Her Lover (115 page)

He picks up the tray from outside the door, quickly turns the key in the lock, lowers the blinds, and draws the curtains to cancel the world outside. Next he switches on the lights, sets down the tray of cakes on the table, which he pushes up against the wardrobe mirror so that he has a guest, and then begins to eat while perusing the Saint-Simon. Sometimes he glances up at the mirror, smiles at himself, smiles at the down-and-out eating alone, quietly eating, reading as he eats, accepting his lot, making the most of it. Then he resumes his perusal of Saint-Simon, who, he discovers, was a well-integrated little crawler who knew everybody and was fawned on by the whole court because he had once been honoured by a remark by His Majesty, who had assured him that the royal favour shown to his father would also be bestowed on hiiri. Dukes and peers were up and about from early morning, eagerly discussing His Majesty's mood and his still steaming stools, finding out who was in favour and who disgraced ingratiating themselves with the former and avoiding the latter, and above all determined to be noticed by the Great Excretor seated on his close-stool and be found pleasing in his sight. Crafty tail-wagging curs, the lot of them. Including Racine, grovellingly confessing his faults on the steps of the throne in the hope of being reinstated in the royal favour. Curs. But happy curs.

A sudden burst of the 'Marseillaise' on the radio, sung by a crowd. His heart misses a beat, he rises and stands motionless, stands to attention, his hand absurdly poking his temple in a military salute, tremulous with love, a true son of France, and he lends his voice to the voices of those who were once his compatriots. When the last echo dies away, he turns the radio off and he is alone and a Jew in a room with lowered blinds, lit by electricity, though the sun shines bright outside.

To avoid dwelling on his existence, he gets into bed and picks up a best-selling novel, the author of which is a woman and the heroine a little bitch, a splendid product of the middle classes, who is bored and sleeps with all and sundry for something to do and, after going to bed whisky-drunk with this one and then with that one, who may have syphilis, drives off at ninety miles an hour, for something to do. He tosses the nauseating little trollop into the waste-paper basket.

The radio. A Protestant service. Heart-sad, he listens to the singing of the faithful. Oh those voices! So sure, so hopeful, so gentle, so good:
at least they're good for the time being. He gets out of bed, goes over to the radio, and kneels before it to belong, to be with brother human beings. A hard lump in his throat, difficulty breathing. He knows that he is grotesque, a solitary outsider, grotesque for singing their hymns of praise with them, grotesque for singing along with those who reject and mistrust him. But all the same he joins with them and sings their noble hymn, oh the joy of singing with them, of singing that their God is a bulwark, a stout shield and defender, the joy of making the sign of the cross to belong with them, to love them and be loved by them, the joy of saying the sacred words with brother human beings. For Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever, amen. 'Receive God's holy blessing,' the minister says. Whereupon he bows his head to receive the blessing, like them, with them. Then he stands up, alone and a Jew, and he remembers the walls.

He puts his cardboard nose on again and sniggers. Why not give the walls outside exactly what they want? Hateful his vitality; stupid this will to live. Jerusalem or Rachel? But for the moment the chocolate truffles, quickly now. 'I'm going to eat you all up, my little treasures,' he says. 'Sorry, but I'd forgotten all about you.' He observes himself masticating in the mirror, masticating with pitiful glee. But when the truffles are all gone the despair has not gone away.

'Death to the Jews.' His cardboard nose is uncomfortable, he chokes on his loneliness, on the suffocating smell of glue and cellar, but no, keep it on, his false nose is his honour. Cornered, behaving like a man cornered, he rolls his eyes and suddenly he is a French army captain and the wall-daubers are going to send him to Devil's Island. He snaps to attention. The whole battalion has assembled at his back, while before him stands the officer charged with ensuring that justice is seen to be done, an officer with a large moustache, reeking of garlic, who rips off his stripes and breaks his sword over his knee. He shouts at the mirror, in a voice made nasal by his fancy-dress nose, shouts that he is innocent, that he is not a traitor. '
Vive la France!
9
he shouts.

Why not take the flowers and lay them at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier under the Arc de Triomphe? They'll laugh. In her letter, she said not to open the packet until he was alone. Well, he certainly is alone: alone is the word for it! Suddenly he decides: Yes he'll open it and look. A grubby pleasure owing to him. He can stop worrying about his destiny for whole minutes. Because what's in the packet is a breath of life, a privilege granted only to him. Leper he may be, but few happy men have wives more beautiful and loving. For love, to keep her man, she has dared, demeaned by sohtude, dared, she the daughter of unspotted lineage, dared, for his sake, dared to brave the degradation of dirty pictures. Well then, very well then, he now has a Purpose, which is to look at her dirty pictures, love them one by one, painstakingly, find her desirable and to hell with Deuteronomy. Yes, my love, let us be degraded together.

