Her Lover (23 page)

Who knows, perhaps she'd even ask him to teach her Hebrew. He nodded his head with a smile at the prospect of pious conversations and delightful lessons in the sacred tongue. Every day, two hours of tuition, one devoted to Hebrew and the other to the Bible, with commentaries on the Sacred Commandments to dot the i's and cross the t's. She sitting beside him fervent and all ears, and he eloquent, inspired. How could she fail to be converted with that pretty face of hers? And then the wedding in synagogue, the happy couple standing side by side under the wedding canopy, she so sweet, with a blush on her cheek! He would have no difficulty surely in obtaining permission to celebrate the marriage instead of the Rabbi. Didn't he know as much as any rabbi? He could see himself drinking from the ritual cup, then offering it to Sol and the blushing bride, and finally pronouncing the blessing in Hebrew. He recited it in a whisper.

'"Mayest Thou delight this loving couple as of old Thou didst rejoice Thy handiwork in the garden of Delight. Lord our God, may there soon be heard in the cities of Judah and streets of Jerusalem the voice of joy and the voice of gladness, the voice of the bridegroom and the voice of the bride, the voice of wedding jubilation, bridegrooms in their festivities and youth in their festal song. Blessed art Thou, Lord, who rejoicest the bridegroom with the bride and who blessest their welfare!"'

He pulled out his handkerchief to wipe away his tears of joy, sniffed, then smiled. After the blessing, he would partake once more of the wine and offer it to Sol and the new bride, ravishing in white lace, then he would pour the wine away and smash the cup in memory of Jerusalem Lost. Later he would escort them to the train which would whisk them away on their honeymoon, and he would repeat his blessing. Yes, he would embrace the young woman, respectfully — she was his niece after all.

Leaving the station buffet, he ambled slowly along the Rue de Chantepoulet, head bowed and- back bent, turning over pleasant thoughts in his mind. Make that a kiss on both cheeks. 'Thank you for everything, Uncle dear,' she would say. 'May God protect you, child, and mind you take care, don't do anything silly, and no jumping, especially after the third month.' And nine months after the wedding the first-born would arrive, and then a second, and a third. Two boys and a girl. Perhaps the second would be named Saltiel if the young mother was agreeable. Anyhow, he'd have to see. Trust in the will of the Almighty.

Lord! How mighty God was! The God of Abraham, of Isaac and of Jacob! This evening he would go to the synagogue to mark the coming of the sabbath and sing praises to the Almighty with his brothers and kiss the scrolls whereon the sacred law of Almighty God was writ! Oh the joy, the honour of belonging to the people which was the chosen of God! What grace and favour! Carried away, he stamped his foot three times, very hard, paying no attention to the curious, mocking stares which came his way.

Paying no heed to the curious, mocking stares, he walked on, invincible and praising the Lord, invincible and praising Him who was his strength and his tower, his strength and his tower, singing praises with all his heart, stamping his foot with all his soul, raising his hat now and then to any passers-by he liked the look of, smiling at them because God ruled sublime in his heart, then stamping his foot some more and singing the praises of the Almighty.

CHAPTER 16

The bedroom of Monsieur and Madame Deume senior, by day occupied exclusively by Madame, her mental fatigue requiring solitude and concentration.

Mixed smells: camphor, methyl salicylate, lavender and mothballs. On the mantelpiece, a gilt bronze clock surmounted by a uniformed standard-bearer valiantly dying for his country; a bride's posy under a glass dome; everlasting flowers; a small bust of Napoleon; a terracotta Italian mandolin player; a Chinese peasant sticking out his tongue; a small trinket case covered with blue velvet and decorated with sea-shells, a present from the Mont-Saint-Michel; a little Belgian flag; a miniature coach made of spun glass; a china geisha-girl; a fake Dresden marquis; a dinky metal shoe stuffed with pin-cushion velvet; a large pebble, a souvenir from Ostend. In front of the fireplace, a painted screen showing two puppies fighting over a croissant. On the walls, a huge fretwork heart inset with smaller hearts containing photographs of the van Offels, the Rampals, assorted Leerberghes, Hippolyte Deume at six months with no clothes on, Josephine Buder and dear Doctor Schweitzer; a selection of Japanese fans; a Spanish shawl; the chimes of Big Ben; verses from the Bible picked out in poker-work or luminous paint or sewn in satin-stitch; two oil-paintings, one of a small chimney-sweep playing marbles with a little pastry-cook's boy, and the other of a cardinal at lunch teasing a fluffy white cat. Over the head of the bed, an enlarged photograph of the first Madame Deume, plump and smiling, with the dates of her birth and death. Here, there and everywhere, little cloth tidies; pads under the lampstands; fringed lampshades; crocheted antimacassars; footstools, footmuffs and footwarmers; screens to ward off the cold and block insidious draughts; a set of brushes with tortoiseshell backs; glove boxes; an arrangement of green sponge with artificial flowers stuck in it; divers ferns; embossed pewter plant-pot holders; glassware by Gallé; a bald dwarf containing matches; paperweights; smelling-salts; marshmallow-flavoured cough lozenges.

