Her Lover (108 page)

books, always so polite and smiling you'd think there was something the matter with them, never a tiff never a pet name, p'raps they'll go on play-acting Great Love Scenes and the rest of the
tommy-rot until the pair of them grow white whiskers, now I say it isn't right, it's no sort of life, and for a man it's not healthy, a man's not got a woman's stamina, it's a medical fact, and what I can't forgive is the way she's so nice to me when it's just the two of us, talking about the housework saying how well I cope, how I'm ever so good at keeping the dust down, dust's something you gotter do battle with every blessed day, anyway taking an interest in everything like a lady should, but once Sir Priceless shows his face it's goodbye to all that she looks down her nose at me and puts on her face like a statue, I don't exist, and what really gets me is how they never kiss each other if I'm there, it's as if they was saying You don't count, now I'd thought everything would be quite different, if I wasn't so fond of her I wouldn't stay here another minute, why on earth don't they ever say nice things to each other when I'm there, instead of which they go off serious as bishops for their carryings-on in their musolinoleum, and me forever stuck in the kitchen like in prison while they're playing riddles upstairs in ole Charlemagne's bedroom, and all the time they're in there the grammyphone's blaring so if they do ever have a kiddy he'll be a big opera singer you can take my word for it, and all that blindman's buff carry-on Come in but close your eyes I'm not presentable turn round, if that's love then I want no part of it, why me and my hubby would have rather had to spend a penny together than be parted and that's what real love is say I. Watch out, they're coming.'

CHAPTER 91

The days of exquisite love uncoiled slowly, each one like the one before. The two supreme lovers never met in the morning, which was set aside by Ariane for domestic duties. Ever determined to provide the man she loved with a setting characterized by order and beauty, she gave Mariette her instructions, oversaw all cleaning operations, drew up menus, wrote lists for tradesmen, and saw to the flower arrangements. She came and went freely, for they had agreed that from the moment she gave two rings from her room he wasn't to show his face. He in turn was to respond with two rings to confirm that he had heard and thus ensure that she ran no risk of being taken unawares in a too-too-shaming state of aesthetic disarray. Most days he simply stayed out of the way until lunch-time while Ariane, not yet bathed and hair not done, moved hither and thither in a white housecoat conscientiously discharging her scene-setting function.

At the end of the morning, after issuing her final instructions, she would repair to her room and read a literary magazine or a novel praised by the critics or a few pages of a history of philosophy. All this she did for his sake, so that she might have intellectual conversations with him. When she'd finished reading, she would stretch out on the sofa, empty her thoughts of all material considerations, close her eyes, and force herself to concentrate on their love, so that her mind would be protean and cleansed, two of her favourite words, so that she would exist only for him when she saw him again. When she'd had her bath, she would seek him out, hair set and with
perfumes anointed. And then would unfurl what she called their 'Prime Time'. Gravely he would kiss her hand, in full knowledge of how false and absurd was the life they led. After lunch, if he sensed that a move in the direction of sexual congress was called for on psychological grounds, he would say that he would like to He next to her for a while, for there were proprieties to respect. She would take his meaning and kiss his hand. With a little song of victory in her heart she would say: Til call you', and go to her room. There she closed the shutters, drew the curtains, covered her bedside lamp with a red scarf to create a suitably voluptuous atmosphere but also perhaps to neutralize any post-prandial flushing of her cheek, undressed, covered her nakedness with a robe of love, a kind of silky peplum designed by herself and intended to be put on so that it could be taken off, ensured that she was unimpeachable in her beauty, then slipped on her finger the platinum wedding ring she had asked him to buy her, wound up the ghastly gramophone, and the Mozart aria would go forth just as it used to at the Royal. Then he would make his entrance, a rather reluctant priest of love, sometimes biting his lip to hold back a fit of giggles, and the priestess in her consecrated robes would tense the muscles of her jaw as a way of convincing herself that desire moved within her. 'My pet lamb,' she had murmured one day as she undressed him slowly. 'Pet lamb, bed-lamb. To the bed-slaughter,' he had replied to himself. A feeble retaliation.

