by Albert Cohen
'Quite, dear, very good,' said Madame Deume, while Adrien, who had sat down again, champed at the bit, simply bursting to come out with his brilliant idea. 'Now why don't you go up to your room?'
'Had half an idea that these tips might come in handy. (He decided to take the bull by the horns.) Seeing as how sometimes you eat bwead between courses.'
'Don't worry, dearest,' answered Madame Deume with a kindly smile, 'I am perfectly capable of behaving one way at home and in quite another in company. My father, thank the Lord, was much given to receiving. (This she said with a sharp intake of breath and a salival gurgle of colossal refinement.) Go and try on your dinner-jacket so there won't be any last-minute panics, it will give you something to do. I had to let it out — my dear father wasn't anywhere near as stout as you are. (Defeated, the seal made a noiseless exit on his felt skates. She turned towards her darling Didi.) You see the sort of thing I've had to put up with all morning? And now, dear, what were you saying about having an idea?'
'Here's my idea,' he declared and, getting to his feet to show just how epoch-making it was, he stood four-square before her, hands on hips in the manner of the Italian dictator. 'Right then, here goes.
Champagne is good. Very good. But he'll be the one who's calling the tune. But there is one thing I can settle myself: caviare! (He felt admiring eyes upon him and, nostrils flaring, he stuck out his chin.) Caviare!' he exclaimed and his spectacles flashed lyrically. 'Caviare! It's the most absolutely toppingest thing you can serve, and the most expensive! (He declaimed:) Caviare will be on the menu at the dinner hosted this evening by Monsieur Adrien Deume, an A-grade member of section, to honour his chief, the Under-Secretary-General of the League of Nations!'
'But it's horribly dear!' she quailed, all womanly frailty before the man in her life.
'I don't care a fig! I'm quite set on being on friendly terms with the USG! Besides, it's a way of keeping up our position in society! So don't worry about it, it's money in the bank!'
'But we're starting with a bisque, it's all planned. That's fish too!'
'I don't give a damn! We'll cancel the bisque. Bisque is winkles' water compared with caviare! Nothing is smarter than caviare! Melba toast, butter, slice of lemon! And caviare, mountains of it! "Care for a little more caviare, Under-Secretary-General?" It's not every day you have the most important man after Sir John round for dinner!'
'But darling, there'll be the lobster therdimor to follow.'
'Thermidor,' he corrected her.
'But I thought
'Thermidor, from the Greek therme, heat, and doron, gift or present. You will be careful, Mumsy, won't you, not to say therdimor this evening in front of our guest?'
'But there'll be far too many fishy things coming one on top of the other.'
'Caviare is never out of place! No, I shall not be moved! I shan't budge an inch! Caviare, caviare and I say again caviare! I will not sacrifice caviare to mere lobster! The thing is, Mumsy, at a formal dinner you eat just a little bit of everything. A few spoonfuls of soup, a mouthful of lobster. Trust me! The caviare will go down a treat! If there's one person round here who knows about these things, it's me! Anyway, if he doesn't fancy lobster, well, he'll say he doesn't want any! And to show I understand, I'll slip in a little joke. "The fare's a touch too sea-faring, Under-Secretary-General?" I'll work on the phrasing. Caviare, caviare! And none of your pressed rubbish, not the black stuff, for God's sake! It's got to be fresh, the grey kind, straight out of Stalin's larder!'
He strode fiercely round the drawing-room, thumbs hooked into his waistcoat, for there dwelt in him a god: caviare.
'I think that's Dada calling me. Just a moment, dear, I'll be back in a jiffy.'
In the hallway, she looked up at her husband, who was leaning over the banister, and asked him, with lethal sweetness, what he wanted.
'Listen, poppet, I'm sowwy to intewwupt. It's all wight by me if you won't say what's on the menu, it'll be a nice surpwise for me tonight, but there is just one thing I'd be gwateful to know: is there soup to start?'
'No. Soup is not served at formal dinners. (She had picked up this dictum the previous evening during a conversation with Adrien, who had got it on a visit to the Kanakises.) Look, I've still got quite a few important things to discuss with Didi and I need peace and quiet, the strain is giving me a terrible headache. Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?'
'No, thank you,' answered Monsieur Deume sadly.
'In that case, go on back to your room and try to occupy yourself by doing something useful.'
