Authors: Albert Cohen
'A tart, that's what.'
No, she wasn't a tart, she was a respectable married woman. That's what was so awful about it, a respectable woman who was prepared to do disgusting things with a man. Should he call a cab in due course, go to the station and ask which platform it was for the nine o'clock train? Perhaps she'd feel sorry when she saw what a good sport he was by the way he'd pass them their bags through their carriage window. He wouldn't say a word, he'd just look at her with eyes glistening with tears, such pathetic eyes, and perhaps she'd get off the train. He murmured: 'Adrien, my darling, I'm not going, I'm coming back to you.'
But she wouldn't come back. The other man played a cool hand. He was a lover, made her jealous probably. Whereas he had always been straight with her. From him she'd got nothing but sincere affection and consideration. And she'd made him pay for it. Oh yes, sincere affection, the affection of a dupe, the consideration of a hoodwinked husband. He scraped out his nose in Mariette's little mirror, inspected his haul, rolled it into a ball, and flicked it away. What did such things matter now? Anyway, as a deserted husband, he was entitled. Go upstairs now and take off these sodden pyjama trousers, which were making him feel cold. Perhaps it was Florence, and perhaps they were staying in the same hotel, the one where they'd spent their honeymoon, overlooking the Arno. Maybe in the same room, and she'd let him touch her and she'd touch him back without feeling the weeniest bit sick. He raised his eyebrows. He'd always trusted her completely. Why would she want to write to him from there? To tell him how many times they'd done it since they left? It was his mackintosh she'd felt so sorry for, but he could up and die for all she cared. Stop, that's enough of that.
'I'm ordering you to go upstairs and get dressed.'
In his room, he knelt before the unmade bed and prayed to God to make her come back to him. Then he got up and stared at his hands. Of course, his prayers wouldn't do any good, he was well aware of that. He went over to his bedside table. Next to his wristwatch, she smiled out of her antique silver frame. He turned the photograph to the wall. He'd been so delighted when he'd found the frame in the antique shop. Quick, rush off home to show her and put her picture in it! Quarter past eight. He fastened his watch on his wrist. At least if he knew where she was at this moment he could phone, he would beg her to put off her departure so that they could talk things over together, like friends, he would tell her to wait and see if she was sure she couldn't live without this man.
'Darling, wait, wait and see if you really can't live without him.'
A little while ago he'd been too hot. Now he was too cold. He put an overcoat on top of his pyjamas. The trousers would dry soon enough, no need to change. He stared into the wardrobe mirror and hated the way he looked, especially the beard. He had a round head, a husband's head. He opened the drawer of his bedside table, took out his automatic, and read the words engraved on it. Manufactured By National War-Arms, Herstal, Belgium. He slipped it into the pocket of his overcoat. She'd been frightened when he'd shown it to her one morning when he brought her tea. 'But it's a must, darling, when you live in the country.' Whereupon she had told him to mind what he was doing with it and be careful. She'd been fond of him in those days. It was a pleasant time of the day, her morning tea in bed. 'Here's a nice cuppa for my sweetie-pie!' Once, when he'd brought up the tray, she'd winked at him, for no reason, just to show that they were good pals, that they got on together. Standing in front of the wardrobe, hands joined in supplication, he asked her to come back, then, recalling a song from one of Dada's old records, he sang the refrain softly, deeply moved by its entreaty: 'Please return, come back to me, Life's not worth living Now you're not near, So please return, my dearest dear.'
Some time later he was aware of being in the bathroom. He'd had it put in for her. Four thousand francs. Especially for her, because she'd wanted a bathroom next to her bedroom. 'I want to be alooone,' she'd said. What was this mania she had of mispronouncing words? He'd never know what all these dresses and cigarettes were doing in the bath. Still, they were a reminder of her presence. Nor would he ever find out what was behind the torn dress on the floor of her room, the green dress he'd bought for her, in Florence actually. That morning the weather had been superb, they'd left the hotel and she had held his hand. The same hand which, tonight, in bed .. . But she was still Madame Adrien Deume, dammit! Morally speaking, she wasn't entitled to her passport any more. What would they think in the hotel when they saw that her name and the other man's were different? Oh, he was perfectly aware why he was here in her bathroom. It was to see her things, to be with her. Yes, here was her toothbrush. He held it under his nose, to get the smell of her, but he resisted the temptation to open his mouth and clean his teeth with it.
