Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  'The other foot now, please, darling.' Yes, she was kind and gentle, but also depressing and not particularly good at anything. Whereas his Ariane was great fun, a little crazy and quite unpredictable. Like the way she'd described hens only yesterday: she'd said they were puffed up balls of panic, gossip on two legs, said they were always thinking about feathering their nests. And the way she'd talked about the injured toad she'd looked after in the cellar. He remembered what she'd said about the toad: its gorgeous, golden, flecky eyes, such a lovely expression, scared and yet trusting, and it looked ever so grateful when she talked to it and so dainty when it used its fingers to eat with. And when she'd told him about the way toads croaked, she'd said it was a song of regret, the call of a soul. And the day she'd spotted a sparrow on the lightning-conductor on top of the house singing its little head off and looking ever so comfortable, she'd said it was calling to all its little friends to tell them that sitting up there was as good as being on a sofa, it was lovely. And the heat of her kisses. But with this one, who read to him, he had only to attempt the lightest touch, out of pity, and she instantly assumed an expression like the Virgin Mary. Besides, he'd found out that she went to beauty salons to have her face descaled or something. What did this descaling involve? Perhaps it winkled tiny scaly creatures out of each pore? Ariane, clear skin, the delicious curve of her lips, and no lipstick. Not like this one, who was still pummelling his feet with hands which ended in painted nails, talons almost, talons dipped in blood. Ariane: her childish delight when he praised her beauty, shaping her mouth perfectly as though she were sitting for a photographer. The evening she'd given him sorrel soup, how proud she'd been of feeding her man. And the afternoon he'd come on a horse, she had been overjoyed at his unexpected visit, and she had run to meet him smiling far too broadly, it was a ridiculous smile, so wide and so earnest that it had made him laugh, the smile of a little girl on cloud nine or the grin of some clumsy, impish djinn incapable of staying still long enough to look dignified. But when would this one stop slapping his feet?

  'Shall I go on reading?' 'Yes please, darling.' 'And massaging?' 'Please, darling.' And if she overdid it with the leg-stroking, take avoiding action. The gambit that never failed was the simulated liver flare-up. Oh she came to life then, positively bloomed at the idea of busying herself in his service. She applied burning compresses with appalling zest and scuttled off every few minutes to the bathroom for fresh supplies, which she brought back at a gallop. And how proud of herself she was when, with his skin burned bright red and unable to stand any more scalding compresses, he said the pain had gone away. Yes, the only happiness he was capable of giving her now was to convince her that she could be of use to him. So feign illness each time he came to see her. Result: something for her to do and think about without danger to himself. Next time, for a change, he'd try a frozen shoulder on her. He could already see her shooting off to a chemist's and rushing back breathlessly clutching jars of antirheumatic creams and ointments. Oh if he could only kiss her unfearingly on the cheek and talk to her of Ariane, tell her everything, share Ariane with her. But it was out of the question. She wanted him to herself, to monopolize him. But that was it for now. His feet had been mauled about quite enough for one day, thank you very much.

  When he pulled his foot away, she said 'Shall I stop now?' 'Yes, darling.' 'You should sleep now, it's late. I want you to rest properly, so I'll leave you the bed and I'll sleep in the guest room.' He knew that these last words were spoken in the hope that he'd ask her to stay, to sleep by his side. It was no go. Never again. But if he agreed to let her sleep by herself she'd be utterly miserable, and tomorrow morning her eyes would be red and puffy. So leave. But where could he go? Wake up little Edmee and talk to her of Ariane? No, it would be too cruel to hold forth about his great love to a poor midget who, to boot, was a member of the Salvation Army. There was nothing for poor, lonely, glum Solal to do but go back to the Ritz. He told her he had some urgent work to do for Sir John. Besides, the taxi was waiting. He dressed and kissed her on the cheek. Sensing that she was expecting something more passionate, he improvised a coughing fit to muddy the waters and left hurriedly, his hat pulled down over his eyes, looking and feeling guilty.

  In the taxi, he suddenly remembered the fine lines around her eyes. Withered on the vine, yet she had been still beautiful at the start of their affair. Age was so unfair, but there was also the lonely life she had led at Pont-Ceard, she had lost a little of her bloom each day as she waited for him to come. She would soon be old. Yes, go away with her somewhere, anywhere, tonight! Give up Ariane. Spend the rest of his life with Isolde. He tapped the glass and asked the driver to take him back to Pont-Ceard. How happy his Isolde would be!

  Moments later, he tapped again and wound down the glass. 'Brother,' said he to the driver, 'my beloved lives and breathes at Cologny. Take me to her, for I am drunk with love, and what does dying matter? Oh the fatal attraction of that moment when first I saw her one evening descending the steps of the University, a goddess and my betrothed, a goddess, her footsteps dogged in the night. Accordingly, dear brother, ferry me roaringly, carry me most expeditiously to my beloved, and I shall make you happier than you ever were before, you have the word of Solal, fourteenth of the name!' Thus he spake, and he sang to the stars which twinkled through the window, sang in exaltation, for he was going to see her, and dying did not matter at all.

