Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  She tossed the letter into a drawer together with the photograph without even giving it a second glance. Should she phone him this instant in Brussels and say nice things to him? No, that would clash too horribly with the titivations. Much better to send him a telegram tomorrow. Ought she to open the other letters? There were far too many of them. She pulled out the drawer, retrieved the photo, and studied it. Poor lamb with that round head of his, proud as punch to be standing next to a real diplomat. The trusting look on his face made her cringe, and his assumption that she was sitting around waiting impatiently for him was cringe-making too. She put the photo back in the drawer. So now she knew: he'd be back in exactly one week. That left seven days of happiness with Sol, and then she'd see. Anyhow, she wouldn't think about that today.

  In the bathroom, she squeezed toothpaste on to the brush, embarked on a conscientious dental scouring, then stopped to consult the railway timetable. The train would arr. Bourg in ten minutes. Good, she had plenty of time. Best foot forward! Brush thoroughly for at least five minutes. Suddenly she removed the brush from her mouth. Sometimes trains were derailed, leaving injured passengers trapped groaning under axles! Without pausing to rinse out her mouth, she spoke to the Almighty in accents clouded by the foaming toothpaste.

  'O Lord, let tomorrow'sh trainsh all crash, let hundredsh and hundredsh of people be killed, if shuch ish Thy will, but let everything go shmoothly today, pleashe. Dearesht, shweetesht Lord,' she added to butter Him up. (She rinsed her mouth and went on with her prayer, which, like all prayers, was shamelessly mercenary.) 'Do this for me, Lord,' she trilled in her most alluring, feminine voice. 'You know how much I love You. Please make it all right for tonight, won't You? O Lord, watch over my friend's train,' she ended, on a chaste note, 'friend' seeming to her the most suitable word to use when addressing God. (She straightened up and held her nose with two fingers so that she sounded like a clergyman delivering a sermon.) 'Dear brothers and sisters, I will now pass beneath the waters of my bath, accompanied by both my rather ample bosoms. But first grant me leave to take another peek at my lover-man's picture, but just five seconds' worth so it doesn't go stale on me and stays fresh and heart-stopping. There, that'll do, put it away. And now for another little dekko at the telegram that came today, to pep me up a bit. Let's see what he says.'

  She unfolded the square of green paper and read it in a dramatic, stagy voice, with actions. The wonderful last word made her knees go weak. Oh the joy, the glory, and the ecstatic cherubim singing on high beneath the wings of great angels bearing sounding harps, oh wonderful man! He had signed it simply 'Yours'! Just 'Yours'! How beautiful! But then she scowled. Perhaps 'Yours' was a word he'd just scribbled down without thinking, like a bank-manager putting 'Yours etc' at the bottom of a letter? No, that couldn't be, he must have intended something by it! The word said what it meant, and it meant that he was hers, hers alone, her chattel, her property. 'Yours,' she whispered, and she took a deep breath. Now for that bath. Run the hot water.

  'Come along, get a move on, stupid,' she told the tap.

  She put the photo, the telegram, the train timetable, the little bear with the Mexican hat and her father's watch on a stool next to the bath. And, because there was no one there to laugh at her, she kissed the telegram and the timetable. And if the nuns who'd been listening to her sermon didn't like it, well yah-boo-sucks to them! When the water had been tested and pronounced just right, she undid the tie with the crests on, dropped her ducky dress on the floor, got into the bath, stretched out, gave a series of contented sighs, stuck her foot out of the water, wiggled her toes, and pretended they were five little boys coming home from school. 'Look sharp now, go and wash your hands and faces,' she told them, and the five little boys ducked back under the water. Then she made swimming movements with her arms and was transported to the sea. Next, with one hand, she patted the bottom of the bath to make bubbles, which tickled as they rose between her thighs. Then she stuck her foot out again, waggled her toes, ordered them to keep still, have their bath like good little boys, and then trot straight off to school, holding hands nicely.

  'And if you don't come home with good marks, you'll be for it!'

