Her Lover (62 page)

She looked up and asked what he was thinking. 'I'm thinking about you, Ise.' What else could he say? She stopped massaging and reached for his hand. Sensing danger, he stretched out his foot. Thereupon she resumed her task, but after a moment switched her attention to his calf. More danger. What should he do now? Talk politics to her? Hardly the moment, not at two in the morning. Now she had reached his knee and clearly had further designs. Oh what a tragic farce! And most farcical of all was that the need to be sexually massaged was entirely in her mind. She needed to know that he loved her, to be quite certain. How damnably males were programmed, for the urge to be kind was no part of it. 'A little more on the foot, darling, do the foot again, it's so relaxing. (What else could he do to cast out the demon? That's it! The novel! Never mind if it was a weird thing to ask at two in the morning.) Sweetheart, I'd like to hear some more of the novel you read from the other day, it was gripping stuff, anyway I love you to read aloud to me. You read so well,' he added, for good measure.

Holding the book in her left hand and continuing to knead his bare foot with her right, she put on her very best reading manner, disguising her accent, putting drama into the dialogue, and using different voices for each character. It set his teeth on edge. Should he ask her to stop? If he did that, it would be danger time again! Her Hungarian accent was overlaid by a veneer of over-refined English and it grated on his ears. Of course* if it had been the other who spoke with a Hungarian accent he would have thought it entrancing. Ask her if she wanted to go to the cinema? But then he'd have to talk to her during the intermissions. Anyway, you couldn't go to the cinema at two in the morning. So this is what lay in wait for him from now on each time he called on her in the afternoon, for his evenings were set aside for the other, who, poor gullible goose, suspected nothing, what lay in store for him were visits to cinemas and compulsory chats in the intermissions, or else foot massages, novels read aloud, and being forced to come up with fresh words of love, the misery of not desiring heir, the torment of constantly sensing what she desired, what she humbly, silently demanded of him. And in him a constant feeling of guilt, of pity. He would feel pity when she sang Hungarian folk-songs to him, always the same songs, he knew all her songs by heart. He would feel pity each afternoon at five when she suggested ringing for the maid to bring tea, suggested it with an oddly innocent hope, with incurable optimism, as if tea would magically inject life into the living death which she refused to face squarely. Her poor, absurd faith in the miraculous power of tea taken together while they 'nattered', as she put it to make the ceremony
sound more exciting than it was. But what would they natter about? He knew everything there was to know about her. He knew how fond she was of those dreamy, proper, refined, languid, unhurried, winning, tiresome or, to put it another way, upper-middle-class English women novelists. He also knew that she loved all sorts of flowers whose names he didn't know and that the Bach she loved was not Johann Sebastian but another one who was every bit as robotic.

'The other foot now, please, darling.' Yes, she was kind and gentle, but also depressing and not particularly good at anything. Whereas his Ariane was great fun, a Uttle crazy and quite unpredictable. Like the way she'd described hens only yesterday: she'd said they were puffed up balls of panic, gossip on two legs, said they were always thinking about feathering their nests. And the way she'd talked about the injured toad she'd looked after in the cellar. He remembered what she'd said about the toad: its gorgeous, golden, flecky eyes, such a lovely expression, scared and yet trusting, and it looked ever so grateful when she talked to it and so dainty when it used its fingers to eat with. And when she'd told him about the way toads croaked, she'd said it was a song of regret, the call of a soul. And the day she'd spotted a sparrow on the lightning-conductor on top of the house singing its little head off and looking ever so comfortable, she'd said it was calling to all its little friends to tell them that sitting up there was as good as being on a sofa, it was lovely. And the heat of her kisses. But with this one, who read to him, he had only to attempt the hghtest touch, out of pity, and she instantly assumed an expression like the Virgin Mary. Besides, he'd found out that she went to beauty salons to have her face descaled or something. What did this descaling involve? Perhaps it winkled tiny scaly creatures out of each pore? Ariane, clear skin, the delicious curve of her lips, and no lipstick. Not like this one, who was still pummelling his feet with hands which ended in painted nails, talons almost, talons dipped in blood. Ariane: her childish delight when he praised her beauty, shaping her mouth perfectly as though she were sitting for a photographer. The evening she'd given him sorrel soup, how proud she'd been of feeding her man. And the afternoon he'd come on a horse, she had been overjoyed at his unexpected visit, and she had run to meet him smiling far too broadly, it was a ridiculous smile, so wide and so earnest that it had made him laugh, the smile of a little girl on cloud nine or the grin of some clumsy, impish djinn incapable of staying still long enough to look dignified. But when would this one stop slapping his feet?

