Authors: Albert Cohen
'Keep cool. Look through the old ones.'
From the wardrobe in her room she took the white dress she had worn at the Ritz. Nothing doing, it was obvious that it had been worn, it was all creased. And she'd had weeks and weeks to get it washed and ironed! Damn Mariette, who should have thought! Never mind, ship on the white linen skirt and the sailor top. No, too awful. All those dresses she had ordered, all those stocks she had sold so that she could end up wearing a morning outfit at nine at night! She went back to the wardrobe and riffled frantically through all the clothes on their hangers. Keep calm! Cool head! How about the green? It was old but possible!
Back in the bathroom, she stood on the stool, held the dress against her nakedness, and inspected the result. The green made her look waxen, like a lemon. Overwhelmed by misery, she did not even think about drowning the offender, took it back with her to her room, where she stood by her bedside table, turned the photo of Sol to the wall so that she wouldn't have to see him, lit a cigarette, and then stubbed it out at once. Noticing a length of string left over from one of Volkmaar's boxes, she picked it up, started pulling at it, trying to snap it, yanking and tugging, twisting it this way and that in a flurry of nerves. Half past eight. Sunk, she was completely sunk, she did not have a thing to wear, and when he rang the doorbell, and he would be ringing it soon, she wouldn't be able to answer the door and he'd go away. She yanked the string, disaster staring her in the face, hauled on the rope of her misfortune. 'Sunk, sunk, sunk,' she chanted to beguile and numb her unhappiness and be lulled by it. She picked up the green dress, gripped one end between her teeth, and pulled hard on the other. The material tore with a protesting groan.
'Now where's that got you, you moron, you imbecile, you silly silly cow,' she snarled, hating herself.
She dropped the dress, kicked it away, picked up the string, and dazedly resumed her grim sport, pulling it this way and that and mouthing meaningless words which smothered her wretchedness. She brandished her fist at heaven, which was to blame, and then collapsed in a heap on the bed. Sunk, she was completely sunk, she had nothing to wear.
'Stupid cow! Rotten old God!'
Suddenly she sat up, jumped off the bed, grabbed a key, and ran out of the room. As she used to when she was a little girl, she mounted the banister and slid down it, the feel of the wood against her bare skin reminding her that she was wearing nothing. No matter, there was never anybody about outside at this time of night. She raced through the garden, which was Uttered with Volkmaar's boxes, darted into her Dreamy-House, opened the wardrobe, snatched Éliane's dress and sandals, and ran back indoors, ambered by moonlight.
She stood in front of the mirror, shut her eyes, and put on the silk dress which still carried the scent of Éliane. Then she opened her eyes and gasped. The dress looked even better on her than the linen ducky! A revelation! A Greek statue! And now for the gilt sandals! Breathless, she fastened the straps, smiling as she did so at her bare legs, which went awfully well with the noble folds of the dress. Oh Samothrace, oh Victory, oh all the birds of the air that flew on fluttering wings of innocence!
Motionless in front of the mirror, she worshipped her new-born soul in this dress of silk so pure, so white, then moved her arms, her legs, to see and admire the way it hung and clung. Oh her darling! Oh she who was his alone! Euphorically, for he would find her beautiful, she smiled at herself in the dress which had once robed the beauty of one who now lay rotting in earth. Absurd in her youth in front of the long swing-mirror, she sang the air of the Whitsun hymn once more, sang the coming of a heavenly king.
The ticket-inspector proclaimed the imminence of Nyon, and Adrien opened the window and leaned out. Working-class houses came into view, and a girl at a window waved her hand. The engine gave a long hysterical whoop, and its billowing smoke was understained by the glow of fire, and more rails glinted and went forth multiplying, and stationary trucks rolled past looking lonely and bored, and then the station arrived, and the train faltered, blew off steam, and finally sighed to a stop in a concatenation of jolts fore and aft while the rails squealed like a beaten dog. 'Nyon,' intoned a voice of fathomless melancholy outside.
He stood up, lowered the window, and smiled with satisfaction. Eight thirty. The time to the minute given in the timetable. Jolly well done! These Swiss trains were spot on. Did you a power of good being on trains that arrived on time. Right then, here we are in Nyon, last stop before Geneva. Geneva in twenty mins. When the train sets off, make self presentable. Brush clothes, remove dandruff, comb hair, give nails a thorough scrub.
