Her Lover (63 page)

CHAPTER 50

With the anaemic smile of the unhappy, she stared at the suitcase she had just packed any old how, as though she were in a dream. It was the case she had taken with her three years before, at the start of their affair, when she had travelled to Paris to be with him, travelled with such high hopes. Come along, stand up, shut the case. But she could not do it, was shaken by a fit of the helpless little sobs of the sick in body, and she sat on the case to fasten the straps. When she had done them up, she did not have the strength to stand, and remained seated, her arms dangling at her sides. Noticing a run in the stocking on her left leg, she shrugged. Too bad. She didn't have the heart.

Facing the old woman in the mirror - old Isolde, who had been kept on for pity's sake but kept at arm's length - she winced, undid the top buttons of her dress, and pulled at her brassière, snapping the straps. Worn-out, poor things. She luxuriated in their flaccidity, pressed them with her hands to emphasize their sag. Ah yes, they were not as firm now, and it was all over. They had dropped three or four centimetres, and it was over, love was finished. They had gone soft on her, and love was finished. She took her hands away to see them in all their decadence, waggled her shoulders to see them bounce this way and that, found the sight comic, found the sight tragic. Each evening for years she had waited for him, not knowing if he would come, each evening she'd dressed up for him, not knowing if he would come, each evening had made her house immaculate for him, not knowing if he would come, waiting each evening by her window
and watching, not knowing if he would come. And now it was finished. And why? Because her two top pockets were less well filled than the top pockets of his other woman. When he'd been ill, the nights she'd spent caring for him, nights spent lying on the floor, on the carpet, by his side. Would this other woman know how to look after him? Should she phone and warn her about his allergy to pyramidon and antipyrine? Never mind, let them get on with it. He was fond of her, of course, he'd done his best on the rare occasions when he did come, complimenting her on being so elegantly turned out, showing an interest in her clothes, telling her she had beautiful eyes. All old women had beautiful eyes, eyes were their best feature. And now and then a peck on the cheek or even the shoulder, through her dress. Fabric was neutral, didn't make anyone feel sick. Kisses for old women. Caresses for old ladies. Obviously he found her repellent. He'd been pathetic, so embarrassed when he could no longer avoid telling her about his other woman, he'd been so sad to cause her pain. So sad. But on that evening there'd been real kisses for
her.

Once more she waggled her breasts at the mirror. One to the right, one to the left! Swing, O ye aged globes! She'd been born too soon, that was it. Her father had been in too much of a hurry. And those bags under her eyes, the skin too slack under her chin, that dry hair, those bulges in all the wrong places, and the rest of the proofs of God's goodness. She buttoned the top of her dress, sat on her case again, smiled at the little girl she had once been who did not have bulges in the wrong places, who was fresh-faced, a bit scared, scared of a picture in a book she'd been given as a prize which showed a black man lurking behind a tree. When she was tucked up in bed at night and got to the black man, she would shut her eyes and turn the page quickly. That little girl hadn't known what was lying in wait for her. For what was happening to her now had always been there, waiting for her in her future.

She cupped her breasts in both hands and lifted them. Now that's how they used to be. She let them drop and gave them a smile. 'Poor things,' she murmured. He would use the pen she had given him to write to his woman. Ariane, my only one. Of course she was his only
one! Her mammaries were in first-class shape, weren't they? Your turn will come, dear. Her old body was obscene, it made her sick too. Get thee to a cemetery, to a hole in the ground, you stinking carcass! 'You gruesome old woman,' she told the mirror. 'Why are you old, you gruesome old woman. You don't fool anyone with that dyed hair!' She blew her nose and found an odd satisfaction in seeing herself in the mirror disgraced, sitting on a case, blowing her nose. Come on now, stand up, life must go on, phone.

