Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  At last she had gone off to get dressed. Hooray. Ten minutes of being his own man. Always worth having. True, but when she got back she would put the dread question, hang the sword of Damocles over his head: she would ask what plans did he have for this afternoon, after they'd finished riding? What new pleasures could he devise to camouflage their isolation? There were no new ones left. The same never-ending substitutes for a social life, the same old pathetic pleasures still open to the outcast — visits to the theatre, the cinema or the roulette tables, horse-racing, pigeon-shooting, thés dansants, buying new clothes, and presents.

  And after the outings to Cannes, Nice and Monte-Carlo there followed the inevitable, depressingly good dinner and obligatory conversation and the effort of coming up with new things to talk about when there weren't any new things left to talk about. He knew all the Ariane stories backwards, such as the rare soul of Fluffy her cat and the sweet character of Magali her owl, and all those Chinese-torture childhood memories, the little song she'd made up, the chant of the gutter on the roof and the raindrops dripping on the orange awning, and the trips out to Annemasse to see Catholics, and reciting poems in the attic with her sister and all the rest of it, and she always told everything in exactly the same words. They couldn't go on resurrecting the same old stuff everlastingly. So what did they do? They talked about the other people in the restaurant.

  Oh yes, though they never saw anybody else and could not discuss friends, which pukka people found such a pleasant way of passing the time, and though there was no longer any job to talk about, because, as Mrs Forbes put it, he had been turfed out ignominiously, they were nevertheless amorous mammals endowed with the power of speech and had therefore to find something to fuel their conversations. So they discussed fellow diners they did not know from Adam, tried to guess what jobs they did, what they were like, and how they felt about the people they were with. The dismal occupation for all who, besieged by loneliness, reluctantly become snoopers and psychologists.

  And when they had finished analysing these desirable, inaccessible strangers whom they despised, they cast round for other things to say. So they talked about the dress she'd just bought or the characters in the novels she read to him each evening. Was she aware of the tragic nature of their predicament? No, for she was a lady, and resolute in the cause of love.

  But today he did not feel up to force-feeding her on surrogate pap. Too bad, Cannes was off the menu, he'd pull the one about having a headache and then stagger back to his room and twiddle his thumbs in peace until it was time for dinner. No, that wasn't on, he couldn't leave her to stew all by herself in her apartment. But what on earth was he going to tell her when she reappeared all noble and loving and perfumed, so ready, so willing? He had absolutely nothing to say. Oh, if he were a postman he'd tell her about his round. If he were a policeman on the beat he would tell her how he'd given a suspect a good going-over! That sort of thing was real, true, solid. Or he'd see her get all excited because they'd been invited out that evening by his sergeant or the chief-postman or whatever. Oh, if only women would settle for a man's tenderness! But he'd been enrolled for services to passion. Should he put a bun in her oven to give her something to take her mind off him and also something to do? But having children presupposed marriage, and marriage presupposed an existence within the social pale. Whereas he was an outcast, an untouchable. In any case, they couldn't get married because she already had a husband. And, anyway, she had given up everything to be able to live a spangled life, not so that she could start breeding. So he had no option but to be a passionate lover in the heroic mould.

  'Come in.'

  It was, unexpectedly got up in white jacket and black tie, a red-faced Paolo, who, after almost falling over himself, asked if he could clear the table. Thank you, sir. No, sir, he'd been taken off lift duty that morning. He'd been replaced by a coloured man. Yes, sir, he'd been promoted, praise the Lord. Under questioning, he swabbed his forehead. Plans? Well, he wanted to put some money by and go back to his village, San Bernardo delle Acque, and buy a piece of land, and then, God willing, get married and settle down. He said thank you sir again and started to leave. But from his finger Solal took a ring set with a large stone which flashed white and blue, held it out to the dazed Paolo, hugged him, and bundled him out into the corridor.

  'Oh to be Paolo!'

  Yes, he envied the simple-minded clod who hadn't been sacked, had got himself promoted, wasn't stateless and would soon be married. Happy Paolo, restored to San Bernardo, respected by his fellow citizens and perhaps even the next Mayor of San Bernardo. In reality he was a lot smarter than Solal, for he found the world a kindly place, got on and believed in God.

