Her Lover (12 page)

'Because you're so sweet.'

'Oh I see,' he said with a vague feeling of annoyance.

He was not entirely pleased to be sweet. He would have preferred to be an out-and-out man, with a pipe between his teeth and cold eyes, hard as nails. To show he was not as sweet as all that, he stuck out his jaw. For his wife's benefit, he did his impression of a man bent on living dangerously whenever he thought of it. He did not think of it often.

(If the tough guy, the he-man, the daredevil, was Adrien Deume's staple ideal, he also subscribed to other, quite different, archetypes as contradictory as they were interchangeable. On a day, for example, when he was dazzled by Huxley, he would try to cut a dash as the faintly effeminate diplomat, courteous but slightly cool, very man-of-the-world, the acme of sophistication, and the next day have no compunction about shedding that particular skin after reading the biography of some great writer. He would then become, as the case might be, exuberant and larger than life, or sardonic and disillusioned, or tormented and vulnerable, but never for very long, just for an hour or two. Then he would forget and revert to what he was: an insignificant little Deume.)

The dictatorial, over-jutted jaw made the back- of his neck ache, so he allowed it to revert to a more pacific angle. He glanced at his wife and waited for her reaction, thirsting to talk so staggering an occurrence through with her, to discuss it at length and work out together what avenues it opened up.

"Well now, darling, what do you make of it all?'

'I think,' she said after a silence, 'that it's encouraging.'

'Exactly!' he said with a grateful smile, ready to run with the
word. 'You've hit the nail on the head. You're right, it was an encouraging chat. I don't say we've got a close relationship exactly, not yet, but at least it's the start of something which might lead to a close relationship. A human contact, that's what it was. Especially since our encounter ended with that pat. (He blinked his eyes in an effort to reach a subtle definition, to get to the bottom, of that pat.) That pat was, how shall I put it, a signal which conveyed intimacy, liking. Especially since it was a solid sort of pat, you know, almost knocked me over. Anyhow, it all could be vitally important for my career, see?'

'Yes, I see.'

'Listen, darling, I've got to have a serious talk with you. (He lit his pipe so that he could introduce the topic properly, generate dramatic tension and above all drum up a sense of his own importance and say what he had to say with maximum persuasiveness.) Darling, I've got something rather important to say. (The "rather" was intended to convey the impression of a hard-boiled type not much given to extravagant turns of phrase.) It's this. Last night I didn't sleep terribly well and I began turning an idea over in my mind. I had intended to keep it until this evening, but I'd sooner tell you now because it's been preying on my mind. Anyhow, my idea is that we should make the most of the fact that Dada and Mummy are going away on Friday for a month, I mean make the most of it to start having a proper social life, not the occasional, random entertaining we've done up to now, but a full, properly managed social life, based on a maturely thought-out plan, a written schedule of dinners and cocktail parties. I've lots of ideas on the subject, especially since I have it in mind to distance myself from Dada and Mummy so I can be freer to operate. I'll tell you all about it later, and also about one or two large dinner parties I'm thinking of giving. But first let's talk about the cocktail parties, for that's the most urgent aspect of the problem. I think that we should put our heads together this evening and draw up a list of people to invite to our first formal party.'

'Whatever for?'

'O darling,' he began, making a great effort to be patient, 'because a man in my position ought to have a modicum of a social life. All my colleagues manage somehow to have twenty or thirty guests round for drinks. Kanakis has had up to seventy at his place, interesting people, the sort who draw a lot of water. We have been married for five years now and we've never yet organized anything together, not according to a plan worked out in advance. Top of the list are the parties we ought to return. If we don't return hospitality, people will notice and won't invite us again. The number of invitations to drinks we've been getting is already well down. It's a danger signal, and I'm becoming rather concerned about it. In this life, darling, you never get anywhere unless you have contacts, and cocktail parties are ideal places for making contacts. In one fell swoop you can ask a lot of pleasant people round who will return the invitation, which gives you an opportunity to get to know a whole lot of other people at a stroke, because the thing starts to snowball, and then you're in the position of being able to pick and choose which of your new contacts you want to invite next time, because you have to be choosy of course, you have to stick to the people you feel an affinity for, people you get along with. And bear in mind that, from the host's point of view, drinks cost less than a dinner party and the result is virtually the same. I say virtually because from a personal-contact point of view you can't really beat a dinner party, so we'll have to start asking people to dinner too, the type of people we get on with best. Dada and Mummy will have to be kept firmly out of all this, even before the parting of the ways which I have in mind for the very near future. But let's stick to the cocktails for now. On this issue I shall tell you exactly what I think. Well, my plan, which I have slightly revised and modified since I had that conversation just now, my plan is to kick off by asking the USG to our very first cocktail party. He's bound to come after that pat on the back. And if I can let it be known that he's coming, I can count on getting the cream not only of the Secretariat but of the permanent delegations as well! Don't worry, I shan't be bothering to invite any rabble. So. Operation USG: cocktails as opening gambit followed at a later date by a formal dinner party. Now isn't that a tasty dish to set before a king?' (One of Mummy's little turns of phrase which just slipped out, so full was his mind with what he was saying.)

