Her Lover (111 page)

How about slapping her face suddenly, giving no reason, and then stomping off to his room? It would be a good deed: her evening wouldn't be so tedious, she'd have something to think about, could wonder why and in what way she had offended him, could cry and think how they might have spent such a pleasant evening together if only he hadn't been beastly to her. Give her a spot of drama, all the fun of the fair. And then she would move to hope and expectation and finally to reconciliation. No. Hadn't the heart for it.

But he'd had the heart the other evening. He'd slapped her hard and then locked himself in his room, where he'd gashed his thigh to redress the balance. Oh it was tragicomic: hitting a sweet creature of whom he was so genuinely fond, out of kindness! Yes, kindness! To wipe that pleasant smile off the face of a well-bred girl who refused to acknowledge that she was bored silly and probably attributed her lowness of spirit to some non-specific physical cause. Yes, kindness! To restore her to life, to prevent her seeing the wreck of their love. But he hadn't been able to bear it when he'd seen her in the road outside, holding her hand to her smarting cheek, and he had gone running to her, 'I'm sorry, my love, my sweet, my angel, I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me.' She had looked at him the way she had at the Ritz, with believer's eyes. How could he do it again?

'Yes, I really think I will go and see that woman. It seems all it takes is a dozen lessons. Then I'll be able to play you Hawaiian music in the evening, it's terribly catchy.'

Aha, she didn't say nostalgic. That'll come in time. How could he even think of slapping a poor girl who was planning to bewitch him with Hawaiian music and trying vaguely to replace or combat the missing social dimension with the twang of a Hawaiian guitar? Anyway, was he going to have to slap her face every evening? It was a tonic which would eventually lose its effectiveness. Should he go and have a word with the podgy member of the Council of State over the road, beg him to invite them round, maybe even offer him money? No, that was simply not done. And the most heartbreaking aspect of the whole case, and the most unfair, was that being constantly shut up in his deep-sea diving-bell with only her for company simply got on his nerves. Her rumbling stomach got on his nerves. Her ethereal, post-coital caresses got on his nerves. Her Genevan accent and vocabulary got on his nerves. Why did she have to say 'fertl' rather than 'fertile', why the devil did she say 'store' not 'shop'? Why 'motor', not 'car'? It made her sound so affected.

And the strong whiff of capitalist attitudes which she exuded. He recalled the day when, her lip curling with mild contempt, she had said that it was amazing how much Mariette thought about money, set such store by money, talked about money all the time, and was forever wanting to know how much Madame Ariane had paid for those shoes, this bag, that dress. 'Odd, anyone being so keen to know how much everything costs,' she had added with an indulgent display of her mild contempt. Quite, Madame, you and your kind can afford the luxury of not caring for money, of never mentioning money, of being uninterested. All you have to do is pop to the bank. And she always spoke to servants in that pleasant lady-of-the-manor way of hers. And only the other evening, how eloquent she had grown when expatiating on tea, the sacred drink of her clique who were the owners of the means of production. 'People react very sensitively to tea, don't you find, darling? It's all a question of physical make-up. For instance, if one is not feeling well, one finds it less palatable. But if one has not tasted tea for three whole days it strikes one as being amazingly good, don't you think?' She had chopped the 'amazingly' into four distinct parts to give it all due prominence, and he had looked at her curiously. How changed, the crazy, inspired girl he'd known in Geneva! And then there was her morbid passion for flowers: She was forever sticking their dying remains all over the house, in the drawing-room, in the hall, in her bedroom. Only yesterday, she had harangued him about autumn flowers, she liked them best, and had launched into a full description of dahlias, asters and other makes of vegetable matter. The dahlia, ah, a sensual bloom, heavy, rich, which made her think of Titian: 'Do you find that too, darling?' And her morbid obsession with the beauties of nature. 'Darling, do come and see the colour of that mountain.' Very well, and he'd gone, but all he'd seen was a mountain, a large lump of rock. Oh for his own Ionian Sea, in age-old springtime, tender touch of clear water. 'Darling, do come and see the sunset.' It bored him rigid. And her obsession too with views, a preoccupation doubtless peculiar to the Swiss, who were a mountain people. Always asking if there was a good view from some station or other, or even just simply A View. Incidentally, she always said 'station' for 'spot', and that was Swiss too, perhaps. And now she used make-up, which didn't suit her. And what had happened at the Donon now recurred frequently. She blew her nose far too genteelly, and it got on his nerves. 'Go on, have a good clear out,' he murmured to himself. And, immediately afterwards, shame, pity, remorse: remorse so deep that he felt an urge to go down on his knees to her. But the nasal blockage persisted and was noticeable in the poor girl's voice, and it was absolutely maddening. And sometimes she had bad breath. I'm sorry, darling, forgive me. Yes, please forgive me, though your breath really does smell today, there's nothing I can do about it and there's no way I can avoid being aware of it. But worst of all was that sometimes, all of a sudden, for no reason, he felt a strange aversion for her, perhaps because she was a woman.

