Authors: Albert Cohen
Turning next to his former boss and punctuating each seedy detail with an avid smile followed by a flick of a reptilian, spite-laden tongue, which was immediately withdrawn after a quick Hck of his upper lip, he explained how friends of his at the Quai d'Orsay, alerted by the dismissal of Monsieur Solal for reasons which had not been made public, had discovered an irregularity in the naturalization papers of the said Solal, to wit a shortfall in the qualifying period of continuous residence. The result had been withdrawal of French nationality by a decree pubHshed in
the Journal Officiel.
What, on top of everything else he'd been a naturalized Frenchman? That was the last straw! protested Madame de Sabran. Well, the Republican government had behaved properly for once in its life, and she was not afraid to say so, though she was the daughter, wife and mother of army officers! Having neither citizenship nor a profession, the fellow is socially dead, concluded Solal's former principal private secretary and protege with a final flick of his tongue.
Whereupon, being not indifferent to the male body beautiful (a fact of which the Forbeses pretended to be unaware, since there had never been any hint of scandal), he shot a curious but cautious glance at a startlingly handsome adolescent boy who had just walked into the hotel carrying a tennis-racket under one arm. There followed a brief silence, which he filled by mentioning the recent appeal made by the physicist Einstein on behalf of the Jews in Germany. At this, Madame de Sabran's hackles rose.
'Oh no, not the old refrain about persecution! The whole thing has been blown up out of all proportion. Chancellor Hitler has put them in their place, and that's that. And what does this physicist think ' should be done?'
'He would like various countries to open their frontiers to these people, so that they might leave Germany.'
'Doesn't surprise me in the least,' said Madame de Sabran: 'they all stick together. It's really too much, these people are so full of themselves, they think they can do exactly as they please!'
'But his appeal has received a cool reception from the great powers,' smiled Bob the Charmer.
'I'm glad to hear it!' said Madame de Sabran. 'Things would have come to a pretty pass if all the co-religionists of Dreyfus had ended up on our doorstep! After all, they are German, they should stay where they belong. And if they are kept somewhat out of the public view, that's as it should be!'
After another silence, there was an exchange of smiling, cultured views, and naturally the talk ran to music, a circumstance which at last gave Madame de Sabran the opportunity to mention a duchess, a dear childhood friend who had music in her bones and whom she was looking forward to joining on a cruise in the spring. The Forbeses countered this with another cruise in the company of the inevitable Sir Alfred Tucker and Viscountess Layton, which gave Huxley a chance to say that he had run into the latter's niece when calling on a very sweet and intelligent queen-in-exile whom he often visited in her delightful house at Vevey, a revelation which drew a look of interest from Madame de Sabran, who said that she hoped she could count on seeing him at her charity ball, which naturally led the lady to quote with approval something Tolstoy once said about the spiritual pleasure of loving, which furnished the Consul, as generous as he was general, with an opportunity to get his word in by evoking the dignity of the human person.
This was the signal for a survey of the noblest vistas. The company gorged itself on those realities which remained helpfully invisible and declared itself convinced there was a life to come in the hereafter, with the two ladies appearing particularly keen that their souls should endure for ever, the debate being marked by forceful displays of canines and incisors, for it was pleasant to feel that one was with people from one's own milieu, who shared one's aspirations and ideals.
In his room, he paced up and down with the majesty of the solitary exile, pausing occasionally at the mirror-fronted wardrobe, running his hand across his forehead, then resuming his pacing, with a permanent mental picture of the husband holding the gun to his temple. The poor wretch had suffered on his account, suffered so much that he had wanted to die. Poor Deume, so keen to get on. Yes, he had sinned against him, but he had been punished. For henceforth he was an outcast, a man walled up inside love. Whereas young Deume, ringed by his own kind, well integrated, well supported, presently on a mission to Africa with a pith helmet on his head, was a figure of authority, a representative of officialdom, a man who could strut his hour. I'm happy for you, young Deume.
