Authors: Albert Cohen
'I was happy,' she murmured, ensconced on her throne.
She tore off another sheet of lavatory paper and made it into a cone, which she immediately tossed aside. She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. She wasn't a little girl any more. Two lines there, running upwards from the sides of her mouth. She sat down once more on the white japanned seat, bent down and picked up the cone. 'Tsk, tsk! Where are your manners, Ariane? That's the sort of thing common children do.' Tantlérie had said that to her the day she'd wanted to buy an ice-cream cone in the street, and had also said it that time she'd wanted to put coins in the slot-machines at Cornavin station. Oh, her childhood! When she was thirteen she'd had a crush on Pastor Ferrier, who had replaced Pastor Oltramare at Sunday School. When they'd sung her favourite hymn, 'Jesu, Thou joy of loving hearts', she had sung 'Ferrier, thou joy of loving hearts' instead, and no one ever noticed. Instead of 'Jesu, our hope, our heart's desire', she sang 'Ferrier, our hope, our. heart's desire', and no one ever noticed that either. And when she had finished Sunday School she had written him a letter which ended: 'Through you I have seen the Light', and she had signed it simply 'A grateful Sunday Scholar'. All that, and then last night there'd been Ingrid. It was ridiculous sitting all this time on a toilet seat. It's because I'm scared. One of the earliest photos of her, a toothless baby in a tub of water under a tree in the garden, laughing gummily. Another photo when she was two and roly-poly and sitting on the grass half-hidden by a clump of marguerites much taller than she was. Another, of her riding on the back of the Candolles' huge St Bernard. Her little cousin Andre hitting her when she was seven. Mariette had told her to stick up for herself, that she was just as tough as her cousin. Next day, she had stuck up for herself, had fought Andre and won, and went home with her dress torn, but victorious. The photo of her and Éliane wearing Arab costumes for a fancy-dress party at the house of their cousins, the de Lulles.
'I was happy,' she murmured, ensconced on her throne, and she leaned over and reached for the ether bottle, inhaled, and smiled as the cool breath flowed into her. 'It's freezing hard the ice is on the pool,' she hummed to the old tune, the tune of her childhood, and she sobbed suddenly, deliberately, barkingly. Oh, the games she'd played with Ehane. They'd played persecuting Christians, and she'd been St Blandine, thrown to the lions by the pagans, and Ehane as the lion had used a funnel to roar louder. Sometimes she had been a heroic Christian virgin, chained to the banisters on the attic stairs, and Éliane was a Roman soldier torturing her by sticking a pin in her leg, but not very deep, and afterwards they'd put iodine on the pricks. They'd also played falling down. They let themselves fall off the swing to hurt themselves a bit, or climbed on to a'table and on to a chair on the table to reach the round window near the ceiling, and then they'd squirmed through the round window and let themselves drop into the bathroom on the other side. Once, they'd filled the bath and she'd let herself drop into the water with all her clothes on. I was happy, I had no idea of what lay in wait for me. Later on, when Éliane was fifteen and she was sixteen, spouting verse at the old, tarnished Venetian mirror. Ah! Tantieme's attic! The smell of dust and hot sun on wood, their very own sanctuary in the summer holidays, where she and her sister could be great actresses throatily declaiming tragedies. Éliane was always the hero and she was always the heroine, and she would alternate weeping and wailing with striking regal poses, but the grandest gesture of all, the one they considered to be the ultimate expression of love, was to press one hand to the brow and then take ages dying. Darling Éliane! How awful they'd felt when they found out that a cousin of theirs, a student, had got himself drunk. She'd gone to Éliane's room in the middle of the night and woken her up, and they'd both got down on their knees and prayed for him. 'Lord, please make him grow to be a decent man, and see that he does not partake of strong waters.' All that, and then last night there'd been Ingrid. Later on, when Éliane was sixteen and she was seventeen, those innocent evening dances with other girls. They'd set such store by doing the steps right. They didn't say 'doing the right steps' but 'doing the steps right', with the emphasis on 'right'. They had wanted those evenings to be perfect, a work of art. Empty-headed but happy, self-assured, such proper young ladies, the flower of the finest Genevan society, and very highly thought of. All that, and then last night there'd been Ingrid. She'd done it for him, to keep him. Heigh-ho, on your feet.
