Her Lover (51 page)

'And so it was always gorilla time, though I would have much preferred her just to be by my bedside, sitting in an armchair, while I lay still and prone and held her hand or the hem of her skirt, and she crooned a lullaby. But oh no! I had to be wayward and dangerous, with Character on permanent display, constantly prancing and feeling foolish, the fool of her admiration. I do not say these things with a light heart. I would have been happy to find such warmth in men, to have had a friend to embrace when we met, to stay and talk with late into the night, even until the dawn. But men care little for me, I make them feel uncomfortable, they do not trust me, I do not belong, they sense that I am a loner. And so I was driven to seek warmth from those who give of it freely.'

Standing before the mirror above the mantelpiece, he removed his black monocle, inspected the scar on his eyelid, and wondered if he should burn his thirty thousand dollars in the presence of the Ama-lekite to teach her a lesson. No, better to burn the money when alone some evening, for the sheer hell of it, first draping his shoulders with his long silk prayer-shawl ennobled with tassels and striped with blue, his tent and his home. He turned abruptly and drew close to the daughter of Gentiles, beauty in long curved eyelashes, who looked at him in silence, true to her word.

'How they've made me suffer these twenty years with their babooneries. Babooneries,' he repeated, held in thrall by the word, suddenly transported to a cage at the zoo, peering in vacantly. 'Consider the baboon in his cage. Watch how he dons his virility to please his babooness, see how he beats his chest like jungle drums, observe how he struts with head held high like the colonel of a parachute regiment. (He strode round the room, hammering on his chest to be a baboon. With head held high, he looked elegant and innocent, young and carefree.) Then he rattles the bars of his cage, and the melting, captivated babooness realizes that he is a brute, that he is assertive, that he has Character, that she can rely on him. And the harder he rattles the bars, the more convinced she feels that his soul is fine, that he is morally reproachless, a chivalrous, loyal, honourable baboon. That's feminine intuition for you. And so the bedazzled babooness goes up to the baboon, waggling her hindquarters — they all do it, even the most virtuous, they're all keen on displays of rump, hence tight skirts — and with eyes chastely lowered she asks him meekly: "Do you like Bach?" Of course, he loathes Bach, a heartless robot and geometer of mechanical variations. But to impress, to show that he has a fine soul and belongs in the very best of baboonish circles, the wretch has no choice but to say that he positively dotes on the old bore and his works for long-distance wood-saws. Are you shocked? So am I. Then, still keeping her eyes demurely lowered, the babooness says in a sweet voice full of deep conviction: "Bach brings us closer to God, don't you think? I'm delighted we share the same tastes." It always starts with shared tastes. Don't they always begin with an opening salvo of Bach, Mozart and God? It strikes a proper conversational note, provides a respectable alibi. And two weeks later the trapeze is flying over the bed-springs.

'So the babooness continues her elevated conversation with her nice baboon, delighted to discover that his thoughts on all subjects -sculpture, painting, literature, nature, culture - coincide exactly with her own. "I'm also fond of folk-dancing," she says next, unleashing a flutter of eyelashes. And what exactly is folk-dancing? And why on earth do they rave about it? (He was so anxious to tell her, to convince her, that his sentences clashed and scattered grammar to the winds.) Folk-dancing, lot of strapping louts jigging showing how indefatigable how they'd dig a field go on for ever without dropping.

Of course, they never admit the real reason why they've been bowled over and they hide behind more fine words. They'll tell you that what they really like about the dancing is the folklore, the traditions, the national pride, the marshals of France, the homely country people, the
joie de vivre,
its sheer vitality. Vitality, my foot! We know what vitality really means, and Michael could explain it to you better than I can.