Oh poor girl, pretending unconcern yet never for a moment taking her eyes off the antics of the moronic neighbours, disappointed because she was not one of them, humiliated because they had not come to call. Of course, all the time they'd been at Agay the only kind of social life she had known had been having breakfast in secret with Mariette. Another burst of laughter from across the way. Some attractive, silly girl had stuck a man's hat on her head and everyone was clapping and shouting 'Good old Jeanne, go on Jeanne, let her rip!' But here, in the elegant drawing-room with its splendid flowers, was deathly silence.

'Do you think I should go for the Hawaiian-guitar lessons?'

'Yes, darling. Good idea.'

'In that case I'll make a start tomorrow. I'll soon be singing Hawaiian songs for you to my own accompaniment.'

'Fine,' he said with a smile, then suddenly got to his feet. 'I'll go and pack. There are people I must see about my affairs.'

'When are you leaving?'

'Tonight. It's urgent. Financial matters.'

'But where are you going?'

'Paris. Friends to see.'

'Oh darling! Do let me come with you! (How eagerly she had spoken the words! Thirsting for any sort of a change! She was already picturing their arrival in Paris, the new faces in the station, in the streets and, above all, oh yes, above all the friends he'd be seeing to whom he would introduce her. Attracted by his friends like flies by the honeypot! Others, not just him; others, not just him: it was her motto. Because he was staring at her, she thought he was hesitating.) O darling, I'll be terribly good, I'll wait until you've finished all your business, and then we'll. . .'

'We'll what?' he interrupted sternly. (Cold-eyed, he waited for the terrible ending: 'call on friends in the evening'.)

'I was going to say that we'll be so looking forward to seeing each other again in the evening, it would be lovely,' she said, frightened by the fixed, wild, calculating look in his eye.

Aha, she had admitted her secret desire! To be rid of her damned beloved at least for several hours each day, to watch him go, and stop having him cluttering up the place, not to be always seeing him at home wandering around in one of his everlasting dressing-gowns! Actually she was quite right. They were suffocating because they spent all their time together being extraordinarily beautiful so that they could tell each other every minute of the day how extraordinarily in love with each other they were. In reality, though .she did not know it, she longed, yearned to be the wife of an Under-Clown-General and give parties every evening, with carefully graded smiles, for large numbers of revitalizing, self-important, bemedalled morons, preferably in formal evening dress.

In the neighbours' garden another game of blind man's buff was in progress. Oh yes, he envied them too, he also wanted to be on good terms with a miserable junior member of the Council of State, he who once . . . Oh the sexual screams of the stupid women as they ran away. He turned to look at her. She and her Hawaiian guitar, poor girl. Well then, he'd go to Paris alone, he'd leave this very night, and he would triumph in Paris, triumph for her, and he would return bringing back happiness, happiness at last for his darling, loads of happiness for his darling love.

CHAPTER 93

He lies awake thinking of the unhappy woman who waits for him at Agay, patiently waits, not daring to ask why she must write to him poste restante or why he does not tell her the name of his hotel. Too right, darling, it's the George V for this super-tramp. 'Restored to the land of the living,' he had said out loud as he had climbed into his sleeper, and he had smiled at an attractive woman passenger in the corridor, and she had smiled back, and oh such kissing with her in the night, such kissing with Beatrice.

