by Albert Cohen
Some time later he was aware of being in the bathroom. He'd had it put in for her. Four thousand francs. Especially for her, because she'd wanted a bathroom next to her bedroom. 'I want to be alooone,' she'd said. What was this mania she had of mispronouncing words? He'd never know what all these dresses and cigarettes were doing in the bath. Still, they were a reminder of her presence. Nor would he ever find out what was behind the torn dress on the floor of her room, the green dress he'd bought for her, in Florence actually. That morning the weather had been superb, they'd left the hotel and she had held his hand. The same hand which, tonight, in bed .. . But she was still Madame Adrien Deume, dammit! Morally speaking, she wasn't entitled to her passport any more. What would they think in the hotel when they saw that her name and the other man's were different? Oh, he was perfectly aware why he was here in her bathroom. It was to see her things, to be with her. Yes, here was her toothbrush. He held it under his nose, to get the smell of her, but he resisted the temptation to open his mouth and clean his teeth with it.
'Still, there's nothing she can blame me for.'
When she had her period, she wasn't easy to deal with. On those days he'd always taken great care not to cross her. 'Well if that's what you think, darling, then so be it, it's entirely up to you. Has my sweetie-pie got a pain, then? Anything I can do to help? What about an aspirin. Want me to make you a hot-water bottle?' She called her time of the month the 'Days of the Dragon'. When they came round, she was remote and he felt a little scared of her. He respected her suffering and was genuinely sorry for her. The new man wouldn't give a toss, he certainly wouldn't look after her, he was a lover. All those rubber hot-water bottles he'd used to get for her, scalding hot, and he always let the air out before screwing down the stopper. 'Here you are, darling. This'll do your tum-tum good.' By day four he was happy because she had almost stopped hurting. She must have resented him a great deal for fussing over her on those days. It must have irritated her when he asked where it was hurting, whether she had a pain in her tum-tum or a headache. Really, he'd always had a pretty good idea, but he'd never been able to stop himself dancing attendance. But you could bet your life that this other man wouldn't be asking questions when she was like that, nor would he call her sweetie-pie. And she respected and loved him. Whereas she despised her husband for behaving like a nursemaid. Moreover, perhaps she'd resented him just for knowing she had a pain in the stomach. A whole stack of things which he now understood for the very first time. I'm starting to wise up at last. In such a hurry to be off that she'd forgotten to take her toothbrush, comb and powder. They'll buy all that in Florence, at a chemist's, holding hands. In the old days she never used powder. This powder would be for the new man's benefit. The gossip in the Secretariat, the looks he'd get from colleagues. Most likely her man was tall. Where had she met him?
He picked up the comb and, peering into the mirror over the hand-basin, carefully made a parting in his hair and then covered it up again. What if he went to the station and offered to fight? Hm. This man of hers was probably a lot stronger than him and would break his glasses and he'd end up looking silly. But if she thought he looked silly perhaps she'd feel sorry for him and get off the train just before it left. He up-ended the box of face-powder into the bath and snapped the handle of the toothbrush in half. 'Dishonourably discharged for treason,' he murmured. That's enough of that, now get yourself downstairs.
In the kitchen, he opened the shutters to let in some courage, picked up the bottle the milkman had left on the sill, poured milk into a pan, and lit the gas. The day he'd made her an egg-nog because she had a cough, she'd said he was a pet and he'd been terribly chuffed. A pet, but also a cuckold. All cuckolds were pets. All pets were cuckolds. She most certainly wouldn't be telling her new man that he was a pet.
He leaned out of the window. A pair of lovers in their Sunday best were doing filthy things with their mouths. They laughed. 'Just you wait and see, my bucko, she'll leave you in the lurch too one of these fine days.' He turned away so he wouldn't see them any more, noticed that the milk had boiled over, turned off the gas, and slowly emptied the pan into the sink. She had sewn the button back on his mackintosh and then she'd made a beeline for the kissing and the rest of it. She'd been so proud of sewing that middle button back on. But if another button came loose tomorrow, he could whistle for it.