  Now for a thorough soaping. No, hang on, not straight away, bide a while first, she had hours and hours in front of her. She rowed gently with the palms of her hands on the green water which shivered with rings of sun, and thought the little waves she made were awfully pretty, like younger sisters of the proper waves of the ocean, where they'd all certainly end up together soon. Switching tack, she told herself that two pretty little light-blue parakeets were perched on one of the taps, the cold one, not the other one, which was too hot and would burn their little feet. Tweet-tweet, my pets, are you all right, are you happy? Me too, very, you can't possibly imagine how tremendously all right and happy I am! Suddenly serious, she hailed the marvellous coming of tonight by chanting the tune of the Whitsun hymn, substituting, not without a qualm or two, the name of the man she loved for the Sacred Name:

  O my believing soul,

  Be proud now and content,

  For see! there comes thy heavenly king,

  Solal is near: his praises sing!

  But now, get down to it. Standing up with legs apart, singing and whistling by turns, shooting glances now and then towards watch and timetable, which were soon liberally sprinkled with water, she proceeded to the important business of cleansing her body, soaping herself ardently, frowning with concentration, rinsing herself off and resoaping herself, and pumicing her feet. Though she was doomed to die, she spared no effort, worked with a will to make herself perfect, like a conscientious craftsman, with her tongue poking out.

  'Whew, it wears you out being in love,' she announced as she slipped back into the suds.

  After blowing the pumice-stone to make it sail along by itself, she pulled out the plug, refilled the bath with clean water into which, as a reward, she poured scented bath salts. Yes, she had to feel frantically good: too bad if that meant behaving like the Catherlix do. Lying lusciously prone, it occurred to her that she was stupid to have had her bath as early as this. By the time he got there, she'd be showing the effects of several hours' decay of her flawlessness. Heigh-ho, she'd see how things went.

  'Yours.'

  She closed her eyes so that she could hear the most beautiful word on earth loud and clear, pronounced it in various ways until she was glutted with it, and all the while she contemplated her naked body under the flattering, insidious water. Chanting a singsong, wordless dirge, she felt the weight of her hot, firm breasts, stroked her nipples, sighed, ran more hot water to make herself comfortable, smiled at the two faithful parakeets who sat slinkily on their tap, dinkily raising their legs one after the other, exercising their toes to relax them. She closed her eyes, grew torpid, and let her mind wander.

  CHAPTER69

  While his wife in Geneva was letting her mind wander in the bath, Adrien Deume, in the railway station at Basle, stood with his elbows leaning on the open window of his first-class compartment, feeling important and enjoying the sensation. Aware that lesser mortals in the commuter train drawn up alongside were staring, he adopted the nonchalant, superior air of one accustomed to travelling in luxury, the world-weary manner of a bored grandee, a cross between Lord Byron and Talleyrand.

  Four mournful blasts of a whistle signalled the off, and there was a groan of protesting metal, and the engine emitted a long, valedictory hiss, and the whole train shuddered, staggered under a series of concussive impacts, began to move, and soon was hastening on its way with studied respiratory application, like an overgrown schoolboy chanting French verbs. Deprived of his admiring audience, Adrien Deume sat down and flicked through the timetable. Next stop was Delemont at five fifty. Perfect. Then Bienne, Neuchatel, Lausanne and finally Geneva at eight forty-five. A ten-minute taxi ride and he'd be at Cologny. Which meant that by nine o'clock tonight he'd be holding her in his arms.

  He rubbed his hands briskly and looked a
round him with an air of satisfaction. Very nice, these first-class carriages. But remember now, a quarter of an hour before getting into Geneva, just after Nyon, go to lavatory, wash face, scrub nails, give beard good comb, give coat good brushing, especially the collar, which showed the dandruff, in a word make self presentable. To put a shine on his shoes, he could wipe them on the plush of the seat. It wasn't allowed, but what the hell. To smack him on the BTM, they'd have to catch him first! What a surprise for Arianny, who wasn't expecting him for another week! A surprise and a half, by jingo! Running his tapered tongue over his lips, he savoured in advance her delight and astonishment. To pass the time, he murmured what he was going to say after he'd kissed her.

