Her Lover (61 page)

CHAPTER 45

One evening, just before nine, she decided that waiting for him outside, at the door, made her look cheap. Well then, she'd wait inside and answer the door when he came, but no hurrying, mind, walk slowly, taking deep breaths, that way she would remember who she was, that way also she wouldn't get there all out of breath. Yes, good, self-control, show him politely into the sitting-room. There, make conversation, then suggest a cup of tea. It was a good idea to have set everything out ready in the sitting-room beforehand, that way she wouldn't look like the maid bringing the tea-tray. Yes, she hadn't forgotten anything, teapot plus cosy, cups, milk, lemon. At the right moment, stand, pour tea slowly, then ask, and mind no crawling, milk or lemon. She tried it. 'Milk or lemon?' No good, it was all wrong, much too hockey-sticks, made her sound like a Girl Guide leader. She tried again. 'Milk or lemon?' Yes, that was fine. Pleasant, and not the least crawly.

When the bell rang, she made a dash for the door. But when she got as far as the hall she did an about-turn. Had she removed all the powder? She returned to her sitting-room, parked herself in front of the mirror, and peered at herself blankly. In the end, with the blood thumping in her ears, she sprang into action, scurried away, almost tripped, and opened the door. 'How-nice-to-see-you-hope-you're-well,' she said, and said it every whit as naturally as a soprano in an operetta attempting a passage of
parlando.

*

Breathing with difficulty, she led him into her sitting-room. Her lips locked in a fixed grin, she motioned him towards one armchair, sat herself in another, pulled her dress well down over her knees, and waited. Why didn't he speak? Had she offended him? Perhaps she hadn't got all that powder off. She ran her hand over her nose and suddenly felt that she wasn't at all pretty. Should she say something? Her throat felt congested, and clearing it would make a horrid noise. Little did she know that he was merely adoring her embarrassment, that he wasn't saying anything because he wanted to make the moment last.

With trembling lips, she offered him a cup of tea. He accepted dispassionately. Tense and uneasy, her cheeks ablaze, she poured tea on the table, into the saucers and occasionally even into the cups, apologized, then held out the little milk-jug in one hand and the lemon slices in the other. 'Silk or melon?' she asked. He laughed, and, screwing up her courage, she looked up at him. He smiled, and she held out both hands. He took them, and got down on his knees before her. In a moment of inspiration, she went down on her knees to him too, and did it with such grace that she knocked over the teapot, the cups, the milk-jug and every last slice of lemon. Kneeling, they smiled, and their teeth gleamed, the teeth of youth. Kneeling, they were ridiculous, they were proud and they were handsome, and it was bliss to be alive.

CHAPTER 46

On another evening, as he was not saying anything, she sat quietly, without moving, respecting his silence. But when she observed him opening and closing his empty cigarette-case, she stood up and walked slowly to her tulip-wood writing-desk. Her tread was measured and harmonious, for her desire was to be perfect.

Bearing a cigarette-box which she had taken out of the writing-desk, she returned to him solemnly, priestess-like, hips barely moving. Poor sweet, he thought, for though his head was bowed he saw her. With a discreet smile, she placed the box of Abdullahs in front of him and, like a graceful slave, opened it. He took a cigarette, which she ht with the gold cigarette-lighter he had given her on that first evening. Then, happy to have been of service, she slowly returned, with a swagger of hips, to her armchair. She sat down, crossed her noble legs elegantly, modestly pulled down the hem of her skirt, and froze in a poetic pose. I adore you, he thought, touched by her pathetic effort to find grace and favour.

Sitting there staring at her delicate hands which had once more pulled and smoothed the hem of her dress, she looked the very image of perfection. And then, when everything about her was just right, what should happen alas, but a tickle started in her nose which warned her of the imminent arrival of a sneeze. 'Back in a jiffy,' she said, leaping to her feet, and she left the room in a rush, forgetting to wiggle her hips.

*

Stifling the disastrous urge, she took the stairs four at a time, pinching her nose between thumb and forefinger. When she reached the landing, she hurtled into the Deumes' bedroom, slammed the door behind her, and sneezed four times. Then, with a series of discreet snuffles which would not be heard, she wiped her nose in a check handkerchief which she found in a drawer and threw under the bed once she'd finished with it. But now what could she say to explain her absence? That she'd left the room to blow her nose? She would rather die first! She turned this way and that, looking around her in desperation. In the end, on the table, next to a book entitled
The Home Handyman's Treasury of Practical Tips,
her eye settled on a small photograph of herself in a leather frame. She grabbed it and left the room, though not without first taking a peek at herself in the wardrobe mirror, to check.

