Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  'Yes, I really think I will go and see that woman. It seems all it takes is a dozen lessons. Then I'll be able to play you Hawaiian music in the evening, it's terribly catchy.'

  Aha, she didn't say nostalgic. That'll come in time. How could he even think of slapping a poor girl who was planning to bewitch him with Hawaiian music and trying vaguely to replace or combat the missing social dimension with the twang of a Hawaiian guitar? Anyway, was he going to have to slap her face every evening? It was a tonic which would eventually lose its effectiveness. Should he go and have a word with the podgy member of the Council of State over the road, beg him to invite them round, maybe even offer him money? No, that was simply not done. And the most heartbreaking aspect of the whole case, and the most unfair, was that being constantly shut up in his deep-sea diving-bell with only her for company simply got on his nerves. Her rumbling stomach got on his nerves. Her ethereal, post-coital caresses got on his nerves. Her Genevan accent and vocabulary got on his nerves. Why did she have to say 'fertl' rather than 'fertile', why the devil did she say 'store' not 'shop'? Why 'motor', not 'car'? It made her sound so affected.

  And the strong whiff of capitalist attitudes which she exuded. He recalled the day when, her lip curling with mild contempt, she had said that it was amazing how much Mariette thought about money, set such store by money, talked about money all the time, and was forever wanting to know how much Madame Ariane had paid for those shoes, this bag, that dress. 'Odd, anyone being so keen to know how much everything costs,' she had added with an indulgent display of her mild contempt. Quite, Madame, you and your kind can afford the luxury of not caring for money, of never mentioning money, of being uninterested. All you have to do is pop to the bank. And she always spoke to servants in that pleasant lady-of-the-manor way of hers. And only the other evening, how eloquent she had grown when expatiating on tea, the sacred drink of her clique who were the owners of the means of production. 'People react very sensitively to tea, don't you find, darling? It's all a question of physical make-up. For instance, if one is not feeling well, one finds it less palatable. But if one has not tasted tea for three whole days it strikes one as being amazingly good, don't you think?' She had chopped the 'amazingly' into four distinct parts to give it all due prominence, and he had looked at her curiously. How changed, the crazy, inspired girl he'd known in Geneva! And then there was her morbid passion for flowers: She was forever sticking their dying remains all over the house, in the drawing-room, in the hall, in her bedroom. Only yesterday, she had harangued him about autumn flowers, she liked them best, and had launched into a full description of dahlias, asters and other makes of vegetable matter. The dahlia, ah, a sensual bloom, heavy, rich, which made her think of Titian: 'Do you find that too, darling?' And her morbid obsession with the beauties of nature. 'Darling, do come and see the colour of that mountain.' Very well, and he'd gone, but all he'd seen was a mountain, a large lump of rock. Oh for his own Ionian Sea, in age-old springtime, tender touch of clear water. 'Darling, do come and see the sunset.' It bored him rigid. And her obsession too with views, a preoccupation doubtless peculiar to the Swiss, who were a mountain people. Always asking if there was a good view from some station or other, or even just simply A View. Incidentally, she always said 'station' for 'spot', and that was Swiss too, perhaps. And now she used make-up, which didn't suit her. And what had happened at the Donon now recurred frequently. She blew her nose far too genteelly, and it got on his nerves. 'Go on, have a good clear out,' he murmured to himself. And, immediately afterwards, shame, pity, remorse: remorse so deep that he felt an urge to go down on his knees to her. But the nasal blockage persisted and was noticeable in the poor girl's voice, and it was absolutely maddening. And sometimes she had bad breath. I'm sorry, darling, forgive me. Yes, please forgive me, though your breath really does smell today, there's nothing I can do about it and there's no way I can avoid being aware of it. But worst of all was that sometimes, all of a sudden, for no reason, he felt a strange aversion for her, perhaps because she was a woman.

