Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  Footsteps. He shuts the door hurriedly and turns the key in the lock. A knock. It's the valet asking if it's all right to clean the room. 'No. Later.' When everything is silent once more, he executes a dance step in the wardrobe mirror and snaps his fingers like castanets. It doesn't really matter if he isn't happy. The happy die too. Having checked that the corridor is now empty again, he quickly puts the tray down outside the door, smartly hangs the 'Do not disturb' sign on the knob, turns the key twice in the lock, and pokes out his tongue. Saved!

  He makes the bed carefully, then sets about tidying the room, using a face-towel for a duster. 'We look after our little ghetto, must keep our little ghetto looking nice,' he mutters, as though he is telling a secret. He moves two armchairs which- are too close together, clears away a jumble of books, and sets out the cigarette-boxes in a symmetrical pattern, with the ashtray in the middle. 'Oh yes, here in the ghetto we have a mania for tidiness. The point is that we can go on thinking everything's all right. We have tidiness as a substitute for happiness.' And such, gentlemen, he murmurs, are the amusements of the lonely. And then he croons that the pleasure of love lasts but a moment, deliberately sings in a shrill, effeminate falsetto, to while away the time, to put on a performance for himself, sings with feeling to decant his presently unemployed love into his song. What's this? Dust on the bedside table! He gives the marble top a quick wipe with the towel, which he shakes out of the window. Those tiny humans far below: all rushing, all with a purpose, all hurrying towards others of their own kind. He lowers the blind to blot them out. He draws the curtains so that he is not aware that there is a world outside, a world of hope and success. Ah yes, there was a time when he went forth to conquer, to captivate, to be loved. He had been one of them.

  In the near dark he prowls around the room, furrow-browed, tweaking the occasional hair out of his scalp. Banished. Excluded. Of all the avocations existing outside, the only one now remaining to him is business, the manipulation of money, as it had been for his medieval forebears. Tomorrow, open a shop and set up as a pawnbroker, and on the door of the shop put up a brass plate. Have 'Patrician Moneylender' engraved on the brass plate. No, stay cooped up here in the George V and settle for living a life of luxury. Here, in this room, he can do whatever he wants — speak Hebrew, recite Ronsard, shout out that he is a monster with two heads and two hearts, that he belongs exclusively to the Jewish nation, exclusively to the French nation. Here, all alone, he can cover his shoulders with the sublime synagogue prayer-shawl and, if he feels like it, stick a tricolour rosette on his forehead. Here, gone to earth and alone, he will not see the mistrust in the eyes of those whom he loves but who do not love him. Go to the synagogue every day? But what does he have in common with all those respectable mumblers in bowler hats who fidget while they wait for the service to end, make sure they never neglect their business affairs and their outside interests, touch the brims of their hats when persons of influence pass by, and shed copious tears when, during the ceremony to mark his religious coming-of-age, they watch their boy reading the Prophets dressed like a proper little gentleman with a tiny bowler on his head. Trembling suddenly in the presence of the Almighty, he recites the eighteen blessings from the sabbath-day order of service.

  'We are in love with you, my heart and I,' he says smilingly to the mirror, and then crosses the room and inspects the lock. Yes, locked. For added safety he pushes home the bolt, then checks that it is secure by turning the knob and trying to open the door. The door holds firm. Good, safe and sound. 'It's just the two of us now,' he says, and he gets into the disgustingly warm bed and smiles to ward off interruptions, though he has the sign hanging outside his door to protect him. He pulls the covers up to his chin, waggles his bare feet to feel how soft the sheets are, and gives another smile. Beds are not anti-Semitic.

  He switches on his bedside lamp, picks up Le Temps, which is a window on the life from which he is excluded, and carefully avoids the society page and the diary of diplomatic receptions. But on every page his eye is drawn to ministers, generals, ambassadors. There are far too many ambassadors, there are ambassadors everywhere. Take a shot of veronal to blot out the crafty swine, canny hangers-on every man jack of them, former private secretaries who got where they are by licking the boots of gullible foreign ministers. He smiles, recalling that Naileater had said exactly the same thing about ambassadors he had encountered in the pages of newspapers. Anyway, thirty years from now the whole crawling clique will all be dead. Yes, but in the meantime they are happy, they busy themselves with their supremely unimportant affairs, bustling, dynamic, telephoning, giving orders, ensuring that things are done which are almost immediately undone, forgetting that they will die.

