Her Lover (52 page)

'Aude. She was my wife. During the last phase of our marriage, because I had dropped out of society, because I had put aside the mask of he-who-succeeds, because I was no longer a miserable government minister, because I had no money and had grown an absurd beard and walked in saintliness, because I had given up playing my role of strong man, because of all this, when I told her how sick in heart I was to see her love lose its lustre, how racked I was to see myself humbled by her contempt, me! the lord she once had loved with all her soul, when I said that, oh her silences and her impermeable face, her stony face, and oh the day in our shabby room when, in an effort to find favour in her eyes by washing the dishes, I dropped a plate and, fool that I was, apologized, oh her horrible, petty, impatient contempt, her woman's contempt! I was poor and therefore weak. I was no longer important, no longer a loathsome conqueror. Clinging ridiculously to hope, I told her it broke my heart to know I was no longer loved, for I was sure that if she understood what I was saying she would gather me up into her arms. And so I waited for her gentle words, waited, slack-mouthed with unhappiness. I hoped, I believed in her. "Aren't you going to say anything, darling?" "I have nothing to say," said the female in answer to the poor male, the vanquished male. Turned to stone, implacable because I had begged for help, because I needed her, the female said again: "I have nothing to say" with the moronic disdain of some remote empress who is irritated beyond endurance by the pauper who begs for her love. And this was the same woman who, in the early days, had asked nothing better than to be a slave to my shining, conquering hero.'

He lit a cigarette, inhaled a long lungful of smoke to stifle a sob, smiled, and repeated his friendly salute.

'Fifth tactic: cruelty. Cruelty is what they want and cannot do without. In bed, the moment we woke, they would always start pestering me about my handsome, cruel smile, my attractive, ironic smile, when all I wanted was to spread her toast with butter and love and bring her tea in bed. I repressed all such impulses, that goes without saying, for the breakfast tray would have singularly cooled her passion. Instead, hapless man that I was, I would curl my Up and show my toothbones in a cruel smile to make her happy. The things poor unhappy Solal has had to endure from them! One night, after a bout of the sport which they find so astoundingly fascinating, she duly billed and cooed a sweet nothing along the lines of "my meany-weany lover-man who was so horrible to me yesterday". And said it gratefully, do you hear? That was how Elizabeth Vanstead thanked me for all the cruel whims I was obliged, against my better nature, to inflict on her, oh yes, thanked me, while she kissed my bare shoulder. Horrible!'

He paused, breathing hard, wild-eyed, a caged tiger, while she stared at him. Elizabeth Vanstead, daughter of Lord Vanstead, the most eligible undergraduate in the whole of Oxford, on everyone's list, so haughty and so beautiful that she had never dared speak to her. Elizabeth Vanstead, naked, with this man!

'No, no, it's too sickening, I can't take any more. I'd prefer to have the love of a dog. Oh I know, I'm repeating myself. It's a habit of my race, a passionate people in love with their truths. Read the prophets and you'll find holy men repeating themselves everlastingly. To be loved by a dog I wouldn't have to shave myself close or be handsome or need to prove my strength. All I'd have to do is be kind. I'd need do no more than pat him on his little head and tell him he's a good dog, and me too. He'd wag his tail and he'd love me true with his soft eyes, he'd love me even if I were ugly and old and poor and rejected by mankind and had no identity card and no Commander's tie, he'd love me even if I had none of the thirty-two toothbones which self-respecting jaws should have, he'd love me, oh marvel of marvels, even if I were tender and weak with love. I think very highly of dogs. Tomorrow I shall seduce a dog and will devote the rest of my life to it. Or perhaps I should try being a homosexual? Best not, I wouldn't fancy kissing anybody with a moustache. And that, of course, is the measure of woman: a creature who, incredibly, actually likes kissing men. Horrible thought!'

Suddenly he gave a start, for he had noticed a fly on the wall, one of those disgustingly large metallic bluebottles he was afraid of. He crept quietly over to the wall and saw that, no, it was just a mark on the wallpaper. Relieved, he smiled at the woman, folded his arms, began a little jig, and smiled again, for all at once he felt inexpressibly happy.

Tike to see how well I can juggle? I can juggle with six separate objects. That's difficult, because of the differences in weight and size. For example, a banana, a plum, a peach, an orange, an apple and a pineapple. Shall I ring for the waiter and get him to bring fruit? No? Pity.'