Interminable and bony, prone on her bed, with her brown-warted hands crossed over her bosom, Madame Deume was taking her belated nap, snoring with the certainty of the just, her squinting teeth resting on the pallid pillow of her lower lip. Waking suddenly, she threw back the counterpane and, attended by her red-painted fingernails, got up, scantily, unattractively but sensibly clad, for, since the days still grew cool towards evening, she had thought it prudent to take off her calico bloomers and don a pair of man's loose woollen combinations which came down to her ankles and hung slackly about her. This garment, split fore and aft and lined inside, was of a mustard hue, a most practical colour, and the seat was strengthened by a patch of muslin decorated with mauve flowers.

After putting herself through a yoga routine to get herself in harmony with 'the Universal' (she had recently read a vaguely Buddhist book, had understood very little of it, but had been greatly taken with this Universal), she stretched out on the carpet, raised both legs, propped them on a low stool and relaxed. She then closed her eyes and bent her mind to thinking calming and constructive thoughts, which included the keen interest which God took in her. At four thirty she rose, for it was time to get ready since the butler would be arriving in an hour. After allowing her eye to linger lovingly over her ample hoard of household and personal Hnen ranged on the shelves of her mirror-fronted wardrobe, she put on a bright orange camisole, then a petticoat, and finally stepped into her new dress with the diamante motifs. With Aunt Lisa's watch duly pinned to her chest, she poked a lavender-scented handkerchief into her chaste, flaccid sponge of a bosom, then round her waist looped a chatelaine from which hung an assortment of gold trinkets: a four-leafed clover, a number 13 enclosed in a square, a small horseshoe, a general's cocked hat and a tiny lantern. In full harness, she proceeded majestically down the stairs, more decorous than any queen mother.

After popping her head round the door of the kitchen, where she did not fail to bestow a gracious comment on the maid ('It's easy to see, my girl, what sort of home you come from') which was immediately followed by the customary smile which committed her inexorably to loving her neighbours, she went off to inspect the drawing-room, where all seemed shipshape. Even so, she moved three armchairs and pushed them closer to the settee to create a cosy corner. So. Herself and Hippolyte on the settee, their guest in the middle, in the best armchair, and Didi and his wife in the other two. Between the settee and the easy chairs would go the naice littel Moroccan coffee-table with the liqueurs, cigarettes and the good cigars. Yes, everything quite in order. She ran her finger over the low table and inspected it. No dust. When they were all sitting down, she would suggest coffee or tea and then they would chat. A good topic would be the van Offels. 'They're old friends, so very refined.' These preliminaries to a full dress rehearsal were interrupted by Monsieur Deume, who, from his eyrie on the first floor, asked if he could come down for a minute, adding that he wouldn't dirty anything: 'I'm still weawing my parquet-pwotectors.'

'What is it now, dear?' she said, already exasperated, as he came through the door and only narrowly avoided slipping on the over-polished floor.

'I've been weflecting and I weally think we ought to start with soup. Perhaps he likes soup.'

'Who?' she said, with a hint of sadism.

'Didi'sboss, of course.'

'You could at least take the trouble to give him his proper title.'

'It's such a mouthful I always twip up when I twy to say it. Thing is, maybe he likes soup.' (The old hypocrite was thinking more of himself than of their guest of honour. He loved soup. He often said he was 'a wegular soup-fiend'.)