For the wretched girl was so damned precious. She used such choice language, even when she had no clothes on. In the tender and all too familiar remarks which followed what she called a 'consecration', the word 'ecstasy' had always to figure, because it was more elevated. Oh how Solal squirmed whenever she said in tones verging on the stern: 'Hold back, let's know ecstasy together!' It made him blush in the red-tinged semi-dark, though he was genuinely touched by her concern to preserve intact something which gave life a real point, the simultaneousness which she interpreted as an indication that love was still alive.

Yes, she got through enormous quantities of choice words at Belle de Mai. For instance, she said 'centre' rather than use another word which she considered too medical. And so on, and he felt ashamed. He also felt ashamed of the kiss on the forehead she gave him after each aforementioned ecstasy, which inwardly, imitating the accent of a famous clown, he took pathetic pleasure in pronouncing eggstasy. It's to demonstrate what colossal amounts of soul have gone into it, he would muse after the peck on his forehead, and then would feel instantly contrite and silently ask his poor girl to forgive him, for she genuinely yearned after style, fine feeling and beauty, especially beauty, which they sprayed over areas where life was extinct.

At the end of the afternoon they would take a stroll or drive over to Cannes. Then they returned home. After a candlelit dinner, he wearing dinner-jacket and she in an evening gown, they would proceed to the drawing-room, where they admired the pointless whorl and surge of the sea framed in the bay window. Just as they had done at the Royal, they smoked expensive cigarettes and talked of lofty subjects, music or painting or the beauties of nature. Sometimes there were silences. Whenever this happened she would talk animatedly about the tiny velvet animals they'd bought at Cannes, arrange them to better effect on the table specially set aside for them, and gaze at them fondly. 'Our little world,' she would say as she stroked the little donkey which was her favourite. Heigh-ho, he thought, you have to make the most of whatever social openings come your way. Or else she would ask what he would like to go on tomorrow's menus. They would discuss this at some length, because, though she was not aware of it, she had in fact become rather greedy. Or else she would sit herself down at the piano and sing while he listened, with a faint smile on his face for the absurdity of the life they led. Or else they talked about literature. They were alarmingly interested in literature. Sombrely he chewed on the emptiness of their talk. Art was a means of communing with others, a social act, an act of fraternization. On a desert island there was neither art nor literature.

If by chance the conversation descended to some banal topic, she who stood for Values persisted in using her noble language. Which is why she always said 'photograph' never 'photo', 'cinema' not 'the pictures' and certainly not 'the flicks'. Which is also why she always referred to her lawn undergarments as her 'heavenlies', even 'pantalettes' being unspeakable. Which, lastly, is why as she was telling him one day about what one of the tradesmen had said - nothing was beneath reporting in the solitary life they led - and the man having said something about laughing fit to bust, she spelt this last word out so as not to sully her lips with it. She's becoming halfwitted, he thought. A further symptom of her mania for the noble mode: the system of rings pinned up in the kitchen for the edification of Mariette had been written out in capitals, so as not to devalue her handwriting in her lover's eyes should he, exceptionally, stray into the kitchen one day.

She would often complain of feeling tired in the evening. When this happened they took their leave of each other early. Come along, he would tell himself, get* a move on, get your poor little self off to bed, you've earned it. Another day gone, he would tell himself when he was in bed, a hard day's work balancing on the high wire. But at least it's all going along smoothly for the time being, he'd say. Another day's march stolen on unhappiness.

On one of the last days in May, the gong for lunch had just sounded when he suddenly clapped his hands, once, very loudly. He'd just come up with the answer. Time for a holiday! And it would mean a break for her too! Throwing his dressing-gown over a chair, he put on his pyjama top, slipped into bed, waggled his toes contentedly, and gave the rings which summoned her to him. Entering his room, she asked him what was the matter. He closed his eyes, fighting the pain.

'Liver attack,' he murmured gloomily.

She bit her lip. It was her fault, obviously the crayfish they'd eaten last night, she and her silly notions about mayonnaise. Her eyes were hot with unhappiness. Because of her, he was in pain. She took his hand and asked if it hurt a lot. He turned two dull eyes to her, wondering how he should reply. A plain 'a bit', which would be manly and very Jack London? He opted for a silent nod of the head, slightly remote, then closed his eyes again, looking like a statue of Pain Endured. He was delighted. They now had two or three good days ahead of them. The pressure was off him, and she would have something absorbing to keep her busy. She kissed his hand.

