Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

'Never!' she exclaimed.

  Teeth on edge, he bit his lip to divert his anger. As if all this wasn't enough, she was allowing herself the luxury of virtuous indignation! She wasn't going to get away with any of this.

  'When was the last time you saw him?'

  She did not speak but took his hand in hers. Her noble silence filled him with fury. But patience. First the facts.

  'I wasn't to know,' she said, looking away.

  'The day we met at the Ritz?' he asked gently.

  'Yes,' she breathed, and she gripped his hand tightly.

  'What time that day?'

  'Is it really all right for me to talk?'

  'Of course, my love.'

  She looked at him, gave him a faint, grateful smile, and kissed his hand.

  'Just before I left Cologny. I rang him just to say hello, to tell him I had to go to the Ritz to be with my husband. He wanted me to come, begged me to go round and see him, just for a moment.'

  'And you went?'

  'Yes.'

  'And what happened?'

  She did not answer and looked away. He pushed her out of bed and she fell on the floor, where she remained in an absurd sitting position, the skirt of her dressing-gown gaping and exposing her half-opened thighs. Her sex revolted him: it had been used, others had been there.

  Without getting up, she straightened her dressing-gown, and he bunched his fists and closed his eyes. Embarrassed! She dared to be embarrassed! So by the time they'd met that night at the Ritz she had already been to bed with this other man, and three hours later she'd had the effrontery to kiss his hand, the hand of a stranger, for a perfect stranger is what he had been then, and her lips still wet with the other man's kisses! Slept with him, she had slept with him, and three or four hours later, when they had gone back to her house, in the little sitting-room, she'd sat down all maidenly modesty at the piano and played him a chorale, the music of purity, and only four hours earlier she who now tinkled Bach's keys had been on her back with her legs open! 'Leave me, leave me to think about what's happening to me,' she had said, the easy virgin had had the nerve to say, that night as they separated, and had accompanied the words with an expression of noble fervour. A virgin sacred and untouchable who had been touching God knew what just five hours before! Oh, how modestly she wrapped herself in her dressing-gown!

  'Open it up!'

  'I won't!'

  'Open it! Just like you did for him!'

  'No!' she said, and she looked at him stupidly, slack-jawed.

  She stood up and fastened the belt of her dressing-gown. He gave a bitter laugh. The lady covered her nakedness for him alone! Only he was not entitled to see her in the flesh! Leaping out of bed, he grabbed her flimsy wrap and yanked till it ripped from top to bottom. He tore away the flapping remnants and saw her beat a buttock-bobbing, humiliated retreat. He followed her-into her room at once and was filled with pity for her distress as she clumsily donned another dressing-gown, a creature of weakness, a victim fingered by fate. That was all very well, but the other man had seen her delectable rump too, the same rump, she hadn't been fitted with a new one in the meantime. 'Always,' she had whispered to him in the Ritz as they danced. And only three hours before she'd been all welcoming thighs and beckoning smiles!

  'Had you just slept with him the night we met at the Ritz?'

  'No.'

  'But you were his mistress?'

  She shook her head stubbornly, mulishly, and opened her eyes wide. Losing control had been a mistake, he shouldn't have kicked her out of bed. She was scared now, and wouldn't admit anything else.

  'Tell me you were his mistress.'

  'I wasn't his mistress.'

  Like an animal playing dead. It hurt him to see her so abject. But there had been kissing at the very least, just three hours before! Just three hours before the most beautiful moment in the whole of their life together!

  'So you weren't his mistress?'

  'No.'

  'In that case, why did you say you had something serious to tell me?'

  'Because it's serious that there's been something in my life.'

  Something? He pictured a colossal phallus, and recoiled from the bestial spectacle. And here she was, at this moment, so pure of face, so demure, so poised! It was horrible!

  'Go on. Explain what you mean.'

  'There's nothing to explain. We were just friends, maybe a bit too close, but that's all.'

  'You said: "Can I tell you everything?" And would this everything be just that you were very close friends?'

  'Yes.'

  'You went to bed with him!'

  'No! As God is my witness!'

  Her solemn fervour made him feel sick to his stomach. Why did women attach such enormous importance to carnimality! And why drag God into the chafings of the flesh! Why set their itches and urges before the Almighty!