Don't open it straight away. Order a good dinner first. Oh yes, misfortune demeans, but here's one way of fighting back against misfortune. Oh yes, absolutely, a first-class dinner, with champagne. The cooks will pull out all the stops for him. The dirty pictures will keep. No one can deprive him of that pleasure! He may not have the 'Marseillaise' and brothers to sing it with, nor the Coldstream Guards presenting arms to him, to France's representative, but he does have dirty pictures! We have our own ways of being happy, gentlemen, just as you have!

No, not dinner. Not hungry. Can't face it. Quickly now, a quick fix of happiness. He breaks the seals, opens the packet, closes his eyes, and chooses at random. Don't look at once, work up to it slowly, keep telling yourself a glimpse of happiness lies just around the corner. He places one hand flat on the photograph then opens his eyes. Slowly he draws his hand downwards. Oh! Horrible! He slides his hand up again so that only the face is visible. Lo, an aristocratic face, the face of a daughter of those who spurn him. A respectable face, a decent face, but take your hand away and what a contrast! Try some of the others. Ariane as a lusting nun. Ariane as a little girl in a short skirt, with bare legs, beckoning crudely. And this one, even worse. Very well, be degraded, Solal. Poor darling girl, unhinged by solitude, this appalling talent of hers spawned by the seething ferment of her solitude. He stares hard at the photos, spreads them all out, feels desire for them, for his harem. Good, he may have reached the depths of his unhappiness but he can still take an interest in something, can still desire. Oh, the albino with the neatly trimmed hair goes home contentedly to his wife and children and does not need degrading photographs to make him happy. He gets to his feet and tears them up. But what can he do now. Love! Go to Ariane! Go to her, his country and his home! Yes, leave tonight! Pack bags, dress, taxi to the station!

He leaves his bags at the luggage counter and wanders idly out into the Boulevard Diderot, waiting for his train to form. Suddenly, in the night, under the misty lights, he knows them as they file out of the station in twos and threes, some wearing black, wide-brimmed, ear-splaying, head-cramming Homburgs, others in flat, fur-trimmed velvet skullcaps, but all garbed in interminable black coats, the older ones clutching furled umbrellas, but all carrying suitcases, shoulders hunched, feet dragging, and debating excitedly as they go. He knows them, knows them for his well-beloved fathers and subjects, meek and majestic, the devout of strict observance, the firm of purpose, the faithful with black beards and dangling earlocks, self-contained and absolute, strangers in their exile, unshakeable in their otherness, scorned and scorning, indifferent to mockery, fabulously, undeviat-ingly themselves, going their own upright way, proud of their truth, scorned and mocked, the exalted of his people, issued forth from the Lord and His Sinai, bearers of His Law.

He has drawn closer the better to see them, the better to feast his eyes. He follows them through the dark night streets, rounding his shoulders like theirs, head down like theirs, and like them screwing up his eyes and darting quick, furtive glances around him, follows God's crook-backs, spellbound by their bent backs and their black coats and their beards, follows the bearded of God, feeling love for his people and filling his heart with his love, walks in the wake of the centuries and the dragging coats and the dragging steps and the everlastingly carried possessions, walks and murmurs 'Thy tents are beautiful, O
Jacob, and thy dwellings, O Israel', walks in the wake of his well-beloved black priests of God, fathers and sons of prophets, walks in the wake of his chosen people and fills his heart with his people, Israel, his love.

They halt outside Kohn's Restaurant, debate, make up their minds, enter, find tables, and sit with their cases between their legs, for safety. He remains outside and watches them through the window, through the curtains, watches his languid-eyed wanderers, his well-beloved fathers and subjects stroking their beards and caressing their passports, prodding their aching backs and their overloaded livers, all arguing vociferously, hands gesticulating, hands thinking. Incisive looks probe, deduce and know, fingers curl pensive beards, noses compute, brows impute, lowered eyes conclude. Pink with life against the black of their beards, too pink and fleshy, lips spread in resigned, torpidly knowing smiles, then shut, tremble, tighten, calculate, ponder, cogitate, ruminate and deliberate while diamonds in tissue paper circulate.