Old Monsieur Deume slowly climbed the stairs and sought the solace of the lavatory on the first floor. Sitting aimlessly on the padded seat, he folded a sheet of toilet paper into narrow parallel creases then opened it into a Japanese fan which he waved in front of his face while he brooded over his humiliation. After a while, he shrugged his shoulders, stood up and, arm raised in the fascist salute, sallied forth.
'Come along, let's get a move on,' said Adrien. 'Sum the situation up for me so that I can go with an easy mind. Make it a Note for Guidance, as it were.'
'Well, the drawing-room and dining-room have had a good going-over, polished and buffed from top to bottom. Everything's been vacuumed, including the curtains. Ditto for the hallway, and anywhere else our guest is likely to go. Martha has washed all the crystal glasses and the dinner set with the gold motif, you know, the Leerberghe service, it belonged to your grandfather. The knives and forks have been polished, likewise all the silver. I've checked them. So, it's all been done except the table, which hasn't been laid, but the butler will see to that, they have their own way of doing things. I've locked the dining-room. Obviously I'll have to unlock it when the man comes, but I shall put it out of bounds to Dada so that he doesn't get up to anything and upset the applecart. When we're finished here, in the drawing-room, I'll lock this door too.'
'And the downstairs loo? What if he wants to wash his hands before we go in to dinner?'
'I thought of that, naturally. All spick and sparkling, hand-basin, taps, mirror, toilet, everything spotless. I checked and I've locked the door, which means that for our petits besoins we'll have to use the one upstairs and, if it's just for a quick hands and face, the sink in the kitchen or your bathroom.'
'Have the towels been changed in the loo?'
'Really, dear, how can you ask! I've put out the brand-new ones, never been used before, I've had the iron run over them to take out the creases, oh, and new soap too, English, bought specially, the same kind as they have at the van Offels'.'
'Listen, Mumsy, I've thought of something. Is it quite pukka to let him wash his hands in the downstairs loo? He might be shocked. Wouldn't it be better to get him to go up to my bathroom?'
'Didi! You can't be serious! Whatever would it look like if we made him go up two flights of stairs just so he could wash his hands? Listen, it's quite simple. I'll hang my pretty piece of paisley with the silver thread over the toilet seat, you know, the present dear Elise brought me to be made up into a bedjacket. It'll cover the toilet and will look ever so smart.'
'Right, fair enough, but one more thing. You won't forget to unlock the loo door in good time, will you? It would be simply awful if we had to fetch the key and open up while he stood there waiting!'
'I'll unlock it at quarter past seven. I've set the kitchen timer as a reminder. By then there won't be time for anything to go wrong, Dada will be where I can keep an eye on him.'
'And the butler? Is that all laid on?'
'Insofar as it is humanly possible to say, yes. I phoned the agency again this morning to drum it into their heads that the man must be here without fail at half past five so that he has time to familiarize himself with the house, see that the table is laid properly and the rest of it.'
'Is he a dependable sort?'
'Well, a servant is always a servant and no more, dear. But the agency is reliable, it was recommended to me by dear Madame Ventradour. To be on the safe side, I've told
Martha that she's not to let him out of her sight for an instant. Don't want anyone stealing the spoons.'
'And the caterer?'
'Bringing dinner at six. They said seven would be all right, but I said six so there'd be plenty of time to get back to them in case they're late. Their very best chef is bringing everything himself by van, and he'll stay on to keep an eye on the last-minute arrangements and ensure everything is properly reheated and see to the sauces. I'll phone them again at four to tell them six on the dot, not five past. I've written myself out a littel timetable, it's in my bedroom.'
'That all seems fine, I've got the picture now. But you won't mind if I make a suggestion? As well as setting the kitchen timer for quarter past seven, why not set another two, yours and mine? One for half past five and the other for six. Then if these two chaps aren't here on time we can phone up at once.'
'Very well, darling, that's a very good idea. O Lawks, that's him calling again!' ('Lawks': pious camouflage for 'Lord'.)
Going into the hall, they looked up. Monsieur Deume, trying to squeeze into his starched shirt, was whimpering in a voice which seemed to emerge from a deep dungeon: 'I cannot extwicate myself fwom this damned shirt. It's sticking to me all over!' After a series of dramatic swimming strokes, the little seal managed to poke his head out and, with a smile, said: 'Sowwy to intewwupt.' But only moments later, just as Adrien was opening the door on his way out, there came another cry for help: 'I can't do up my dwatted collar! I must have put on weight!'