She would be back soon with the records, their pathetic records. What could he do to save her? Go downstairs and beg Ja Forbes to send her an invitation to something? Just once, Mrs Forbes, so that she does not suspect that she has been ostracized on my account. Afterwards we'll leave, we'll move to another hotel, you'll have seen the last of us. She is all I have now, and I need her to go on loving me. Take pity on her, Mrs Forbes, she's not Jewish, she's not used to the treatment. In the name of Christ, Mrs Forbes.
Sheer madness. He could go down on bended knee to both women and they would still be what they were, utterly sure of their truths, strong in the knowledge that they were the majority and the norm, shielded by the buckler of society, having no heart, putting no foot wrong, strangers to tribulation, and convinced, of course, that there is a God. Charmed lives, with the added luxury of believing that they were good women.
Still, shouldn't he try? Bring himself to look at them, smile at them, smile at them with tears in his eyes, tell them that their time on earth was short enough and that they should not spend it in hating? Sheer madness. Christ Himself had not succeeded in changing them. Enough. Soon she would be back. What could he do to hide the fact that he was a leper, a beaten man? What could he do to keep her love? Their love was all they had left. Their poor, frail love.
CHAPTER 86
Freshly bathed yet again and newly shaved and nobly dressing-gowned once more. Yes, he needed to be handsome now more than ever. All an outcast could count on was biology. O Naileater, O Solomon, O Saltiel. He kissed his hand as though it were his absent uncle's cheek. Should he run away? Run away and live with them?
Dark outside. Ten o'clock. His poor darling had been left to her own devices for hours, not daring to disturb him, for was he not supposed to have a headache? She had merely let him know she was back by slipping a note under his door, in her best writing, for she had evidently taken pains to make it look neat. 'I'm ready and waiting, but don't come unless you're feeling better. I managed to get hold of all six concertos.' All alone with her records, waiting to play them for him, waiting upon his good pleasure. His darling, his own darling, what, oh what had he let her in for? What, oh what lay in store for his innocent giirl? Yes, he'd have to go, he'd have to do his duty. He paused by the wardrobe.
'Got it!' he told the mirror.
When he walked into her room, an implacable Brandenburg Concerto was grinding on. Wearing an evening gown and a smile, his poor girl stood with one hand resting on the infernal machine. He pretended to be entranced, to listen with rapt attention to the longdistance sawyers and wood-borers of the Almighty. When the record stopped, he switched off the light and said he had something to tell her. No, nothing dire, darling.
In the dark, when she was lying by his side, he kissed her hand and began to speak. So what it came down to was that he had decided to make a clean break, once and for all, with everything and anything that did not impinge directly upon them, sever all ties with the world outside, with other people. Only one thing mattered: their love. How unconvincing the words sounded, he thought, and he held her close to make her see things his way.
'You think the same, don't you?'
'Yes,' she breathed.
'I don't want anything to come between us and our love,' he whispered. 'The only danger we run here is the Forbes woman, who is not going to let matters rest where they are. But I've sorted it out. I ran into Huxley earlier on. He was very civil. (He felt a pang of shame at these words which had slipped out naturally, they smacked of the underling, the underling he had become.) He offered to introduce me to his cousin. I saw what would happen if I accepted. Invitations, tennis doubles, bridge parties, so much time stolen from love.'
'So?'
'So I asked him to convey our apologies to his cousin and say she'd better not count on us for tennis. Was I right? Are you cross?'
'Of course I'm not cross. She's the one who'll be cross. She'll cut us dead, but it can't be helped. What matters is us.'
They had pulled back from the brink. He kissed the eyes of his sweet, compliant girl, so wholehearted in her support and so devastated in her unconscious. Some reward was called for. He held her closer, and their lips met in the dark. No need to look for another hotel, the Forbeses were neutralized now, and she wouldn't try to get to know anyone else, he told himself during their embrace, which, in the absence of anything to talk about, was long and unrestrained.
Yes, henceforth keep her constantly entertained, give her plenty to think about. Go to Cannes in the morning and load her with substitutes to make up for her disappointed social expectations. Buy her lots of expensive new outfits, designer dresses. Then take her to lunch at the Moscow. Caviare and champagne were other good substitutes for a proper social life. During lunch at the Moscow, discuss the dresses she had bought. Then buy her diamonds. Then a visit to the theatre or the cinema. Then an hour's riding or a spin in a motor boat.