  'Come in.'

  When he saw her in jodhpurs and riding boots, he felt a surge of pity. She had clearly been through every quality-control check imaginable, including full inspection of the seat of her breeches to ensure it wasn't baggy and lumpish but hugged her hindquarters correctly and gave her curves their proper due. Right, fair enough, they'd go riding. Fruit of the tree of Aaron the brother of Moses, he would perform like a chinless English wonder on a horse which out-girthed Naileater and would shake him to bits while his poor girl forced him to admire flowers, so much inedible vegetable matter which she found so terribly interesting, or pointed out some pointless hue in the sky above. 'A murrain on whomsoever pauseth to contemplate a tree in its splendour, saith the Talmud,' he improvised. And afterwards there'd be tea at the Casino and racking his brains to think of some new present he could buy her, and then the restaurant and whispering remarks about the other diners, and then finding words to say how beautiful and elegant she looked and how much he loved her, new words, for the old ones, the words he'd used in Geneva, no longer had the same impact. And all the while there were Jews in Germany who lived in fear.

  'Not Cannes,' he said. 'I'm sorry.'

  'It doesn't matter a bit,' she said. 'We'll go to my room. It'll be nice to have a quiet afternoon to ourselves. We'll make ourselves comfortable. (And chat, he thought.) And then we'll have tea.' (A glorious prospect this, he mused. He felt sorry for her for trying to liven things up and mask defeat by announcing this ghastly tea business two hours in advance, as though it were something to look forward to. Whatever had happened to Isolde?)

  In her room, which she ordered to be filled with fresh flowers each day, she sat herself down comfortably and he sat himself down comfortably, with death in his soul. Next she smiled at him. He smiled back. When she'd finished smiling, she stood and said she had a surprise for him. That morning she'd got up early and popped over to Saint-Raphaël to get some more records. She'd got some magnificent things, top of the list being a chorale from Bach's St John Passion. She burbled on about it excitedly. Oh, those opening notes, the tonic G, repeated three times, which gave the start of the chorale a sorrowing, meditative feel, and the F sharp, where the voice hung suspended, seemed to ask an anguished question, and so on, and he felt pity for the wretched girl who tried so hard to give meaning to their life in their goldfish bowl.

  'Would you like to hear the chorale?'

  'Yes. Love to, darling.'

  When the record had spun to its fearsome close, he bravely asked to hear 'Voi che sapete'. She gave him a grateful look, happy because he had asked, without needing to be prompted, for their tune, their love's own call-sign. While the Viennese soprano did her worst, he told himself that instead of sitting here listening to a record he might at this very instant have been a minister or at the very least an ambassador, while with another part of his mind he wondered what new line he could dream up shortly to put new life into the poor girl who would have been blissfully happy to be an ambassador's wife and enjoy the respect of morons. Of course, being an ambassador, who was just another useless member of the official in-crowd, meant very little and was even rather pathetic, though to be able to say so with conviction you really needed to be an ambassador. It was only very important to be an ambassador if you weren't one. When the Mozart ar
ia died away, he said he thought it was wonderful, such tender music, it sort of bled with happiness. He was aware that he was talking rubbish, but it didn't matter. With her, it was the tone that was all-important.

  'Can we have "Voi che sapete" again?' he asked, to be on the safe side, and he suppressed a sorrowing, nervous laugh when he saw her leap into action.

  When she'd wound up the gramophone, she stretched out on the bed and looked at him. He did what was expected of him. Equipped with long nose and dark-ringed eyes, he lay down beside her, acutely conscious of the emptiness of their life, while the Mozart aria, their national anthem, filled Ariane with fine feelings, made her aware of how much she loved her magnificent man. Suddenly, in rich, deep notes, the soprano began to give her view on what love was, and then groaned on about it in accents of the profoundest melancholy, as though she were going to be sick. Ariane said sorry, she hadn't wound the gramophone up enough. Seizing the opportunity with alacrity, he prevented her from getting up, leaped off the bed, turned the handle with such venom that the spring snapped. He said sorry, said he was really sorry. Good riddance. Gorgon bites dust.

