Her Lover (109 page)

Alas, just as the last strains of the concerto for long-distance wood-saws died away, a new rumble declared itself, a king among rumbles, a beauty, shooting-starred and varied, a thing of spirals and whorls, like the capital on a Corinthian column. Others followed where it had led, and came now in twos and threes, striking great organ notes with accompaniment of bassoon, bombardon, cor anglais, flageolet, bagpipe and clarinet. Upon which she gave up the unequal struggle and said it was time she started seeing about dinner. She had two reasons for this decision, he thought. The first met an immediate need: to slip away to the kitchen and rumble in peace, with no one to hear. The second, aimed at producing a longer-term result, was to get something into her stomach in double-quick time, so as to crush and quell the rumbling, which, flattened and choked by the food ingested, would be prevented from rising to the surface, there to burst and frolic unconstrained.

'Won't be a jiffy,' she said sweetly, and made a dignified exit which made up for her humiliation.

He gave a shrug the moment the door closed behind her. Oh dear, so it was to end up listening to a sequence of abdominal growls that he had ruined his own life and also the life of an innocent whose unconscious must be feeling rather let down now that it had discovered that a grand passion was not a many-splendoured thing after all. He was quite aware that for the last few months only her conscious mind had been in love with him. Those weeks in Geneva, dodo-dead weeks of true passion, had started a myth which the poor, loyal creature had tried to Uve up to by playing to the hilt the role of adoring mistress. But her unconscious was now weary of the role. Poor darling! So unhappy, yet not wanting to admit it, refusing to see that their ship was on the rocks. As a result, her unhappiness showed itself as and when it could, in headaches, fits of absent-mindedness, mysterious onsets of tiredness, an enhanced love of nature and a suspect horror of snobbery. Whatever happens, never teli her the truth. It would kill her.

Their miserable life together. The pretentious ritual which meant that they saw each other only as miraculous lovers, priests and ministrators of their love, a love supposedly unchanged since those first heady days. The farcical game of seeing each other only as beautiful and nauseatingly noble, without blot or stain, always freshly bathed and always pretending to be driven by identical desires. Day after day, their grimly anaemic need for beauty, the solemn hardening of sublime, unremitting passion, like the scabs of scurvy. The bogus life which she had both wanted and organized for the preservation of what she called 'higher values', the whole pathetic farce of which she was both author and director, a brave show but a farce for all that, the farce of unalterable love, in which the poor dear girl ardently believed and which she acted out with all her soul, and he ached with pity and he admired her faith. Oh my darling, for as long as I live and breathe I shall go on acting out the farce of our love, our poor love wilting in this forced solitude, our moth-eaten love, until the ending of my days, and you will never know the truth, this I promise. Thus he spake to her in his heart.

The miserable life they led together. The shame he had felt that day in Cannes when he had observed himself sitting with her at a table on the terrace of the Casino, each silently ingesting an enormous chocolate ice with too much whipped cream. The Liegois ice-cream had been his idea. And in this wise did they find consolation for their life: they overate. Though she was not aware of it, she too was seeking ways of curing the beriberi of love. The ludicrous erotic teasing, her constant recourse to the full-length mirror, baths, kissing beneath the pines, and all the other fruits of the poor creature's ingenuity. 'Darling, it's so hot today and Pm not wearing a thing under my dress.' It made his teeth ache with shame and pity. Or else, as she read Proust to him, she would cross her legs too high while he told himself that a discussion with half a dozen of the cretins who worked at the League of Nations would have had a damn sight more red corpuscles in it. An exchange of simpering inanities, of course, but at least it would have been shared with an inanely smiling brother, a moron but still a brother, a brother indispensable. What was the point of Proust, what was the point of knowing what men did and thought if you had stopped living in their midst? Poor sweet, she went on reading and crossed her legs even higher. For his part, Proustian appraisals of the ways of the fashionable crowd made him feel queasy, and, as one of the excluded, it pained him to have to sit and listen to base but serviceable hints for getting on in society. 'Proust was a homosexual snob and his chatter bores me,' he would say, and to force her to make herself decent, would suggest a game of chess. She would stand up to get the board and the hem of her dress would come down again. Saved! Gone, those flashing thighs!

