Authors: Albert Cohen
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. Til 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.
'On top of which there's another advantage. If I play my cards right and keep a weather eye open, maybe I'll be able to watch us billing and cooing, which would be too too divine,
n'est-ce pasV
Ogling herself in the mirror, her dress having worked itself up over her knees in the heat of passion, she pouted her lips in complete surrender. She resumed a more becoming pose, then clapped her hands in delight. Yum-yum! not much longer to wait! And now imagine you're him and try and work out if he'll like what he sees when he comes. She got up, stood close to the long mirror, smiled at it and stared approvingly at the face that he would admire when he came. For fun, she forced a squint then pulled dreadful faces so that she might exult in the contrast and in the rediscovery of her beauty when she stopped. Come to think of it, she reflected, she didn't really need him at all. She was alone now, and she was perfectly happy.
'Yes, sweetie-pie, but that's only because he exists at the Ritz.'
She kissed her lips on the cold smoothness of the mirror, admired her eyebrows, and was sorry that she couldn't kiss them too. That would be a job for him when he came. Oh the thought of him! In fearful joy she pinched her cheeks, pulled her hair, shrieked, and jumped up and down. And there would be such kisses, the ripe fruits of their love! She returned to the mirror, poked out her tongue diffidently, and then withdrew it at once, feeling ashamed. She stretched.
'Why doesn't he get a move on!'
But now down to serious matters. Start checking. The roses, all red ones, were fine. Three bunches, a dozen in each bunch, were quite enough. More and it would look as if she were grovelling. She ran one finger over the table. Not a speck of dust: Now the thermometer. Twenty-two Centigrade, the ideal temperature for you know what. She smoothed away an unsighdy hollow in the cushion of the sofa, raised the lid of the piano, propped a Mozart sonata on the music stand and checked the magazine rack. All in order, no rubbish there. The
Vogues
and
Marie-Claires
were safely hidden in the kitchen. And now add a touch of intellectual tone. On the piano she put Pascal's
Pensees,
and on the sofa a volume by Spinoza, which she left open. That way when he arrived he'd think she'd been reading a serious book while she waited. No, that wasn't right, it would be a lie. Besides it was dangerous to leave the book lying around, even unopened. It wasn't as if she were well up on Spinoza. Knowing about polishing spectacle lenses and pantheism was hardly enough. If he ever brought the subject up, she wouldn't exactly shine. She put the
Ethics
firmly back on the shelf.
What else was there? On the little table, next to the bowl of best grapes, she set out packets of cigarettes, English, American, French, Turkish, so that he could choose. She opened then closed each packet in turn. If they were left open, it would create an impression of overeagerness, make it shamingly clear that everything was intended for him. Fine, nothing more to be done here. After casting a glance all round, she left the room.
What could she do to smarten up the hall? Put down one of Tantieme's rugs? No, out of the question, it would mean fetching one up from the cellar, and that was dangerous. Too risky: her nails might get broken, her dress might get dirty, maybe she'd twist an ankle, given the state of those steps. The last thing she needed tonight was a sprain. The easiest solution was not to turn on the lights when he rang. The Deumatitis wouldn't be noticeable in the dark, and she'd show him directly into her little sitting-room.
Damn! Clean forgot about the odourless bath! Seven forty-two already! There was still time, but only just. Right, extra-quick dip with plan of battle! Soap self while counting to sixty, no, make that fifty-five! On reaching fifty-six, rinse off lather, stop when get to sixty-six! Dry with towel, sixty-seven to eighty!
'Come along, darling, I'm going to give you a bath. Give me your hand.'
Back once more in his compartment, he felt himself every inch an A. Relaxing in his plush seat, he yawned, smiled at his wife, and wound his watch, which did not need winding. Quarter to eight. Lausanne in fifteen minutes. To make the most of the luxury which was placed at his disposal free of charge, he laid his head on the middle cushion, a fat sausage held in place by two straps. By God, you wouldn't find Vermeylen travelling first-class! Poor Vermeylen, he'd forgotten to contact him, he would have very much liked to tell him all about his official visit. It was rather nice to think that the train was working so hard on his behalf, making such efforts for him, good old Adrien Deume, who was moving through space without moving a muscle, without lifting a finger, like a little king of creation. With his eyes closed and his head rocking deliriously on the cushion, he began in an undertone to draft the letter he would write tomorrow.