He strode round the room, slim, tousle-haired, pretending that his mind was far away, carefully cultivating his personal magnetism, absurdly swinging his Commander's tie. Facing her once more, he offered her a cigarette, which she refused, then a box of chocolate fondants, which she also refused. He gave a resigned shrug and once more began to speak.

'I tell myself stories in the bath too. This morning I reported my own funeral to myself. It was delightful. To my funeral have come kittens in pink ribbons, two squirrels linking arms, a black poodle in a lace collar, ducklings in muffs, sheep wearing shepherd's hats, goats dressed in georgette, pale-blue doves, a little weeping donkey, a giraffe in a bathing costume circa 1880, a rough-pawed lion-cub crunching a lettuce-heart to show he is really a kindly soul, a musk-ox exuding sterling good cheer, a little short-sighted rhinoceros looking so sweet with its horn-rimmed specs and gold-painted horn, a baby hippopotamus with an oilcloth bib to stop it getting mess all over itself when it eats, though it never finishes all its soup. Also seven puppies who are the best of friends, wearing their Sunday best, proud of their sailor-suits and the whisdes hanging on a cord round their necks. They drink raspberry cordial through straws and then put one paw to their mouths to conceal a yawn because they are bored at my funeral. The smallest puppy has patent-leather shoes and is dressed up like everyone's idea of a pretty little girl, with lace bloomers showing, and he skips with a rope to draw admiring glances from his mama, who is chatting respectably to a lady grasshopper with cold eyes who is dreaming of marsh and pond. This grasshopperess is very devout and dotes on royal births and the coronations of queens. As he skips, the bonny little puppy, panting for breath, rapidly recites a little poem so that his mama will say how clever he is. When it's finished, he clings to her skirt and looks up at her eagerly, expecting kisses and compliments, but she tells him in English that she's busy, "Mummy is very busy, dear," and she doesn't even look at him, for she is too busy listening to the titde-tattle of the grasshopperess, who is knitting, so the little puppy starts skipping some more and recites his poem again while nearby a small armadillo, sick with jealousy, also proceeds to improvise a poem for his aunt. At my funeral there are also Jewish noses which walk around on little legs, a midget called Nanine who practises her
entrechats
watched by seven kittens, an unmarried rabbit reciting a prayer, a sad baby fawn, and chicks in satin suits and top-hats which are too small for them who confer standing up in a miniature coach: they're a squad of rabbis, the holiest chick in triple satin being the Chief Rabbi. Shall I go on?'

'Yes,' she said, without looking up.

'There is also a pekinese who every so often, to get respect, says "It is undeniable" and "I assume", and also a beaver who digs the hole to put my heart in, my overcombustible heart, and a koala bear with a Tyrolean hat who reads out my funeral oration and stumbles over the words, and my little cat Kitty in widow's weeds who blows her nose in mischievous grief but her veil catches in the prickles of a grave-faced hedgehog I once met in the canton of Vaud who is weeping sincerely while my little cat untangles herself from his prickles and goes and sits on a grassy grave and studiously washes her face in the warm sunshine, stopping suddenly to stare at the dwarf ponies decked out with feathers and turbans who, as their contribution to the solemn celebrations, feel obliged to paw the earth with their front legs and then rear up on their hind legs. There is also a little monkey in a velvet fez who plays a polka on an accordion because there's no organ, while a demented kitten who doesn't understand a thing about what's going on, goes on the rampage like an Arab stallion to attract attention, a very nasty stallion at that, recklessly charging at anyone anywhere, ears martially pricked and a plume stuck in its behind, convinced that it is terrorizing the ducklings who swap sweeties in a shower of giggles. And that's it: the funeral procession which follows my heart on its way to its last resting-place. It's delightful, it's delectable, it's a great success. And now my heart has been buried and is no longer with me. The cemetery is deserted and everyone has gone home, except for one fly sitting on my grave, rubbing its forelegs together and looking very pleased, and me, standing there empty and pale. A penny for your thoughts?'

'How does the little puppy's poem go?' she asked, after a pause during which she looked at him in silence.

' "Little pupply to his mummy says When I'm big I'll save de King On my toes a braid of gold On my head a clof of satin In my mouf a little pipe To draw on And de good King says: give Free little bones Free little breads To dat brave little pupply." He has a speech impediment, you see, he explained seriously. He can't say puppy, he says pupply, and he can't say th, he says f and de.'

'And what about the little armadillo's poem?'

' "Harrymadillo to his auntie said Hurry don't dally auntie or I'm dead Rummage around beneath my coat I need my auntie's antidote For I've gone and swallowed some armoured plate Hurry don't dawdle it really won't wait."'