Back in her bedroom, stretched out on the bed with a box of chocolates propped up against her ribs, she put a fondant in her mouth, unstopped the bottle of ether, and inhaled, smiling at the surgical iciness which seeped into her. Geneva, when their love was new, the charity show organized by the people from the Secretariat. He had asked her to be in it, it was a tragedy, saying that he wanted to be in the audience and be like a total stranger who didn't know her from Eve, that he wanted to see her as if she were a stranger, remote and distant up there on stage, and know that after the performance she would be his all through the night, and no one in the auditorium would have the slightest inkling. After each act, when the spectators applauded and she took her bow with the rest of the cast, it was at him that she had looked, it was to him that she had bowed. Oh, the vibrant joy of their secret love! Before the play began, she'd told him that when she came down the steps in Act One her hand would move across her groin to gather the cloth of her dress and lift her skirt an inch or so, it was a dark-blue dress, such a pretty blue, and by this gesture he would know that at that instant the remote stranger up there on the stage would be thinking of him, thinking of their nights.
She pressed one nostril with her forefinger to block it and allow the other nostril to suck at the ether fumes more greedily, to increase the flow. She reached for two chocolates, put them in her mouth, and felt queasy as she chewed on them. Her march of triumph oh the day of his return. Striding along, wearing nothing under her ducky dress which flapped in the breeze, eagerly striding out on her march of love, the snap of her dress was exhilarating, the wind on her face was exhilarating, the wind on her face and her head held high, the wind on her young face alive with love. She inhaled again, smiled, and there were tears on her little-girl face, on her face which had aged, and the tears redistributed the mascara over her cheeks.
Suddenly she got out of bed, padded heavily around the airless room, ether bottle in hand, stamping her feet, deliberately clumping, wilfully old, grotesquely skipping a step, poking her tongue out, and then she began muttering that this was the march of love, the march of her love, the squalid march of love.
CHAPTER 104
Late evening. She came to him, approached the bed, and asked if she could stay. He motioned to her to He down next to him, reached for the bottle she was holding, removed the stopper, and inhaled deeply. She lay down by his side without removing her dressing-gown. He turned out the light and asked if she wanted the ether. In the darkened room, she felt for the bottle, inhaled deeply, then inhaled some more, and all at once from the ballroom rose a summons, Hawaiian guitars reluctantly releasing their long, pure lamentation, a lament from the heart, a long-drawn, sweet lament, liquid to liquidate the soul, an infinite keening of farewell. It was the same music, exactly the same, that they had heard on that first night; then she had bowed her head, had looked at him, icy-cold, trembling with fear and love. Now she lay there and listened, clutching the bottle, cradling it like a baby.
She inhaled again, closed her eyes, and smiled. Now they were playing a waltz downstairs, their first waltz. Solemnly did they dance, with eyes only for each other did they dance, with eyes feasting on the other, solicitous, intense, engrossed. Locked in his arms and happy to follow his lead, oblivious to her surroundings, she listened to the happiness coursing through her veins, glancing up at intervals to admire herself in the tall mirrors on the walls, was elegant, heart-stopping, exceptional, a woman loved, a woman fair and beloved of her lord.
He took the ether bottle from her and held it under his nose. In those first days, the wild joy he had felt as he readied himself to go to her, the glory of shaving for her, of bathing for her, and in the car which took him to her he sang in triumph that he was loved, looked at the man who was loved reflected in the glass of the car window, the happy owner of perfect teeth, smiling at his teeth, happy to be handsome, happy to be going to her, to the woman who stood waiting robed in love at her door beneath the roses, waiting in her white dress with the wide sleeves nipped at the wrist. 'What are you thinking about?' she asked. 'Your Romanian dress,' he said. 'You liked it, didn't you?' she asked. 'You looked wonderful in it,' he said, and in the dark she breathed more easily, just as she used to when he said nice things to her. 'I've still got it: it's in my trunk,' she said, and she switched on the light so that she could look at him, and she ran her finger along the line of his eyebrows.
She reached once more for the ether bottle, inhaled, and smiled. On that first evening, when she'd danced with him, she had drawn back the better to see him as he whispered wondrous words which she did not always understand for she was too busy drinking him with her eyes. But when he'd said that they were in love, then she'd understood, she'd given a little laugh of joy, and then he had told her that he was dying to kiss and bless her long curved lashes. Whereas now . . .