  'Did he ever come to your husband's house?'

  'Sometimes. Not often.'

  He shuddered. Oh the slut! She'd had the nerve to show her lover off to her husband! Whereas with him, that first evening, it had been all Bach, raptures over a nightingale, solemn words, and the awkward rumblings of the beginner as their lips first met, and on the evenings that followed there had been all sorts of oh-so-sublime posturing when he arrived and a great deal of kneeling. And this same woman had coolly introduced her lover to the husband she was deceiving! That was probably what was meant by the Mystery of Woman.

  'Did you go to his place? (She looked up at him and coughed. Giving herself time to think, he mused.) Did you go to his place?'

  'In the beginning, yes. Later on I wouldn't. We used to meet in town, in cafes.'

  He whirled his beads. Oh how much more mouth-watering those secret rendezvous must have been than a long dull day at Belle de Mai! Oh the trouble she must have taken getting ready to meet her man! Oh the way she'd walked into the cafe and, seeing him from a distance, had smiled!

  'Why did you stop wanting to go to his place?'

  'Because the third time I went he got a bit too ... attentive.'

  Attentive! He was lost in admiration. She certainly had a way with words, genteel words, words which papered over the cracks. Attentive was innocent, it suggested minuets and admirers and gentlemanly courtships and Mozart. She never forgot her manners, not even with sex. And, besides, it was a way of ennobling the other man's lust, it was part of the revolting way women had of tolerating male lechery.

  'You said you thought you loved him, yet you stopped wanting to go calling? (She looked at him and then at the floor. Had she really said that she thought she loved him?) Come on now, surely you realize how implausible that sounds.'

  After a silence she looked up again.

  'I was scared to tell the truth because you'd have assumed I was his mistress. Yes, I used to go to see him. But I wasn't his mistress.'

  'We'll come back to that. Who exactly was this self-restraining but attentive friend?'

  'Oh God, what's the point?'

  'Tell me his name! I want his name and I want it now!'

  His heart raced as he waited for the enemy to make his entrance. Afraid to see him. Had to know.

  'Dietsch.'

  'Nationality?'

  'German.'

  'Just my luck. Christian name?'

  'Serge.'

  'Why "Serge"? Serge isn't a German name.'

  'His mother was Russian.'

  'I see you have it all at the tips of your fingers. What does he do?'

  'He conducts orchestras. He's the maestro.'

  'You mean he's a maestro.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'Ah, very quick to defend him aren't we?'

  'I've absolutely no idea of what you are implying.'

  'Why so hoity-toity with me?'

  'Sorry, but I really don't know.'

  'That's better. I don't suppose you were hoity-toity with Dietsch. Well, darling, I'll explain. In your book he's the maestro. In mine, though I do not know Urge, sorry Serge, he is merely a
maestro, a conductor. Compare Einstein the physicist! Freud the psychoanalyst!'

  Nostrils flaring and wearing an expression of glee on his face, he strode round the room, the ends of his dressing-gown flapping in his slipstream. Suddenly he stopped, turned, and lit a cigarette.

  'Poor kid, you're so clumsy,' he began, to soften her up.

  'Clumsy in what way?'

  'Like that for example: asking in what way you've been clumsy. It proves you know you're on shaky ground. Anyway, though you weren't aware you were doing it, you've told me on seven separate occasions that you were his mistress.'

  'I haven't said I was his mistress.'

  'That makes eight! If you really weren't his mistress, then instead of saying that you never said you were his mistress you'd have made do with saying that you weren't his mistress. (He clapped his hands.) Gotcha!'

  'No, no! I swear it's not true! We were just good friends!'

  'You've admitted it eight times,' he smiled, and he twirled his cigarette between his fingers. 'The first time was when you came to my room, so noble and contrite, and you mentioned a secret you couldn't keep to yourself any more. Tell me, what's so terrible about being just good friends? Second admission: when I asked you if you'd been to bed with him that evening just before we met at the Ritz, you said "No". What did that "No" mean? It meant that you'd slept with him lots of times before! Otherwise your reaction would have been not to answer "No" but to say "I've never ever slept with him"! I'll put the rest of your admissions in cold storage, though they're there if you want them. Ergo you were his mistress. Actually I'm fully aware that you intended to admit it at the start. But I made the mistake of kicking you out of bed. But, come to think of it, why did you want to tell me about this man?'

