by Albert Cohen
CHAPTER 95
Supine, with the family photograph album propped up against her, twisting and untwisting a ribbon like a bed-fast convalescent with nothing to do, she lay playing with her ribbon, alone with the sound of the sea, alone with her ribbon. Abruptly she tossed it aside and opened the album, a weighty tome bound in leather and buckram with metal corners and clasps, and began leafing through it. Sitting at a little cloth-draped table, a great-grandmama in a crinoline, with unforgiving eyes, armed with a Bible in which she keeps her place with one finger. A short great-uncle in a colonel's uniform, elbow leaning on a wreathed column, standing impishly in front of a palm-tree on a painted backdrop, legs raffishly crossed and one foot resting on a roguishly arched toe. Herself at six months, a well-fed, sunny-faced credit of a baby on a cushion. Daddy getting an honorary doctorate. Uncle Agrippa chairing a meeting of the synod of the Swiss Protestant Church. Herself at thirteen with bare legs and ankle-socks. Cousin Aymon, Swiss Minister in Paris, with the legation staff. Tantlérie having tea with some chichi English lady. A garden party at Tantlérie's.
She closed the album, quelled the silver clasps, popped a chocolate into her mouth, and let the resulting bitter mud slowly dissolve. All of Genevan high society was there, at the garden party. Charming people, people with taste. She fiddled with her hair, curling it with one finger then uncurling it. The corners of her mouth drooped in a childish scowl, her diaphragm contracted, and the air in her lungs was expelled sharply. A sob, in other words. Outside, the immortal sea.
Oh the Swiss mountains, those summer holidays in the mountains with Éliane. Lying under a buzzing pine-tree, holding hands, how happily they had listened to the distant tapping, to the sound of a peasant sharpening the blade of his scythe with a hammer, a regular tapping borne on the diamond air, clear and resonant in the hot summer sun and so reassuring. Oh her mountain pulsating with life in high summer, insects busy in the sun, ceaselessly going about their business, families to feed, ants scurrying, the simple, strong men cutting the hay, simple, good men with long moustaches cutting the hay, hardworking men, honest Swiss mountainfolk, simple and true. Christians.
She switched off the light, turned on her side, immediately caught the smell of dust and hot sun, and saw once more Tantlérie's attic where in the holidays she and her sister were secretly great actresses dressed up in old clothes purloined from trunks, two skinny adolescent girls too tall for their age, declaiming a tragedy, dying deaths and snorting with passion, she as Phedre amorously hoarse-voiced, Éliane as faithful Hippolyte, and then suddenly collapsing in a fit of giggles and the laughter of youth. She switched the light back on to see what time it was. Nearly midnight and not sleepy. She had another look at the photo of herself when she was thirteen. A pretty little thing with those curls and her great big bow.
In the bathroom, wearing a short tennis skirt and a close-fitting top which showed the shape of her full breasts, bare-legged, with ankle-socks and tennis shoes, she made up her lips and her eyes, dampened her hair, which she arranged in ringlets and tied up in a big blue ribbon, then took a step back to get a better view of herself in the mirror. There was something disturbing about the little girl with a made-up face who stared back at her. She sat down, crossed her legs, stuck out her tongue, moistened her top lip, and crossed her legs higher.
'Oh no,' she murmured and suddenly stood up, wiped off the make-up, uncurled her ringlets, removed all trace of her little-girl disguise, and then stopped absolutely still. Yes, go and speak to him, tell him everything, unburden herself. It was vile of her to have kept him in the dark all this time. She combed her hair, put on her dressing-gown and stepped into her white sandals, applied perfume to give herself courage, and consulted the mirror mirror on the wall.