He washed his hands in the sink to wash away his unhappiness, to make a fresh start. Tomorrow was Monday, back to work, dictate the report on his official visit, dress his window, resume contact with the USG. From now on it was naked ambition and nothing else. He reached for a walnut from the fruit-dish, cracked it between his teeth, and left the kitchen. In the hall, he halted by his mackintosh and yanked on the middle button until it gave.
'Go up and have a bath.'
But it was into her room that he went, after knocking on the door. This was the room where they had talked together, where he had brought her tea. On the floor lay the green dress, the teapot, the two cups, various lengths of string, shoes, and her big fluffy teddy-bear with its legs in the air. Patrice, she called it. Sometimes, when he brought the tea, she was clutching Patrice, having slept with him all night. None of these shoes had trees in them. How many times had he told her how essential shoe-trees were? Her sun-glasses were on the floor too. When she wore them she looked just like a film star going about incognito and he'd felt oh so proud. On her bedside table was another bear, a small one, with boots on. He'd never seen this chap before.
Over the back of the armchair was the dress she'd worn last night. He spread it out, arranged the folds. She ought to have told him, ought to have trusted him. He would have let her go on meeting this other man, but at least she would still have been here, near him, he could have seen her every day, she would have had all her meals at home, well almost all, she would have been there each evening when he got back from the office, well almost every, because there'd be times, of course, but no one would have known except the three of them. He stroked the dress. He talked to it.
'Darling, I'd have arranged everything for you.'
Four minutes to nine. He opened the shutters and looked out. Not a soul in sight. No car bringing her back to him. He turned, gave a shoe a feeble kick, picked up a piece of string, and went back to the window. Three minutes to nine. They'd be in their compartment now, their cases stowed away on the rack above their heads. De-luxe cases. He saw her gloved, elegant, happy, sitting next to him.
Standing at the window, he fiddled with the string. Tangling and untangling it, pulling and yanking on it, he allowed his eyes to wander between the empty road and the empty sky. Nine o'clock struck one floor down. The train had set off, was now carrying her away from him for ever. Sunk, he was sunk.
'Sunk, sank, sink, sonk,' he muttered, tugging at the string, straining every sinew to snap it. 'Sunk, sank, sink, sonk,' he muttered over and over, for when the human spirit is brought to a certain pitch it invariably finds some pathetic way of beguiling its distress, of playing some ghastly game such as tugging at a piece of string and saying nonsensical words, inventing some piece of tomfoolery to make the unhappiness bearable, so that life can go on.
CHAPTER 80
Shivering in his coat, he spent the rest of the day in a daze, going up and down stairs, walking into rooms, switching on lights, opening and shutting drawers, looking at himself in all the mirrors so he did not feel alone, switching off lights, moving on, sitting on the stairs to flick through a book he'd come across in Dada's room, getting up suddenly, resuming his wandering, sometimes talking to himself, saying 'Hello, darling' to her, or 'Night-night, darling', now humming a tune, now murmuring to himself with a little smile that he was a cuckold, the Wandering Cuckold.
When it was nine in the evening, he went into her room, opened the door of the wardrobe, stared at the dresses on their hangers like corpses on a gibbet, leaned in, and filled his nose with their fragrance. She'd be in Florence by now, already in bed with her new man, they couldn't wait
. The truth of the matter was that she'd never wanted him, always reasons why she couldn't, too tired, headache. He raised his eyebrows and turned on the radio. A well-fed voice informed him that suffering was spiritually enriching. Of course, it was Sunday. He turned the radio off and opened the drawer where she kept her little handkerchiefs. So pretty when she blew her nose. His foot brushed against the fluffy teddy-bear on the carpet. He picked it up.
'Come on, we're off to the loo, I want to go.'
He went down one flight, holding Patrice by the hand, and entered the bathroom. He put the teddy and Dada's book on the white lacquer stool facing the pedestal, for company. He lowered the mahogany-effect seat, hitched back the folds of his overcoat, undid the cord of his pyjama trousers, and sat down. Odd, being late like this. Generally speaking he was regular as clockwork, went every morning soon after waking. It was the emotional shock which must have clogged him up. Travelling made him constipated too. So did anything out of the ordinary, really. 'Just carry on as though she'd never existed,' he told the bear, and stood up. When all the formalities had been completed, he pulled the chain, gazed at the tumult of rushing, mighty waters, went on watching until the porcelain returned to white and immaculate. Quite: time healed all wounds.