'Dear Mumsy, I send a loving kiss and hope you're not cross with me for deciding to bring forward the date of my return to Geneva so suddenly, but you must see Mumsy that it wouldn't have been fair now that my diplomatic mission to Brussels is over actually it finished yesterday to let another week go by without seeing my poor wife who must be feeling pretty bored all by herself, come on Mumsy smile for your ickle Didi, you'll never guess but I met someone awfully interesting, just as we were leaving Brussels this well-dressed chap got into my compartment and I sensed at once that here was someone I could get along with, very casually I glance at the visiting-card dangling from the handle of his case and I see that the person in question is Monsieur Louis-Lucas Boerhaave Director-General of the Belgian Foreign Office which means that he outranks Monsieur van Offel, my intuition hadn't let me down it's the little undefinable things that enable you to pick out distinguished persons, adopting the ploy of asking if he was bothered by my cigarette because as you can imagine I would never have dreamt of smoking my pipe in such company I struck up a conversation and it all went off very nicely, that's the advantage of travelling first-class you meet such interesting people, I should say that to start with he answered with a certain coolness but when he found out that I'd been staying for a few days with the van Offels who are socially on a par with him he immediately thawed and was tremendously friendly because he'd got me pegged, naturally I managed to slip in something about my lengthy official visit, in short he sensed that he was up against someone from his own social background, we chatted pleasantly about this and that, international situation, books, I found it most enjoyable, he's a very cultured man he reads Virgil in the original quotes bits of Greek but he likes a joke, for example we were talking about places to stay in Switzerland and he said there were inexpensive but very pleasant little hidey-holes in Gruyere and he didn't mean the cheese, we had a good laugh about that, unfortunately he got out in Luxemburg and I was sorry to see the back of such a charming man I mean I had taken a real shine to him, he ranks with ambassadors and will be part of the Belgian delegation to the Assembly in September he'll be assistant delegate while Monsieur van Offel will be merely a technical adviser, we exchanged cards and I told him we'd be delighted to have him to dinner when he came to Geneva in September, so it's all fixed, pity we don't have a guest room that's bigger and especially more elegant, a decent guest room is the key to personal contacts, if we had one that was really decent I might have offered it to Monsieur Boerhaave there and then, which would have put us on an instant close footing, in fact we ought to have two guest rooms like the Kanakises do, then we could have both Monsieur Boerhaave and Monsieur van Offel to stay, we'll have to discuss it some time, don't forget to convey my warmest wishes and my thanks to Madame van Offel for her delightful hospitality along with, my sincerest regards to Monsieur van Offel, and be sure you use the words "warmest wishes" "delightful hospitality" and "sincerest regards", they'll be noted and appreciated, I'm counting on you Mumsy not to leave this letter lying about on account of the comparison in terms of rank between Monsieur Boerhaave and Monsieur van Offel, the last named might perhaps take umbrage, but on the other hand you can mention casually that I got on very well with Monsieur Boerhaave.'
He gave a great yawn, stood up for something to do, staggered out into the corridor, pressed his face to a window, stared at the telegraph poles which went down like dominoes, at the grass less garish now in the gathering dusk, and at the mountains which stood out against the still light, still blue sky. He closed his eyes and prodded his stomach to check if it was upset. It wasn't, but all the same he'd best keep away from the restaurant car because the hors-d'oeuvres he'd eaten at lunch still lay heavy on him. Pity, it would have made the time pass more quickly. He'd have something light to eat when he got home. Home sweet home.
'Hello, darling! How are you? Glad to see me?'
*
Crumbs! Nine minutes past eight! She stood up hurriedly and soaped herself, counting rapidly. At fifty-six she suddenly collapsed back into the warm water, which splashed in all directions. She shut her eyes so that she would not see the devastation. Then, plucking up courage, she turned her head carefully by small, fearful instalments towards the dress she had hung over the stool, and finally opened one eye. Her light linen ducky was dripping with soapy water! Ruined! She was done for! O God, it would have been so easy not to have flopped into the bath, such a simple thing to have taken three seconds longer and got back in patiendy, in a civilized manner! Oh for a miracle! If only she could * turn back the clock one minute and not have rinsed herself yet and been able to submerge herself gently!
'Damn you, water!'
She made herself cry, and lashed out with her foot at the damned water. What should she do now? Rub the dress through quickly, then rinse and iron it? Sheer madness! It would take at least three hours for it to be dry enough to iron! But hold on, all was not lost, there were the rest of Volkmaar's concoctions. She got out of the bath, dripping wet but determined to put up a fight and save her love.
In her room, naked and only half dry, she got out Volkmaar's dresses and suits and threw the empty boxes, which got in her way, out of the window. Too bad, strolls in the garden with him were off the menu, boxes
causa.
Blast, the swing-mirror wasn't there. Try the lot on in the bathroom. To be able to see herself in the mirror she'd have to stand on the stool. She set off at a run, laden with a jumble of clothes.
No point even thinking about the four suits, none of them were any good. Heave-ho! And she tossed them one after the other into the bath, where they became waterlogged and slowly sank. Alternately climbing on to the stool then stepping off it, she tried on the dresses. The white crêpe was too full, though she'd told the stupid oaf over and over. One, two, three! And she drowned it with the unhinged smile of the desperate. As to the so-called sporty number with wooden buttons, there was absolutely no point in trying it on, it was the beastliest of the whole bunch, that much she'd realized at the last fitting but had been too cowardly to say anything! She had been as cowardly at the dressmaker's as she had been at the registry office when the man had asked her if she took you know who to be her awful wedded husband. Husband a fiasco, dresses a fiasco! This vile rag was much too short, and besides the stupid material was rough, stiff and heavy, she'd positively melt in it. Give it the old heave-ho! Into the drink! And now for the black velvet, her last hope. It was a fright! A long fatuous sack, and to boot it gaped at the neck even when she was standing perfectly straight! A neckline that gaped when you leaned forward was perfectly in order, but one that positively ballooned when you were standing up! Volkmaar was a swine! Oh, if she could she'd cut off his nose in slices, and each time she cut a slice she'd wave one of his dresses in his face! Away with you! Into the bath you go, black velvet! She watched it as it foundered and joined the others. Oh what a mess. My God! Twenty-five past eight!