by Albert Cohen
CHAPTER 71
'Best foot forward, try on dresses in sitting-room!'
Wearing bath-wrap and raffia sandals, she pitched all eight of Volkmaar's boxes down the stairs, helping them on their way with her foot because it was seven twenty-five and his train had already got in and in just a few minutes from now he'd be at the Ritz. But when she reached the foot of the stairs she told herself that it was quite absurd to be worrying her head about trying on dresses at the last moment when she had the stunning white linen number which wasn't creased or grubby. So the ducky dress it would be, and she could try on the others tomorrow, when she'd have plenty of time, her mind was always clearer in the morning.
'All right with you, darling girl? It's all right by me. But listen, should I phone him at his hotel after all, just a quick ring, to hear his voice? Oh please, do let me phone! No, darling, be sensible, I've already told you: a phone call would be like eating before a meal, a foretaste which would take the edge off seeing him again, and seeing him again must be a magic moment. So be patient, hold firm, and take Volkmaar's rubbish back to your room.'
Balancing four boxes on her head, she mounted the stairs, telling herself that she was a slave-girl in ancient Egypt carrying stone blocks for the great pyramid. When she reached the first floor she removed both the wrap and the sandals to add authentic local colour and so that she was a genuine naked Nubian slave-girl whose slinky walk quickened the blood of the Pharaoh, who, encountered by chance on the landing, promptly asked her to be his fair Pharaohess and Queen of Upper and Lower Egypt. She thanked him and said she'd think about it and would give him an answer later, after she'd had another bath, with fresh water, that's right dear, an odourless bath, because all the bath salts she'd just used smelled much too strong.
In her room, she put down the boxes and reached eagerly for her hand-mirror to check that all was well. All was well. She kissed her hand, smiled at the Pharaoh, who had followed her in, for he was anxious to know what her reply would be. She said that, having given the matter considerable thought, she was unable to agree to his request and went back downstairs, as Nubian as ever, to fetch the remaining boxes. On reflection, she really ought to have explained to Rameses the Bloated that she had given her heart to Joseph, a son of Israel and Prime Minister of Egypt. She'd tell him when she got upstairs.
Standing at the window, lulled by the pleasant jolting and gratified by the strenuous efforts made on his behalf by the train which was carrying him back to the good life at Geneva, Adrien Deume stared passively at the fleeing green meadows, the rapidly retreating cornfields sucked up into the tornado which also made the trees keel over, and the telegraph poles which were joined by wires that drew the eye up and suddenly down. He lowered the window, through which damp, green smells immediately blew in, then a succession of distance-markers flashed past and a forest scuttled away bearing its secrets with it and a river glinted then promptly vanished, another train passed in the opposite direction, and he felt the heat of the engine as it hurtled by, wild, angry, full of breathy desire, leaving in its wake the staccato lights of the coaches, and then Adrien's train, stung to the quick, bolted as four gleaming rails shot away to the right. Must be doing a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour, he thought. Whereupon, determined to jot down an impression for his novel while it was still fresh in his mind, he took out his loose-leaf notebook and gold propelling-pencil. After staring for some time at the endlessly absconding countryside with eyes half closed to increase observational efficiency, he wrote down that the train was rattling along at breakneck speed and shut his handsome notebook.
He closed the window and strolled along the corridor. His first-class coach was completely empty, there was no one with whom he might have exchanged a few words. Hands in pockets, he yawned, proud of his ability to keep his balance, then hummed a tune, went into the lavatory for something to do, came out again, smiled at the waiter from the restaurant car, who, ringing his bell, bore down on him announcing the first service of dinner, and informed him that he would prefer to wait for the second service between Lausanne and Geneva. 'I'll be feeling more peckish by then,' he explained amiably. 'Ah,' said the waiter who went on his way reflecting on his daughter's leukaemia. Odd chap that, thought Adrien. For something to do, he staggered through the connecting section which smelled of wool grease and went observing among the third-class passengers. All along the corridor, which smelled of garlic and oranges, he allowed himself the moral indulgence of feeling sorry for all these poor folk who plied themselves with sausage, salami and hard-boiled eggs and huddled together on their hard seats. 'So sad,' he sighed happily.
Wearing her light linen dress and white sandals, she closed the shutters of her sitting-room, drew the curtains to create an atmosphere conducive to the solemnity of the occasion, switched on the reading-lamp, set it down on the occasional table, and looked at herself in her hand-mirror to check if she looked good in this light. The result was considered unsatisfactory. The source of illumination was too low and it made her face look hard and her eyebrows too thick.
'Makes me look like a Japanese mask.'
She put the lamp on the piano, sat down, had another look in her mirror, and scowled in disgust. Only half her face was lit. Now she looked like a Greek mask. Try putting the lamp high up, how about on top of the bookcase? She sat down again, peered at herself for a third time, and was satisfied. The diffused glow, which was almost as effective as concealed lighting, made her features look even and regular, like a statue's. Good, that's settled. But, when he came, be sure to sit on the sofa facing the long mirror. She tried it out for size. Yes, very good, because that way she'd be able to monitor progress in the mirror without his noticing, keep a regular check on the state of her face and the folds in her dress, which she could then adjust if necessary. Such a good idea to have had the long mirror brought down. And, since he would obviously come and sit next to her for the you know what et cetera, she'd be perfectly placed to glance up at her reflection during interludes to straighten her hair et cetera.