'Is little Kitty a real cat?'

'A real cat, but she's dead. It was for her that I rented the house at Bellevue, because she wasn't happy here at the Ritz. I rented a whole house just for her, so she'd have trees to climb and sharpen her claws on, a paddock full of the good smells of nature, where she could run about and hunt. I had the drawing-room furnished especially for her with a sofa, armchairs and a Persian rug. I loved her. She was a very choosy, snooty, middle-class cat who had her ways and liked her comforts, very capitalist-minded when she sat in her armchair, but definitely an anarchist who hated doing what she was told when I told her to He down, an angel with kleptomaniac tendencies, always looked serious even when she was at her friskiest, purred like a factory, a very feminine little thing, all purr and fur, a quiet little lady with whiskers, one minute all sugar and spice curled up in front of the fire and the next aloof and dignified, as in myth and fable.

'Ah Kitty, with whom I could be tender and absurd, an adolescent, without having to fear what anyone might say. Kitty! My fluffy Kitty! Her face seemed smaller when she felt like being sentimental, she would close her eyes with tender complicity, half-close them in ecstasy because I told her, for the hundredth time, that she was a nice pussy. Kitty, fur ruffled and dreaming in the sun, offering her little nose to the sun, living the good life in the sun, oh her precious, empty eyes! Kitty, looking so studious when, on a sudden impulse, she licked herself clean in the sun, licked her back leg, which she raised high in a way which made you think of a double-bass player, stopping abruptly to peer at me in sudden bewilderment, trying to understand or maybe just thinking, puzzled, her thoughts put to flight by the scorching sun. When I returned from the world of men, it was a relief to be away from those mean-minded monkeys in black coats and striped trousers and back with her again, for she was always ready to do as I said, to trust me, to card the wool on the knees of my trousers, to ingratiate herself by nuzzling my hand with her impassive head, her pretty head which thought no ill of me, my never-for-an-instant-anti-Semitic sweetie-pie.

'She knew over twenty words. She understood "Go out", "Beware of the dog", "Eat", "Fish-paste", "Nice liver", "Be good" and "Say hello" - which I had to pronounce "Say yellow" and to say hello she would rub her head against my hand. She understood "Fly", a word which meant anything that flew, and when she heard it Kitty my huntress would make a dash for the window in the hope of catching something. She understood "Naughty cat" but never agreed with me and always protested. She understood "Catch" and "Come". She did not always come when I said "Come", she was too independent. But she always came running if I said "Catch", all smiles, obliging, dancing attendance like the senior sales-assistant to some fancy dress-designer. Whenever I said "You've hurt my feelings", she miaowed tragically. If I said "It's all over between us", she went and hid under the sofa and suffered. But I always winkled her out of there with a walking-stick and cuddled her. Then she'd give me a cat-kiss, a single lick on the hand with her rough tongue, and then we'd both sit down and purr.

'The poor little thing was left entirely to her own devices all day long in that big house. Her only company was the gardener's wife who came morning and evening to put food out for her. When she got too bored and missed me, she would do something naughty like scratching and clawing the Bible left open on the drawing-room table. It was a cabalistic rite, an incantation, a spell, designed to make me appear in a puff of magic, to make the friend she could not do without suddenly materialize. Her tiny brain worked on these lines: whenever I do something naughty, he always scolds me, so he must be here somewhere. It was no more absurd than prayer is.

'When I came home to see her in the evening after the day's Under-Clowning, she'd come bounding down the hallway the minute she heard the miracle of the key in the lock, after which we rowed hke any married couple! "I've been so miserable," her pathetic contralto miaowings said. "You leave me by myself far too much, it's no life for me." Then I'd open the fridge and take out some raw liver, cut it up with a pair of scissors, and everything would be all right again. The perfect romance. I was forgiven. Her tail quivering with impatience and joy, she'd purr like a steam engine, rub her pert Uttle face against my leg, which was her way of saying how much she loved me and how kind I was to cut up her liver. When the liver was ready in her saucer, I preferred not to give it to her straight away. I'd meander through the hall and the drawing-room, and she would follow me everywhere, making a great occasion of it, grand as a marchioness, processing ceremoniously, half model child and half royal mistress, suddenly garbed in her party best, her noble, fluffy tail
upright and quivering, she would pad softly after me, dancing attendance hi the form of the sweetest minuet, as quick in her cupidity as in her affection, her eyes raised to the holy saucer, so loyal and faithful and ready to follow me to the ends of the earth. My sweet little bogus joy, my Kitty.