Mummy's wedding present to them! Actually, Mummy'd be glad. Really taut, that line. These new screw stretchers were far superior to the old rack-and-pinion sort.

  He struck a match, laid it on the table, picked it up just as it was about to go out, turned it round, and managed to rekindle the flame. Victory! She'd come back to him! But he was really quite aware that his lucky strike was a trick of fate, a hope doomed to disappointment.

  'From now on, indifference.'

  He opened the sideboard and inspected the shelf of preserves. He'd tarry a while with these jars, which were lined up like whores in a brothel waiting for a client to take his pick. That's it, try a little humour. Peach jam? Too sweet. Plum? Too common, a bit infra dig for an A. Cherry? Yes, interesting taste, with just a hint of tartness. So cherry jam it was, motion carried nem. con. Little cherries, I'm going to gobble you all up. That's more like it, don't take it all so seriously, be strong in adversity. He stamped his foot to be strong, hummed the toreador's song from Carmen, then dug into the jamjar with a fork which did service as a sieve so that he got just the cherries and left the runny stuff behind. So she was happy, was she? Well so was he, and yah-boo-sucks to her.

  'Look, I'm scoffing jam!'

  He pushed the jar away, reached for a tin, and unscrewed the lid. Deuced handy for camping, really hermetically sealed. This much at least he had left, something solid you could depend on which never played fast and loose with you. Twenty francs for rolled, boned shoulder of lamb was a bit steep, the man was obviously coming it pretty strong. He added two exclamation marks to the butcher's bill and put the stub of the pencil in his pocket. Shoulder of lamb was very nice, tender, a touch on the greasy side perhaps. He, him, he, him. He was glad he'd sent Mariette away when she'd rung the frontdoor bell. The old cow was clearly in on it.

  'Now let's get dressed and go out.'

  A stroll followed by lunch in town. On guard, toreador! That's it, go out. Lightweight suit, blue tie. When she tied his tie for him, she always gave him a little pat on the cheek afterwards. Last night it was this other man she'd been waiting for. And he, like a complete idiot, had gone and read his manuscript out to her! The freshly painted woodwork and the new carpet had been for her lover-man. The carpet must have cost three thousand francs at least. Money down the drain. He'd hardly ever seen her with no clothes on, and when it happened she always covered up straight away and said it made her feel embarrassed. But she wouldn't be embarrassed with this other man. Stark naked, and she'd touch him, you know, and it wouldn't make her feel the least bit sick.

  'A tart, that's what.'

  No, she wasn't a tart, she was a respectable married woman. That's what was so awful about it, a respectable woman who was prepared to do disgusting things with a man. Should he call a cab in due course, go to the station and ask which platform it was for the nine o'clock train? Perhaps she'd feel sorry when she saw what a good sport he was by the way he'd pass them their bags through their carriage window. He wouldn't say a word, he'd just look at her with eyes glistening with tears, such pathetic eyes, and perhaps she'd get off the train. He murmured: 'Adrien, my darling, I'm not going, I'm coming back to you.'

  But she wouldn't come back. The other man played a cool hand. He was a lover, made her jealous probably. Whereas he had always been straight with her. From him she'd got nothing but sincere affection and consideration. And she'd made him pay for it. Oh yes, sincere affection, the affection of a dupe, the consideration of a hoodwinked husband. He scraped out his nose in Mariette's little mirror, inspected his haul, rolled it into a ball, and flicked it away. What did such things matter now? Anyway, as a deserted husband, he was entitled. Go upstairs now and take off these sodden pyjama trousers, which were making him feel cold. Perhaps it was Florence, and perhaps they were staying in the same hotel, the one where they'd spent their honeymoon, overlooking the Arno. Maybe in the same room, and she'd let him touch her and she'd touch him back without feeling the weeniest bit sick. He raised his eyebrows. He'd always trusted her completely. Why would she want to write to him from there? To tell him how many times they'd done it since they left? It was his mackintosh she'd felt so sorry for, but he could up and die for all she cared. Stop, that's enough of that.

  'I'm ordering you to go upstairs and get dressed.'

  In his room, he knelt before the unmade bed and prayed to God to make her come back to him. Then he got up and stared at his hands. Of course, his prayers wouldn't do any good, he was well aware of that. He went over to his bedside table. Nex
t to his wristwatch, she smiled out of her antique silver frame. He turned the photograph to the wall. He'd been so delighted when he'd found the frame in the antique shop. Quick, rush off home to show her and put her picture in it! Quarter past eight. He fastened his watch on his wrist. At least if he knew where she was at this moment he could phone, he would beg her to put off her departure so that they could talk things over together, like friends, he would tell her to wait and see if she was sure she couldn't live without this man.

  'Darling, wait, wait and see if you really can't live without him.'

  A little while ago he'd been too hot. Now he was too cold. He put an overcoat on top of his pyjamas. The trousers would dry soon enough, no need to change. He stared into the wardrobe mirror and hated the way he looked, especially the beard. He had a round head, a husband's head. He opened the drawer of his bedside table, took out his automatic, and read the words engraved on it. Manufactured By National War-Arms, Herstal, Belgium. He slipped it into the pocket of his overcoat. She'd been frightened when he'd shown it to her one morning when he brought her tea. 'But it's a must, darling, when you live in the country.' Whereupon she had told him to mind what he was doing with it and be careful. She'd been fond of him in those days. It was a pleasant time of the day, her morning tea in bed. 'Here's a nice cuppa for my sweetie-pie!' Once, when he'd brought up the tray, she'd winked at him, for no reason, just to show that they were good pals, that they got on together. Standing in front of the wardrobe, hands joined in supplication, he asked her to come back, then, recalling a song from one of Dada's old records, he sang the refrain softly, deeply moved by its entreaty: 'Please return, come back to me, Life's not worth living Now you're not near, So please return, my dearest dear.'