'Still, there's nothing she can blame me for.'
When she had her period, she wasn't easy to deal with. On those days he'd always taken great care not to cross her. 'Well if that's what you think, darling, then so be it, it's entirely up to you. Has my sweetie-pie got a pain, then? Anything I can do to help? What about an aspirin. Want me to make you a hot-water bottle?' She called her time of the month the 'Days of the Dragon'. When they came round, she was remote and he felt a little scared of her. He respected her suffering and was genuinely sorry for her. The new man wouldn't give a toss, he certainly wouldn't look after her, he was a lover. All those rubber hot-water bottles he'd used to get for her, scalding hot, and he always let the air out before screwing down the stopper. 'Here you are, darling. This'll do your tum-tum good.' By day four he was happy because she had almost stopped hurting. She must have resented him a great deal for fussing over her on those days. It must have irritated her when he asked where it was hurting, whether she had a pain in her tum-tum or a headache. Really, he'd always had a pretty good idea, but he'd never been able to stop himself dancing attendance. But you could bet your life that this other man wouldn't be asking questions when she was like that, nor would he call her sweetie-pie. And she respected and loved him. Whereas she despised her husband for behaving like a nursemaid. Moreover, perhaps she'd resented him just for knowing she had a pain in the stomach. A whole stack of things which he now understood for the very first time. I'm starting to wise up at last. In such a hurry to be off that she'd forgotten to take her toothbrush, comb and powder. They'll buy all that in Florence, at a chemist's, holding hands. In the old days she never used powder. This powder would be for the new man's benefit. The gossip in the Secretariat, the looks he'd get from colleagues. Most likely her man was tall. Where had she met him?
He picked up the comb and, peering into the mirror over the hand-basin, carefully made a parting in his hair and then covered it up again. What if he went to the station and offered to fight? Hm. This man of hers was probably a lot stronger than him and would break his glasses and he'd end up looking silly. But if she thought he looked silly perhaps she'd feel sorry for him and get off the train just before it left. He up-ended the box of face-powder into the bath and snapped the handle of the toothbrush in half. 'Dishonourably discharged for treason,' he murmured. That's enough of that, now get yourself downstairs.
In the kitchen, he opened the shutters to let in some courage, picked up the bottle the milkman had left on the sill, poured milk into a pan, and lit the gas. The day he'd made her an egg-nog because she had a cough, she'd said he was a pet and he'd been terribly
chuffed. A pet, but also a cuckold. All cuckolds were pets. All pets were cuckolds. She most certainly wouldn't be telling her new man that he was a pet.
He leaned out of the window. A pair of lovers in their Sunday best were doing filthy things with their mouths. They laughed. 'Just you wait and see, my bucko, she'll leave you in the lurch too one of these fine days.' He turned away so he wouldn't see them any more, noticed that the milk had boiled over, turned off the gas, and slowly emptied the pan into the sink. She had sewn the button back on his mackintosh and then she'd made a beeline for the kissing and the rest of it. She'd been so proud of sewing that middle button back on. But if another button came loose tomorrow, he could whistle for it.
He washed his hands in the sink to wash away his unhappiness, to make a fresh start. Tomorrow was Monday, back to work, dictate the report on his official visit, dress his window, resume contact with the USG. From now on it was naked ambition and nothing else. He reached for a walnut from the fruit-dish, cracked it between his teeth, and left the kitchen. In the hall, he halted by his mackintosh and yanked on the middle button until it gave.
'Go up and have a bath.'
But it was into her room that he went, after knocking on the door. This was the room where they had talked together, where he had brought her tea. On the floor lay the green dress, the teapot, the two cups, various lengths of string, shoes, and her big fluffy teddy-bear with its legs in the air. Patrice, she called it. Sometimes, when he brought the tea, she was clutching Patrice, having slept with him all night. None of these shoes had trees in them. How many times had he told her how essential shoe-trees were? Her sun-glasses were on the floor too. When she wore them she looked just like a film star going about incognito and he'd felt oh so proud. On her bedside table was another bear, a small one, with boots on. He'd never seen this chap before.