CHAPTER 96
That's it that's the answer pretend I'm mad pretend she's my mother the Queen and I'm the King her son the King with the crown which Rachel the midget my lovely midget Rachel gave me that day in the coach in the cellar as I was leaving she said I was to take it with me the battered cardboard crown with imitation rubies from the Feast of Lots the Feast of Queen Esther blessings be upon her yes I'll put on the crown and I'll go cross-eyed and doolally to make it look genuine to make her think I've gone mad but then I'll suddenly switch to warm smiles to make her think everything's fine yes as madman and son I shall be able to love her absolutely without having to play the lover play the animal game of the lover without any of that regulation bumping and grinding and groaning and shunting and pummelling yes no more having to dominate and subdue her through the sweaty collision of two rumpling crumpling bodies yes free of passion free of having to humiliate her free of having to take the wind out of her poor sails a son is not expected to share a bed all that's required of a son is to cherish oh I'll do all the cherishing that's needed oh miracle no more striving to turn each day into love's sweet dawn a son is not expected to breathe fire oh miracle no more having to be prodigious all the time no more having to be a sloe-eyed exciting lover no more having to be tall and dark and enigmatic oh miracle no more of those wild tonguing kisses which make both participants look so moronic that they'd die laughing or curl up with shame if they could only see the doggy expressions they had on their faces O darling darling at last I'd be free to be tenderly loving and not be afraid that you'd find my tenderness dull afraid that you'd see it as a sign of weakness the sort of weakness that women despise because they all go wild for gorilla muscles and then my darling you could catch as many colds as you liked you could rumble away to your heart's content rumble your fill rumble all you wanted a sneezing nose-wiping rumbling mother or even a mother with bad breath is no less loved yes loved just as much and even more if she sneezes nicely or rather pretend I'm mad a mad father and she's my daughter no a mother and a mad son is heaps better a mother never deserts her son but a daughter always ends up running away with a gorilla carried off in the long hairy arms of a gorilla and she stops loving her father and on her wedding day she spits in his face and says go to hell and drop dead for she is counting on what he'll leave her in his will and also if I were a son I could serve and honour and respect her I so want to respect her oh yes I'd respect her yes I would if I were her son for ever and ever oh miracle not feeling bored with her any more and helping in all sorts of ways a man who is mad is entitled to yes sweep the floor together do the cooking together cook and talk about salt and winter savory yes and summer savory too doing the cooking together getting on with it quietly like friends oh miracle to be two friends and even up to a point two girls together oh miracle to go shopping in the market at Saint-Raphaël a man who is mad is perfectly in his rights to go shopping in the market with his mother his pretty mother yes and I'll carry the bags yes one day if she's tired I'll say that although I'm King I'll do the shopping by myself and she'll agree to avoid upsetting the madman and if she's tired she'll also let me sweep the floor all by myself I shall insist on it such is my good pleasure Madame but I'll do the sweeping right royally I'll always wear my crown wear my cardboard crown tilted slightly to one side to make myself look like a dotty sort of king but nice with it yes while she takes a bath I who am King and son will make the beds as a nice surprise yes get a move on with the beds do them properly pull the underthingumajig straight no creases a surprise for the Queen-mother and then as a reward for giving her a surprise she'll give me a kiss oh miracle just a peck on the cheek on both cheeks we can kiss all the time with no more need to be afraid of surfeit no more need to be afraid of losing face no more need to be beastly no more need to pretend to be one of those heartless types women always fall for just to please her and prevent her being bored yes starting tomorrow it's son and mother for ever and ever and an end to juices flowing boot out the man the beast the swine the father she deceived me with deceived her son I'll ask her if she loves me more if she loves her son more than she loves the man who died and is no more and she will say why of course I do and I'll tell her to send to Cannes and order me a golden throne and I shall alway
s be dignified and royal and royally enthroned when she comes knocking on my door I shall say that at the King's court etiquette requires that you scratch on the door as at the court of Louis XIV when she comes in I'll order her to curtsy true Madame you may be my mother but you are also a subject so pray Madame curtsy thrice to your King and after you've dropped your curtsies I shall stand and in turn shall bow three times to my lady mother as behoves a loving son a mad son yes I shan't mind pretending to be mad until the day I die if it means that I can at last love her truly O my love I shall love you with the love which never dies.'
CHAPTER 97
She closed the door behind her, approached him slowly, and stopped at the foot of the bed. He sensed from her tightly clenched hands and the solemn way she stood that she had steeled herself to take an unprecedented step. She stared at the floor, very tense, and asked if she could lie down by his side. He moved to make room for her.
'I've something serious to say,' she said, and she took his hand in hers. 'It's a secret. I can't keep it to myself any more. Darling, don't think too badly of me. I didn't love my husband, I used to think I wasn't normal, I was so alone. Can I tell you everything?'
He did not reply. A sudden rush of blood oppressed his lungs, interfered with his breathing, prevented his speaking. He knew that she was waiting for some word of encouragement before going on, but he also knew that if he said anything she would be frightened by the snarl in his voice and wouldn't say another word. He nodded a yes and stroked her shoulder.
'Tell me, darling, things won't go all sour between us afterwards, will they?'
He nodded a no and squeezed her hand. But he sensed that he was going to have to say something to reassure her, to ensure that she told him everything. After taking several deep breaths to calm himself, he smiled.
'No, darling, things won't go sour between us.'
'You'll listen like a friend?'
'Yes, darling, like a friend.'
'It was before I met you, you know.'
He felt repelled by the body lying next to his. But he stroked her hair.
'I dare say life with a man you didn't love must have been pretty miserable.'
'Thanks for understanding,' she said, and she gave him a wan, dignified, hurt little smile which irritated him beyond endurance.
'And it lasted how long?' he asked, still caressing her hair.
'Till the day after the Ritz. Naturally I wrote and told him it was all over.'
'Have you seen him since?'