  CHAPTER49

  Her jealousies, the goodbyes forever. At night she took a horsewhip to herself as a punishment for thinking of him, and for days on end gave him no sign that she was alive. Waiting for her, waiting for her by the telephone which stubbornly, cruelly refused to ring, his heart missing a beat whenever the lift stopped at the third floor of the Ritz, for perhaps it was her, but no it was never her, and at last the phone would ring and she would come tonight. Whereupon the ludicrous charade of newmaking himself handsome.

  The instant she walked through the door she fell into the brute's arms, seeking his mouth. But when the first ardour had cooled, suddenly seeing a picture in her mind of him with her, she plied him with questions. He answered that he could not desert Isolde, that if he saw her now it was as a friend. 'Liar!' she screamed, and looked at him with hate in her eyes. Oh the thought of him kissing that woman exactly as he kissed her! 'You brute! You wicked man!' she screamed. 'You do not fear God!' she screamed in the approved Russian manner.

  After prophesying, in a sudden rush of virtue, that women would be his ruin, she leaped out of bed, dressed briskly, like a woman who meant business, declared that this time they were through and that she would never see him again, and then slipped on her gloves with steely determination. All this inflexible preparing to leave was designed to give her an excuse to stay, but with honour untarnished. And to show also just how unshakeably set she was on leaving him for ever, her unshakeability being telegraphed especially in the energetic way she buttoned up her jacket, the hem of which she then proceeded to pull down, an operation which required several attempts since she was never quite satisfied with the result, it seemed. Resolute preparations too because she hoped that if he saw that she was really intending to go, and if she spent enough time getting ready, then in the end he'd beg her to stay. Throwing himself into the spirit of the thing, he fully endorsed the idea of a clean break and encouraged her to go. Both of them brazened it out, though inwardly both were afraid, for this time the other might be deadly serious, mind made up, and yet at the same time, and quite paradoxically, both were absolutely certain that when it came to the point there would be no separation, and this gave them the strength to threaten and the determination to end the affair.

  When there was nothing left to button up, pull down and straighten, no more powder to be meticulously applied to the face of stone in the mirror, she had no alternative but to leave. At the door, she would put her hand on the knob and turn it slowly, hoping that he would see that this time she meant it and at last beg her to stay. If he remained silent, she would say goo
dbye in a sombre voice to make him suffer and provoke an entreaty; or she might say in even more solemn tones: 'Goodbye, Solal Solal!' which was a degree more striking, for the best effects soon palled. Or, with the polite understatement which conveys iron resolution, she might say: 'I'd be grateful if you would not write to me or telephone.' If she sensed that he was suffering, she was quite capable of walking out on him immediately and not giving him any sign of life for days on end. But if he smiled, if he kissed her hand politely, thanked her for the memorable hours she had given him and opened the door for her, she would slap both his cheeks. Not just because she hated him for not suffering and for not preventing her from leaving, nor because she herself was suffering, but also, no, especially, because she did not want to go and because slapping his face would allow her to spin things out and thus enable her to work her way to a reconciliation, either because the face-slapping provided her with a decent excuse for saying sorry and staying or else because it might provoke the desired reaction, to wit, some roughness on his part, the kind which might well induce a flow of feminine tears which in turn might elicit a male request for forgiveness followed by undeniable and mutual tokens of affection.

  Sometimes she would go, slamming the door behind her, and then come back immediately and start to cry, with her arms around his neck, boohooing that she could not, she absolutely could not live without him, and blowing her nose. But more often, to justify coming back, she called him names, shrugging her shoulders indignantly with a movement which made her breasts heave most attractively, said nasty things, and she was an expert at saying nasty things. But beneath the anger lay the deep joy of being near him once more.

  At other times there was swooning. This needs to be explained. So that she had an excuse for staying and waiting for the miracle which would make everything right and reduce him to begging her not to leave him and promise never to see his countess again, she would feel faint, collapse in a heap, then get up and start ranting that he did not love her, or, as a variant, that he loved her so little that she was ashamed for him, before collapsing again, distressed and weak, like a disappointed little girl.

  Oh youth, oh the noble swoonings for love! Oh the marvel of her, gorgeously evening-gowned, fainting and rising and collapsing, and of him, adoring her and inwardly comparing her to one of those celluloid toy clowns with lead behinds which always return to vertical, and she, love's wounded tigress, falling and rising and falling and wanting to die, feline and felled, so beautiful in her tears and so golden of voice, her glorious legs laid bare, and sobbing, and her opulent hips rhythmically rising and falling, and what had to be came to pass. And her face was clean-cut and androgynous, the pure face of ecstasy, and her eyes turned piously to the seventh heaven of earthly delights. 'Your woman,' she moaned.

  CHAPTER 50

  With the anaemic smile of the unhappy, she stared at the suitcase she had just packed any old how, as though she were in a dream. It was the case she had taken with her three years before, at the start of their affair, when she had travelled to Paris to be with him, travelled with such high hopes. Come along, stand up, shut the case. But she could not do it, was shaken by a fit of the helpless little sobs of the sick in body, and she sat on the case to fasten the straps. When she had done them up, she did not have the strength to stand, and remained seated, her arms dangling at her sides. Noticing a run in the stocking on her left leg, she shrugged. Too bad. She didn't have the heart.