Still wearing their hats - for hair is a form of nakedness — the bearded band he loves are now eating with gusto, hunched over their plates, studiously feeding on cold stuffed fish, chopped liver, aubergine caviare and meatballs served on fried onion rings. At the back of the room, an old man with an immeasurable beard sits hunched over the Holy Law, which takes precedence over God himself, reads and rocks as he reads.

Then, outside in the dark night where fine, cold rain drizzles down, their solitary king stands at the curtain-hung window and he too rocks his head and shoulders, rocks in time to the immemorial rhythm, chants a hymn to the Almighty in the old tongue, the hymn which Moses and the children of Israel sang to the Almighty who delivered them from the hand of Pharaoh, who cast the Egyptians into the Red Sea, and the waters covered the chariots and the horsemen and all the host of Pharaoh, and there remained not so much as one of them, but the children of Israel walked upon the dry land in the midst of the sea, and the waters were a wall unto them on their right hand and on their left, and Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon the sea shore, and it was well. Praise to the Almighty, for who is more magnificent in holiness and more worthy of praise than He? Sing praises to the Almighty, for He has made His glory to shine! Horses and horsemen all did He cast into the sea! Hallelujah!

CHAPTER 94

'We had dinner in our dining-room around a table which seats twenty-four and now we are settled in our spacious and quite useless drawing-room sitting in our appallingly comfortable chocolate-mousse armchairs, I am pretending to read so that I shan't have to talk to the poor girl while she is sewing up all the hems which I unpicked on the quiet to give her something to do she told me it would take her quite a while perhaps a couple of hours because first she'll have to remove the old threads and after that she intends putting in some fine needlework poor darling she said she wants to make the stitches even and tiny so they won't show or gape very well darling go ahead make it perfect poor kitten she can't be much of a hand at sewing but at least her life has some point for the time being on no account stop pretending to read under pain of conversation let's hope we're not in for a recital of rumblings tonight, I'm sorry darling but you do realize that I've been doing my level best since I got back from Paris, she was so sweet the other night when I called in on her to say good-night she was reading and I said come along it's time to go to sleep now she shut her book at once she said yes all right in such a way that my heart missed a beat an angel's yes a good little girl's yes heart-stopping and so meek I felt myself melt with love melt with the pity that is love, Ariane my child who cries so bitterly when I get angry her searing anguish her eyes puffy with so much crying her nose swollen with so much wiping but if I say I'm sorry she forgives me at once shows no resentment and in no time at all I hear her in her room singing and the bitter anguish is all gone, I feel such pity for my child so quickly restored to hope so eager to be happy, darling your sex frightens me frightened me when you bent down in your nakedness to pick up something off the floor, this morning you went out shopping and I was alone in the house and I kissed your pretty grey blazer it was hanging up in the hall I kissed it several times I even kissed the lining, and now I'm going to tell you everything without running any risk of making myself look small since you cannot hear me alas oh yes I must absolutely keep face so you can go on being proud to love me but even so some day I may tell you all about the Silbersteins' cellar, I wanted to stay on with them but they asked me to save them so on the fourth day I left only to fail in each and every capital failed in London failed in Washington failed in the Council of their damned L of N when I asked the self-important clowns to take in my German Jews to divide them among themselves, they said my plan was Utopian that if they took them all there would be an upsurge of anti-Semitism in the countries which accepted them in other words they threw them to their butchers because they loathe anti-Semitism, for which I arraigned both them and their love-thy-neighbour cant O great Christ betrayed whereupon ructions and to put it simply I was turfed out as the Forbes woman put it ignominiously instant dismissal for conduct prejudicial to the interests of the League of Nations said the letter which old Cheyne wrote to me and then followed the decree rescinding my nationality on grounds of procedural irregularity and then a few days ago my stupid attempts to get the decree withdrawn and the pathetic comfort of her photos, poor girl thinking up her next pose yes that one too he'll like that one me with no clothes on standing in front of the mirror that way he'll have a view of both sides of me left hand raised touching the mirror and right hand between my as if I'm about to yes he'll like that, poor girl standing in position for the time exposure hurriedly getting into her deplorable pose, and then the decision to go back to her to seek comfort in our miserable bodies but suddenly hope dawns yes stop off first at Geneva, persuade the Clown-General to take me back, ah my serene seamstress behold! behold Solal the Cretin in Geneva drafting a letter to give to old Cheyne when he goes to see him a twenty-page letter in which he sets out his misery the wretched life we lead a long letter ensure he reads it when I'm there, yes best make it a letter because I'm afraid I'll forget what to say if I say it face to face