The engine shrieked like a mad woman, and the wheels groaned then made up their minds after a series of jolts, back-trackings and much clanking of tortured metal, and the train chugged on its way. Eight thirty-one, exactly as per the timetable. Due into Geneva Cornavin at ten to nine! Ten minutes by taxi to Cologny! He rubbed his hands savagely. At nine o'clock, that is twenty-nine minutes from now, he would see his wife and be happy! By the stars, he'd take her up a cup of tea and a half tomorrow morning!
'Morning, slinky-boots,' he murmured, making his way to the lavatory to make himself handsome for her. 'Sleep well, pet? Get a good rest? Here's a nice cup of tea for my sweetie!'
CHAPTER 72
Turning her back on the shipwrecked dresses, she put the finishing touches to her hair with untold strokes of her comb, first bold and expansive, then minute and subtle, circumspect, barely perceptible, a sequence of enigmatic pats and impalpable caresses executed in pursuit of an absolute of such infinitesimal perfection that only a woman could comprehend their relevance or appreciate their purpose. And all to a generous accompaniment of smirks, trial smiles, steps backward, frowns and long, searching looks. Pronounced stunning by self after a final impartial scrutiny, she glided out of the bathroom with soul refreshed and certain of her destiny.
But when she reached her sitting-room a fresh inspection was necessary, because it was here, in this Hght, that she would be seen by him. Half past eight, she had heaps of time. So, parking herself in front of the long mirror, she embarked on a ruthless quest for imperfections, undertook a meticulous close-range inspection of her face, and emerged from the grilling acquitted of all charges. Everything in order, no further action required. Lips excellent, no shine to nose, hair studiously disarranged, teeth glowing, thirty-two smilers firmly mounted, all present, correct and dazzlingly white, breasts, an indispensable item, as and where they should be, one on the right, the other on the left. Her nose was a bit big, of course, but that was part of her charm. Anyway, his nose wasn't exactly small either. She reset a wisp of hair over her brow, shook her head to rectify the rectification and make it look natural. Then, keeping her left sandal flat on the floor, she angled the right so that the outer side showed and the inside remained pressed to the carpet, her intention being to see if, in a pose which she imagined set her off to advantage, the dress really looked good on her and was neither too long nor too short.
'Heartiest Congrats,' she concluded, and she dropped a curtsy to her reflection.
Still feasting her eyes on herself, she essayed a sweet smile and judged the result a success. Then, using her Uttle looking-glass, she inspected her back in the long mirror, noted that all was perfect, especially in the hindquarter division. In the matter of her profile, remember to show the right side.
'Come on,' she cried, suddenly delirious with glee, 'get your skates on, fat-head, yes, I mean you, Solal, that's right, you absolute fathead!'
Revelling in the sacrilege, she raised one hand to her mouth to cover a shocked grin. Then, after a further dab at the same wisp of hair and a final adjustment, she walked to and fro in front of the mirror, glancing into it slyly for glimpses of herself in motion. The dead girl's dress showed her hips much too blatantly, her sumptuous hips of which she had been ashamed once upon a time, disclosed much too clearly the light, lilac-scented, curved pubic arch. A bit blush-making, too revealing, too much on display. Heigh-ho, everything was his by right.
'Should I take just a peep at them? Just a little one, then, so I know what kind of impression they'll make on him. After all, if he's entitled to see them, why not me too? I mean, they are mine.'
After making herself decent once more, she again inspected the thermometer. Perfect. Good job there was no need to light a fire, the heat would have made her cheeks go all scarlet. Should she take a stroll in the garden to fill her mind with suitable thoughts? No, walking about might well spoil her face. The most sensible course was just to sit down and move as little as possible so as not to mar her perfection.
