Her Lover (32 page)

And another thing. He was lying much too close. He was sweating and sticky, and each time she moved away he snuggled up closer and drooled out more lovey-dovey goo, squirming cannibal one minute, recumbent leech the next, he had a nerve! And what gave him the right to take root beside her, what right did he have to go on clinging to her now that he'd got what he wanted, now that she was no more use to him? He'd had his epileptic fit, so why wouldn't he just go away? Horrible thought: she was just something to be used. O Varvara, so smooth, so silky, lying in Varvara's arms had been exquisite.

'It's going to be so lovely sleeping next to you,' he smiled, smugly gorged, drowsily digesting his satedness. 'It's odd, though,' he said with a yawn. 'I only seem to be able to sleep if I curl up like a hunting-dog.'

Fascinating, thanks for telling me. The man-dog has stopped panting and is now just hanging around, kicking his heels. A stranger in my bed, naked and clammy, a stranger who calls me darling and expects me to darling him back. And stupid with it, a stupid idiot who hasn't the first clue about anything. Now he's inspecting that big mole he's got on his stomach, plays with it, feels it. How strange that I should feel such loathing for this poor inoffensive man, quite bizarre that I should hate him because he feels his mole, strokes it. Now, having got himself all hot with all that stupid squirming, he's thrown off the covers as far as his knees, thereby shamelessly exposing his sex, his horrible sex. Oh the fear, the terror of his sex so obscenely exposed, but he's rather proud of it, oh it's ugly and vulgar and, yes, canine. O Varvara, my lost darling. Now he moves one of his legs, below the knee, because he can never get to sleep unless he jerks that leg.

Oh yes, she was quite aware of how impossible she was, that she was odious. She felt sorry for him, he made her feel sorry for him, and there were heaps of times when she quite liked him, but right now she felt she wanted to kick him because he kept jerking his right leg. Should she let him sleep in her bed? It would be her good deed. But he'd snore, and then she wouldn't sleep. O Varvara. Besides, if she let him stay all night, as had happened many times before just because she felt horribly torn between pity and loathing, then he'd wake up in the morning and make the joke he always made: 'Heavens! There's a woman in my bed!' And he'd look to see if she was amused. She forced herself to stroke his forehead.

'Listen, I'm worn out and I'll never be able to sleep unless I'm by myself.'

. 'Of course, darling, I'll push off, you need your beauty sleep. But it was good, though, wasn't it?' he whispered in the noble communion-of-twin-souls and shared-secret-just-between-us mode.

'Yes, very good.' (Go away, clear off, she thought.)

He got out of bed, put his pyjamas back on, and kissed her hand. Under the cover of darkness she scowled. A kiss on the hand after being brutalized like one animal by another animal! He left on tiptoe, for he was afraid that Mummy might be on the spy.

Once more in his own room, he winked at himself in the mirror and beat his chest with both hands. 'Very good' was what she had said. Very good, he sniggered. She'd said it herself.

'But that's the sort of fellow I am, old man,' he said to his reflection.

CHAPTER 23

Next morning she was up early and in the best of spirits. She hurried in to say good-morning before she had her bath, and kissed him on both cheeks. Oh yes! he thought, the physical side of things was important to women. They needed it, you see. It was ages since she'd kissed him with such warmth. Oh yes, gentle as a lamb! He'd make a note of it.

While she poked her head out of the window to fill her lungs with garden air, he expanded his chest and gave himself a metaphorical pat on the back for kissing her hand last night before leaving. Paying his respects to the lady after sexual congress was a nice touch, made him look considerate, very gentlemanly, after all she was the junior and he the senior and dominant partner. It was true, I grant you, quite true, that she hadn't shown her feelings much last night when, you know, but she'd enjoyed it in silence, he'd felt it, oh yes, she'd loved it all right. It was just that she wasn't the demonstrative sort, she was aristocratic, expressing her feelings didn't come easy to her, it's what they call womanly modesty. Besides, hadn't she said it had been very good? It was quite an endorsement, you know, that she who was ordinarily so reserved should have actually come out with that, it showed she'd really enjoyed it. Oh yes, the quiet, demure type, but she didn't turn her nose up at it. She loved it, in spite of all that butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth stuff, loved it, old man, said she thought it was very good! Right then, there'd be more where that came from! But what should he do now? Ask her if she'd slept well, say he hoped she wasn't too tired, with a knowing smile?