  Coming back to her side, he was at a loss for words. Should he let her speak? If he did, there'd be childhood memories or stories about her pets. The practical solution was to make love to her.

  Now that she's been pleasured and gone to sleep my time's my own and I can fill it by telling myself stories sort of cinema-in-the-head just for me he does out the dining-room in the inn with the garden roller but it's time for breakfast he beats the gong to tell himself it's time for breakfast he comes running looking surprised and delighted he phones his cow Brunette who doesn't need to be told twice he is ever so careful not to offend her modesty he milks her with the greatest tact he puts sugar into milky coffee the sugar-lumps are like butterflies in his fingers his employer Jeroboam the innkeeper appears holding a Bible visibly stirred by verse eighteen, he kicks Charlie Chaplin who grabs a slice of bread and butter wolfs it down then bowler-hat tilted over one eye and proud as a Spanish nobleman he puts on a pair of gloves with holes in he goes out into the road wilily waddling a drum-major armed with a merrily whirling prod-stick he drives Jeroboam's cows he stops he lingers tearfully over the letter which is being read by a stranger sitting on a milestone who shouts angrily at Charlie who bows and goes on his way skipping and shrugging his shoulders benignly but where have the cows got to he looks for them behind a tree behind a rose-bush then surrendering to the flower-filled morning he dances a Prince Charming with a carnation between his teeth he dances a fidgety king condemned to hobnailed boots he skips from girl to girl from rose to rosebud on he goes on he flies a black sylph a puppet on a string kicking his legs for all he's worth with no thought now for lost cows and nasty men oh I'm getting sick of this he gets to Mary's house he whiles away an unforgettable hour making eyes his curly locks crazily bobbing he cranes his neck wildly like a tenor in a concert and sings a serenade then flirting deliriously he unwittingly pockets a brooch belonging to his lady-love but Jeroboam turns up and Charlie makes himself scarce with courage in his moustache and fear in his rear end while his boss bursting with virtuous outrage takes a stick to his niece Mary who struggles and her skirt falls down also her bloomers much to the indignation of Jeroboam who wields his stick even more furiously back at the inn Charlie forgets his troubles by losing himself in a great mission an occult labour he catches flies he reappears at rapid intervals brandishing a new victim and each time he succeeds in his task he lowers his eyes modestly and revels in a halo of gravity of saintly modesty of duty done he puts each fly in the cage with graceful assurance he tests his biceps and congratulates himself but now an injured toff is brought in Charlie falls over himself to help he takes the young man's watch waves it about to shake the mercury down puts it in the patient's mouth then with a look of medical concentration takes the pulse of the unconscious young man alack and alas by the next day Mary's heart has been won over by the spats and cane mounted with a cigarette-lighter of the well-to-do patient who is able to whisk a heavy silk handkerchief from his sleeve with practised ease oh poor Charlie one elbow in a lump of lard he suffers agonies but Jeroboam gives him no time for noble sorrowing gives him capitalist kicks instead and Charlie dashes off at high speed zigzagging wildly wondering in fits and starts which way to go switching directions suddenly lurching and staggering he careers through the stock-still fields and all of a sudden a corking idea brings a sober smile to his lips a quick-winged black and white butterfly to his face how vulnerable he seems with his eyes made up like a Tunisian dancing-girl and his hair ethereal in the mellow sunlight now he's wearing a tailcoat suffering agonies in a high starched collar done up to the nines to win back his fickle girl the stitches of his ingenious sock-and-spats combined come undone and the wool stretches out in a line along the length of several streets Guileless Charlie shakes one tangled foot with artless patience a dandy dandily dawdling whose dreams are full of angels dressed like policemen and pugilists with wings oh the sublime craziness which allows him to ignore the woolly tangle and go on shaking his triumph-of-hope-over-reality hobnailed boot but now to win back to dazzle Mary he guilelessly pulls a torn handkerchief from the tattered sleeve of his coat but notwithstanding the poignant cane with a candle stuck in the top he does not melt Mary's heart and all at once he looks at her and he understands and his moustache stiffens as if stung and an intellijew-ish smile widens his left nostril and lifts a corner of one lip over a wealth of knowledge of human heartache he shuffles off slowly lonely picking a flea off his coat he strokes it and lets it go at this point he spots a policeman coming towards him with his hands placidly and menacingly behind his back so to demonstrate his innocence he polishes his nails but the guardian of law and order bears down fearsomely on the pea-brained prince who doffs his hat and retreats in a flurry of Spanish entrechats taking bows like a lady circus-rider receiving an ovation before finally making off taking care not to lose the habit of face-saving by leaving the policeman with the memory of having been made to fall flat on his face the next day his little dog brings him a wallet containing a thousand dollars whereupon Napoleon Charlie walks into the saloon where he was a regular when he was still poor and downtrodden he disdainfully rolls a cigarette between his millionaire fingers he has a brow like Nietzsche and sinks glass after rapid glass of port one after the other in quick staccato succession like punches then solidly armed with bewitching teeth he smiles at the simple trusting girl who works as a singer and next moment the happy man and his darling wife have set off on their honeymoon and with them go the trusting girl's three little brothers plus two widows and five orphaned girls who have been adopted by filthy-wealthy Charlie the boat pitches and tosses as in a dream though he is seasick Charlie nevertheless attempts to solve the enigma of the deck-chair he goes at it with a will, with mild-mannered persistence he folds unfolds turns reassembles analyses and pensively arranges the articulated lounger which is far too complicated for ordinary decent mortals and in the end realizing that he will never master these contraptions and that superhuman tasks await him on the morrow he pitches the whole sophisticated shoot over the side the next day he has settled in the country he is wearing a floppy straw hat he is sowing he makes holes in the field with one finger he puts a seed in each hole and then covers it patting the earth carefully and stands back like an artist to see the effect but the defenders of the rules tear him away from his great endeavour he is lifted by the scruff of the neck led off with his feet dangling and dragged before the committee of public safety presided over by Jeroboam and the good judges pass the death sentence on the hopeless little man who says thank you two nasty academicians carry him off in a cart drawn by an old horse to the guillotine there a silvery-toned Charlie forgives Jeroboam who is present with his little boy whom he has brought along to see an example being set the condemned man raises his exquisite eyes to heaven sighs for the sake of appearances gives the horse a goodbye kiss consults a pocket barometer gives his two parak
eets into the care of the executioner and then embraces him and smiling like a virgin heads for the retribution-machine and the blade swishes and lops off that pretty head which as it rolls into the sawdust-filled basket winks affectionately at Jeroboam's fair-haired little boy hello she's stirring she's opened her eyes she's looking at me she's smiling she's snuggling closer what shall we do dunno go out perhaps no it's going to rain watch out childhood memories looming yes make love to her again.