'I don't like him very much. Why are you so keen on inviting him?'

'This, darling,' he said, with honeyed sententiousness which hid the first stirrings of annoyance, 'is how I answer that. One, top brass don't have to be nice to be invited. Two, I myself have always found the USG extremely pleasant. Three, if I am so keen to invite him, as you put it, it is for the very good reason that I take my orders from van Vries and van Vries takes his orders from the USG. Look, I've been stuck at the top of grade B for seven months and van Vries won't do a thing, you know, won't lift a finger to get me put up to an A! He refuses to do anything because he's gutless! He's gutless because he thinks to himself that putting me up for promotion might not go down very well upstairs and might therefore reflect back unfavourably on him. But, on the other hand, he'll do something when he finds out I'm in the USG's good books, and you can rest assured that if I am indeed so favoured I shall make a point of letting him know about it on the q.t.! But there shouldn't be any need for me to tell him, because when I throw my grand cocktail party he'll see the USG there and will draw the appropriate conclusions, and that means he will find the guts to put me up for an A because he'll feel his recommendation would get a sympathetic hearing and would not involve any danger to himself. Anyway guts isn't the word, he'll be pleased to do it, he'll fall over himself to recommend me without reservation, in terms of the warmest sincerity, in a shower of praise, because doing so will get him in with the USG. Do you see now how the thing works?'

'But you said yourself that your boss was annoyed because you were talking to that man.'

'No, no, darling, you don't understand,' he said cheerfully. 'I'm an old hand and I know my way about. Sure it annoyed him, sure he hates me. But I told you: that won't stop him smarming all over me. And when he knows we're on a sound friendly footing, that is, when I ask the USG round to my house and the USG dines with me at home, he'll go down on his knees before me, literally! I've made a good start with the USG but I'm going to have to strike while the iron's hot and build on the liking he did me the honour of taking to me, yes, honour, I'm not afraid to say it! But for that to happen he'll have to get to know me better. A cocktail party I invited him to would pave the way to a closer relationship, I could talk to him and he could size me up. Listen, personal contacts with your hierarchical superiors is the top and bottom of success. But personal contacts start in a chap's home, when you ask people round on equal terms. And it's only natural I should invite him. That pat on the back was pretty definite, you know. Inviting him to dinner straight off would be a bit much, a bit over the top. But a largish cocktail party would be a halfway house and would soften him up for a dinner eventually. Of course, the party would have to be a fairly lavish affair. Engraved invitation cards. You must be prepared to splash out when you have to. With RSVP in the bottom right-hand corner, you know, do the thing properly. And remember, if I'm keen to have the USG round at my place, it's basically only because I thought he was a really nice chap. He improves the more you get to know him. Of course, if he gives me a leg-up on the promotion front so much the better, but that's not the main thing. If I didn't like him, there'd be nothing doing, I'd never dream of inviting him, but I feel he's a kindred spirit, you understand. I'll tell you what I really think: it makes me sad for my country that apart from Debrouckere there isn't another Belgian on an A. Belgium deserves better than that. A country that's suffered so much has it owing to her! Her neutrality breached in '14, in spite of being guaranteed by the treaties of 1839! The destruction of Louvain! The agony of the German occupation! Anyway, this party, you can leave the whole thing to me, the hired waiters in white jackets, the drinks, sandwiches, canapes ... All you would have to do would be to put on a stunning frock and be pleasant to everybody, including the USG.'

He paused, wiped his brow, and smiled: he could see it now! Yes, a top-notch cocktail party! The master stroke would be to have the Belgian ambassador who would be showing up soon for the Tenth Session. That's it, arrange to be introduced by Debrouckere and invite the ambassador for drinks. The dodge would be to tell the ambassador, as though it was all fixed already, that the USG would be there. The ambassador would be certain to accept - and then invite the USG mentioning that the ambassador would be coming! On the day, there'd be fifty cars parked outside the villa! Just picture it! The neighbours wouldn't know what had hit them!