'Just popped upstairs to fetch a photograph of myself,' she said when she got back to her sitting-room. 'I'll give it to you when you're leaving, but you're not to look at it until you get home. That way, the taxi will be taking you back to where I'll be.' She inhaled deeply through her nose, pleased at the way she'd put it. Rehabilitated and little knowing that he had heard her explosive sneezes, she sat down again feeling decidedly poetic.

CHAPTER 47

Sometimes they spent their nights in his suite at the Ritz. She loved going there to see him, loved the idea of his waiting for her, of not having to worry that the horrid man might be late. In the taxi which ferried her to him, she loved to dream that she was Little Red Riding Hood off to visit the wolf, keeping her wits about her just in case she met her grandma on the way.

In the early hours, she would get dressed, kneel at the foot of the bed where, fatigued by love, he lay dozing, and magic him, as she put it, bind him with a spell of chaste caresses, which mostly meant stroking his feet patiently, rhythmically, and she would tingle as she pictured herself a slave kneeling at the bed of her king. She never went home before making absolutely certain that he was asleep, and she always left a short note for him to find when he woke. Her "messages were written in a straggly hand, for they were scribbled in the dark, and she left them on his bedside table where he would see them on waking.

'I feel as tender and as proud as a mother when you let me magic you, like when I fluttered my hands over your back just now, like a dragonfly. Beloved, I resisted the urge to kiss you all over. Sometimes I think you have no idea of how much I love you. Sweet dreams, my love.'

'For heaven's sake, darling, don't smoke so much tomorrow. Please, not more than twenty. Fiddle with your beads instead. And don't be cross if I tell you to have lunch tomorrow. And no making do with just a starter, mind. Your Uttle nanny-goat's knocking her head against a brick wall: what does she have to do to make her lovely billy see sense? Sweet dreams, my love.'

'Darling, I simply must tell you that the love you give me is a deep, deep sky where I discover new stars every time I look. I'll never stop seeing stars, it's endless and everlasting. Sweet dreams, my love.'

'Darling, you've made a real woman of me. All the dry leaves and dead wood have just fallen off, and when I'm with you I am simple and whole. Believe me when I say that a barefoot Romanian peasant with her dangling plaits could not look at her man with eyes more trusting, more adoring. O Sol, Sol, if only you knew how much love, how much crazy longing for you there is in your Uttle peasant's your Uttle girl's heart. Sweet dreams, my love.'

CHAPTER 48

One night he felt an overpowering urge to go back, to see her. No, he mustn't, he should let her sleep, he'd have to make do with the photo he had, the one of her he liked best. Oh, those legs, those long, huntress legs of hers, which would always run to where he was on spurs of love. Oh, her Romanian dress with embroidery circling hem and waist and running up and down the arms. Oh, her hands, which only moments ago had gripped his shoulders as they drank each other's honey. Oh, the mystery of happiness, a man and a woman drinking each other's sweetness. And here were her breasts beneath her dress, hidden from others but consecrated his. Hallelujah, here were her face, her soul, her very being, nostrils flaring, lips persecuted by his love. Yes, at first light, send a bellboy out to buy a magnifying lens, a strong one, and take a closer look at those lips which were made to yield to his. But what could he do till then? Sleeping was out of the question, he loved her far too much to sleep. But he could not be alone, he loved her far too much to stay by himself. Drive out to Pont-Ceard and see Isolde. 'Isolde, Countess Kanyo,' he declaimed with a pride which was entirely bogus.
'Isolde, Kanyo grofno,'
he declaimed again, in Hungarian.

Sitting on Isolde's lap, he ran his finger over the fine crow's-feet now beginning to appear around her lustrous eyes. His darling was getting old. He felt easy with her, for she was discreet and comforting. He stroked her hair, but kept his distance from her lips and looked away to avoid seeing her breasts, which her gaping dressing-gown left exposed, for the sight made him feel faintly queasy. Ah, how he would love to explain the wonders of Ariane to her, share them with her! His Isolde was good and kind. He knew that if he told her how happy he was she wouldn't make a scene, but there would be worse. There would be that look of hers which he knew of old, the same look there had been in her eyes when he'd told her about Elizabeth Vanstead, a look of mild reproach, the mildly crazed look of the unhappy and the helpless, the brittle smile and faded expression of a woman of forty-five who no longer dared to show herself in the harsh glare of the noonday sun. No, out of the question. He could not possibly tell her about Ariane.

To surrender to thoughts of Ariane as he lay in the arms of Isolde, he had shut his eyes, pretending to be asleep, while she stroked his hair and hummed a strange lullaby to herself. Sleep, my precious, my little precious, she hummed, and she knew then that he would leave her one day, knew that she was old, and she smiled at him helplessly, poignantly aware of the unhappiness which lay in wait for her but feeling only tenderness for the cruel man who was still for the moment hers. She watched him and was suddenly almost happy. For as he slept she could love him completely, without interference from him.