Over the back of the armchair was the dress she'd worn last night. He spread it out, arranged the folds. She ought to have told him, ought to have trusted him. He would have let her go on meeting this other man, but at least she would still have been here, near him, he could have seen her every day, she would have had all her meals at home, well almost all, she would have been there each evening when he got back from the office, well almost every, because there'd be times, of course, but no one would have known except the three of them. He stroked the dress. He talked to it.
'Darling, I'd have arranged everything for you.'
Four minutes to nine. He opened the shutters and looked out. Not a soul in sight. No car bringing her back to him. He turned, gave a shoe a feeble kick, picked up a piece of string, and went back to the window. Three minutes to nine. They'd be in their compartment now, their cases stowed away on the rack above their heads. De-luxe cases. He saw her gloved, elegant, happy, sitting next to him.
Standing at the window, he fiddled with the string. Tangling and untangling it, pulling and yanking on it, he allowed his eyes to wander between the empty road and the empty sky. Nine o'clock struck one floor down. The train had set off, was now carrying her away from him for ever. Sunk, he was sunk.
'Sunk, sank, sink, sonk,' he muttered, tugging at the string, straining every sinew to snap it. 'Sunk, sank, sink, sonk,' he muttered over and over, for when the human spirit is brought to a certain pitch it invariably finds some pathetic way of beguiling its distress, of playing some ghastly game such as tugging at a piece of string and saying nonsensical words, inventing some piece of tomfoolery to make the unhappiness bearable, so that life can go on.
CHAPTER 80
Shivering in his coat, he spent the rest of the day in a daze, going up and down stairs, walking into rooms, switching on lights, opening and shutting drawers, looking at himself in all the mirrors so he did not feel alone, switching off lights, moving on, sitting on the stairs to flick through a book he'd come across in Dada's room, getting up suddenly, resuming his wandering, sometimes talking to himself, saying 'Hello, darling' to her, or 'Night-night, darling', now humming a tune, now murmuring to himself with a little smile that he was a cuckold, the Wandering Cuckold.
When it was .nine in the evening, he went into her room, opened the door of the wardrobe, stared at the dresses on their hangers like corpses on a gibbet, leaned in, and filled his nose with their fragrance. She'd be in Florence by now, already in bed with her new man, they couldn't wait. The truth of the matter was that she'd never wanted him, always reasons why she couldn't, too tired, headache. He raised his eyebrows and turned on the radio. A well-fed voice informed him that suffering was spiritually enriching. Of course, it was Sunday. He turned the radio off and opened the drawer where she kept her little handkerchiefs. So pretty when she blew her nose. His foot brushed against the fluffy teddy-bear on the carpet. He picked it up.
'Come on, we're off to the loo, I want to go.'
He went down one flight, holding Patrice by the hand, and entered the bathroom. He put the teddy and Dada's book on the white lacquer stool facing the pedestal, for company. He lowered the mahogany-effect seat, hitched back the folds of his overcoat, undid the cord of his pyjama trousers, and sat down. Odd, being late like this. Generally speaking he was regular as clockwork, went every morning soon after waking. It was the emotional shock which must have clogged him up. Travelling made him constipated too. So did anything out of the ordinary, really. 'Just carry on as though she'd never existed,' he told the bear, and stood up. When all the formalities had been completed, he pulled the chain, gazed at the tumult of rushing, mighty waters, went on watching until the porcelain returned to white and immaculate. Quite: time healed all wounds.
'I'll get over it, you'll see.'
Sitting down again, he took a sheet of lavatory paper, folded it in narrow parallel creases, then made it into a fan which he waved in front of his face. Sunday breakfast together. She was very fond of butter. The amount of bread and butter she could put away! And then they'd talk, like good chums. He had meant something to her in those days, he was her husband. When she came back from picking mushrooms, she simply couldn't wait to show him her swag. That long intake of breath as she stood there proudly, waiting for him to say how well she'd done. At times like those she was just like a little girl. None of that would mean a thing to other people, but to him it was divine. Nevermore. She happy in Florence; he all alone sitting on a lavatory seat. He sniffled. Holding his drooping pyjama trousers with one hand, he got up, went across to the mirror over the hand-basin, stared at his tears and muttered.