  Oh poor girl, pretending unconcern yet never for a moment taking her eyes off the antics of the moronic neighbours, disappointed because she was not one of them, humiliated because they had not come to call. Of course, all the time they'd been at Agay the only kind of social life she had known had been having breakfast in secret with Mariette. Another burst of laughter from across the way. Some attractive, silly girl had stuck a man's hat on her head and everyone was clapping and shouting 'Good old Jeanne, go on Jeanne, let her rip!' But here, in the elegant drawing-room with its splendid flowers, was deathly silence.

  'Do you think I should go for the Hawaiian-guitar lessons?'

  'Yes, darling. Good idea.'

  'In that case I'll make a start tomorrow. I'll soon be singing Hawaiian songs for you to my own accompaniment.'

  'Fine,' he said with a smile, then suddenly got to his feet. 'I'll go and pack. There are people I must see about my affairs.'

  'When are you leaving?'

  'Tonight. It's urgent. Financial matters.'

  'But where are you going?'

  'Paris. Friends to see.'

  'Oh darling! Do let me come with you! (How eagerly she had spoken the words! Thirsting for any sort of a change! She was already picturing their arrival in Paris, the new faces in the station, in the streets and, above all, oh yes, above all the friends he'd be seeing to whom he would introduce her. Attracted by his friends like flies by the honeypot! Others, not just him; others, not just him: it was her motto. Because he was staring at her, she thought he was hesitating.) O darling, I'll be terribly good, I'll wait until you've finished all your business, and then we'll. . .'

  'We'll what?' he interrupted sternly. (Cold-eyed, he waited for the terrible ending: 'call on friends in the evening'.)

  'I was going to say that we'll be so looking forward to seeing each other again in the evening, it would be lovely,' she said, frightened by the fixed, wild, calculating look in his eye.

  Aha, she had admitted her secret desire! To be rid of her damned beloved at least for several hours each day, to watch him go, and stop having him cluttering up the place, not to be always seeing him at home wandering around in one of his everlasting dressing-gowns! Actually she was quite right. They were suffocating because they spent all their time together being extraordinarily beautiful so that they could tell each other every minute of the day how extraordinarily in love with each other they were. In reality, though she did not know it, she longed, yearned to be the wife of an Under-Clown-General and give parties every evening, with carefully graded smiles, for large numbers of revitalizing, self-important, bemedalled morons, preferably in formal evening dress.

  In the neighbours' garden another game of blind man's buff was in progress. Oh yes, he envied them too, he also wanted to be on good terms with a miserable junior member of the Council of State, he who once . . . Oh the sexual screams of the stupid women as they ran away. He turned to look at her. She and her Hawaiian guitar, poor girl. Well then, he'd go to Paris alone, he'd leave this very night, and he would triumph in Paris, triumph for her, and he would return bringing back happiness, happiness at last for his darling, loads of happiness for his darling love.

  CHAPTER 93

  He lies awake thinking of the unhappy woman who waits for him at Agay, patiently waits, not daring to ask why she must write to him poste restante or why he does not tell her the name of his hotel. Too right, darling, it's the George V for this super-tramp. 'Restored to the land of the living,' he had said out loud as he had climbed into his sleeper, and he had smiled at an attractive woman passenger in the corridor, and she had smiled back, and oh such kissing with her in the night, such kissing with Béatrice.

  He rubs his chin where the sprouting bristles itch. Not shaved since being turned down by the albino, an umpteen- maybe sixteen-day-old beard. What's the date today? He leans over, picks up the paper and reads the date. Monday, 10 September 1936. That makes it a thirteen-day-old beard. The albino h
ad a face like a tapir. The day after he got into Paris, Béatrice Riulzi having left for London, he'd gone to the Rue de l'Universite. He'd insisted on being seen by the head man, the Director, insisted like a man down on his luck, insisted like a Jew. He had been so sure of himself on the train with Béatrice, had been what women call a charmer, so sure of himself on sexual ground. But sitting before the Director he had suddenly felt awkward, had smiled too much. The razor-edged words of the albino after the glance through his dossier. An irregularity in his naturalization papers, insufficient qualifying residence. He had left and wandered through the streets, stateless and with no function, a chemically pure Jew.