'I've already told you there wouldn't be any. Soup is common.'

'But we have soup evewy evening!'

'I'm talking about tone,' she groaned. 'One doesn't say soup, one says
potage.
One never gives important persons soup. Tonight we'll be having
potage bisque.'

'Oh, I see. Is it nice?'

'It's what they serve kings and queens with.'

'And what's in it?' he asked, when his mouth had stopped watering.

'It can be made from all kinds of things,' she said prudently. 'You'll see tonight.'

Whereupon, taking his courage in both hands, he said that he would like to know exactly what was on the evening's menu. Yes, he wealized that he had asked particularly not to be told what there would be for dinner, so that he would be 'surpwised, like in a hotel when you're on your hols'. But the suspense was more than he could bear. He was delighted by her readiness to agree to his request. She opened a drawer and took out a long rectangle of stiff card.

'It's a surprise for Adrien, I just went ahead and ordered printed menus, had them engraved, do you see, with gilt lettering, which was an extra ten per cent, but well worth it. I had fifty done, five to put out on the table and the rest will keep in case we ever give other dinners for Didi's important friends, and if not they'll make a naice show. It cost the same for fifty as for five, might as well have whatever's going. You can have a look if your hands are clean.'

Potage bisque Lobster Thermidor

Sweetbreads a la Princesse

Snipe Toasties

Foie Gras a la Colmar

Asparagus, Sauce Mousseline

Mixed Salad a la Pompadour

Meringue Glacee

Assorted Cheeses

Exotic Fruits

Bombe Glacee Tutti Frutti

Cakes and Biscuits

Cafe'

Liqueurs

Cigars by Henry Clay and Upmann

Having perused the menu with an excitement which did not exclude a twinge of panic, he read it again more calmly, his lips moving over the words so as to fix them firmly in his mind, while she looked on, basking in the admiration which she felt sure she could see written all over her husband's face. She was proud of her brainchild. She had drawn it up by supplementing her inspiration from royal menus snipped out of newspapers, of which she had a collection. He felt that a compliment was called for, but he tempered his eulogy with a remark which immediately brought her eyebrows together.

'You don't think there's a bit too much? Lobster, then sweetbweads, then snipe followed by foie gwas. Isn't it a twifle on the heavy side? And later on, these two icy things, the mewingue and then the bombe.'

'Adrien approved the menu, that's good enough for me. Anyway, as you probably don't know, at formal and official dinners one eats just a littel of each course. A few spoonfuls of soup, a mouthful of lobster and so on. That's the correct thing.'

'Well, if Adwien's appwoved evewything, then it must be all wight.'

'Everything, that is, except the foie gras, because that's also a surprise from me to him. I ordered it myself and I shall pay for it with my own money, and believe me it doesn't come cheap, but it is the best, they had foie gras a la Colmar at the Elysee Palace in Paris when they gave a dinner for the Shah of Persia. So, as you see, we've got excellent precedents on our side. We'll serve the caviare right at the start, it isn't on the printed menu because Adrien has only just decided to have it, but it can't be helped. The Under-Secretary-General will take good note just the same.'

'And is it cowwect to put cigars on the menu?'

'They cost seven francs each. Didi told me they're the best money can buy in Geneva.'

'Fair enough. And what's this lobster something?'

'Thermidor. It's not an English word, it's Greek, came in at the time of the French Revolution. I do hope you're not going to say Lobster Something in front of our guest.'

'What's it made out of?'

'It's a complicated recipe. It was served to His Majesty the King of England at the royal castle at Laeken. But look, I've far too much to do to be telling you what goes into all these dishes.'

'Just one thing. How do you eat caviare?'

'Just watch what our guest does, and me too of course. I haven't got time to go into it now.'

'One vewy last thing. How shall we be seated wound the table?'

From a drawer she solemnly produced five small cards.

'It's another surprise for Didi. You see, when I was about it, I also ordered printed place cards with our names on them. In a while, when the table's set, I'll put them out according to precedency.' (She sucked on the word as though it were a chocolate, then gave one of her refined salival gurgles.)

'But the one for that chap has just got "The Under-Secwetawy-Genewal" witten on it. Why is that?'

'Because it's more correct that way.'