  'So I wouldn't have anything to hide from you.'

  He felt a surge of pity. Poor girl, she genuinely believed that was the real reason. It was quite true: women were driven by their unconscious.

  'So this man kisses you forty times, this way, that way, all ways, and you let him, and there's a smile on your face. (He wanted her.) In the receiving and giving of kisses of every variety, even the category of what Michael calls the inside reverse double-columbine, you raise no objections and even say thank you for every columbine you get! But if he starts getting attentive, as you nobly put it, by which I mean he has a mind to proceed to the logical sequel to the forty kisses, you take umbrage, you come over all virtuous, you shy away from the sequel! Come now, Ariane, earn my good opinion! Tell me the truth! You were his mistress! You know it, and so do I!'

  He had spoken so quickly that she had not understood everything, a circumstance which convinced her that what he said must therefore be true. Besides, he had spoken with such certainty. And since it was patently obvious that he knew, she might as well make a clean breast of it.

  'Yes,' she breathed, head bowed.

  'Yes what?'

  'Yes to what you said.'

  'His mistress?'

  She nodded a yes. He closed his eyes as he registered the shock, and realized that it was only now that he believed it. A hairy man, a man with a tail, crouching over the woman he loved!

  'But only once,' she said.

  'We'll come back to that later. Did you?'

  'No,' she breathed.

  How quickly she caught on! Oh, so sly! So shameless! He put the question more clearly. She blushed, and he lost his temper. What right did she have to blush? Indefatigably he repeated his question, and on each occasion she said no. But when he put the question for the twentieth or thirtieth time, defeated and with tears brimming in her eyes she shouted 'Yes, yes!' 'But not much,' she added after a pause, and she burned with shame and felt foolish. Outside, an amorous tom-cat wooed his lady-love. 'That's enough, Dietsch!' shouted Solal. A she-cat responded in an assertive contralto. 'That's enough, Ariane!' shouted Solal. At this point she decided to cry properly, which she did without having to try very hard, for she had only to feel sorry for herself, which was something that came to her easily.

  'Why are you crying? We've been talking about a passing moment of happiness and that makes you cry?'

  'Yes.'

  'Why?'

  She blew her nose, her tears withered by the unsympathetic welcome they had been given. He observed that her nose was red and swollen. Oddly enough, he felt no resentment at this moment and stared at her puffy nose in a not unkindly way. He repeated his 'Why?' several times, without thinking, mechanically.

  'I don't know what you're saying. Why what?'

  'Why are you crying?'

  'Because I'm sorry.'

  'But why? You did what you did.'

  'It all seems so hateful now.'

  'But presumably you didn't hate it when you were biting his neck. Incidentally, did you bite his neck every day?'

  'What are you trying to say? I never bit his neck.'

  'Well, that's good to know. Thanks. I shall have to start asking you to bite my neck. At least that's something you won't have done with him. In any case, it's the only thing I'll ever ask you to do for me from now on. (She bit her lip to stifle a mirthless, nervous giggle.) How many times did you sleep with each other? I'll keep on asking until tomorrow if I have to.'

  'I gave myself to him just that one time.'

  'Gave myself! The words made him grip the glass he was holding so hard that it broke and blood flowed. She came closer and asked him to let her disinfect it for him.

  To hell with antiseptics! Why just the one time?'

  'I told him what we were doing was wrong.'

  He burst out laughing. Like a schoolmistress explaining to the little boy that what he'd done wasn't very nice and really quite naughty! Suddenly he felt inexpressibly happy. He put two cigarettes in his mouth, lit both, pulled on them hard and heartily, walked up and down, highly pleased with himself. Stopping in front of her, his two cigarettes held between his second and third fingers, he glared at her defiantly, elatedly. The light of battle lit his mouth.

  'So then and there, still moist and clammy, you told him.'

  'No, next day.'