She sat in an armchair, holding her hand-mirror to ensure that the rose of her beauty did not wilt, and kept a watchful eye on her complexion for worrisome signs of deterioration. Paying particular attention to her nose, which she feared might well begin to shine in the warmth, she sat still and straight, like a model pupil, not stirring and hardly breathing to avoid spoiling her exquisiteness, a sacred idol which was yet fragile and beset by multiple dangers, scarcely moving her head and preferring to swivel her eyes whenever she glanced up to see the time by the carriage-clock. At intervals, still peering into her hand-mirror, she pouted her lips sensuously, or rearranged a fold in her dress, or raised one hand to her hair, to straighten, though without appreciable effect, some minutely errant strand, or inspected her nails, or lovingly contemplated her gilt sandals, or rectified another fold, or tried a smile which was altogether finer and subtler, or studied her teeth again, or checked the time, trembling all the while lest her beauty might fade as she waited.
'This light is no good at all. Too harsh. It's the white lampshade that's wrong. I'm already starting to look a bit red. By the time he gets here it'll be even worse, I'll look like a farmer's widow who's just put away an enormous dinner.'
She went out and came back clutching a red silk scarf which she draped over the lampshade. Standing on an armchair, she gazed round the room and felt better. The light was just right now, mysterious and suffused. Sitting down again, she consulted her hand-mirror and liked what she saw. The new light had banished the flush from her cheek, which was now clear and pale, like jade. Yes, fine, sort of enigmatic chiaroscuro effect, terribly Leonardo da Vinci. Twenty to nine. 'Another twenty minutes,' she murmured, breathless with excitement. Why couldn't the beast come a bit early? At this instant she was quite perfect. Smoke a cigarette to calm nerves? No, might stain teeth. Anyway, if there were to be fruity kisses it wouldn't do to reek of tobacco. Incidentally, when he rang, don't forget to eat a couple of quick grapes before answering, just one or two to keep mouth fresh, indispensable for snorkelling.
'And even when he's here, munch a surreptitious grape or two from time to time, taking care he doesn't see you, or, if he does, making it seem all very casual, though really it will be to maintain oral freshness. Awfully petty this, of course, but what do you expect, I'm a woman and a realist, the point being that it's absolutely crucial that he should find unadulterated pleasure in you know what. At this moment my mouth is a little dry because I'm excited. But he'll think
that the freshness of the grapes comes from me, an amazing, natural freshness. That's how it is: a girl's got to think of everything.'
The packets of cigarettes closed like that made the place look like a tobacconist's. To open them all would obviously be taking things too far, but opening just a couple would do the trick, it wouldn't make it look as though she were falling over herself to please him. How was that? Yes, very good, much more friendly, altogether cosier. And now a ticklish question. What sort of welcome should she lay on for him when he came? Wait for him at the front door? No, that would suggest overkeenness and make her look like a housemaid. Wait for the bell to ring and then open the door? Yes - but what then? She stood up, again made her way to the long mirror, and held out her hand to it with a hostessy smile.
'Good-evening, how are you?' she said in her most breathily aristocratic voice.
No good, that made her sound like an overeager Scoutmistress. Besides, that 'how are you?' wasn't exactly romantic. How about leaving it at good-evening, and lingering over eeevening in an untamed, whispery sort of way, with a hint of sensuality thrown in? 'Good eeevening,' she said, trying it out for size. Or perhaps she could just hold her hands out and not say anything at all, as though there were not words enough to express the moment, and then collapse into his arms like a bird with a broken wing? That was a possibility. Of course, saying 'Good evening, how are you?' when he got there would have the advantage of establishing a suitably disturbing contrast between the respect for social convention shown by the question and the aforementioned collapse and the subsequent hungry kiss which would have to follow immediately if full advantage was to be taken of the grapes.
'No, not feminine enough. Wait for him to make the first move.'
She moistened one finger, rubbed a mark on her left sandal, inspected her nostrils in the hand-mirror, checked them for come-hitherness by making them dilate, and redirected a dozen hairs to the right. This light was definitely too dim, he wouldn't be able to see her properly. It was too red, it was oppressive, ambiguous and really quite
louche.
That was because the silk round the lampshade was double. Just make it the one layer. She climbed on to the armchair once more and made the change. The lighting was unassailably respectable now, with no hint of bawdy-house or lewd dancehall.
Nine minutes to nine. She improved the arrangement of a few of the roses, removed one which was wilting, and put it away in a drawer. Then she repositioned one of the vases and put another at a safer distance, because it was too near the sofa and might get knocked over. Seven minutes to nine. She munched two grapes and moistened her lips. Everything was now under control.