'But at this point a longer baboon is let into the cage, and he thumps his chest with much more gusto and a noise like thunder. The first baboon and apple of an eye but a moment ago keeps his mouth shut, for he is less long and nowhere near as lusty. He abdicates and, in deference to the greater ape, drops on all fours and adopts the female posture as a sign of vassalage. This sickens the babooness, who immediately develops a mortal hatred for him. Your husband a while ago, in the silences, his endless, fawning smile, that refined and humble sucking of saliva. Or, as I spoke, bent double to catch my every word. All that too was a feminine homage to the power to inflict hurt, of which the capacity to murder is the ultimate root: I say it yet again. Likewise the melting, virginal smiles on faces which verge on the loving when the King lays the first stone! Likewise the adoring laughter which greets the witticism, though it is not in the least witty, uttered by any great and powerful man! Likewise the ignoble reverence of the ministry official meticulously, scrupulously pressing the blotter upon his minister's signature on the last page of the peace treaty! Oh the perpetual duet sung by humankind, the same sickening baboonish tune: "I am greater than you. I know I am not as great as you. I am greater than you. I know I am not as great as you. I am greater than you. I know I am not as great as you." And so it goes on, constantly, everywhere! Baboons every one! Ah, I do believe I said all this a moment or two ago, about your husband, the adoring laughter and the ministry officials. So sorry! But all these contemptible little baboons are enough to addle anyone's brains. I see them everywhere, all busy displaying, like rutting animals.

'And just like me at this very moment, the great ape in his cage holds forth boomingly, his gestures marked by vitality. He speaks masterfully to the babooness, who watches him with great, round, wondering eyes. "Such charm!" she whispers to an old friend, another babooness, who sits fanning herself. "He has such a gentle smile. I just know somehow that he is a very good person, deep down." And spiders! Do you know anything about the habits of spiders? The female requires her husband to demonstrate his strength by showing how well he can jump! Like this. (With one standing jump, he cleared the table. Ashamed at having made a spectacle of himself, he lit a cigarette and exhaled furiously.) Scientific fact, I can get the book for you, if you want. And if the spider does not leap about and whizz off in all directions, then it's no go. The soul of spiderwoman casts him adrift while she heads off to the sea with a brand-new spiderman who, having been in the state of love for but a few days, prances and pirouettes fit to make her swoon with pleasure. The new one is a dark-skinned spiderman! For you should realize they adore dark-skinned spidermen, though this is a secret and they only whisper it to each other at night, by the light of the moon, when they are far away from their white spiderhusbands. And then, on the shore of the silky, low-lapping sea, poor spiderman is required to jump heights of five or six or even seven centimetres, which he does, and she worships him!'

He stopped, gave her a kindly smile, for he was enjoying the spiders and had forgotten the gap between the third and fourth ribs. In high spirits, he tossed his Commander's tie high into the air and caught it as it fell.

'And then, tragedy strikes! A third spiderman turns up who can outjump her dark-skinned spiderman! Spiderwoman says to herself that Mister Rightspiderman, a spiderman to make her soul o'erflow, has come along at last! Divorce! Third marriage! Departure off her head off to a new sea with her new spiderman! Honeymoon in Venice, where the little fool whinnies her fill about the stones and the colours, thanking her lucky stars that she is a Nartist, which means she screws up her eyes to get the full effect of the marvellous yellow bit in that corner of the picture and make out the rest of its myriad wonders, while all around her troops past a cheap hotelful of heifers being herded through their cultural transhumance, and the stay in Venice goes off like a charm because of poetry, and poetry because of many banknotes and a suite in the best
palazzo.

'But when six weeks have gone by and the poor third husband is jumping through fewer hoops and has turned seedy and conjugal and is wearying of the physiological, when his thoughts turn again to his social life and to getting back to work and to inviting the van Vrieses to dinner, and when he begins to talk about promotion and his rheumatism, then all of a sudden it dawns on her, and how noble the illumination, that she has made a mistake. It never fails to come, that IVe-made-a-ghastly-mistake moment. She makes up her mind to speak to him in her most dignified manner, and, to mark the solemnity of the moment, she perches a tall, golden turban on her head. "Dear third spiderhusband," says spiderwoman, clasping her little hairy forelegs together, "let us be worthy of each other, so let us part on an edifying note, without vain recriminations. Let us not with pointless name-calling defile the noble memory of our past happiness. I owe you the truth and the truth is, dear, that I do not love you any more." That never fails to come either, the I-don't-love-you-any-more moment. "It would be base of me to pretend," she goes on. "The fact of the matter, dear, is that I have made a mistake. I believed with all my heart and with all my soul that you would be my eternal spiderhubby. But alas I must tell you that a fourth spiderman has become important in my life." They love saying "important in my life", which sounds much nobler than "sleeping with". Then pretty spiderwoman goes on, her sentiments continually gaining altitude: "You see, Hove him with all my heart and with all my soul, for he is the spiderman of spidermen, a rare spirit possessing Character of the very highest quality. He was placed on my path by God. Ah, what agonies I suffer, for the blow I have struck you will prove fatal, surely? But what choice have I? I can neither live a He nor speak untruths, for my mouth must remain as pure as my inner being. So farewell, my dear, and think sometimes of your little Antinea." A variant: as she concludes her oration, she might suggest one last little bout in bed, just to show she is still genuinely fond of him and also to leave him with a happy memory. But most often, she ends with: "Come, be strong, and let us remain good friends."