The miserable life they led. Sometimes he would force himself to be spiteful, though he had no wish to be spiteful, but their love had to be made exciting, turned into an interesting drama, with surprise twists, misunderstandings and making up. He also resorted to giving her imaginary grounds for jealousy, so that she wouldn't be bored and he shouldn't be bored himself, hoping to inject a little zest into their life, with scenes and accusations and ensuing carnalities. Making her suffer was a way of putting an end to the migraines and the drowsiness which always overpowered her after ten thirty at night, the politely stifled yawns and the rest of the symptoms through which her unconscious conveyed its disappointment and its dissatisfaction with the love which now languished so dully, the love from which she had expected so much. Yes, her unconscious, for she was not consciously aware of any of this. But, sweet, demanding slave, it was making her ill.

The miserable life they led. Yet at the start of June, after his bogus liver attack, there had been a couple of almost happy weeks while the work she had wanted done to make their useless drawing-room even more attractive was being carried out. They had met early each morning, without any prior ringing of bells, in their ordinary clothes. After having breakfast together, they would look in to see how things were progressing, chat with the workmen, and get Mariette, who had perked up visibly when they arrived, to take them drinks and something to eat. The three workmen had made all the difference. During those two weeks they had had a kind of social life, there had been a purpose to things.

The miserable life they led. At the end of the second week, when the workmen had left, she and he had admired their refurbished home ' and had been thrilled with the new fireplace, which she had insisted on inaugurating with a roaring fire in spite of the mildness of the weather. 'Darling, it's lovely, don't you think?' Then, to try them out, they'd sat down in their new armchairs, which were massive and English, soft and dark brown, like a pair of immense chocolate mousses. 'Lovely, isn't it?' she had repeated, and, casting a satisfied eye around her, had taken a deep, proprietorial breath. And then, after a silence, she had begun reading out the memoirs of a great English lady, breaking off to protest and say how much she despised that whole snobbish clan. After dinner there had been a ring at the front door. She had jumped, and then said coolly that it was probably the people who'd taken the villa across the way who had come to pay a courtesy call. After pushing back a stray wisp of hair, and wearing a measured smile, she had gone to answer the door. Returning to the drawing-room, she'd said in a small, unaffected voice that it was a mistake, sat down in one of the chocolate mousses, and averred that they were so much more comfortable than the old ones. He had agreed, and she'd opened the
Revue de Paris
and begun reading an article about Byzantine art.

The miserable life they led. Every morning the poor creature put herself through a secret routine of exercises. She lay on the carpet in her swimming-costume with no idea that he was watching through the keyhole as she raised her legs, bicycled gravely, slowly lowered her legs,  concentrating  on breathing in and breathing  out,  then repeated the process, looking to her clandestine drill to overcome her torpor, which she doubtless attributed to a lack of exercise, for she was much too decent to see the truth, which was that they were bored with each other, that the ship of their love had sprung a leak and that it was making her ill. After her gymnastics she would sometimes stand and surreptitiously don a Swiss cowherd's cap embroidered with edelweiss and would then proceed to yodel while she tidied her wardrobe, would quietly yodel a song of the mountains, a song of her native land, which was another of her wretched little secrets.

The miserable life they led. The other evening, after dinner, she'd announced yet again that she would bake him a nice cake in the morning, and once more she'd asked him what kind he preferred, chocolate or coffee
crème.
Then, after a silence, she'd said she'd like a dog. 'A dog would be nice company when we go out walking, don't you think?' He'd agreed, because (a) it would be something to talk about and (b) it would give them something to do next day. She had written down the different breeds which she considered possibilities on a sheet of paper divided into two columns, one for pros and the other for cons. Subsequently the subject had never come up again. Maybe she thought a dog might bark in the middle of their consecrations, as she called them, or perhaps going walkies with it might get a teeny bit embarrassing on account of certain little habits dogs have.