'Shall I go on reading?' 'Yes please, darling.' 'And massaging?' 'Please, darling.' And if she overdid it with the leg-stroking, take avoiding action. The gambit that never failed was the simulated liver flare-up. Oh she came to life then, positively bloomed at the idea of busying herself in his service. She applied burning compresses with appalling zest and scuttled off every few minutes to the bathroom for fresh supplies, which she brought back at a gallop. And how proud of herself she was when, with his skin burned bright red and unable to stand any more scalding compresses, he said the pain had gone away. Yes, the only happiness he was capable of giving her now was to convince her that she could be of use to him. So feign illness each time he came to see her. Result: something for her to do and think about without danger to himself. Next time, for a change, he'd try a frozen shoulder on her. He could already see her shooting off to a chemist's and rushing back breathlessly clutching jars of antirheumatic creams and ointments. Oh if he could only kiss her unfearingly on the cheek and talk to her of Ariane, tell her everything, share Ariane with her. But it was out of the question. She wanted him to herself, to monopolize him. But that was it for now. His feet had been mauled about quite enough for one day, thank you very much.

When he pulled his foot away, she said 'Shall I stop now?' 'Yes, darling.' 'You should sleep now, it's late. I want you to rest properly, so I'll leave you the bed and I'll sleep in the guest room.' He knew that these last words were spoken in the hope that he'd ask her to stay, to sleep by his side. It was no go. Never again. But if he agreed to let her sleep by herself she'd be utterly miserable, and tomorrow morning her eyes would be red and puffy. So leave. But where could he go? Wake up little Edmee and talk to her of Ariane? No, it would be too cruel to hold forth about his great love to a poor midget who, to boot, was a member of the Salvation Army. There was nothing for poor, lonely, glum Solal to do but go back to the Ritz. He told her he had some urgent work to do for Sir John. Besides, the taxi was waiting. He dressed and kissed her on the cheek. Sensing that she was expecting something more passionate, he improvised a coughing fit to muddy the waters and left hurriedly, his hat pulled down over his eyes, looking and feeling guilty.

In the taxi, he suddenly remembered the fine lines around her eyes. Withered on the vine, yet she had been still beautiful at the start of their affair. Age was so unfair, but there was also the lonely life she had led at Pont-Ceard, she had lost a little of her bloom each day as she waited for him to come. She would soon be old. Yes, go away with her somewhere, anywhere, tonight! Give up Ariane. Spend the rest of his life with Isolde. He tapped the glass and asked the driver to take him back to Pont-Ceard. How happy his Isolde would be!

Moments later, he tapped again and wound down the glass. 'Brother,' said he to the driver, 'my beloved lives and breathes at Cologny. Take me to her, for I am drunk with love, and what does dying matter? Oh the fatal attraction of that moment when first I saw her one evening descending the steps of the University, a goddess and my betrothed, a goddess, her footsteps dogged in the night. Accordingly, dear brother, ferry me roaringly, carry me most expeditiously to my beloved, and I shall make you happier than you ever were before, you have the word of Solal, fourteenth of the name!' Thus he spake, and he sang to the stars which twinkled through the window, sang in exaltation, for he was going to see her, and dying did not matter at all.

CHAPTER49

Her jealousies, the goodbyes forever. At night she took a horsewhip to herself as a punishment for thinking of him, and for days on end gave him no sign that she was alive. Waiting for her, waiting for her by the telephone which stubbornly, cruelly refused to ring, his heart missing a beat whenever the lift stopped at the third floor of the Ritz, for perhaps it was her, but no it was never her, and at last the phone would ring and she would come tonight. Whereupon the ludicrous charade of newmaking himself handsome.