'I hate her!' he shouted, banging the table with his fist, which made the glasses on it rattle. 'I hate her because she will never admit that it all came about because Spiderman IV is brand-new and makes a pleasant change from Spiderman III. Oh no! They always speak of their new love as having been decreed by heaven, as being ineluctable, adorable and mysterious, and involving soul-searching in the highest! And so, with a flourish of her soul and a waggle of her rump, she flees into Egypt with spiderman number four who will be a disappointment to her the day she realizes that he too can come down with diarrhoea just like a husband.

'And the empis! He has to perform feats of strength too, poor devil. The empisette is adamant. But I have mentioned her already. Well, what about the canaryess, then? Before the canaryess will agree to allow the earth to move prior to laying subsequential little eggs, she insists that her poor canary spouse must leap about and go through his athletic paces, that I should warble louder than other canaries, that I should act like an apache and roll my shoulders and do the Java like a gangster and let my wings hang down menacingly! Alas, poor me! And if I try to be pleasant she turns into a raging fury and scratches my eyes out!'

He paused. Swinging his string of sandalwood beads round and round on his finger, he pictured himself first coming out of the tattooer's shop in Marseilles, then lying on the floor of a hotel room, impassive for all time, his arms spread wide under the lamp which has burned all night, arms outstretched and a hole above the nipple in a halo of black particles. No, not a hole, because shot fired point-blank. The gases from the detonation would have entered the hole, causing the skin to burst and leave a wound like a starred cross. He turned and faced her.

'I have used terrible words which I regret after I have said them: palaeolithic and babooness. I have used them and cannot help repeating them because it makes me so angry that women are not as they deserve to be and as they are in the inmost recesses of my heart. They are angels, and I know it. But why does the palaeolithic cast its shadow over the angel? Listen and I will tell.you my secret. Sometimes in the middle of the night I wake suddenly, sweating with terror. How is it possible that they who are gentle and tender, my ideal and my religion, how is it possible that they can love gorillas and the things gorillas do? I lie awake at night amazed that women, who are marvels of creation, eternally virgins and eternally mothers, who originate in a world quite distinct from the place whence men come and are man's superior, it appals me that women, the annunciation and prophecy of the beatific human race which will one day come to pass, humanity made human at last, women, demure-eyed creatures whom I adore, grace made flesh, gentleness incarnate and spark visible of the godhead, it fills me with revulsion that they should surrender to might, which is the power of life and death, it fills me with disgust when I see them brought so low by their worship of brutes, it poisons my nights and I do not understand nor will I ever accept that it must be so! They are infinitely superior to the odious thugs and bandits who attract them, don't you see that? And it is an incomprehensible paradox which torments me that my divinities should be drawn to cruel, hairy men! Yes, divinities! Was it women who invented clubs, arrows, spears, swords, Greek fire, mortars, cannon and bombs? No, the perpetrators were the brutes, the virile men they have loved! And yet they worship one of my race, the prophet with the sorrowing eyes who was Love! What am I supposed to make of that? I can make nothing of it.'

He picked up his string of beads, stared at it as though trying to make some sense of it, put it on the table, murmured a pleasant Thank you' to no one in particular, and hummed a Passover hymn. Suddenly, aware that she was looking at him, he raised a hand in friendly greeting.