  'You see, darling, I couldn't resist it. Yesterday, right out of the blue, I suddenly had this feeling that I couldn't bear to wait another day longer. So I made a beeline for Sabena, unfortunately there wasn't a seat left on the plane, I played the ranking-official card but it did no good, couldn't budge them, fully booked up, never mind, decided to catch this morning's train. I did think of wiring you, but then I thought it would be nicer to give you a surprise, right? So who's a happy Arianny, then? A surprise and a half, right, duckie? Mummy was none too pleased, you know, but who cares, I mean is a chap entitled to pop back and see his missus after they've been separated for three months or is he not! You are glad to see me, aren't you? Haifa mo, I'll give you your presents now.'

  He yawned and in a whisper babbled o' grand titles. Baron Adrien Deume. Count Deume. General Sir Adrien Deume. He gave another gaping yawn and, getting up, cast around for something else to while away the time. He stood by the window, which he lowered, and leaned out. The rushing air made him blink and look stern and astute. The telegraph wires looped up down, up down, retreated, separated into a continuous line, their poles brave with white teacups dipping and rising, and trees sped towards him with cinematographic abruptness before careering backwards, heads bowed, to rejoin the green lights of signals left far behind, and all the while, too fast for eyes, the gravel of the other track flashed by between rails streaked with dazzling shafts of sudden illumination.

  The engine gave a despairing, demented whinny, and he turned away, sat down on the red plush seat, gave a contented sigh, and smiled at his wife. What splendid breasts she had on her. Like marble, old bean, if you only knew, and I'll be making the most of them tonight, just you see if I don't. Yes, the moment he got in, he'd kiss her, hold her tight, then upwards and onwards to bed, his or hers, didn't matter. No, make it hers, it was bigger. Undress her quickly, tell her to lie down, and forward charge, like the Light Brigade! Basically, women loved it. Anyhow, for God's sake, he'd had his conjugalities cut off for three months, and it was more than flesh could bear! Afterwards, he'd get up and smoke a relaxing pipe, which was something he liked doing after performing his marital duty, and he'd open the case of presents! He could see it now! She'd clap her hands for joy! And then he'd tell her all about his official tour, the interview with the High Commissioner (a Lord, for goodness' sake!), and then the lunch with the High Commissioner (and a field marshal to boot, for goodness' sake!), and then he'd show her the photos he'd had taken with the top brass, show her everything, she'd be fascinated, she'd be proud of her hubby.

  'Find it fascinating, do you, my little chickadee? I've come out of it rather well, even though I do say it myself. Carried all before me! I think that what went down best was that I didn't conduct myself like a civil servant, let alone a senior civil servant, but pitched the thing on a higher level, slipping in literary asides, Latin tags, very much the man of the world, if you see what I mean. Good. Fine. Tell her how I came through with flying colours in Syria and end with the big finish, i.e. Palestine, because that was the high point, she won't know what's hit her. Start with the personal contacts made in the bureau of the High Commission, the information gathered, the first visits by top people at my hotel, definitely make a point of telling her about the hotel, a hotel and a half, darling, the King David no less, the best, a top-class establishment. I had a full set of rooms, what they call a suite in these five-star places, i.e. drawing-room, bedroom and deluxe bathroom. A suite definitely has an edge, because if some top nob comes to see you you don't have to go downstairs and entertain him in one of the public rooms, you can have him come up and receive him in your very own drawing-room, do you see what that means, it puts you in quite another class, it means you're somebody. Absolutely, you can take it from me: when you've got a suite at the King you know you're somebody! Oh yes, it's known locally in the best circles as the King, that's what people say. Of course it was bathroom with lavatory, which was a convenience, no need to go wandering outside along the corridor. Can't get by any more without my own lavatory. Either you're a diplomat or you're not is what I say. Especially since things could have been better from a digestive-functions point of view, all those slap-up dinners, you know, and having to venture out into the corridor three or four times a night would have been no fun, no fun at all. But the tummy-wobble problems can wait till tomorrow, when we'll have time to discuss them properly, we'll work out what if anything needs to be done after we've seen how things go between now and then, because the situation seems to be improving, markedly so, for example just three times today whereas yesterday it was seven, if you please! By the by, the plan I drew of my rooms at the King was jolly good, wasn't it? Of my suite, I should say. I had the dickens of a job with it, you know. Getting the measurements down on paper, setting it all out to scale, it took me a whole day. But 'nuff said, that brings me to my last days in Jerusalem, which were, if I say it myself, the high point of the entire tour. Can you picture it, Madame Adrien Deume, your lord and master being granted the honour of an audience with His Excellency the High Commissioner? I mean, he's only the most important man in those parts! A field marshal, mark you, the highest rank in the British military establishment. The audience lasted half an hour, would you believe! Atmosphere jolly friendly, well perhaps not friendly exactly, but definitely cordial. His Excellency was terribly pleasant, took an interest, quizzed me about my functions (not the digestive sort, of course!), asked questions about the work of the Mandates Section, he was altogether charming, and I sat there in an armchair very much at my ease, chatting man to man you might say, with His Excellency saying that it was his earnest wish that we should work together, close cooperation was what he said actually, and then paying tribute to the disinterested and difficult work of the L of N, and on top of that, listen to this it's very important you'll see why in just a moment, on top of that asking me to convey in person his good wishes and very best regards to Sir John, and so on and so forth. So, all in all, everything went off like a dream. I think I can say, without false modesty, that I was a definite hit.'