So ran his thoughts while his lips persecuted the lips of her innocence. And travel and cruises, all the paltry joys I can give her, he thought during that endless embrace. Yes, he would do everything he could to conceal their leper state, he promised her with all his soul. He would do everything he could to make the desert of their love bloom, he promised her with all his soul, lips still joined to the lips of She-Who-Must-Be-Protected. But for how long could he stand the strain? Oh let me be the one to be unhappy, "he thought.
'Undress me,' she said. 'I love it when you undress me. But put the light on. I love it when you look at me.'
He switched on the light. He undressed her. Yes, take her now, give her the petty joy of being taken, the pitiful pleasure which a leperman could still give his leperwoman, he thought, his handsome face above the beautiful, ecstatic face of the smiling unhappy darling beneath him. What, oh what had he let her in for? My little girl, my child, he whispered to her in his soul while cheerlessly did he use her as a woman.
CHAPTER 87
Two days later they had got to the coffee in their sitting-room, where they had been served lunch. Unspeaking, brows furrowed, he was totally absorbed in the flotilla he was making. He stuck a still smoking cigarette plus two matches for masts in the last hull of orange peel, then launched all three ships on to the whipped-cream sea of the meringues.
'Arctic vessels,' he explained after watching her for a moment in silence.
She gave a hurried smile and said: 'How sweet', which made him glance up at her suspiciously. But no, she was being quite serious, quite genuine in what she said. Oh woman's unconquerable love, oh the mysterious power of sex! If one day he took it into his head to make mud pies or crow like a rooster, she would be quite capable of throwing up her hands in delight and detecting signs of genius in such antics.
'Very sweet. Really it is,' she repeated. 'It's as if they'd been trapped by the polar ice. (Raising one hand to his temple, he acknowledged this with a grim salute. Reassured, she gathered the trailing flaps of her dressing-gown around her and got to her feet, politely diffident.) I think it's time I was getting ready. Still want to go out riding?'
'Why not?'
'In that case I'll ring the stables at Cannes. Are you going to get ready too?'
'I'll get ready too.'
'See you shortly. I shan't be long.'
Left to himself, he sighed. He saw her in her nakedness every day, and yet she still thought she had to be polite and formal with him. Poor girl, she so wanted to be the ideal mistress, she did her level best to keep the temperature of passion stoked to fever pitch.
At last she had gone off to get dressed. Hooray. Ten minutes of being his own man. Always worth having. True, but when she got back she would put the dread question, hang the sword of Damocles over his head: she would ask what plans did he have for this afternoon, after they'd finished riding? What new pleasures could he devise to camouflage their isolation? There were no new ones left. The same never-ending substitutes for a social life, the same old pathetic pleasures still open to the outcast - visits to the theatre, the cinema or the roulette tables, horse-racing, pigeon-shooting,
thes dansants,
buying new clothes, and presents.
And after the outings to Cannes, Nice and Monte-Carlo there followed the inevitable, depressingly good dinner and obligatory conversation and the effort of coming up with new things to talk about when there weren't any new things left to talk about. He knew all the Ariane stories backwards, such as the rare soul of Fluffy her cat and the sweet character of Magali her owl, and all those Chinese-torture childhood memories, the little song she'd made up, the chant of the gutter on the roof and the raindrops dripping on the orange awning, and the trips out to Annemasse to see Catholics, and reciting poems in the attic with her sister and all the rest of it, and she always told everything in exactly the samt words. They couldn't go on resurrecting the same old stuff everlastingly. So what did they do? They talked about the other people in the restaurant.
Oh yes, though they never saw anybody else and could not discuss friends,, which pukka people found such a pleasant way of passing the time, and though there was no longer any job to talk about, because, as Mrs Forbes put it, he had been turfed out ignominiously, they were nevertheless amorous mammals endowed with the power of speech and had therefore to find something to fuel their conversations. So they discussed fellow diners they did not know from Adam, tried to guess what jobs they did, what they were like, and how they felt about the people they were with. The dismal occupation for all who, besieged by loneliness, reluctantly become snoopers and psychologists.