He was weighing the pros and cons of this when the imperative of social intercourse suddenly reasserted itself and chased away thoughts of the other sort. The international civil servant saw off Don Juan and he began to chew on his fingernails.

'I shouldn't worry about the fact that he didn't show up,' she said, rejoining him.

He tapped the end of his tongue with his forefinger.

'That's all very well, but all the same it's a worry not knowing what to make of it. I mean to say, he stood us up something chronic, for God's sake!'

'He'll apologize, you'll see.'

'Oh, I don't expect he will.'

'What's worrying you exactly?'

'What's worrying me is that it's damned awkward for a chap when there's any unpleasantness between him and his chief. I feel very uneasy about it, that's what.'

'It'll all sort itself out, you'll see.'

'You really think so?'

The way he kept tapping his tongue with his forefinger was pitiful to see. She decided to wheel out the big battalions.

'You shouldn't worry about little things like that. What's important is your own work. Your real work, nothing else matters.' (This brought an uneasy flush of embarrassment to her cheek.)

'You mean my writing?'

'Of course,' she said, feeling awkward under the grateful look he shot at her. 'In any case, your A is in the bag.'

He smiled. She was right. So the USG hadn't turned up: that didn't mean they could take his A away from him. And come to think of it, what more could the USG do for him at the moment? Nothing. He could hardly expect to be made head of section for another two years at least. And between now and then, he'd have time to form a clear picture of how the land lay.

'Look, darling, I'm going to have to love you and leave you. I know it's Saturday, but I must put in an appearance at the Palais this morning. I feel a moral obligation, you see. I mean to say it's only my second day as an A. And besides, he might send for me to explain about last night.'

Lying in his bath, he whistled to himself. Of course, she was absolutely right, for God's sake! The Secretariat was just a job, it paid the bills. But his life, his real life, was Literature, just you wait and see! When he got to the office, he'd sit down and definitely come up with a sure-fire subject for a novel. Now let's see, what would be original?

Two hours later, ensconced in the drawing-room, she knitting and he updating his file of recipes and handy hints, Madame and Monsieur Deume were on to their third post-mortem' of the events of the previous evening.

'Well, let's hope he'll have the decency to send a formal note with his apologies,' concluded the dromedary. 'Not that it matters greatly, for our acquaintance extends to the van Offels and the Rampals, who are a definite cut above him. And, you know, I was never entirely convinced about him, because he is a foreigner after all, and with foreigners you never quite know where you are.'

'It's twoo. Foweigners aren't liked anywhere. They're not welcome in any countwy. Just goes to show there's no smoke without fire.'

'Besides, he's Jewish. Don't you remember Jacobson, that chemist my poor dear sister was involved with? She paid for her littel mistake. It was lucky for the family that they were able to arrange matters satisfactorily, before it showed, so that she could marry that very naice Monsieur Janson, a widower, slightly round-shouldered he was, a hunchback really, but quite
comme il faut.
Fortunately I had direction never to say a word to Didi. Poor boy, if he ever suspected the truth. Thank God, he has Leerberghe blood in his veins.'

'What happened to the chemist?'

'Struck down, carried off by meningitis just days after he'd led her astray. "As the whirlwind passeth, so is the wicked no more," Proverbs ten, verse twenty-five. So you see, you've always got to watch where you put your feet when you're dealing with Jews.'

'But the Apostles were Jews, you know. Besides. . .'

'Yes, but that was a long time ago,' Madame Deume interrupted. 'Incidentally, to your handy hints you could add an idea which dear Emmeline Ventradour passed on to me the other day. With all the other tilings I've got on my mind, I might forget. (Curiosity whetted, Monsieur Deume leaned forward, pencil at the ready.) When you're using the washing-machine, before you put in anything delicate, camisoles with lace trimming or fine doilies or good linen hankies or scarves that don't like rough handling, first place them in a pillowcase to protect them from the action of the paddles. Wasn't that sweet of her? I mean to say, she didn't have to tell me about her littel trade secret. So as a way of thanking her I passed on mine about woolly combs that have gone at the knees, the kind I wear in winter.'