'Didi, darling,' said Madame Deume, 'be an angel and give him a hand. It will be one thing less to worry about if he's ready in good time and there aren't any last-minute hitches.'
'All right, but I'll just toddle along first and see if Ariane's awake.'
'Keep smiling, Didi, don't weaken. And now I'm going for my nap, it's past my time, but I simply must, it's my duty, because today I shall need every ounce of strength I have if I'm to carry the heavy burden of responsibilities which I would have gladly shared with your darling wife. But there you are, one must be able to put oneself last and still go on loving others,' she concluded with a terrifyingly angelic smile.
With all the good grace he could muster, Monsieur Deume, in his tightly fitting dinner-jacket, stood perfectly still, doing what he could to be helpful to Adrien, who was trying to do up his detachable collar for him. But it wasn't easy. With his face turned heavenwards, the old gentleman muttered fiercely: 'Oh, if I could get my hands on the man who invented detachable collars, I'd wing his dwatted neck!' He arched his back with such enthusiasm that he upset a flower vase, which fell on the floor and shattered. The two men hurriedly hid the evidence. Surely she couldn't have heard anything, for the vase had fallen on the carpet. 'What's been broken up there?' called out Madame Deume. Monsieur Deume shouted down that it was only an armchair that had been knocked over and then unburdened his tortured soul to Adrien, who was now doing further battle with the collar-stud: should he bow to their guest before being introduced?
'No, only when I actually introduce you.'
'A low bow or just a nod?'
'Just a nod.'
'But I don't twust myself,' said Monsieur Deume, still standing rigidly to attention to make Adrien's task easier. 'I'll be so nervous when I see him standing there that I shan't be able to pwevent myself bowing stwaight off. At least I sincerely hope that bending forward or chatting over dinner won't make this confounded stud pop out. I mean, I've got to make some sort of contwibution to the chatter. Ouch! you're thwottling me!'
'There, got it. It's done.'
'Thanks, tewwibly good of you. But coming back to this nod business. What sort of angle do you think would be wight? If I lean forward like this, for instance, would that do the twick? There's something else too. In this wetched etiquette book, there's another bit that wowwies me. I'll wead it to you. (To avoid getting in the way of the bow Adrien was currently tying for him, the little seal raised his guide to good manners high above the head of his adopted son and read:) "In the dwawing-woom, a waised tone of voice gives an impwession of poise, bweeding and modernity." Do you think this would be a waised tone of voice?' he asked, and gave a strangled yelp.
'Possibly,' replied Adrien absently, for he was thinking of the strange way Ariane had answered him through the door just now.
'Or how about this?' yelled Monsieur Deume.
'Keep still, Dada, I can't finish tying your tie.'
'So you weally think it's not too loud like this, for instance?' bawled Monsieur Deume. (And to get into training for this strange social practice, he went on bellowing:) Under-Secwetawy-Genewal, Didi is tying my black tie for me!'
'What on earth is going on?' shrieked Madame Deume from downstairs. 'Why are you shouting like that?'
'I'm making polite conversation,' shouted back Monsieur Deume, who was in one of his bolder moods. 'It's a sign of poise and modernity! But sewiously, Didi, don't you think it'll seem a bit peculiar? I mean, if all five of us start shwieking our heads off like that it'll sound like a madhouse, that's how I see it. But there it is, since it's the done thing, I don't mind, only we won't be able to hear each other speak, that's all. Still, it's twoo: shouting like that does pep a chap up a bit, makes you feel important. (Adrien took off his glasses and ran his hand over his eyes.) What's up, Didi? Pwoblems?'
'She sounded very odd when she answered me through the door. I asked her which dress she was intending to wear for the dinner party. (He blew his nose, then stared into his handkerchief.) And she said: "Yes, yes, all right, I'll wear my smartest frock just for your chief's benefit!'"
'Doesn't seem too bad a weply to me.'
'It was the way she said it. She sounded annoyed, you see.'
With a characteristic gesture, Monsieur Deume smoothed the drooping wings of his moustache so that they joined forces with his goatee. He set his brain to work and cast about for something comforting to say.
