Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  *

  Quick, more words, anything, paper over the misery with words. Each day when he was Under-Clown-General he would go among ersatz versions of his fellow men and find a kind of brotherhood, for though they did stupid things at least they did them together, and the brotherliness was wholesome. Quick, more words: if you stop talking the misery breaks through. He can't make out the change he is given, can't work out if it is right. He pretends to check so that the shopkeeper is not surprised. When that girl assistant in the grocer's realized she'd given him too much change, she smiled nicely just to say she didn't hold him to blame for the close shave she'd had. And the look that man had given him the other day when he'd said he'd forgotten his wallet, such a suspicious look, the look an honest man gives when confronted by a shady customer. Be an officer, but just a lieutenant. Obey, give orders, belong, know your place, have uncomplicated dealings with other people. Or else live alone with a kitten, which will have no idea that he is a pariah and will be happy to be with him and won't be troubled by a discontented, censorious, adulterous unconscious. Keep her in his room in the George V and kiss her fondly all the time and say: 'Pretty pussy, we're happy together you and I, you don't need anyone but me.' The sealed packet. All the care she'd taken to work out her plan. The large envelope which he'd received poste restante containing the sealed packet and her little note. He knows the little note by heart. He's going to recite it. 'Darling, In the enclosed packet sealed with sealing-wax are photographs of me. I took them all by myself: they're time exposures. I warn you now. They're a weeny bit risque. If you don't care for the idea, please, please tear them up without looking at them. If you do look at them and you like them, wire and tell me. Naturally I developed and printed them myself. Don't open the sealed packet until you are all by yourself, and then only if you really want to.' Crossing the street will bring him luck. Cross now. No, green light, have to wait. If it turns red before you get to seven it'll be a sign that everything will turn out right. Six. Red light. He shrugs his shoulders and crosses. A group of building workers sitting with their backs to the wall eating their snap. Chatting together as they chew their sausage. An act of communion, a ritual to warm the heart.

  Streets and yet more streets. Wake up, more words, words to fill the vacuum. Despair is waiting in the wings to pounce at the first drop of silence. How about going to see a doctor? He'll have to sit in the waiting-room under the fierce eye of some wounded tigress, but then he'll have a friend for a quarter of an hour, a brother who will take an interest in him and lay a perfumed head on his bare chest for twenty or maybe a hundred francs. A hundred francs isn't a lot for a quarter of an hour's kindness. No, the doc will tell him to strip so that he can examine him and he'll see, he'll notice. Doctors are all anti-Semites. Like lawyers. Maybe he is too. Yes, when he gets back to the hotel, tear them up without looking at them. Or maybe go to a barber who will look after him, shave him, talk to him, love him. Barbers are less anti-Semitic than people in the liberal professions, except if your hair crinkles too much. The newspaper report about the body of the child found in Fontainebleau forest. They'll make out it was a ritual murder, and he has no alibi. The good-looking newspaper-boy on the boulevard the other day had yelled: 'Read all abaht it! Get your Antijuif 'ere!' And lots of people had bought L'Antijuif. He had too, couldn't resist it. He read it as he walked along, bumping into passers-by while looking at a cartoon showing a pot-bellied banker with a top-hat and a large nose. Heal thyself, stop thinking about their hate all the time. Ask someone the way to the Place de la Concorde, to get back into the way of having normal relations with others, to get into the habit, to get over it. Perhaps the man he asks will answer him civilly. Or should he ask him for a light? The man smiles benevolently while another man uses his flame to light a cigarette.

  Streets and yet more streets. In his mouth is the cheap, unclean fetor, the depressing, cloying after-taste of peanuts. On he goes, with shoulders hunched and eyes like two narrow slits. Another square. A dog sniffing round the base of a tree for a smell which will catch his fancy.'O happy dog! Quickly now, have some thoughts, any thoughts. How can you believe what they say if you only see things from the outside? 'God, it's a joke,' he mutters and looks round to see if anyone is listening. In reality the fear of dying has given them mental dyspepsia and they wallow in the diarrhoea it produces. 'Their patriotism, what a joke,' he mutters, and looks round to see if anyone is listening. To die defending your hot-water bottle is the best, the most enviable of fates. The way they pause for One Minute's Silence (just the one) to honour their dead and then go off to lunch. The cleric on the wireless who spoke of grief, a decidedly cold fish who said mere words, paused to clear his throat, and talked of grief in a comfortable voice. The other day he'd felt so alone there in the street, was swamped by such pain that before he could go back to his hotel he had needed to be stayed by chocolate cakes, which he bought in cakeshops along his way. Only those fortunate enough to have a regular place in society hanker after solitude, and they do so with such stupid smugness. Last Sunday morning the bells of the nearby church had rung out, and he had heard them ring even though he had put his head under the pillow so that he would not hear their summons, their tolling happiness.