Delightedly he crunched a sugar lump, nibbling at it like a rabbit.
He saw himself deep in conversation with the USG, both with cigars in their mouths and a Martini or a port cocktail in their hands, an exchange of pleasantries between equals. Just before the guests arrive, a tot of whisky to give him confidence and make him sparkle. No, don't bring up promotion straight away at the party, don't give him the impression that he was invited for a reason. Be patient. The top brass always got annoyed if people talked about promotion. Don't mention top of grade B until they were friends.

Oh yes, from now on a high-profile social life! New Year cards to all his acquaintances! But not to anybody below member of section! Expensive cards for As and above! And with a short handwritten greeting! It was money in the bank! Contacts, for God's sake! A man was only as good as his contacts! No: a man was the sum of his contacts! Top priority: rent a villa with cook and valet-cum-butler! Every day, quality guests for lunch and dinner, that was the secret of success! The butler buttling in white gloves! Big spending on these things was money in the bank! Very
haute cuisine —
more money in the bank! The Adrien Deumes keep a very good table! Knock down the wall between two rooms and have one huge reception room, nothing like it for making your name! And in the middle of the room, a grand piano, as a status symbol! And bridge once a week! With bridge, you not only made contacts, you kept them! And a sumptuously appointed guest bedroom! Whenever the Assembly was in session, whenever the Council met, invite the highest-ranking Belgian delegate to stay in his home! So much nicer than a hotel, Minister. And then one evening, after dinner, as they stroll in the garden, the sudden confidence dropped in a mild, wistful tone of voice, That's the position, my dear Minister, I've been stuck at the top of grade A for umpteen years now.' And then a sigh, just a sigh, that's all. And with the joint, fully coordinated backing of the principal Belgian delegate and the USG, behold Adrien suddenly promoted to the rank of adviser or even made head of section!

The tea-lady came in to remove the tray. He teased her, mildly flirtatious, about her perm. Then he apologized to Ariane for having to pop out for a few moments and left the room in an aura of cocktail parties to come, invitations back and milkable Belgian delegates sleeping in the guest room. He walked quickly along the corridor. He wanted to run, shout, kiss his hands with delight. So happy it hurt, biting back the squeals that queued up in his mouth, he felt madly pleased with himself. 'Adrien, you love, you treasure, I adore you,' he murmured.

'Pat on the back, pat on the back!' he said aloud in a deserted lavatory. 'Adrien Deume, the conquering hero!' he proclaimed in a voice of brass as he stood at the urinal where perpetual waters flowed.

Returning to his wife, he sat down gravely, clasped his hands behind his head, propped his feet on the edge of the desk, and again began see-sawing gently in his chair, like van Vries, but now also trying to make his face expressionless like the Under-Secretary-General's. But again, suddenly struck by the thought that VV might burst in at any moment, he put his feet down and stopped see-sawing. To make up for the loss of advantage he derived from his rakishly displayed feet, he pushed out his lower lip and chin once more, like the Italian dictator, and stiffened his neck.

'You know, on second thoughts, I honestly think we could go ahead and invite him to dinner straight off, or at any rate lunch, take the plunge, and not bother with the cocktail party, in the light of that pat on the back, do you follow me? It's an altogether nicer occasion than a party. Yes, best invite him to dinner, there's more time for conversation when the meal's over. I wouldn't mind making it a candlelit affair, like the ones the Kanakises give, it would lend a touch of class. Incidentally, we'll have to check and see if everything's in order at home, you know, dinner service, plates, knives, forks, different sizes of wineglass, tablecloths, napkins and so on and so forth. Because everything will have to be just right, he's used only to the very best, you know. (He resisted the temptation to insert a forefinger into one nostril and, as second best to giving his nose a good raking, settled for stroking it gently.) I say, this Hitler chap really is a beast, he's taking a pretty strong line with those poor Jews who are people like anybody else, with failings and qualities. Anyway, Einstein's a genius. But to come back to the question of the table, we've got a decision to make, assuming we do in fact invite the USG to lunch or dinner: there's a tablecloth problem. I wonder if we oughtn't to dispense with a tablecloth altogether because I have this feeling tablecloths for formal dinner parties are out nowadays. It's no good saying the Kanakises always have one, because what's set me wondering is that in
Art and Decoration,
you know, the glossy mag I persuaded Periodicals to order, I've seen photographs of top people's dining-rooms with tables made of precious kinds of wood, and they didn't have tablecloths, just a napkin under each plate, the effect was absolutely marvellous. Anyway we can talk about it when we've got more time.'