'You know, Didi, young women sometimes get a bit highly stwung, but it doesn't last long.'
'Bye, Dada. I think the world of you, you know.'
'It's mutual, Didi. Don't wowwy your head about it. Beneath it all, she's a weally nice girl, take it fwom me.'
When his adopted son's car had gone, Monsieur Deume climbed back up to his den and locked himself in. He put a cushion on the floor, hitched up his trousers to ward off bagginess in the knees, knelt, clenched his false teeth together firmly, and prayed to the Almighty to watch over his adopted son and bless his dear wife Ariane with a child.
When he had finished his prayer, which was not the least admirable of all the prayers offered up on that day, and certainly finer than the pious requests formulated by his wife, this bearded seraph got to his feet certain in the knowledge that all would be well again nine months from now, or perhaps before, for the moment Ariane knew she was expecting a baby she would become sweet and gentle, no doubt about it. His mind at ease, he returned the cushion to its place, brushed his trousers, and settled himself in an armchair. With his bulging chameleon eyes glued to the pages of his etiquette book and his lips moving in studious silence, he stroked the birthmark which he called his big beauty spot and resumed his reading.
But he wearied of it quickly, closed the book, stood up, and looked round for something to do. Sharpen all the scissors in the house? A nice, easy job, all you needed to do was to cut up a sheet of sandpaper with a pair of scissors and the thing was done in a twinkling. Yes, but Antoinette would say now wasn't the time. Oh well, he'd do it tomorrow, when all this dratted business of the invitation, which required a chap to shout to be smart, would be over and done with.
He sat down again and yawned. Oh, how uncomfortable he felt wearing Monsieur Leerberghe's dinner-jacket. The sweet old man undid the top two buttons of the trousers, which were too tight for him, and gave his swollen abdomen a series of thwacks to pass the time as he pictured himself as a Negro chieftain summoning his tribe on the tom-toms.
CHAPTER 15
In the Rue du Mont-Blanc,
passers-by turned their heads to stare at the little old man in the beaver hat, breeches and dove-coloured stockings, but were not unduly disconcerted, accustomed as they were to the fauna of the League of Nations. 'What shall we do?' wondered Uncle Saltiel as he shuffled along, stopping now and then to pat a child on the cheek before resuming his progress and his train of thought, head bowed and back bent.
'All things considered — yes.'
Yes, all things considered, what had to be done was to put up a first-class Jewish opponent against this Christian girl. But where was he to find one? He had not managed to see the Rabbi, who was ill, and at the synagogue all that fool of a beadle had on his books was the daughter of a butcher, that is, a girl who would not have an ounce of poetry in her and would hardly impress on the ski-slopes. How about giving Cephalonia a try? Now, let's see, what in the way of marriageable girls did they have back there? He went through the field, ticking them off on his fingers. Eight, but only two possibles. The great-granddaughter of Jacob Meshullam, who had a pretty dowry on her head and wasn't too bad to look at except for that missing tooth which unfortunately was in the middle of her smile. She could always be rushed off to a dentist, of course. Still, best not, it wouldn't do to fix Sol up with a fiancee with a false tooth. The only other choice was the daughter of the Chief Rabbi, but the little idiot had no dowry.
'But there, I don't suppose he really needs a dowry. According to my calculations, a gold napoleon drops into his trouser pocket every three minutes. Anyway, between you and me, those two girls are no oil-paintings, and this Ariane of his would wither them with a glance!'
In disgust, he jettisoned both candidates and made up his mind that the very next day he would go to Milan and cast an eye over the daughter of a prosperous jeweller of whom he had heard only good reports from a cousin from Manchester he had met in Marseilles. Now a jeweller was not to be sneezed at. On second thoughts, a jeweller's daughter was hardly Sol's type. She'd be plain, and all she'd be able to talk about would be rubies and pearls. Anyhow, jewellers' daughters were always fat, whereas this Ariane was a great beauty, for sure. Doe-eyed and the rest of it. So, to do battle with her, he was going to have to find a daughter of Israel as perfect as the moon in all its ripe and rounded fullness. Oh yes, only a Jewish beauty would do! Had not the Almighty forbidden His people to take the daughters of strangers to wife, Exodus thirty-four, verse sixteen?