  Facing the old woman in the mirror — old Isolde, who had been kept on for pity's sake but kept at arm's length — she winced, undid the top buttons of her dress, and pulled at her brassière, snapping the straps. Worn-out, poor things. She luxuriated in their flaccidity, pressed them with her hands to emphasize their sag. Ah yes, they were not as firm now, and it was all over. They had dropped three or four centimetres, and it was over, love was finished. They had gone soft on her, and love was finished. She took her hands away to see them in all their decadence, waggled her shoulders to see them bounce this way and that, found the sight comic, found the sight tragic. Each evening for years she had waited for him, not knowing if he would come, each evening she'd dressed up for him, not knowing if he would come, each evening had made her house immaculate for him, not knowing if he would come, waiting each evening by her window and watching, not knowing if he would come. And now it was finished. And why? Because her two top pockets were less well filled than the top pockets of his other woman. When he'd been ill, the nights she'd spent caring for him, nights spent lying on the floor, on the carpet, by his side. Would this other woman know how to look after him? Should she phone and warn her about his allergy to pyramidon and antipyrine? Never mind, let them get on with it. He was fond of her, of course, he'd done his best on the rare occasions when he did come, complimenting her on being so elegantly turned out, showing an interest in her clothes, telling her she had beautiful eyes. All old women had beautiful eyes, eyes were their best feature. And now and then a peck on the cheek or even the shoulder, through her dress. Fabric was neutral, didn't make anyone feel sick. Kisses for old women. Caresses for old ladies. Obviously he found her repellent. He'd been pathetic, so embarrassed when he could no longer avoid telling her about his other woman, he'd been so sad to cause her pain. So sad. But on that evening there'd been real kisses for her.

  Once more she waggled her breasts at the mirror. One to the right, one to the left! Swing, O ye aged globes! She'd been born too soon, that was it. Her father had been in too much of a hurry. And those bags under her eyes, the skin too slack under her chin, that dry hair, those bulges in all the wrong places, and the rest of the proofs of God's goodness. She buttoned the top of her dress, sat on her case again, smiled at the little girl she had once been who did not have bulges in the wrong places, who was fresh-faced, a bit scared, scared of a picture in a book she'd been given as a prize which showed a black man lurking behind a tree. When she was tucked up in bed at night and got to the black man, she would shut her eyes and turn the page quickly. That little girl hadn't known what was lying in wait for her. For what was happening to her now had always been there, waiting for her in her future.

  She cupped her breasts in both hands and lifted them. Now that's how they used to be. She let them drop and gave them a smile. 'Poor things,' she murmured. He would use the pen she had given him to write to his woman. Ariane, my only one. Of course she was his only one! Her mammaries were in first-class shape, weren't they? Your turn will come, dear. Her old body was obscene, it made her sick too. Get thee to a cemetery, to a hole in the ground, you stinking carcass! 'You gruesome old woman,' she told the mirror. 'Why are you old, you gruesome old woman. You don't fool anyone with that dyed hair!' She blew her nose and found an odd satisfaction in seeing herself in the mirror disgraced, sitting on a case, blowing her nose. Come on now, stand up, life must go on, phone.

  Shaken and jolted in the taxi, she stared at her hands. It was the first time she'd gone out without having a bath. Disgraceful, she smiled. Hadn't had the strength, you were always alone when you washed, so alone when you towelled yourself dry. Anyway, what was the point? It had happened. Disaster had struck. Punished for the crime of being old. She moved closer to the window. Versoix. The people outside, in the midst of life, striding along, washed and clean, each with a purpose. His woman was young, and she too had a purpose: she would see him tonight. Come on, make ready for tonight, scrub yourself clean-clean-clean so you don't stink. I too did all that for him every day for three years. He would be sad when he read the letter, but it wouldn't stop him, you know, tonight. Their two tongues snaking, ugh! She opened and shut her mouth to taste its coating of bitterness, and suddenly felt like tea. After all, there were still things which gave zest to life. A cup of tea, a good book, music. All eyewash, of course. Oh the damnable need to be loved, which never left you, however old you were. What would happen about Pont-Ceard, after? The furniture, her things, who would look after all that?

  Creux-de-Genthod. Pigeons in the road. Two pigeons
tenderly billing and cooing. What stupid poems her French governess had made her learn. She was called Mademoiselle Deschamps. Spring is coming, spring is coming, Birdies build your nests, Weave together straw and feather, Doing each your best. Two big cows were lying down, One was white and one was brown. There'd been something between her father and Mademoiselle Deschamps. She remembered her father's Jewish estate-manager, always went cap in hand, always bowing and scraping, he had a horrid face. Bela Kun was Jewish too. It was Bela Kun who had got Uncle Istvan, General Kanyo, who was a count, shot. Her father would never have allowed Jews inside his house.