'I'll get over it, you'll see.'
Sitting down again, he took a sheet of lavatory paper, folded it in narrow parallel creases, then made it into a fan which he waved in front of his face. Sunday breakfast together. She was very fond of butter. The amount of bread and butter she could put away! And then they'd talk, like good chums. He had meant something to her in those days, he was her husband. When she came back from picking mushrooms, she simply couldn't wait to show him her swag. That long intake of breath as she stood there proudly, waiting for him to say how well she'd done. At times like those she was just like a little girl. None of that would mean a thing to other people, but to him it was divine. Nevermore. She happy in Florence; he all alone sitting on a lavatory seat. He sniffled. Holding his drooping pyjama trousers with one hand, he got up, went across to the mirror over the hand-basin, stared at his tears and muttered.
'I remember days gone by and do weep their passing.'
He blew his nose on a piece of lavatory paper then pulled the chain, although there was no need, seeking comfort in the efficient working of the flush. It wasn't exactly enough to constitute a goal in life. He picked up the comb which lay on the glass shelf and sat down again on the seat, though he did not feel a need. When he was a little boy and Mummy scolded him, he used to shut himself in the lavatory to cheer himself up. He got to his feet. On legs shackled by his pyjama trousers, which had fallen round his ankles, he shuffled over to the mirror to see the little boy he once had been, whom he recognized under the wispy beard, Didi aged eight, a good boy, a happy boy, who had worked hard at school, had embarked on life's journey with hope, had had no idea of what lay in store for him, and had worked so very hard for his exams. He looked on himself pityingly, shook his head, gave Didi a gentle smile, a woman's gentle smile. . 'Poor boy,' he told the mirror.
Keep busy, pick up the threads. Smoke his pipe? No, he only smoked his pipe when he was happy, when she came to see him in his office. He'd imagined he cut rather a fine figure then, poor fool that he was, hadn't had any inkling of what was cooking. Awfully clinging, that dress last night. Especially round her behind. It had clung for her new man. He stroked his cheek in the mirror. Well somebody still loved him, somebody stroked his cheek. He poked his tongue out, to see if it was coated. Yes, somebody still worried about him. Spotting a blackhead on his nose, he squeezed it, inspected the little worm of grease on his fingernail, and squashed the little bastard into nothingness. Touting her behind to whoever-he-was, that was her goal in life from now on. He removed the stopper from the bottle of cologne and breathed its fragrance to rekindle his lust for life. Then he washed his hands. Who could tell, perhaps when the soap was nearly used up, when it was a thin, flat disc, she might come back. In two months, or three. Hurt, disappointed, she would seek sanctuary in his arms, and he would hold her close and comfort her. Trying to mimic the voice he would never hear again, he murmured: 'He made me so unhappy. I've come back to you.'
Sitting down again, he tore a sheet off the roll, made it into a tube which he put to one eye, like a telescope, then let it drop on the floor. No, he wouldn't change his will, too bad if this other chap did gain by it. That would make her see the calibre of the man she had deserted. He tore off more sheets of lavatory paper, one by one. She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not, she loves . . . him. Yes, that was clear from the letter. Talked about 'him' all the time, 'he' this and 'he' that, went on about her new man. So in love that she couldn't see how cruel she was being.
It was a very cruel letter. Stroking the lapels of his mackintosh was cruel. His lapels were the only thing of his which she stroked now. Saying 'my darling' was cruel. Cruel, saying that there was everything he needed for today in the fridge. But if there wasn't anything in the fridge tomorrow, her darling could run up a shutter and die for all she cared. She might feel awful about putting him through the mill, but that wouldn't stop her, you know, tonight with her man. Have lunch with his colleagues! As though that would make everything all right! It was the unfeeling charity of the heartless. So she needed to be happy! And what about him? Didn't he need to be happy?