Shaken and jolted in the taxi, she stared at her hands. It was the first time she'd gone out without having a bath. Disgraceful, she smiled. Hadn't had the strength, you were always alone when you washed, so alone when you towelled yourself dry. Anyway, what was the point? It had happened. Disaster had struck. Punished for the crime of being old. She moved closer to the window. Versoix. The people outside, in the midst of life, striding along, washed and clean, each with a purpose. His woman was young, and she too had a purpose: she would see him tonight. Come on, make ready for tonight, scrub yourself clean-clean-clean so you don't stink. I too did all that for him every day for three years. He would be sad when he read the letter, but it wouldn't stop him, you know, tonight. Their two tongues snaking, ugh! She opened and shut her mouth to taste its coating of bitterness, and suddenly felt like tea. After all, there were still things which gave zest to life. A cup of tea, a good book, music. All eyewash, of course. Oh the damnable need to be loved, which never left you, however old you were. What would happen about Pont-Ceard, after? The furniture, her things, who would look after all that?

Creux-de-Genthod. Pigeons in the road. Two pigeons tenderly billing and cooing. What stupid poems her French governess had made her learn. She was called Mademoiselle Deschamps. Spring is coming, spring is coming, Birdies build your nests, Weave together straw and feather, Doing each your best. Two big cows were lying down, One was white and one was brown. There'd been something between her father and Mademoiselle Deschamps. She remembered her father's Jewish estate-manager, always went cap in hand, always bowing and scraping, he had a horrid face. Bela Kun was Jewish too. It was Bela Kun who had got Uncle Istvan, General Kanyo, who was a count, shot. Her father would never have allowed Jews inside his house.

Genthod-Bellevue. Geneva soon, not long to go now before the station. At the start of their affair, when she'd gone to Paris to be with him, she'd found him waiting for her at the barrier, tall, hatless, his hair dishevelled, looking rather absurd standing next to the ticket-collector. She recalled his smile when he had caught sight of her, the way he'd taken her arm. She had been surprised to see him on the platform, it wasn't his style to wait for trains at stations. In the hotel, the Plaza, he had undressed her immediately. Her dress had split across the top, he had carried her to the bed, and she, the fool of her forty-two years, had been so happy and so proud. But she was old then, already old, so why had he bothered? Why couldn't he have let her alone? All the effort she had made for three years to make herself attractive. What had been the good of going to all those beauty parlours? Hair went on growing on the legs of corpses for several days. As far as she was concerned, it could grow. Here's the station, gateway to nowhere. Stir yourself, life must go on.

The driver had been so absurdly overtipped that, impelled by a sense of class solidarity, he gave the nod to a porter, who, taking the hint, rushed forward, grabbed her bag, and asked which train. Not knowing what to say, she licked her lips. 'Marseilles, lady?' 'Yes.' 'The seven twenty. You can just make it. Got your ticket?' 'No.' 'You'll have to get a move on, then. Can't afford to hang about. I'll wait for you by the train. First class, is it?' 'Yes.' 'Best foot forward, lady, you've only got four minutes, it's the last window along. Look sharp!' Alone in the world, mastering an urge to be sick, she set off at a run, hat askew, repeating Marseilles, Marseilles to herself as she went.

An hour after the train got in, she left the hotel, ran across the Canebière, almost got herself knocked over, turned down a narrow street, and pulled up short in front of a poodle tied to an iron railing next to a grocer's waiting for its mistress who had gone inside. It waited anxiously, fretting, restless, pulling on its lead, trying to see into the shop. When would she come? Why was she so long in there? Had she forgotten him? Oh he suffered torments! Whimpering with almost human distress, straining with all his might, trying to inch forward, he tugged relentlessly on his lead, chafing to be near his cruel mistress, to make her come more quickly, waiting, hoping, suffering. She bent down and stroked him. He was unhappy too. She crossed the road again, went into a chemist's, and asked for veronal. The man peered at her dishevelled hair through his spectacles and asked if she had a prescription. No? In that case, he could not let her have veronal. She said thank you and left. Why had she said thank you? Because I'm a loser, that's why. Then on to the Rue Poids-de-la-Farine. She was glad she'd said in the letter she'd written him that she was going back to Hungary, that way he wouldn't worry. The main chemist's. Same refusal. The woman in the white coat suggested Passiflorine, a herbal sedative. Yes please. She paid, left the shop, looked right then left, left the Passiflorine at the foot of a wall, and stared at it for a moment. Why couldn't he have let her alone? Should she go to a doctor's for a prescription? She didn't have the strength, she was so tired. Rent a little furnished flat with a gas cooker? But where would she find one? She didn't have enough life in her. Even to die you needed to have life. In England, rooms in provincial hotels always had gas rings. Ought she to go to England?