yes a letter because I'm feeling low and not at all sure if I can say it properly and make him see melt his heart whereas with a letter you can put things properly, darling look upon your poor believer who spent days composing his make-or-break weighty deadly serious letter seven days and seven nights spent looking for arguments to melt his heart scribbling words starting again then typing the letter on a typewriter bought specially for the purpose a Royal the fool typing with two fingers shut up in a hotel room preparing his pitiful big move yes typing a letter so the old man can read it easily and get the message and be lulled into a kindly frame of mind and feel sorry yes a letter typed with two fingers in front of a mirror for company so that the mirror is company "for this solitary rootless man this Jew a letter typed by a despairing man who sweats and can't type and sometimes glances up and stares at his reflection and feels deep pity for the pathetic figure before him, yes darling with two fingers but it was neatly typed no typing errors at all when I made a mistake I rubbed it out just like a proper typist with a special rubber a round thin eraser which kept me company for a week I would look at the eraser and think it was aiding and abetting and helping to save me I loved it I can remember exactly what was printed on it Weldon Roberts Eraser I rubbed gently so I wouldn't leave marks on the exquisite paper or dirty it yes aim for a really beautifully typed letter to put Cheyne in a good mood these little things can make all the difference at least that is what the no-hopers of this world always say anyway by sticking at it I ended up a pretty competent typist that's the way play the highest cards you have in your hand win him round with a letter moving in content and impeccable in form oh yes dwelling on your misfortunes can addle the brain, and lo came the evening when I called at the Cheyne residence at seven incredibly clean-shaven and feeling awkward almost forced my way in I handed him the letter so impeccable in form and he glanced casually at the letter so moving in content read it turning the pages so quickly that I felt sick felt my Jew face flush angry purple, oh yes darling it took him just four or five minutes to read the letter I had sweated over for days and nights he gave it back to me held it between thumb and forefinger as if it were dirty my lovely letter my beautiful letter so beautifully typed with two fingers he said there was nothing he could do for me, and then just listen to this the fool produced another letter from his pocket a brief note in case the first met with a rebuff a fall-back letter in which the poor fool his wits turned by loneliness dared offer the old man all the money he had the pathetic fool stating the exact amount in dollars yes every penny I had if the old man would agree to give me a job any job even a minor job so long as I would be a part of things so long as I could shake the pariah dust from my feet whereupon the fool was turned away indignantly by Cheyne the sterling multimillionaire Cheyne the incorruptible, outside I tramped the streets dragging my misery with me wanting my Uncle Saltiel oh to see him again and go back and live with him but that's out of the question he would be so distressed to see how low I have fallen I won't make him unhappy stopping by the lake tearing up both letters my two brilliant ploys my great hopes and throwing them into the lake and watching them float away on the current, street after street after street thinking of how to rid you of me and leave you all my dollars putting them in a bank in your name and then going back to live in the cellar with them, I was exhausted I hadn't eaten anything the whole of the time I'd spent sweating over my typewriter so I wandered into a cafe and I talked to you over coffee and croissants and there were tears in my eyes I whispered to you with tears in my eyes for the unhappiness I have brought upon you the misery of love in quarantine a love so chemically pure, at the table to my left was an old man who didn't notice that I was crying a little old man with a nose like a strawberry he was drinking white wine then a grim-voiced newsboy appeared hawking the
Tribune
his voice was portentous clamorous urgent and he rattled the change in his bag he called out special edition Swiss franc devalued which made a stir everyone bought a paper, the three who came and sat at the table of the man with the grog-blossom nose and the rest of them all started talking about the devaluation some being for and some against, I drew closer the stateless person drew closer and argued strongly that devaluation meant salvation for our country the old man agreed with me he said quite right all decent people should think like this gentleman and he shook my hand and afterwards they all rushed home to pass on the news I left too outside in the street I saw the old man who'd already gone a fair way I ran to catch him but when I was almost up with him I felt awkward and slowed down so he wouldn't realize that I needed him needed the company needed the brotherhood, we talked some more about the devaluation he told me he'd be worse off as a result that the cost of living would go up but too bad the general interest had got to come first so I repeated what matters most is saving our country it was nice to be able to say our country he introduced himself Sallaz schoolteacher retired I felt uncomfortable saying my name so I just babbled on talked about our country the Switzerland we loved the old man was delighted and suggested a drink said it's on me one for all and all for one, we went into a brasserie and sat down next to a fat man and his