He opened his eyes, blinked as though he had just woken, and yawned. '"Daughter of Minos and of Pasiphaë,"' he intoned dreamily. 'I love that line. Who wrote it?' 'Racine,' she said, 'you know: "Ariane, dear sister, pricked by what dart of love ..."' 'Of course, Ariane,' the hypocrite said, 'Ariane, the divine nymph who is in love with Theseus. She was very beautiful, wasn't she? Willowy, virginal, had a royal nose like all those lovelorn women in classical literature. Ariane. A lovely name, I do believe I am in love with the name.' Careful now, she would soon smell a rat. And so, gesturing vaguely, he explained that he had drunk a great deal of champagne at the Donon with the English delegates. 'Bit tight,' he smiled, tender and contented, but he was thinking of the woman asleep, far away at Cologny. She kissed him. He felt afraid and averted his lips. 'You look tired,' she said. 'I'll undress you, I'll put you to bed, I'll massage your feet to send you to sleep. Shall I?'

*

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she massaged his feet. Supine, he watched her through half-closed eyes. Proud Isolde, Countess Kanyo, now a humble pummeller of feet, and happy with the role. Still in her dressing-gown, she worked conscientiously, varying the movements of her hands like a professional, kneading, rubbing, smoothing, then switching to the toes, which she twisted this way and that. The unhappy woman was proud of her skill as a masseuse. She had even taken lessons so that she could serve him more perfectly.

Completely absorbed in what she was doing, striving like a good and faithful servant, pausing now and then to apply the talcum powder, she went on and on massaging while behind his eyes, which were closed once more, he saw his vivacious, pirouetting, sunlit girl, his Ariane. He bit his lip guiltily. Should he tell her to He by his side and force himself to kiss her mouth, in other words stop treating her like a masseuse? Later, perhaps. He couldn't bring himself to do it now, not straight away. Poor, good-hearted sweet. Yes, he loved her like a mother, and he hated her like a mother. And yet there had been a time when he desired her. Forty-five she was now, poor darling, or maybe more. The skin on her neck was grainy, beginning to stretch. Her breasts sagged. 'How's the massage?' 'Fine, darling, fine.' (Should he add that it was exquisite? No, fine was quite adequate. Keep exquisite for later.) 'Would you like me to manipulate them for you?' 'Please, darling. That would be exquisite.'

Then began the manipulation. Her left hand gripped his heel, while with the right she skilfully but quite unnecessarily twisted and waggled his bare foot. Her lips were set in a faint smile of concentration or possibly pride at his having said that it would be exquisite. For his part, he was ashamed. He hated his foot. He felt pity for the noble face so studiously bent over his loathsome five-toed extremity, which was not worthy of such reverence. On and on she worked, pitiful, demeaned, her sumptuous dressing-gown messy with streaks of talcum. Should he tell her to stop? But if she stopped, what would they do?

She straightened and caught him in her almond, semi-oriental eyes, fixed him with her gentle, warm eyes. 'Shall I do the other one now?'

'Yes please, my darling,' he said, pleased with the possessive, which made a welcome variant, and then went one better: 'Yes, sweetheart,' he said. She gave him a smile of thanks for those last words, which were more gratifying than 'darling'. O unhappy woman who was content with the tiniest crumbs, who snapped up the most unconsidered trifles and was comforted! Oh if only he could speak the tender words which rose fully formed on the tip of his tongue! But he could not, and all the while, still manipulating silently, she waited to hear words of love. Discreetly she waited for them to come, but he found none which rang true. It would be so simple if he could only feel desire for her. Then there would be no need for words. He would manipulate her body in silence and all would be well, for nothing reassured her quite as much. But, alas, all he could give her was words. The male was defectively programmed in this respect. Eventually he plucked up courage and looked at her gravely. 'Listen, sweetheart. (She stopped massaging and lifted her head, more pathetic than a dog begging for a sugar-lump.) Sweetheart, there's something I must say: I love you more now, far more, than in the old days.' Sheepishly he looked away, but this impressed Isolde and convinced her that he was sincere. She leaned forward, kissed his bare foot, and resumed her manipulation, the happy fool of his manipulation. Oh yes, a fool who believed she pleased him by tweaking and pulling his feet. Happy, yes, but the effect of mere words could not last. Tomorrow he would have to find new, more passionate words. Besides, words were no substitute for the other which she was expecting, the cursed other which was the only irrefutable proof. But how could he perform the other with she of the scrawny neck? Oh the bane of the flesh. Ah yes, he too hungered for meat.