  A bistro. At the next table, a couple of workmen. 'Nah, the pictures ain't my line at all, what I go for is anythin' that's ejucational, the sights, museums, Napoleon's tomb and that. I go to see Napoleon's tomb at least once a year, on me tod, jes' to remind meself what it's all abaht, sometimes I go more often, to show a pal around and explain it to 'im. Yus, mate, these two 'ands you see 'ere 'ave 'eld the Emprer's 'at and I tell you it gives you a shivery feelin'. I touched 'is weskit an' all, the bloke on the door said I could on account of us 'aving 'ad a bit of a chin-wag, but the Emprer's sword I din't touch, couldn't bring meself to, out of regard. Been round the Pantheon too, very interestin', all them great men they buried there in the nation's 'onner. But gettin' back to Napoleon, 'e said I wants to be laid to rest on the banks of the Seine, near to the people of France wot I always loved. Now that, mate, brings a lump to your froat. A real man, 'e was. When I was a kid I took a proper shine to 'im, you'd never believe. And 'is son, L'Aiglon, likewise. Now, no officers ever got anywhere near that one, otherwise 'e'd 'ave been put on the throne, but 'e'd never 'ave been 'alf the man 'is father was, oh no, they broke the mould when 'e died, 'eroes like the father is one-offs! To start with, 'e was king of Rome but 'is grandfather saw to it 'e was booted out on account of the way 'e 'ated 'is father, an' after that 'e was jes' Duke of Raikstag.' 'I bet Napoleon 'ad the pick of all the girls 'e fancied?' asked the other man. 'Too right 'e did. If 'e 'ad an eye to one, 'e jes' gave the order and it was leg-over time at midnight.' 'Strikes me Napoleon was a sort of 'Itler in a way.' 'Don't be darft! Napoleon was Master of the World! No two ways abaht it! Nowadays, your modern generals 'ave 'ad all the trainin' an' that, of course, but what I say is that with your modern weapons they got it a lot easier, while Napoleon done it all with cold steel!' 'Napoleon was famous in 'is day, I ain't sayin' 'e wasn't, but 'e 'ad a lot on 'is conscience, such as three million pushin' up the daisies,' the other man said. 'Napoleon's Napoleon, say what you like! Listen, mate, if 'e 'adn't run up agin' that Wellington! An' stabbed in the back by that Grouchy an' all! What you gotter remember is that 'e was a soddin' genius! And don't you go forgettin' that Napoleon allus put 'is country first, all 'e done 'e done it for France, so other nations would look up to us, take all them battles 'e won! Besides which 'e done a lot of good, it's a fact. If 'e'd done bad things, 'e wouldn't 'ave been loved. All 'is grenadiers blubbed like kids when 'e told 'em goodbye at Fontainebleau and kissed the flag of France and 'eld it fast against 'is 'eart. 'E was speshul, take it from me!' 'I'm not sayin' any different, but you gotter remember that in them days France 'ad more people than anybody else!' 'Don't be darft! Napoleon will allus be Napoleon!' 'Very true, but all the same 'e done for a good few!' 'Listen, mate, that don't count compared with your 'Itler, now there
's one who'll do for quite a few more before 'e's finished, see if 'e don't, because you can take it from me that we're 'eaded for war on account of the Jews! They're the ones who want it! Not 'im!' 'Now that's a fact, but it's us who'll be done in and all on account of them buggers!' 'Bloody Yids, we oughter kick 'em all out, that's what,' calls the lady at the till. He obeys, pays, and leaves.