  He closes his eyes and tries to sleep. The telegram he'd sent yesterday must have set her mind at rest. Full of lies, saying his affairs are well on the way to being sorted out, that he'll be home soon. Leaning across to his bedside table, he opens the drawer again, takes out the packet with the sealing-wax on it, stares at it, and then puts it back. Not sleepy, the veronal hasn't worked. He gets up and inspects the room. Finger-marks on the wardrobe mirror. He rubs them with a handkerchief. Not very pretty, his unmade bed. Let's make it again properly, let's do it right, Jews together, with love. Pull the sheets smooth, and the blankets, tuck the ends in properly and straighten the counterpane, make it neat.

  Having remade his bed, he looks for guidance in the mirror over the wash-basin. Staring at his bearded face, he feels at a loss, so he smiles to encourage cheerful thoughts which refuse to come. He washes his hands with soap and water, taking his time, to make time pass, to hook into hope by performing a trivial, everyday ritual. Next, he splashes himself with amber-coloured eau-de-Cologne to recapture the will to live, to give himself new heart. Poor Deume. Serves me right, I'm suffering too. He takes a penknife and scrapes the hard skin on the soles of his feet, scrupulously scrapes, and enjoys seeing the white flecks fall and build into a small heap. A meagre diversion. Best go out, walk about the streets. Yes, let's dip a toe into the social water. He sniggers; that way there are two of him.

  Dressed now, he goes and says goodbye to himself in the mirror. The beard is appalling, makes him look like a convict. Can't be bothered to shave. They can hardly arrest him for having a beard. Anyway, the suit is Savile Row, which makes up for the beard. He opens the door and then shuts it hurriedly. What will the valet and the chambermaid think when they see that the bed has been made? Mustn't put their backs up. He hastily unmakes the bed, opens the door a few inches, and peers out. Nobody about in the corridor. He steps out and sets off, holding a handkerchief to his mouth as though he has toothache, his hat pulled well down to hide those awful, lustrous, betraying eyes. Ring for the lift? No, they stare at you more in lifts, because they are bored, on the lookout for anything to help pass the time. Fewer risks on the stairs. He runs down them, his unambiguous nose concealed by the handkerchief. He accelerates through the lobby with his eyes on the ground to avoid the danger of bumping into acquaintances from the old days.

  In the Rue Marbeuf, spotting an inscription chalked on a wall, he walks past it, looking the other way. Best not to know. But, irresistibly drawn, he stops, turns and looks. Such large numbers of citizens in these love-thy-neighbour cities who wished death to the Jews. Perhaps whoever is asking for him to be put to death is a nice lad, a good son who buys flowers for his old mother. To avoid seeing any more walls, he walks into a brasserie. Hoping to catch snippets of conversation, he sits near a pleasant-looking old couple and orders a double whisky. Yes, look cheerful. He picks up the copy of L'Illustration lying on his table, opens it, and gives a start. No, they didn't say 'Jew', they said 'June'. The nice old man whispers something in the ear of his wife, who reacts with the unconcern which indicates that something is afoot and peers all round the room before letting her eyes settle on the well-dressed man with the beard. She looks at her husband and gives him a wink of complicity, a knowing, hungry, colluding, foxy wink which sparkles wit
h malice and cunning. 'Yes, of course,' she says, displaying two rows of crenellated teeth covered with green moss. He has been spotted. He gets up, leaves money on the table, and throws himself out, forgetting his whisky.

  Through the streets he goes, those rivers which irrigate the parched lives of the lonely, and as he goes he nibbles roasted peanuts bought from one of his own kind, an elderly Jew from Salonika with white, wavy hair and eyes as tender as any odalisque's, on he wanders, pausing from time to time outside the windows of dress shops, dipping into the bag of peanuts, dropping brown bits all over the ' lapels of his jacket, staring at the prettily painted wax dummies, so elegant, so obviously glad to be alive, so unremittingly delighted with life, then moving on, muttering under his breath, sometimes smiling to himself, going into shops and emerging with objects which will keep him company in his room, acquaintances to look at, to love.