She stopped. In the window of a shop, a sweet little basset-hound lay on straw behind wire netting, looking bored and mournful, nibbling one paw. Couldn't be more than a year old. She stroked the glass of the window. Delighted, the puppy stood up, leaned its front paws against the window, licked the glass just where the lady who was making a fuss of him had put her hand. Inside the shop, parrots, monkeys, a flock of assorted little birds, an old woman with hair that had been hacked rather than cut, and a young effeminate-looking man in slippers sporting a fringe and a white silk scarf. She went in, bought the basset, a pretty collar and a lead, and then left, holding the little dog in her arms, already aquiver with love.

Another chemist's. She went in. Surely a woman with a little dog would not arouse suspicion. Yes, the basset inspired confidence, but try to look cheerful, stroke him, say I'm having a lot of trouble getting to sleep, I'd like some strong sleeping-pills, but easy now, act cautious, they're not dangerous are they, how many is it safe to take, is a whole one too much? I'd like twenty, I live out of town, you see. But first ask for face-powder, dither about the shade, the man wouldn't suspect anything if she dithered about the shade.

Leading the dog on the leash, she walked out of the shop and discreetly poked her tongue out at the chemist. She'd pulled the wool completely over their eyesl Oh no, they weren't the only ones who could look out for themselves. 'Properly speaking, I really ought to ask you for a doctor's prescription, but you seem a responsible sort of person. Do be careful, though, they're very strong, don't take more than one at a time, and not more than two over a period of twenty-four hours.' She'd managed to smile and say she had absolutely no wish to die. The amber eau-de-Cologne had helped. 'Pulled the wool right down over their eyes. And all thanks to you, my little darling. Let's take that nasty lead off and you can trot along all by yourself, my little Boulinou.
,
Happy to be off the leash, the dog shook his collar to ease his neck, raced some distance ahead, came back at a run, and fell in behind her, full of himself, feeling important because someone loved him and knowing in whom he believed. Oh the great heart of little dogs.

He was now trotting along in front of her once more, independent, freed from the durance vile of the pet-shop window, wagging his tail, happy as the mayor and corporation, but stopping from time to time to turn round and make sure his new friend was still there, for how could he live without her, then running back to stare at her and get a pat on the head, which he enjoyed immensely, then running off to have fun and games, sniffing out fascinating smells and, having found one that was absolutely first-rate, turning round again so that she would take note, then racing back to tell her about the smell, at ease with himself and the world, then shooting off again and knowing that she was following, which meant that everything was fine, oh and how about a winkle, yes why not, always a pleasure, especially since here's a tree that's positively asking for it, then scurrying back to tell
the nice lady all about it, he couldn't imagine anyone nicer, and looking up at her with such earnest sincerity, then scampering off again, tail held at an optimistic angle, leading the way while she followed staring so hard at the ground that she bumped into a child. 'Can't you look where you're going!' shouted its mother. Panicking, she hurried away, followed by the basset, who was delighted by this new game. Oh, he was having a lovely time with his friend!

In the Allees de Meilhan she sat down on a bench. Above her head the leaves of a plane-tree scarcely stirred. All this would go on without her. Trees and flowers would go on being, and she would he in the earth all alone. It would be ideal if you could die without the bother. The bother was the worst part. Let them try it, they'd find out how easy it is. Will my name be in the papers? Only in the Marseilles papers, which meant he'd never know. She wiped her nose and stared into her handkerchief. That snot there was life. She felt a need to urinate. So her works were still functioning. She felt her abdomen. Soon she would no longer be able to touch her poor body which was still doing its duty, its duty to go on living. Across the way were a couple of lovers. Kiss him, kiss him, you little fool, you'll see where it gets you. Wagging his tail in passionate devotion, Boulinou looked desperately up at her, hoping for an affectionate word. The word did not come, so he jumped up on to the bench, sat down beside her, and worked his nose into the crook of her arm. 'My love,'she said to him.