  Ponderous, urgent, consumed by its purpose, the train lurched, gave a sudden cry of despair, and hurtled bone-shakingly into the tunnel with a crazed shriek of terror. A white eyelid closed immediately over the half-shut window and smoke billowed into the compartment. Victims of man, the stones and rails of the tunnel bounced their loudly echoing protests against the black, oozing walls, like martyrs bellowing their anger, boomingly cursing the hulking, obstreperous, panicking intruder, which hurried on, bustling, rocking, lunging in its headlong course. At the end of the tunnel the wrath abated, though a few echoes still reverberated against the smoke-blackened walls, where they were suddenly calmed by white smoke and all fury vanished along with the walls.

  Delivered and assuaged now that it was free of the darkness and the hell, the train emerged once more into gentle countryside, awkward and eager, resuming its steady rhythm through the verdant fields and the rediscovered smell of grass. Lulled by its muted clanking, borne smoothly onwards, Adrien Deume stroked the soft red plush of the seat and smiled at his naked wife, who sat next to him.

  'And now I come to the high point. Believe it or not, but the evening of the day I had my audience with the High Commissioner, a special messenger shows up with an invitation to lunch wi
th His Excellency: proof positive of the first-class impression I had made! And the invitation was for the next day, a Sunday. Apparently invitations to Sunday lunch are a special mark of favour with the English. It was printed on beautiful vellum and had the official arms of Great Britain embossed on it in gold, with an engraved text requesting the pleasure and so forth, though of course my name was written in ink, in a fine, round hand, I've kept it to show you. Terribly impressive, as you'll see. It had my Christian name too. And an Esq. But to proceed. Anyway, next day at one on the dot I'm standing outside the residence, dressed up to the nines. I give the sergeant of the guard carte blanche, to wit my invite, and immediately he snaps to attention, salutes me smartly, and lets me pass. Looking supremely unconcerned, I proceed to the main steps and there, take note, both sentries present arms! You see, dear Madame, the sort of treatment your hubby gets! I would have liked you to have been there. Or to be there, if you prefer. After fifty-seven varieties of stone staircases and vast antechambers, an aide ushers me into an imposing room. His Excellency stands up as I enter. Like I told you, he's a field marshal. His Excellency Field Marshal Lord Plummer. We shake hands, I give an imperceptible little bow, thanking him for the honour and so forth, maintaining air of unconcern, projecting image of young diplomat thoroughly at home with protocol. Naturally, I kissed the hand of Lady Plummer, who arrived shortly after me, deep bow this time, it all went off very well. Next, cocktails, stuffed olives, conversation on a range of political, economic and social matters. After this a flunkey appeared and informed Lady Plummer, Her Ladyship he said, that luncheon was served. General exodus towards dining-room, with me offering Lady Plummer my arm and consequently being first in! Fortunately the aide had taken me aside and tipped me the wink in advance. Heavens, if you could have seen me ceremoniously leading the way with the wife of an English field marshal! Superb dining-room, impeccable standard of service, we are waited on by Arabs two yards tall in dazzling white djellabas with red-silk sashes round their middles, table sparkling with crystal, tableware engraved with the official arms of Great Britain! You felt the sheer power, had a sense of being part of the inner circle. I tell you, it took my breath away. Tomorrow I'll read you my notes in full, they're very detailed, how I behaved over lunch, who the other guests were, every one a luminary of the first water, yet it was little old me who got to escort Lady Plummer in! (He poked out his tapered tongue, then withdrew