  In a toyshop, he buys a little articulated skier and a set of brightly coloured cornelian marbles. His eye is drawn by a false nose made out of cardboard. He buys that too, telling the assistant that his little boy will love it. Once outside, he takes the skier out of his paper bag, holds him by the arm, and swings him round and round. We're strolling along together. A bookshop. He stops, goes in, and buys a copy of The Case of the Painted Parrot, a detective novel spawned by the small brain of a large and elderly Englishwoman. A florist's. He stops, goes in, and orders three dozen roses to be delivered to the George V but dares not give his name. Room three-three-oh. Urgent. They're for a friend. 'I love you, you know,' he mutters reaching the street once more. Overall, he'd been treated quite decently by the florist. He claps his hands once. 'Come on, let's have some fun,' he murmurs.

  All alone in the big city, he walks on, dragging his heart, dragging himself down the long streets, and watches as two army officers pass gaily by, talking in loud voices, for they have an absolute right to talk in loud voices. To comfort himself, for the companionship of it, he buys a bar of milk chocolate. When the chocolate is all gone, he moves on again, alone once more. Dull-eyed and slack-mouthed, he stumbles on, feet uncertain, humming a happy tune in a low but expressive voice, to fill the emptiness. He takes The Case of the Painted Parrot out of his pocket and reads as he walks, so that there is no need to think.

  A crowd outside a church. He stops, puts his book under his arm, and watches. There is a red carpet on the steps. Self-important assistants are arranging the display of potted plants. Now the fat church verger appears with his wand. A notable marriage is about to be celebrated. Large limousines. A lady in sky blue holds out her hand to a general in white gloves. Humiliated, he flees, humming an exorcising song, swinging his little skier.

  He gives a start when he spots a policeman away to his left who is keeping pace with him. He whistles out of tune to demonstrate that he has nothing on his conscience, puts on a nonchalant little smile, he's not worried, the picture of innocence. I hate your guts, he tells him to himself. Go up to him straightforwardly and ask the way to the Madeleine to allay his suspicions? No, the best policy is to have nothing at all to do with the police. Quickening his step, he crosses from one pavement to the other. 'Foxed you,' he murmurs and walks on, clearing his throat at regular intervals, a man alone beating time to his thoughts with glottal clearings of his throat.

  A photographer's shop window. He stops to look at the faces caught in a state of grace, free of the meanness of daily life. When people pose for a photograph, they smile, they are kindly disposed, their soul is garbed in its finest raiment. They are a pleasure to look at, they are seen at their best. A pleasure to behold, that workman there in his new suit, standing beside a table holding a book, with one leg hooked round the other and one foot arched. That's enough of that. He crosses the road, drawn to trees. He sits on a bench. All these people who pass by are going about occasions which though lawful are utterly pointless, such as going to the barber's or paying visits to electricity or gas showrooms. But if he were to ask them to save him, for instance by signing a petition, no chance. Chat to a barber? Yes. Spend hours looking at vacuum cleaners? You bet. But lift a finger to save a man's life? No. And all these women walking along, prettily mincing, heels tapping as they go, serenely believing that they will live for ever.

  A little old man has just sat down on the bench and says: 'Morning.' You say 'Morning' because you don't know who I am. 'Nice day today,' the old man says, but the rain last week played the devil with his rheumatics. At his age, what with his rheumatics and his stomach that's playing up, he's not fit for doing skilled work any more. Just raising his arm makes him dizzy, but you got to when you're a decorator, not up to doing ceilings any more, the minute he gets anywhere near a ladder, that's it, he goes all giddy, everything goes round and round, so now all he does is a bit of odd-jobbing. 'And what line are you in, then?' he says. 'I'm a violinist,' says Solal. 'Ah, it's a gift is fiddling, you either got it or you haven't.' The conversation continues, takes a friendly turn. Oh yes, from now on all his friendships will be temporary. A quarter of an hour with a stranger and that's it. Can't be helped, grateful for whatever crumbs come his way, listen to what the old fool is saying. For more than a year she has been the only person he has talked to. 'Now your average Frenchman is a individdlest,' the old man says. And that too is friendship: the old man lays a table for him spread with the finest contents of his little brain, a posh word which he's read somewhere or heard a mate of his say. He puts it on display, rolls it round his tongue. It feels good when you can use words above your station. 'Myself, I reckon the Jews are to blame,' he ends. It was bound to come, of course. Oh poor innocent! Like a pickpocket in reverse, he quietly slips a banknote into the pocket of the jacket of the old man who is unsuspectingly cataloguing the crimes of the Jews. He stands up, shakes his roughened hand, smiles into his blue eyes, and moves on. There is a philosopher, Sartre, who has written that man is absolutely free and personally responsible for his moral actions. It is a middle-class idea, the idea of someone who has led a sheltered life, who has never had to stand on his own two feet.