  He stares at his hand. It moves. He kisses it so as not to be alone. Should he go back to speculating on the stock market and take his revenge by being rich? Pariahs are allowed to speculate. A pariah can be debarred from everything except making money by his wits, the ultimate consolation. No, heart not in it. But his heart had been in it all right after the set-back. Yes, darling, I had the heart to traipse round knocking on doors, begging for help. Delarue, who in the old days he'd rescued from a wretched fate as a down-at-heel journalist and had appointed as his principal private secretary at the Ministry of Labour, was now an inspector general. His former subordinate had adopted such a patronizing tone. 'Sorry, old man, you can't un-denaturalize somebody just like that.' After saying there was absolutely nothing he could do, he had offered the unshaven down-and-out a glass of Scotch and proceeded to tell him about his fascinating work as government delegate to the International Labour Office. He'd got even less change out of his other old chums. Never invited across the doors of their offices, never asked to sit down. They all knew about the scandal. They all knew he had been sacked. They all knew his French citizenship had been withdrawn. They all used the same excuses. 'Haven't the authority to intervene. There are no new facts to justify an application to have the decision overturned. So there you are, old man, you've only yourself to blame.' Some even allowed themselves the luxury of feeling sorry for him as they gently steered him towards the exit. 'It really is such a shame.' And in the eyes of all of them he read mistrust, hostility, fear. Men do not care for the sight of misfortune.

  He has eased himself back into the warmth of his bed. He puts a smile on his face to cover his misery. His bare feet caress the sheets, luxuriating in their smoothness, delighting in them. This much at least remains to him: the ease and comfort which money can buy. The day before yesterday he'd gone back to the Rue de l'Universite to try again. Speech written out the night before, case learned by heart, all rehearsed in the mirror. Hoped his umpteen-day-old beard would soften the albino's heart. And then, after spending hours kicking his heels in a waiting-room reciting his heart-softening arguments to himself, he had been seen. The man was clearly irritated by the sheer persistence of the lunatic he was dealing with. 'You people, you know, you get kicked out of the front door and you climb back in through the window.' 'You people.' Ah! We know who you mean. And he had made the most of his opportunity to humiliate a former government minister, a man who was now powerless. 'All you need do is take up official residence in France and then submit a new application when the formal qualifying period has expired. Since, that is, you seem so very keen on becoming French.' Heartless, that 'so very keen'. The heartlessness of those who have a place in the sun, the cruel irony of the sated who find it odd that a man should actually be hungry.

  Aloud, he mimics the odd way the albino spoke. 'Shinche, vat ish, you sheem sho very keen on becoming Frencha.' An underdog jibe, a feeble riposte. Misfortune demeans, but it also dulls the brain. He'd been so stupid, turning up like that with a prepared speech and thinking stubble would melt hearts. He'd spoken of his isolation and his hunger to belong in a country he could call his own, and the man had replied with official residence in France and formal qualifying period, and while he spoke had looked at the framed photographs of his two well-groomed children and his legally-signed-and-sealed wife who was eminently presentable and probably had money of her own. Oh, the indifference of the fortunate! Oh, the smugness on the face of the man behind the desk as he looked at his photos, looked with unassailable certainty at the evidence of the unimpeachability of his life! A bastard with a clear conscience, with his feet firmly under the social table. Not intelligent, but smart. Whereas he was intelligent but not smart at all. And then the man got up and said he had other people to shee.