He unfolded her note, underlined the cruelties, and put exclamation marks in the margin. Pity he didn't have cancer. If he had cancer she wouldn't have left him, he'd have had another two or three good years with her. Downstairs, on the little table in front of the sofa, was the propelling-pencil he had given her. It was cruel to have left it there, for it had seen all the disgusting things she had done with her man on the sofa. He arched his eyebrows and smiled faintly. For with one stamp of his heel he had pulverized the propelling-pencil and had spat on the sofa. Served them right. See, that's what I've come to!
'I'm hungry,' he told the teddy-bear. 'Let's fetch something to eat.'
When he got back from the kitchen, still holding Patrice under his arm, he put an old copy of a woman's magazine, a hunk of bread and a whole garlic sausage — Marietta's favourite snack — on the stool. Loosening his pyjama trousers, he sat down, removed the skin from the sausage, which he wrapped in lavatory paper so that his fingers would not get all messed up, bit into it, and smiled at the teddy on the stool facing him. Feeding his face was company, a comfort. Sitting on the lavatory eating garlic sausage was pretty disgusting, though. Who cared? Nobody loved him, so he was entitled.
Hunched over the magazine, sausage in one hand and bread in the other, he read the adverts as he munched. The Modern Way to Monthly Hygiene. Femina Tampons Being Worn Internally Are Undetectable. Femina Tampons Are Super-Absorbent. Her new man wouldn't be making any hot-water bottles for her, that was for sure. The World's Most Exciting Bra, Will Not Sag or Stretch. For That Attractive Shape, Superb Uplift, Ideal For The Smaller Bust, Be The Most Popular Girl In Town. The bitches! That's all they ever thought about.
'I was too nice. That's what cooked my goose.'
Oh, he'd had the occasional inkling, which was why he would come on strong and manly, but it never lasted, he couldn't keep it up, he always forgot. He was a weakling, no good saying otherwise, and that was the root of the matter. Sometimes, when she was being impossible, he would lose his temper, and then, afterwards, he would go and say he was sorry and next day he'd bring her presents. What was he supposed to do now with the presents he'd brought her from Syria and Palestine? Some fellows had all the luck, the ones who were strong all the time, didn't need to try, didn't know they were doing it. Waiters in restaurants never came when he called, he always needed several stabs at it, but was that his fault? Was it his fault if he scared easily, if he was afraid of not pleasing, if he smiled when a superior talked to him? It was all due to hormones. He had defective glands, and she'd made him pay for it. Raising his fist, which still held the stump of the garlic sausage, he
bellowed menacingly at the ceiling.
'No God! There is no God!'
The sausage was all gone. If he could only spend all the time eating he wouldn't feel so bad. There was a horrible taste of garlic in his mouth. He wiped his sausage-greasy hand on his pyjama coat. Being dirty was a sort of way of getting his own back. That dress had clung everywhere. Her behind. Her new man would be making the most of it now. Here he was thinking piggish thoughts, that was how low he'd sunk. Being unhappy made you think piggish thoughts. So be it, then, he was a pig, a sausage-eating pig. So much for God. He tore off a sheet of lavatory paper, wrapped it round the comb, hey presto, the harmonica of his youth, and he growled out the theme of wedded bliss across the thin, vibrating paper. 'With willing marriage kiss, In Hymen's temple true, Strew our path to wedded bliss With flow'rs of every hue.' He stopped, ran the comb through his hair, pulling it down over his forehead, sweeping it straight back, and then repeating the operation.
Ensconced on his solitary throne, he went on combing and uncomb-ing his hair. Now and then, for a change, he twisted it between thumb and forefinger, making it into a kind of knot which he screwed tight and then suddenly combed out, deriving sensual pleasure from tearing out whole tufts, masochistically maiming himself. Or again, he would open his pyjama coat and run the comb through the hairs on his chest, while dipping at random into Dada's book which lay open on his knees, and signally failing to take in any of the different ways of removing stains. But reading helped further to deaden his unhappiness. After a while he returned to his hair.