The miserable life they led. Last night, at ten thirty, though she had felt an imperious need for sleep, she had bravely hidden it. But he knew the signs. The subtle itching of the nose, minimally and elegantly assuaged by discreet attentions to her nostrils. Eyes now wide and staring, now furtively closed and immediately reopened. Nostrils flaring, teeth gritted, and breasts held high for that smuggled yawn. The poor girl was sleepy but, because he was talking, she bravely insisted on staying, sincerely insisted on listening with interest, for she loved him, was firm of purpose and, moreover, polite. So she listened on, with a smile on her face, but in her eyes was a worried, almost frantic, look, a fear that she would be too late to bed if he went on talking, the morbid fear that she would certainly spend a sleepless night if she wasn't tucked up by eleven at the latest, a fear which she kept to herself but had confided to her private diary, which he had read in secret:. Oh, that pleasant, well-brought-up smile with which she listened, a fixed smile, painted on, permanently pinned to her lips, stiff and unmoving, sweetly framing her listening teeth, the smile of a tailor's dummy, a ghastly dead smile with which she lovingly beat him into submission. And so, to banish the sight of her smile-festooned panic, he had stood up as he did every evening and said it was time they were saying good-night. 'Just five minutes more,' she had suggested magnanimously now that she was sure she would soon be in bed. Five polite minutes, just five and not one more! Oh their nights in Geneva! There, at two in the morning, when he wished to leave and let her sleep, how distraught his passionate girl used to be! 'Stay, don't go yet!' she would say in her gold-flecked voice, a voice which had now grown silent. 'It's not late!' she would say, and she would cling to him.

What could he do to put the life back in her? How about resuscitating the ploy he'd used a few months back, by making out that Elizabeth Vanstead was in Cannes threatening suicide if he didn't come, and then go to Cannes and see her as he had that other time, allegedly to spend a few days with her, all proper and above board, to prevent a crisis? Truth to tell, he'd got bored kicking his heels in Cannes all alone in a room in the Carlton, reading detective novels and, as his only comfort, having lavish meals brought up. Eating and reading, the twin mammaries which suckled solitude. But that last evening in the Carlton he'd felt a sudden need for jubilation, for conquest. There had been a Danish nurse. Result: muted jubilation, conquest turned to ashes. Next day, when he'd returned to Belle de Mai, she had bubbled over with life once more. She had wept, had plied her handkerchief tragically, had fired damply nasal questions and given him searching looks suddenly filled with the madness of certainty. 'You're lying! I'm sure you went to bed with her! Tell me the truth, I'd prefer to know, I'll forgive you if you tell me everything.' And so on. And when he had solemnly sworn that there was nothing between him and E. Vanstead, that he'd only agreed to go and see her because he'd felt sorry for her, because she had literally begged him to, oh such furious kisses and another instalment of waterworks. Then another session of question-and-answer. So what had they done all day? What had they talked about? Did their rooms have a connecting door? How was she dressed? Did she wear a dressing-gown in the mornings? And because he had said yes to this she'd cried and sobbed even more and clung to him, and then there had been kisses in the grandest style, the result of which was that she could sense he'd been telling her the truth, that he had been faithful to her all along. And then the predictable continuation had followed, with the poor girl triumphing in the certain knowledge that he still belonged to her because, and then she was holding him between her gripping legs, and then was bestowing allegedly bewitching caresses on the bare shoulder of her man. In ecstasy had she gazed upon him as in the days of Geneva, for he was precious and he was fascinating. Regaining her breath and fully reassured, she even allowed herself the moral satisfaction of feeling sorry for the rival she had seen off. Poor girl, you've been diddled. But the subterfuge had been for her benefit, to rekindle the happiness of loving in her.

Yes, she had bubbled with life, but it had only lasted a few days. Thereafter, E. Vanstead having disappeared over the horizon, the business of chocolate cake versus
coffee-crème
cake had resurfaced and, after the ten-thirty watershed, the evening panics had returned. So they had resorted to that other staple ploy: making up their minds to travel, they had completed a gruesome tour of Italy. So many monuments and museums visited without interest, since they both existed outside the community of men and women. Persons of refinement who took an interest in books, painting and sculpture did so in the last analysis so that they could talk about them later with other people, so that they might build up a stock of impressions they could share with others,' those others on whom they depended. The notion that art was denied to the lonely was one which he had pondered time and time again. People who are cut off from human kind are much given to rumination.