  'Death to the Jews,' clamour the walls. 'Life to Christians,' he replies. Oh yes, he wants nothing better than to love them. But couldn't they make a start, to give him some encouragement? From time to time he glances up uncertainly at the walls, and when he spots the slogan he stares at the ground. 'Death to the Jews.' The same words everywhere, in all countries. Is he really that repulsive? Maybe he is, for they're always saying so. 'If that's what you think, come on, do it, finish me off,' he murmurs. A handbill stuck on a down-pipe. Better not read it. To avoid the temptation, he crosses the street to the other side. But in a while he crosses again, to check. Yes, there it is again, though this time it's just 'Down with the Jews', which is better. It's progress.

  On he goes, dipping into his bag of peanuts — peanuts are friends with Jews — and suddenly pulls up short. Another 'Death to the Jews', another swastika. He is afraid of the vicious words and the vicious symbol and yet he goes seeking them out, tracking them down, waiting for them to appear, he is the slogan-hunter and he wallows in the idea, but his eyes hurt. What do the people who scrawl these words have for hearts? Do they not have mothers? Have they never known kindness? Are they unaware that when Jews read the words they look at the ground or, if they are with a friend who is a Christian or a wife who is a Christian, simply pretend they haven't noticed them? Are they unaware of how much pain they cause, of how cruel they are? No, they are not aware of any such thing. Little boys who pull the wings off flies are not aware of it either. He stares at the four words, goes up close, and rubs out one letter with his finger. It's better in the singular. 'Death to the Jew' it reads now. The nose on that banker in L'Antijuif. He touches his own nose. If every day was carnival time he could hide it. Easy.

  Standing motionless with his back to the wall, he moves his lips. 'Christians, I thirst for your love. Christians, let me love you. Christians, fellow creatures doomed to die, companions on this earth, children of Christ whose blood I share, let us love one another,' he murmurs, and he stares at those who pass by and love him not, and furtively he holds out a begging hand, and knows that he is acting foolishly, that nothing will do any good. He begins walking once more, buys a newspaper to read, to read so as not to think. Head down, he reads, cannons into other people, and nearly gets himself run over. Rue Caumartin. The walls which are his enemies shout out at him, follow him wherever he goes. Boulevard de la Madeleine. Should he duck down into the Metro and hide? Stand against a wall in the passages of the Metro, empty his mind under the ground, declare that he is flotsam, a man without responsibility, a man without hope. No, the Metro is worse. Louder than the walls above the ground, the walls of the Metro call for blood. His blood.

  The Place de la Madeleine. A cakeshop. He goes in, buys six chocolate truffles, leaves, continues on his way, swinging the box containing the truffles while his shoes glide majestically over the paving-stones. Six truffles, gentlemen, there'll be a crowd. Six friendly little Christians in the ghetto, in a sense they're already there waiting for him. That's it, go back to the hotel, get into bed, get into bed with himself, with his good friend Solal, and while away the time reading anti-Semitic obscenities and scoffing truffles. Oh yes, back in the ghetto is a whole suitcaseful of anti-Semitic obscenities, and suddenly in the night he gets out of bed, feverishly opens the case, and begins reading their obscenities standing up, avidly, continues through the night, goes on reading their obscenities, each one read with interest, a dead man's interest. No, men are not kind. But soon, in his room, such a lovely room to be in when the door is locked behind him, he won't read their obscenities, he'll read a detective novel instead. A detective novel is an agreeable thing: it gives an entirely false picture of life which isn't a reminder of the world outside, and besides some people are unhappy in detective novels, which is a comfort, it means you don't feel so alone. Hello, he doesn't seem to have that book by the old Englishwoman. Must have left it somewhere. The Case of the Painted Parrot. Stupid old hag.

  On the Quai Malaquais. The quayside booksellers. That's it, that's the solution! Shut himself up in a hotel room and read novels, only go out to buy more, dabble in the stock market now and then, and read, spend his whole life reading and waiting for death. Yes, but what about her, all alone at Agay? Must make up mind tonight, without fail. Meanwhile, buy this volume of Saint-Simon's Memoirs. No, since alone in a world swarming with enemies, steal it. There's no reason why he should obey the laws of a world which wants him dead. Death to the Jews? Fine. In that case he'll steal. There are no rules in war. He picks up the book, peruses it idly, calmly puts it under his arm, and then walks off, sleek of foot, swinging his box of chocolate truffles.