  'You went back to see him, you were in love with him, you'd enjoyed it first time round, felt what you nobly call ecstasy, eggstatic eggstasy, and then you decided you'd had enough, right? But one time or a hundred times, it's all the same! Did you sleep with him a hundred times?'

  'No, I swear!'

  'Fifty?'

  'No.'

  'Nine hundred times?'

  'No.'

  'Fifteen?'

  'Good God, do you think I kept a tally?'

  Appalled, he sat down, wiped his forehead with his bleeding hand. She hadn't counted! That meant it must have happened lots of times! Fifteen times at least, it seemed: fifteen would be a minimum!

  'Go on.'

  'What do you want me to say?'

  'What I am waiting for you to say. Out with it!'

  'I never felt anything after that first time,' she said after a pause.

  Tainted, diminished, she looked away. Oh, he would stop loving her now. He stared at her with interest. Never felt anything! She certainly had a way with words!

  'Why?'

  'Why what?'

  'Why didn't you feel anything the other times? You felt something the first time.'

  'How should I know, for goodness' sake! I just didn't feel anything.'

  'So why did you go on with it?'

  'To avoid upsetting him. Oh leave me alone,' she groaned.

  He sensed that she was telling the truth and looked at her with curiosity. A completely different species. To avoid upsetting him! How polite could you get!

  'Why did he used to come to your house?'

  'That was just at the start.'

  'Wasn't it good enough for him where he lived? Why did he have to turn up on your husband's doorstep?'

  'Because I liked seeing him. Because my husband was boring.'

  She coughed liked a consumptive, louder and longer than was strictly necessary. He felt a stab of pain. Li
ked seeing another man! That was worse than going to bed with him. He pictured her sitting at her window, waiting for Dietsch to appear on the horizon!

  'And whenever your husband left the room you would kiss?'

  'No, never!' she exclaimed, and again he knew that she was telling the truth.

  'Why not?'

  'Because it wouldn't have been right,' she sobbed.

  He began spinning round and round like a dervish, arms outstretched, forehead streaked with blood. Her reply took his breath away. He stopped whirling, faced the wall, beat his head against it, beat his cut hand against it and began counting silently. He stopped when there were six bloody hand-prints on the wall. Poor darling, what you must be going through, she thought. Oh, if only he would at least let her see to his hand. Was it badly cut? And his forehead, it was all covered in blood. Her poor darling, and all on account of Dietsch. He turned, looked at her disconsolately, seeing another man's woman. Then he went away.

  CHAPTER 98

  He poured eau-de-Cologne over his cut hand, decided that as gashed hands went he'd made a pretty good job of things, then felt bored. Surely she wasn't not going to come, was she, and leave him all by himself? For something to do, he thought about dying, imagined himself lying in his coffin with all the grisly details, then he inflicted assorted poses on the furry teddy-bear, turning him into a lover declaring his passion and then into a dictator haranguing a crowd. He was making him play football with a jade marble when he heard two knocks. He turned and saw that a sheet of paper had been slipped under the door. He picked it up.

  'All the people I knew had dropped me. The only person I was really close to, my uncle, was in Africa. I was so isolated, my life was empty. I only went to bed with you know who so, that I could have him as a friend, so I wouldn't feel all alone. I never loved him. He was my refuge from the poor devil I married. The moment you appeared on the scene and wanted me, he simply ceased to exist. Don't laugh if I say that I came to you virgin in mind and body. You mustn't laugh because it's true. Oh yes, virgin in body too, because I never knew what physical joy was until I met you. Don't leave me. If you're tired of me there's only one thing left for me to do. I'm so unhappy. Please let me come in.'

  Behind the door he heard muffled sobs. He put on a pair of white gloves, gashed hand first, and got into a fresh dressing-gown, a black one, to contrast with the gloves. After a look at himself in the mirror, he opened the door. She was sitting on the floor, hair in a tangle, with her head against the jamb and a little handkerchief in one hand. He took her by both arms and helped her to her feet. She was shivering, so he opened his wardrobe, took out one of his coats, and put it over her. Standing there lost in a man's overcoat which was far too big and long and left only her ankles showing, she seemed very small, like a little girl. She kept her hands hidden in the sleeves, her teeth chattered and she looked waifish, swamped by his enormous coat.