fat wife who were unfolding their serviettes as the gourmet hors-' d'ceuvres arrived settling into their chairs with well-bred complacency and healthy appetites about to be satisfied and exchanging unexpectedly good-humoured smiles, the old man and I clinked our glasses he started asking questions I said I was the Swiss consul in Athens I described the consulate and the Swiss flag hanging from a balcony on national holidays what you've got to understand Monsieur Sallaz is that when you're far from home it's a comfort to see your country's flag flying he asked if the Swiss consul's standing was the same as that of the consuls of the major powers I said it's higher because we are straight as a die everybody knows it and respects us for it he gave a proud little laugh and said by Jove that's right we Swiss aren't a pack of rogues like that lot in the Balkans so I upped the ante I said in Switzerland we don't fiddle the income tax he offered me an alarming black cigar I smoked it all the way down for love of our own Swiss country, I don't want to pry sir but may I know your name well now that we've had a drink together I think you're perfectly entitled to ask the name's Motta you wouldn't by any chance be related to the Federal Councillor Motta I'm his nephew said I whereupon he gave me a look so respectful so fond that it hurt he finished his glass of white wine well you can be very proud of your uncle because Federal Councillor Motta is a great man a true son of Ticino a true son of Switzerland the spearhead of our diplomacy as they say ah what we need is more men of his calibre it's true you do look like him, he suggested another round of white wine to cement the friendship we drank up I spoke fulsomely in praise of liberal Swiss institutions with special reference to their stability and prudence adding a word about the independent Alps and the
ranz-des-vaches,
did you know Monsieur Sallaz that Louis XIV banned the singing of the
ranz
and those caught
in flagrante delicto
were sentenced to life imprisonment that's right when our soldiers in the service of the French king heard the
ranz-des-vaches
they deserted by the dozen which only goes to show how much we love our country and how much we pine for our beloved mountains and our beloved Alpine slopes, I wasn't joking I was quite carried away I was thinking of you my darling when you're by yourself humming one of your mountain songs, at this point the old man broke into the
ranz-des-v aches
and I sang along with him the other customers joined in too and next we sang the Swiss national anthem hail to thee fair Switzerland the blood the lives of thy children, then Sallaz got shakily to his feet and announced to all the customers that his friend was the nephew of Federal Councillor Motta Head of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs at which several came up to me and shook me by the hand and people shouted three cheers for Motta I thanked them all feeling the warmth of my fellow men yes there were tears in the eyes of this descendant of Aaron brother of Moses, I say Monsieur Motta it would give me the greatest pleasure if you would do me the honour of coming to my house tomorrow evening for a fondue with my family, I accepted he gave me his address and we separated I'm delighted to have met you sir take care we'll expect you tomorrow night I knew I wouldn't go it would be too painful to sit round the family table under false pretences, I was afraid to go back to my hotel afraid of going back to myself so I went to another cafe where they were also talking about the devaluation I sat down near them the bony
beret basque
with the blotchy face said it's the Jews that's been angling for a devaluation and all your department stores and your fixed-price emporiums is owned by Jew-boys they're driving corner shops to the wall they're taking the bread out of our mouths nobody asked them to come here to my way of thinking they oughter be treated a bit like the way they get treated in Germany if you see what I mean though we didn't oughter be too hard on them because they're yuman when all is said and done, whenever I encounter a little boy my heart does not leap up when I see him smile because I am haunted by the spectre of the man he'll grow up to be a man with long teeth sly sickeningly gregarious another Jew-hater, she sits silent and reserved asking for nothing happy to sew for me I love you I love your clumsiness your childish gestures, Proust had the peculiar habit of dunking little sponge cakes in lime-blossom tea two sweetish tastes combined in one disgusting taste of sponge cake mixed with the even more disgusting taste of the lime tea a kind of perverse femininity which tells me as much about him as the hysterically flattering things he wrote to Anna de Noailles in reality he didn't think that much of her had no reason to he flattered her because she was a star of polite society no don't tell her she'd be hurt she's so very fond of the little Vinteuil phrase and the bells of Martinville and the Vivonne and the hawthorns at Meseglise and the rest of the exquisiteries, Laure Laure Laure Laure in the chalet the little mountain hotel the children got to know me quickly adopted me I played with them and after a few days she decided to call me Uncle she was beautiful very beautiful she was fourteen years old no thirteen and already her breasts her thighs oh so beautiful a woman already but with the grace of a child, when the only way down was over the tangle of fallen tree-trunks I asked her if she was afraid oh no I'm never afraid when I'm with you but hold me tight and I held her close and then she said oh yes and in her upturned eyes was love unadulterated love, the next day