She inhaled more ether and smiled at the easeful coolness sluicing into her. Ah, the little sitting-room that first evening, her little sitting-room which she had insisted on showing him straight away, after the Ritz. They had stood at the open window looking out over the garden, breathing the star-spangled night, listening to the softly stirring leaves of the trees, which whispered their love. 'Always,' she had whispered. Then she had played a chorale for him. Then the sofa, kisses on the sofa, the first true kisses of her life. 'Your woman,' she had said to him each time they stopped to get their breath. Over and over they had declared that they loved each other, then they had laughed for joy and joined their lips, and then broken off so that they could proclaim the wondrous tidings times without number. Whereas now . . .
She inhaled the ether and smiled. Ah, those first days of their loving, Genevan days, the making shift to be beautiful, the joy of being beautiful for him, the joy of waiting, the moment of his coming at nine and she invariably at the door, impatient, with the healthy bloom of youth on her, waiting at the door beneath the roses round the door, in the Romanian dress he liked, white it was with wide sleeves nipped at the wrist, the ecstatic greetings when they saw each other again, the evenings spent together, the hours spent gazing at each other, talking to each other, telling each other everything about themselves, innumerable kisses offered and received, yes, the only true kisses of her entire life, and when he left her in the small hours, left her in a star-burst of kisses, deep and endless kisses, sometimes he came back, an hour later, two minutes later, oh the wonder of seeing her once more, oh his passionate homecoming, 'I can't live without you,' he said, 'it's impossible', and for love's sake would kneel before her, just as she for love's sake knelt before him, and then there was kissing, she and he devout and pious, a shoal, a mountain of kisses, sincere kisses, love's true kisses, a great flapping of winged kisses, 'I can't live without you,' he had said between the kisses, and he had stayed, her miracle who could not, no he could not live without her, stayed for hours on end, stayed until the dawn broke and the birds began to sing, and it was love. Whereas now they had stopped wanting each other, they were bored with each other. This she now knew.
She inhaled the ether and smiled. When he went away on official business, ah what telegrams he had sent her, in code if the words were too passionate, and oh the joy of deciphering his words, and the long telegrams she had sent in reply, telegrams hundreds of words long, always telegrams, so that there should be no delay in his knowing how much she loved him, and oh all the preparations she had made for his sacred return, the clothes she'd ordered from the dress shop, the hours spent perfecting her beauty, and she had sung the Whitsun hymn, sung of the coming of a heavenly king. And now they were bored with each other, they had stopped wanting each other, felt no desire for each other, they forced themselves, they strained after desire, and this she now knew, had long known.
'What are you thinking?' she asked.
'Nothing,' he said, and he kissed her hand and looked at her. Last night she had come to him dressed as a schoolgirl and been horribly cute, saying 'Hello Uncle' and sitting bare-thighed on her uncle's knee and whispering that if she didn't behave properly then he'd have to smack her. Oh the sorrow of it and the foolishness, and yet there was nobility, there was grandeur behind the grotesquerie, which was nothing less than the revolt of their threadbare passion against the dying of the flame: their stupid obscenities were a last, desperate attempt to rekindle it. At midnight she had suggested asking Ingrid to come, and he had agreed, capitulated out of desperation, because she wanted it, to breathe life into the embers. They were in paradise, and they suffered the torments of the damned. She took his hand.
'Want to, darling?'
He squeezed her hand and intimated yes, he wanted to. Whereupon she got out of bed and left him.
CHAPTER 105
In her room, she picked up a book which lay on the table, opened it, read a few lines without understanding a word, put it down again, removed the cord of her dressing-gown, and dropped it on the floor. Perspiring, she bent down and picked it up again, cracked it several times, like a whip, with a dazed look in her eye and a smile on her lips, then she dropped it again and touched her cheek. It was her, no doubt about it, her cheeks were warm, her hands could move, she was in charge of her hands. Oh this love of mine inside me, eternally enclosed within me and perpetually released so that I may contemplate it, and then folded away once more and shut up and kept safe in my heart. She had liked that sentence so much that she had written it down so she would never forget it. One evening he had walked into her little sitting-room and they had both suddenly received such an illumination of the purity of their love that they had fallen to their knees, had suddenly knelt before each other.