  When she'd finished moaning in that special way of hers (which never varied), after passing certain tender judgements (which were always the same), she dozed by his side, sticky in her nakedness, while he summarized the day's events. Woke up, had bath, shaved, turned up in her room after the Mozart summons, kisses, had breakfast in dignified dressing-gown, kisses, talk of books and art, first coupling, unambiguous moans interspersed with assurances that she loved him, exchange of sweet nothings, rest, had second bath, change of dressing-gown, records, music on the wireless, listening to her read, records, kisses, lunch in their rooms, coffee, the polar vessels, then coupling number two after removal of riding outfit which ended up at the foot of the bed, then coupling number three after cinema-in-head. Watching her sleep, he silently conjugated the verb to love in the past, present and, alas, future tenses. He had just started on the subjunctive when, waking suddenly, she kissed his hand and then looked up at him, staggeringly trusting and eagerly expectant.

  'What shall we do now, darling?'

  Always the same old refrain, he screamed inwardly. What do we ever do? We love each other, that's what we do! When they'd been in Geneva she wouldn't have dared ask that awful question. In Geneva, being together was enough, that was happiness. Whereas nowadays she was always wanting to know what little treats he was thinking of giving her as a reward. Should he make love to her again? No, didn't feel like it. Anyway, she didn't either. Say something tender? That would hardly be enough to make her jump out of her socks. Still, why not give it a go.