'Shall I phone for a doctor? (A doctor who might see through the pretence? And, more seriously, a man who had an occupation other than love whom she might well be capable of fancying? He opened his eyes again and said no with a shake of his head.) I'll look after you, my darling, I know all about treating liver upsets, my aunt was a martyr to her liver. The first thing to do is to apply poultices, but you'll have to have them very hot, all right? I'll go this minute and make one,' she smiled, and she hurried off.

All through the afternoon she scampered from kitchen to bedroom bearing endless supplies of fresh poultices. Scalding her fingers, she ran all the way so that they would be as hot as possible. She was firing on all pistons, alive, with her mind fully on her task, revelling in the absence of Mariette, who had gone to Paris for the wedding of a niece. She was free to look after him all by herself, in her own way. For his part he was happy knowing that she was happy. Her poultices were too fiery and raised blisters, but how marvellous not to have to deck her with garlands of love.

And so they spent two exquisite days with no oral suctions, just affectionate pecks on the forehead. She forgot her noble style, plumped up his pillows, brought healing herbal infusions, and read to him. He enjoyed listening to her read now, for now she expected nothing of him, treated him like a sick man. He was so happy that sometimes he quite forgot to wince on cue. She scuttled about in buoyant spirits, delighted to hear that it wasn't hurting as much. He smiled when he heard her singing in the kitchen as she prepared another of her appalling poultices. Never mind the blisters and the healing teas, never mind her not allowing him to eat anything. It was a small price to pay for giving her so much happiness.

But on the third morning she became worried because the pain was not getting any better, pleaded with him to let her call the doctor, and pressed him so hard that it was agreed that if there were no sign of improvement by evening she would ring. He had no choice but to surrender. At the start of the afternoon he announced that he was cured. Their life of love would now get under way once more and the priestess of the swelling jaw muscles would oust the loving mother. Farewell herbal infusions, goodbye lovely poultices!

PART SIX

CHAPTER 92

He sat in one of the armchairs in the drawing-room, with both hands occupied with
Country Life,
a magazine to which she subscribed, peering gloomily at pictures of prize bulls and ducks. The day before yesterday, the twenty-sixth of August, they had celebrated the first anniversary of their arrival at Agay with special kisses, choicest glances, best-quality words, and a gourmet menu. A year of love at Agay, a year of nothing but love. The celebration had been her idea. She was very keen on anniversaries, she had a long list of them. What was she doing now? He turned his head. She was standing in the bay window watching the noisy crew in the garden of the house across the way playing blind man's buff. The women pretended to be afraid and let out little sexual squeals.

'Those women really are vulgar,' she said with a smile as she rejoined him, and he knew that he would have to console her, to jolly her along by being extra nice.

'You are beautiful,' he told her. 'Come and sit on my knee.' She did not have to be asked twice, and held out her cheek for a peck. Alas, an abdominal rumbling swelled to an accompaniment of grace notes played on a double bass. It died away abruptly, and she gave a cough designed to drown and counter it retroactively with a competing diversion. He kissed her cheek naturally, as though he had noticed nothing, to lessen her embarrassment. But, following rapidly and majestically on the heels of the first, there rose a second rumble, which she camouflaged by clearing her throat. Against a third, cavernous at first but graduating through warble to rill, she fought by
applying discreet but firm pressure with her hand in a vain attempt to contain and muffle. A fourth followed, in a minor key, sad and subtle. Staking her all on a change of position, she moved to an armchair facing him and said in a ringing voice that it was a lovely day. In an equally ringing voice, he said that it was a glorious day and warmed to his theme while she squirmed furtively in an attempt to find a posture which would silence the uproar provoked by the displacement of gases and juices in her blameless stomach. But to no avail, and new generations of gurgles rose thunderously from her depths, vociferous in stating their claims to be heard. He anticipated their coming, gave them a sympathetic welcome, felt for the poor girl, yet could not help but note their several characters, which ranged from the mysterious, sprightly, humble, proud, sly, and venial to the funereal. In the end she hit on the sensible ploy of standing up and rewinding the gramophone, which for once served a useful purpose. And so the Brandenburg Concerto in F major blared forth, drowning all intestinal hubbub, and Solal gave thanks for the music, the ideal damper for unseemly rumbles.