He rubs his chin where the sprouting bristles itch. Not shaved since being turned down by the albino, an umpteen- maybe sixteen-day-old beard. What's the date today? He leans over, picks up the paper and reads the date. Monday, 10 September 1936. That makes it a thirteen-day-old beard. The albino had a face like a tapir. The day after he got into Paris, Beatrice Riiilzi having left for London, he'd gone to the Rue de l'Universite. He'd insisted on being seen by the head man, the Director, insisted like a man down on his luck, insisted like a Jew. He had been so sure of himself on the train with Beatrice, had been what women call a charmer, so sure of himself on sexual ground. But sitting before the Director he had suddenly felt awkward, had smiled too much. The razor-edged words of the albino after the glance through his dossier. An irregularity in his naturalization papers, insufficient qualifying residence. He had left and wandered through the streets, stateless and with no function, a chemically pure Jew.

He stares at his hand. It moves. He kisses it so as not to be alone. Should he go back to speculating on the stock market and take his revenge by being rich? Pariahs are allowed to speculate. A pariah can be debarred from everything except making money by his wits, the ultimate consolation. No, heart not in it. But his heart had been in it all right after the set-back. Yes, darling, I had the heart to traipse round knocking on doors, begging for help. Delarue, who in the old days he'd rescued from a wretched fate as a down-at-heel journalist and had appointed as his principal private secretary at the Ministry of Labour, was now an inspector general. His former subordinate had adopted such a patronizing tone. 'Sorry, old man, you can't un-denaturalize somebody just like that.' After saying there was absolutely nothing he could do, he had offered the unshaven down-and-out a glass of Scotch and proceeded to tell him about his fascinating work as government delegate to the International Labour Office. He'd got even less change out of his other old chums. Never invited across the doors of their offices, never asked to sit down. They all knew about the scandal. They all knew he had been sacked. They all knew his French citizenship had been withdrawn. They all used the same excuses. 'Haven't the authority to intervene. There are no new facts to justify an application to have the decision overturned. So there you are, old man, you've only yourself to blame.' Some even allowed themselves the luxury of feeling sorry for him as they gently steered him towards the exit. 'It really is such a shame.' And in the eyes of all of them he read mistrust, hostility, fear. Men do not care for the sight of misfortune.

He has eased himself back into the warmth of his bed. He puts a smile on his face to cover his misery. His bare feet caress the sheets, luxuriating in their smoothness, delighting in them. This much at least remains to him: the ease and comfort "which money can buy. The day before yesterday he'd gone back to the Rue de l'Universite to try again. Speech written out the night before, case learned by heart, all rehearsed in the mirror. Hoped his umpteen-day-old beard would soften the albino's heart. And then, after spending hours kicking his heels in a waiting-room reciting his heart-softening arguments to himself, he had been seen. The man was clearly irritated by the sheer persistence of the lunatic he was dealing with. 'You people, you know, you get kicked out of the front door and you climb back in through the window.' 'You people.' Ah! We know who you mean. And he had made the most of his opportunity to humiliate a former government minister, a man who was now powerless. 'All you need do is take up official residence in France and then submit a new application when the formal qualifying period has expired. Since, that is, you seem so very keen on becoming French.' Heartless, that 'so very keen'. The heartlessness of those who have a place in the sun, the cruel irony of the sated who find it odd that a man should actually be hungry.

Aloud, he mimics the odd way the albino spoke. 'Shinche, vat ish, you sheem sho very keen on becoming Frencha.' An underdog jibe,'a feeble riposte. Misfortune demeans, but it also dulls the brain. He'd been so stupid, turning up like that with a prepared speech and thinking stubble would melt hearts. He'd spoken of his isolation and his hunger to belong in a country he could call his own, and the man had replied with official residence in France and formal qualifying period, and while he spoke had looked at the framed photographs of his two well-groomed children and his legally-signed-and-sealed wife who was eminently presentable and probably had money of her own. Oh, the indifference of the fortunate! Oh, the smugness on the face of the man behind the desk as he looked at his photos, looked with unassailable certainty at the evidence of the unimpeachability of his life! A bastard with a clear conscience, with his feet firmly under the social table. Not inteliigent, but smart. Whereas he was intelligent but not smart at all. And then the man got up and said he had other people to shee.