  Streets and yet more streets. Suddenly, two crashed cars, a policeman writing an accident report, onlookers arguing about the incident. He listens, joins in, ashamed for falling so low, but it's a good feeling. A group is anonymous, it's not like a someone you sense is hostile, a person who makes your blood run cold. Besides, it puts you in touch with the collective. You are part of it, you belong, you can say your piece, you can agree about the cause of the accident, you can smile at the others, you are all equal, you rub shoulders, you can criticize the driver who is to blame, you love each other.

  The group has broken up. Goodbye love. He resumes his walking and crosses a square. A toddler staggering like a drunken man. A toddler is delightful, for a toddler is not dangerous, a toddler does not judge Jews. He feels like kissing him. No, his hair is too fair. Twenty years from now and he'll be a raging anti-Semite. He leaves the square. A regiment of soldiers. Must be the Foreign Legion, since they have white markings on their caps. Now legionnaires are happy men. Obeying orders, giving orders, never alone. He suddenly realizes that he is marching along with them, has fallen in with their despicable military step which brings disgrace on the whole human race, is keeping time to the band just yards from a gallows-faced lieutenant with long sideboards. What if he enlisted? He wouldn't be asked to show his papers, he could give a false name. How about Jacques Christian'?

  The church he passed a while back. The red carpet's gone. Tonight there'll be one virgin less. Pity. There aren't that many around. The church bells ring out, but not for him. They are summoning the fortunate, those whose cup of communion runneth over, calling them to their delectable duty, bidding them come warm themselves, inviting them to be together, to come in out of the cold, to mingle like the sounds of the tolling bells, sounds that tell of gladness and community, sounds that merge and blend in joy. Should he convert? He could never convert from conviction, but he might if it meant he would be one of them, if it meant being accepted
. His intelligence and drive would make him be more Catholic than they, though he would not believe in their dogma. But he would exemplify and magnify their dogma once he'd taken holy orders and become a famed preacher of the Word, widely respected and loved by all. What acquaintances would he not have then, what friendships! Yes, loved by all, that was the thing. Another policeman watches him with the fixed, inane, dumbly insolent look usually seen on the faces of cows. He crosses the road to the pavement opposite.

  Streets and yet more streets. On he goes with hunger in his heart and mistrust in his eye, on and on, a Jew humming a sad song, humming out of key, rolling his eyes like a lunatic to make the time pass, dipping into another bag of oily, roasted, companionable peanuts, wandering into an amusement arcade to watch the balls crashing around the electric pin-tables, but most often muttering to himself and swinging his arms in time to his thoughts. At Easter, go to Rome and join the crowd cheering the Pope. No one will know what he is, he'll be able to shout 'Long live the Pope!' with the rest of them. He'd heard the 'Song of the Volga Boatmen' on the wireless the other day. Oh for a land where men would welcome him with open arms and kiss him on the lips! Stir yourself, speak, walk, don't stop, say something, anything. A writer's eccentricities fuel his writing. If an author has a neurotic obsession with trifles which leads him to attach vast importance to such small matters as, say, the knotting of his tie, it is this self-same absurd attention to minutiae which gives his work its particular charm, its ripeness, its wealth of detail. He is afraid to attract attention. He keeps his eyes down, believing that by doing so he will be invisible. A born suspect. Will they turn him into an anti-Semite? Is he one already? Is his pride merely a cover for shame and loathing? Is he proud because there is nothing else he can be? Come on, speak, say something, so that he shall not know his fate, say something quickly, oh why don't the words come? How serious Ariane looks when she is being praised for her beauty, she takes it all in and sighs happily and puts on her good-little-girl face. Darling girl, so faithful, so gullible, and destined to be deceived. She would have been better off with the lord who climbed mountains, an oaf with Character. Poor kid. She has no luck.