it immediately.) But I'll tell you about it all properly tomorrow, the various courses, I've noted them all down, the topics of conversation, all in English of course, and my contributions, which I think I can describe without false modesty as rather witty but subtle, a mix of Gallic charm and diplomacy! And sat on the right hand of Lady Plummer! But I'll save all that for tomorrow, my notes are very detailed, I wrote them up the moment I got back to the King, while my memories were still fresh. Just one other thing, the lunch I had subsequently with the aide, a delightful young captain, old titled family, Eton and Oxford, spoke marvellous French, highly cultured. I invited him to lunch at the King the following day. We drank champagne from start to finish! Anyhow, in the course of the conversation, I happened to mention, without any ulterior motive, that I was fed up at the prospect of having to wait another week for a seat on the plane, of course I said upset not fed up. He gave a mysterious, reserved sort of smile, you know, very old English aristocracy. I didn't realize what that smile meant till the following day, when he rang me at the King to inform me, hold on tight, to inform me that one of the seats officially set aside for the use of the bureau of the High Commission was mine if I wanted it, on a flight that very evening. Imagine that! A VIP seat! For the record, that means a Very Important Person. Takes your breath away, doesn't it? But at least it gives you some idea of what pull and influence can do, that's what it's all about, you don't get anywhere if you haven't got connections and contacts. But I'll fill you in on the rest tomorrow. By the by, you have kept all my letters, haven't you? Because I stuck in a lot of local-colour stuff as a reminder for when I write up my official mission report. Good, capital! Because they'll come in handy for padding out the notes I took after each meeting. I hardly need say that I intend to cook up a report and a half. It'll create a stir, you can take that from me! Of course, I'll tart it up here and there, you know, the usual putting flesh on dry bones. Now, administratively speaking, I should be reporting to VV, who is then supposed to decide whether there are grounds for passing it on upstairs. So according to protocol the only name I should put at the start of my screed is VV's and nobody else's. But I know VV of old, he can't stand to see members of his section making a splash, especially if he feels they are potential rivals and therefore dangerous. So if I stick just his name down he'll hush my report up, because he'll realize it's just the sort of thing to get me noticed, he won't pass it on to higher authority, he'll just sit on it! Which means that, after giving the matter serious thought, I've decided to put a spoke in his wheel by taking the bull by the horns, and shall send my report straight to the top, through the usual channels of course, that is, by putting his name at the top of the report, then the name of my good chum Solal who has overall charge of the Mandates Section, and then Sir John's, no less! Yes, darling, Sir John himself, and that's final! Good wheeze, isn't it? Now don't go telling me I've no business sending my report to Sir John since according to regulations reports of official visits never go directly to him! Because I've got my answer ready if VV sticks his oar in! There are always exceptions! The fact is Lord Plummer, who is a field marshal for goodness' sake, which is the highest rank in the British military establishment, Lord Plummer, I repeat, High Commissioner for Palestine, KCMG, CB and so forth, personally asked me to convey his very best regards to Sir John! So I am duty-bound to convey same! That's my story and I'm sticking to it! I am therefore fully authorized to send my official report to the most senior of my superiors! QED. Anyway, VV will work it out for himself and I won't hear a squeak out of him and you can rest assured that he'll be too scared not to forward it! Lord Plummer! How about that!'