The instant she walked through the door she fell into the brute's arms, seeking his mouth. But when the first ardour had cooled, suddenly seeing a picture in her mind of him with her, she plied him with questions. He answered that he could not desert Isolde, that if he saw her now it was as a friend. 'Liar!' she screamed, and looked at him with hate in her eyes. Oh the thought of him kissing that woman exactly as he kissed her! 'You brute! You wicked man!' she screamed. 'You do not fear God!' she screamed in the approved Russian manner.

After prophesying, in a sudden rush of virtue, that women would be his ruin, she leaped out of bed, dressed briskly, like a woman who meant business, declared that this time they were through and that she would never see him again, and then slipped on her gloves with steely determination. All this inflexible preparing to leave was designed to give her an excuse to stay, but with honour untarnished. And to show
also just how unshakeably set she was on leaving him for ever, her unshakeability being telegraphed especially in the energetic way she buttoned up her jacket, the hem of which she then proceeded to pull down, an operation which required several attempts since she was never quite satisfied with the result, it seemed. Resolute preparations too because she hoped that if he saw that she was really intending to go, and if she spent enough time getting ready, then in the end he'd beg her to stay. Throwing himself into the spirit of the thing, he fully endorsed the idea of a clean break and encouraged her to go. Both of them brazened it out, though inwardly both were afraid, for this time the other might be deadly serious, mind made up, and yet at the same time, and quite paradoxically, both were absolutely certain that when it came to the point there would be no separation, and this gave them the strength to threaten and the determination to end the affair.

When there was nothing left to button up, pull down and straighten, no more powder to be meticulously applied to the face of stone in the mirror, she had no alternative but to leave. At the door, she would put her hand on the knob and turn it slowly, hoping that he would see that this time she meant it and at last beg her to stay. If he remained silent, she would say goodbye in a sombre voice to make him suffer and provoke an entreaty; or she might say in even more solemn tones: 'Goodbye, Solal Solal!\ which was a degree more striking, for the best effects soon palled. Or, with the polite understatement which conveys iron resolution, she might say: 'I'd be grateful if you would not write to me or telephone.' If she sensed that he was suffering, she was quite capable of walking out on him immediately and not giving him any sign of life for days on end. But if he smiled, if he kissed her hand politely, thanked her for the memorable hours she had given him and opened the door for her, she would slap both his cheeks. Not just because she hated him for not suffering and for not preventing her from leaving, nor because she herself was suffering, but also, no, especially, because she did not want to go and because slapping his face would allow her to spin things out and thus enable her to work her way to a reconciliation, either because the face-slapping provided her with a decent excuse for saying sorry and staying or else because it might provoke the desired reaction, to wit,
some roughness on his part, the kind which might well induce a flow of feminine tears which in turn might elicit a male request for forgiveness followed by undeniable and mutual tokens of affection.

Sometimes she would go, slamming the door behind her, and then come back immediately and start to cry, with her arms around his neck, boohooing that she could not, she absolutely could not live without him, and blowing her nose. But more often, to justify coming back, she called him names, shrugging her shoulders indignantly with a movement which made her breasts heave most attractively, said nasty things, and she was an expert at saying nasty things. But beneath the anger lay the deep joy of being near him once more.

At other times there was swooning. This needs to be explained. So that she had an excuse for staying and waiting for the miracle which would make everything right and reduce him to begging her not to leave him and promise never to see his countess again, she would feel faint, collapse in a heap, then get up and start ranting that he did not love her, or, as a variant, that he loved her so little that she was ashamed for him, before collapsing again, distressed and weak, like a disappointed little girl.

Oh youth, oh the noble swoonings for love! Oh the marvel of her, gorgeously evening-gowned, fainting and rising and collapsing, and of him, adoring her and inwardly comparing her to one of those celluloid toy clowns with lead behinds which always return to vertical, and she, love's wounded tigress, falling and rising and falling and wanting to die, feline and felled, so beautiful in her tears and so golden of voice, her glorious legs laid bare, and sobbing, and her opulent hips rhythmically rising and falling, and what had to be came to pass. And her face was clean-cut and androgynous, the pure face of ecstasy, and her eyes turned piously to the seventh heaven of earthly delights. 'Your woman,' she moaned.