she behaved more naturally with me she blurted out you know I like you more than people usually like uncles, O Laure at thirteen what games we played we played on a see-saw so we could face one another so we could go on looking at each other without the others knowing but we never admitted anything to each other about what we felt on the see-sawing yee-yawing plank we stared at one another unsmiling dumb with love grave with love I thought she was so beautiful and she thought I was handsome we stared we drank each other's nearness I can't for the life of me think what you can see in bobbing up and down like you've been doing this past hour said her mother and when her mother had gone we started staring at each other again she and I so serious, with the other children we played Siberian sledging so that we could hold hands under the sledge blanket, we loved each other but never said so we were pure or as good as, every afternoon she would come and ask me to play and I had to try to catch her and her little brother and her friend Isabelle who'd come to spend a week with her in the chalet, Laure O Laure she loved being caught by me she let out little frightened squeals when I grabbed her and held her breathless against me and once she murmured it's awful but I like it, and one evening she sulked because that afternoon I had caught Isabelle too often oh the way she looked when on another evening she and I got back late it was dark in the forest she said hold me I'm scared and I held her by the waist but she removed my arm from her waist and put my hand on her breast she pressed my hand hard on her breast and I heard a salivary intake of breath, every evening after dinner when she and her little brother went to say good-night to the grown-ups before going to bed Laure made sure she kissed everybody but everybody for the sake of appearances and me the last just a peck on the cheek awfully proper with eyes averted and just a tiny bit frightened, we'd both been looking forward so much to that pure kiss throughout the whole of dinner we knew it was coming and we kept glancing at each other throughout the meal the others never suspected a thing and when the marvellous moment came we feigned indifference I was twenty she was thirteen Laure Laure a single summer's love I was twenty she was thirteen after lunch she'd come looking for me I say Uncle let's play siestas come on let's climb up to that grassy ledge up there we can have forty winks together it'll be fun we'll take a rug I was twenty she was thirteen when we got there we lay down on the grass under the tall pine me her and her little brother he got dragged along too for the sake of appearances too but we never said so indeed we never admitted anything openly to each other I was twenty she was thirteen ah those high-altitude siestas the weather was always glorious and the air full of the buzz of summer I was twenty she was thirteen she always insisted that the three of us should get under the rug and she would take my hand and lay her head on my hand and close her eyes and sleep or pretend to sleep on my hand and her burning lips were on my hand but her lips did not move because she did not dare to kiss my hand I was twenty she was thirteen or else she would wrap herself up in the rug oh rugs of our love of our great love of a single summer then she would rest her head on my knee supposedly to go to sleep then she would lift her head and look at me I was twenty she was thirteen and I loved her I loved her Laure O Laure O child yet woman, when the holidays were over the day she was leaving in the little cable-car station her mother was at the ticket window Laure in socks Laure at thirteen suddenly said I know why you always wanted us to be with the others and never alone I know what you were afraid of you were afraid that there were other things for just the two of us to do and I wouldn't have minded those other things I would have liked us to be alone together for a whole day for a whole night farewell Laure who was thirteen oh the love of a single summer's length my great love oh my Cephalonian boyhood oh Passover on the eve of Passover my lord and father would fill the first cup and then say the blessing in Thy love for us has Thou given us this feast of unleavened bread in commemoration of our deliverance and as a token of our going out of Egypt blessed be Thou O Lord who sanctifieth Thy people Israel, I admired his voice and next came the cleansing of the hands and then the dipping of the chervil in vinegar then the breaking of unleavened bread and after that was the telling of the story my lord and father raised the salver aloft and would say here is the bread of affliction which our forefathers did once eat in Egypt's land whoever hungers let him come and eat with us whoever is in need let him come and celebrate Passover with us this year we are here but next may we be in the land of Israel this year we are slaves but next year may we be a free people, and then because I was the youngest I put the prescribed question how does this night differ from other nights why on every other night do we eat leavened bread and why on this night unleavened bread I was deeply moved when I put the question to my lord and father who then would remove the cloth that covered the unleavened bread and begin the reply looking directly at me and I would blush with pride he would say we were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt and the Eternal our God brought us forth with His powerful hand and His outstretched arm, my solitary Jewish wandering through the streets of Geneva after the Cheyne fiasco, first to Devaluation Cafe then to the brasserie with Sallaz and then the cafe featuring the