'What's this secwet? I don't know what you do with them,' exclaimed Monsieur Deume, ever on the lookout for new knowledge.

'Well, out of the top part which is still serviceable I make short drawers which I wear in the in-between seasons, spring and autumn. Then I unpick the areas around the knees which are worn, wind the thread into a ball, and give it to one of those poor unfortunate women who rely on my charity. But of course the legs I keep, if they're in good condition: I knit a border that goes round the top and for the bottom I make a foot with wool in a shade that more or less matches, and I end up with a pair of socks for you. You've already got three pairs like that.'

'I had no idea!' said Monsieur Deume ecstatically.

He was readying himself to jot down these new hints when Ariane came in. She was wearing a radiant smile, which intrigued Madame Deume and delighted Monsieur.

'Good-morning, Madame. Morning, Dada. I hope you slept well, Madame.'

'Oh so-so,' replied Madame Deume, not without a certain coolness of manner.

'Me too. Just so-so,' said the minor courtier, anxious to stay on the right side of the ruling establishment.

'I wasn't feeling at all well last night,' said Ariane. 'To try and get rid of my headache, I played the piano for a while and I'm afraid I must have disturbed you. Please accept my apologies.'

'There is no sin but has its pardon,' said Madame Deume impassively.

Thereupon, Ariane said she had taken advantage of the fact that she'd been up for hours to give Martha a hand in the kitchen. She'd be up and about early tomorrow too, that way she'd have time to brush all of Adrien's suits. She apologized for rushing away so soon but she wanted to bake Adrien a fruit cake using a recipe she'd just found in a religious magazine, which should therefore be excellent. She left the room wearing the same smile. Madame Deume cleared her throat, then played with her lump in silence.

An hour later this model young woman was back in the drawing-room sewing in the company of the Deumes, who were doing the household accounts, which were set out under various headings. From time to time Madame Deume glanced up sharply at her daughter-in-law.

'What do you think, Awiane, that business last night, you know Adwien's chap not coming, what was behind it?' asked Monsieur Deume, while his wife looked on stony-faced and unconcerned.

'Perhaps he was taken ill suddenly.'

'I sincerely hope he was,' said Madame Deume.

Then the talk turned to such pleasing subjects as the effects of tetrachloride on greasy stains and the efficacy of prayer on warts. Ariane agreed wholeheartedly with everything, and then asked Madame Deume for her advice. What should she do to produce a finer knit than you got with garter stitch, one which would be pleasantly slack?

'I suggest you try moss-stitch,' said Madame Deume. 'One plain, one purl, then, in the next row, one purl, one plain. You can take that as a basis for all other patterns. For instance, instead of changing the order every row, you can change every other row.'

'Thank you so much, Madame. I'm sure I'll find that such a help. It's an age since I did any knitting. If you have any other tips you could pass on, I'd be most awfully grateful.'

'Well, if you're that out of practice, I'd advise you to start by tackling something small so you don't get tired of it, something for the baby of a needy mother, bootees, for instance.'

'I was thinking of making a cardigan for Adrien,' said Ariane, with eyes demurely lowered.

'In that case, it's not moss-stitch you want! It's stocking-stitch! Still, if you're really set on moss-stitch, there's no reason why you shouldn't, I suppose. It's worth a try. But if there's one piece of advice I have for you it is this: be sure to buy all the wool you need while you're about it. Otherwise you may find yourself in a pretty pickle because you can't get any more of exactly the same shade. There's nothing more annoying. To be on the safe side, buy a littel more than you need.'

'What good advice, Madame! I really can't thank you enough for all your help.'

'And another thing. If you are a littel rusty, practise knitting without looking at what you're doing. There's nothing better for bringing you on.'

'I'll
do my best. But now it's time I was going. I've a few things I must do for Adrien. Is there anything you want while I'm out?'

'As a matter of fact there is something. You could pay the telephone bill for me. I shan't have time myself this afternoon. I'm going to Coppet to call on the Rampals, such dear people, the younger Rampals, that is.'