  He smiles as he ponders his fate. He'd succeeded once on the strength of his intelligence. Member of Parliament, government minister, et cetera. A success built on sand, because it had come through the exercise of his intelligence. Success on the high wire, with no safety-net. Unable to count on family or connections, the old-school tie, chums from childhood and adolescence, or any of the natural helping hands which weave the snugly fitting garment of solidarity with one's milieu, he had had only himself to rely on. He had been brought down by a princely blunder. And now he is a man alone. The rest of them, firmly embedded in the establishment, are all connected by a maze of protective threads to natural allies. Life is sweet for those who follow the normal path, so sweet that they do not realize quite how much they owe to their background and believe that their success is due entirely to their own efforts. The part played by family and long-standing friendships is vital to the extensive silver-spoon club of privy counsellors, Treasury officials and diplomats who never passed an examination in their lives. He would like to see how they would have fared in his shoes, clods who had been mollycoddled from birth and borne along from cradle to grave on the gentle social stream. If Proust had so wished, his papa could have calmly and with no trouble at all wangled a job for him in the Quai d'Orsay, because the moron Norpois, a chum of Proust the Father, was standing by ready to introduce Proust the Sprog to a collection of other morons. Oh, of course he knows they aren't morons and weren't hopeless at exams. He says morons, he says they can't pass exams because he, well, just let it go. Yes, he'd succeeded without the safety-net of clubbability. And then he'd made his blunder at the meeting of the Council of their League of Nations and had come a cropper. And the very next day he'd made an even more serious blunder: he'd sent an anonymous letter disclosing the irregularity in his naturalization papers. From that day on he has been a man alone and his country is a woman. He takes the packet sealed with sealing-wax from the drawer of his bedside table. Should he open it? Why not, he is entitled to a little happiness. But no. His father was Gamaliel of the Solals, the revered Chief Rabbi. He puts the packet back into the drawer.

  Quickly now, find a Purpose. He rings for the waiter, then gets out of bed, checks that the door is locked, and waits. When the two knocks come, he orders the full breakfast through the door. Three fried eggs, bacon, coffee, toast, butter, croissants and English marmalade. Then he returns to bed, forces a smile and a contented sigh. Oh yes, old friend, I have a nice bed, very comfortable. The albino had cut him short, stood up and said he had other people to shee. Then he'd smiled to earn the nonentity's goodwill and a few extra minutes in which to plead his cause, and he'd given him the end of his speech, carefully rehearsed in the mirror the night before, had produced his arguments, which were clumsy and earnest. The kind of life he has inflicted on the woman he loves. His love of France and even his reasons for loving France. But the man is too French to understand his fervour, his need. So his speech got him nowhere and the man opened the door without saying a word. So then he told him he was finished. 'Sho shorry,' the man said.

  Two knocks at the door. He is afraid to confront the waiter, a man of purpose from the world outside, a messenger from the land of the living, one of the lucky devils who has a place in the brotherhood of men. 'Leave the tray by the door, I'll come for it.' He waits for the sound of footsteps to die away, carefully opens the door a few inches, and looks left and right. No one watching. He gathers up the tray, quickly double-locks the door, removes the key, puts it under the pillow, and gets back into bed.

  Sitting up in bed with the friendly
tray in front of him, he smiles. Mmm. These eggs and bacon smell good. Three little chums. Well, he's got his breakfast too, and it's bigger and better than the average lucky devil gets. Yes, but for the lucky devils the first meal of the day is a prelude to what goes on outside, provides them with the calories they need for intermingling with others of their own kind. Whereas in his case breakfast is just something to do, a short-term goal, ten minutes of solitary, sticky happiness. He opens Le Temps and gives audience to the world outside while at the same time surrendering to the dismal sensuality of food. He is quite aware that within a year at the outside he will commit suicide, and yet he calmly bites into his croissants, which he takes with lashings of butter and mounds of marmalade. Pity they hadn't brought the jar it had come in, with the Scottish soldier on the label. It's interesting to look at pictures on labels as you eat. It's company.

  His short-lived pleasure now a thing of the past, he gets up. Where's the key? He looks for it here and then there, and as he looks he rolls his wrist in the action of turning a key, as a help to finding it.

  Eventually he comes across it under his pillow and half opens the door. He stares at all the shoes lined up in the corridor outside the other doors. The feet of the carefree are his social connections. Last night, at around two o'clock, he felt crazily tempted to borrow some of them and lay them out on his bed. He leans out further for a better view. How happy all these well-polished, neatly arranged, self-confident shoes look. Yes, precisely: self-confident. Their owners staying in the hotel have a purpose in life. In his case it's the opposite.