  In the Place Saint-Germain-des-Pres. By the church steps, the paperboy is selling his papers. 'Read all abaht it! Get your Antijuif 'ere! Latest edition!' Ah, another issue. No, don't buy it. Putting his handkerchief over his nose, he goes up to the paper-boy, asks for L'Antijuif, and pays. The paper-boy smiles. Should he remove his handkerchief, talk to him, make him see? Brother, don't you understand you put me on the rack? You are intelligent, you have a nice face, why can't we love one another. 'Read all abaht it! Get your Antijuif 'ere!' He flees, crosses the road, turns into a side-street and waves the hate-sheet. 'Read all abaht it! Get your Antijuif 'ere!' he shouts to the empty street. 'Death to the Jews!' he screams wildly. 'Death to me!' he shouts, his face bright with tears.

  A taxi. He hails it and jumps in. 'The George V,' he says. Pretend to be mad so they'll shut him away in an asylum? That way he could go on living, without belonging and without suffering because he did not belong. When the taxi stops outside the hotel, don't go straight in, hang about on the other side of the street and wait. When the time's right, go through the revolving doors and make a beeline across the lobby, pretending to be blowing your nose. In the lift, appear calm and read the menu. The menu is always displayed in the lift.

  Hat pulled down, handkerchief covering his nose, he bursts in, pushes the door shut, drops the book, and flops on to the bed. In his prone position, he whistles Schumann's Reverie off-key while with his finger he writes 'Death to the Jews' in the air, then he presses the same finger between one eyeball and its socket so that he sees double. It passes the time. But that's enough. He stands, looks around him, smiles to see his room looking so immaculate, with no slogans at all chalked anywhere on the walls. Suddenly elated, he crosses to the door in a series of absurd little standing jumps and double-locks it. Alone at last, really alone! He feels sorry for the poor old bookseller with the long beard that fluttered in the wind. Tomorrow he'll give him back his Saint-Simon, he'll give him dollars so that he doesn't have to work any more in the open air, in the cold. A thousand-dollar note. Several, if he doesn't look too amazed. Oh yes, speculator emeritus, adept at using his brains, buying when the market's down and selling when it's on the up. With the profits he's made over the last few months, he has over a hundred thousand dollars on him, a buckler athwart his chest, and so easy to carry should he ever be deported.

  He tries the lighter he's just bought. The little devil is in good shape, gives a very fine flame. Now for the little skier. He puts him on the pillow, which is perfect as a snowy slope, makes him perform slaloms and christianias, decides he's a sweetie, picks him up and gives him a kiss. 'We two get on just fine together,' he says. And now the suitcase. From the luggage cupboard he fetches the handsome case he'd bought the other day and inhales the luxurious smell of leather. Tomorrow, get some special cream to keep it supple. He frowns, for he has just noticed a stain on the carpet. He wets a face-towel, gets down on hands and knees, and rubs. Excellent. Stain gone. Oh yes, must look after your little ghetto.
You can't live if you don't love. No, don't open the packet. 'Everything will turn out fine, you'll see,' he says, and he gives a wry smile, for such is the motto of the desperate. What next? Jerusalem? Or the cellar of the Silbersteins and Rachel? Yes, but how can he leave her alone? He stares at himself in the shaving-mirror. An hairy man. Tonight, make a will in her favour. Yes, burn some of it, that'll teach them. From the inside pocket of his jacket he produces a thousand-dollar note, strikes a match, burns the note, then another, and another. It's no fun.

  Come on, break out the false nose! He takes it out of the bag, raises it to his lips and stands in front of the mirror to put it on, arranges the elastic and looks at himself admiringly. There! He is now complete and unabridged, for he is endowed with the majestic appendage signifying the will to survive, which grew to its present size because it was always used to sniff out enemies and detect traps. Carrying the suitcase, sign and symbol of the ancient wanderer, ennobled by the cardboard nose of royal authority which smells of glue and a cellar — O Silbersteins! O Rachel! — he shuffles, shoulders bent, God's crook-back, eyes watchful, feet dragging and case swinging, shuffles through the centuries and many lands, arguing immoderately, his hands waving and protean, his lips spreading in resigned, torpidly knowing smiles, on and on he goes, suddenly falling silent but thoughtful-eyed, suddenly the holiness of the Almighty proclaiming, suddenly his head and shoulders rocking, suddenly a keen glance sideways casting, frightened, frightening in his beauty, the chosen one. Yes! Standing there in his mirror is Israel entire.