Her Lover (95 page)

'Penny for your thoughts?' she said.

He knew very well what she wanted. She wanted accolades, a super-flattering review of their recent gallop together, she wanted to hear him say that it had been so et cetera, that he'd never et cetera, the whole couched in the deeply irritating 'it was bliss' mode, which was nobler and less technical than the other words for it. He did the necessary, proceeded to provide the analysis which she wanted and which resulted in a grateful and particularly sticky application of bare skin. Having made up his mind to be as perfect a lover as she could wish for, he bore it without flinching while she continued her maternal combing-and-currying with her walking fingers, which were now skiing down his shoulder in slaloms which made his flesh creep in the most appalling way.

All in all, the best course was to pretend to go to sleep. That way he'd have a break, wouldn't have to be poetic. So he settled down, closed his eyes, and pretended to grow drowsy, but this merely
encouraged her to stroke him more lightly still. With curlicues and flourishes worthy of the most meticulous craftsman, and glorying in the abundance of love and pleasure with which she believed she had so recently supplied him, she lay there ministering to him, patient and gooey-eyed, an unwearying priestess, his gracious handmaiden, patting him soothingly to beguile him into sleep, while through the open window there wafted the primeval smell of the sea, the lazy, muffled murmur of the sea.

But this new, improved variety of stroking was even worse than the regular kind, for it was accompanied not only by aggravated goose-pimples but also by the most devastating tickling sensation, and he had to bite his lip to prevent himself quaking with laughter. To put a stop to it without offending her, he heaved a sigh suggestive of deep sleep in the hope that she would get the message and realize that there was no need to go on ravishing his senses. And, thanks be to God, stop she did.

The pressure of her lover's arm on her shoulder was painful, but she stayed quite still so as not to wake him, and she watched him as he lay with his cheek on her breast, proud that she had lulled him to sleep, proud to feel him nestling up to her so trustingly. He was hers, he was sleeping innocently by her side. The cramp in her arm was painful, but she did not stir, glad to suffer for his sake, and she stroked his hair gently. What if I was bald, he thought, would she stroke my smooth pate? She watched him breathing peacefully, tousled-haired, watched over him. He's my little boy too, she thought, and she felt a thrill of tenderness. You've been fooled, lady, he thought.

Suddenly he felt guilty. He opened his eyes, went through the motions of waking, and snuggled up to her. She did not dare mention cramp but half propped herself up in the hope that he'd remove his arm of his own accord. He picked up her hand and kissed it, and she drew a deep breath, deeply moved by the thought that this man, who had possessed her body only moments before, respected her. 'Would you care for some fruit?' she asked, savouring the formality of the question, for she was naked by his side. Good idea, he thought, because whenever she fed him fruit he had the bed to himself. He said thanks, yes, he would. Til get it for you this instant!' she said with
gusto. He sharpened his nose with two fingers, embarrassed by her haste. 'But, please, you mustn't look, because I'm not decent.'

Being accustomed to such odd, sudden onsets of modesty, he shut his eyes and then opened them again almost immediately, drawn by the spectacle. Whenever he saw her from the back as she paraded in the nude, he invariably felt a twinge of pity. Beautiful when prone, she was faintly ridiculous when walking around naked, touching and ridiculous, because she seemed bland and defenceless and so vulnerable, pursued by two swaying, swelling half-moons at the base of her spine, hemispheres of frailty, too full as are all the bulbous curves of woman, absurdly inflated and quite unsuited for the struggle. Mesmerized and guilt-ridden, he watched as she bent down and gathered up her dressing-gown, and he felt pity, an immense, loving pity, as though confronted by a kind of physical infirmity, pity for that too smooth skin, the too narrow waist and those inoffensive twin globes.

He lowered his eyes, ashamed of finding anything to laugh at in the sweet and trusting creature who served him so devotedly. 'I love you,' he said again to himself, and he gazed adoringly on the poignant moons, the sacred moons of woman, the overpowering insignia of female superiority, dual orbs of loving warmth, twinned divinities of loving goodness. 'Yes, I love you, ridiculous though you are,' he said to himself, and he moved his legs this way and that, scouring the sheet, revelling in delicious single occupancy.

Emerging from the bathroom, restored to decency and once more every inch a niece of Mademoiselle d'Auble, she knelt by the side of the bed and held out the bunch of grapes she had just washed for him. With towel at the ready, she watched as he fed on the luscious fruit, observing him like a passive but vigilant sentry, doting, taking pleasure in the pleasure of her grown-up boy, hanging on his every gesture, and in so doing causing him acute embarrassment, and he. too felt like asking her to shut her eyes and not look. When he had finished, she wiped his hands for him.

When she had dressed and done up her hair, looking more than ever like Ariane Cassandre Corisande, nee d'Auble, she had rung for tea and was already on her fourth cup. As he watched her sip, he could not help thinking that in an hour or so from now she would ask him, with the same well-bred smile, if he would be good enough to leave her for a moment. He would grant her wish at once, and, instants later, from the poor girl's bathroom, would come the baleful tinkling of the lavatory flush. And that, in a nutshell, was the life of passion. In his room, he would cover his ears considerately, but it was no good, for the plumbing in the Royal was quite spectacularly vigorous. In due course he would be musically recalled by means of a Mozart record or something by Bach the Boring, and he would have to make love again. And that, in a nutshell, was the life of passion.

What's to do now? he wondered as he "stood by the rattling window-pane which was buffeted by the fiercely gusting wind. What can I do to make the poor girl happy? The poor waterlogged girl, with a pint of tea inside her, sat quietly expectant, respectful of his silence. Order more tea? Perish the thought. There was a limit to the amount of tea even an Anglophile like her could drink. Try chatting. But what about? If he said he loved her, he wouldn't be telling her anything she didn't know already. Anyway, he'd told her that three times only a few moments ago, once before sex, once during and once after. She knew he did. Besides, talking about love no longer had the same glamour as in the old days in Geneva. Then, each time he'd told her he loved her it was a heavenly surprise for her and her eyes opened wide and her whole face lit up. Nowadays, whenever he brought up this loving business, she greeted the well-known fact with an artificial smile which was as lifeless as any wax dummy's, while her unconscious grew more and more bored. Their words of love had become good manners, a polite ritual, gliding over the linoleum of habit. Should he kill himself, and have done with it? No, that would mean leaving her alone.

So come on, say something, unglue yourself from this window. But what should he say, what could he say? They'd said it all, they knew every single thing there was to know about each other. Oh the voyages of discovery of those early days! It was because they didn't love each other any more, fools would say. He silenced the fools with a glare. Not true, they did love each other, but they spent all their time closeted together, closeted with their love.

Alone, that was it, they'd been alone with their love for three months, with nothing but their love to keep them company, had done nothing else for three months but make themselves beautiful for each other, with only their love to bring them together, incapable of speaking of anything but love, incapable of doing anything but make love.

He peeped out of the corner of his eye. She-Who-Was-Owed sat patiently, sweetly waiting, waiting for happiness. Come on, pay your dues, be the marvellous lover for whose sake she had sacrificed everything, make it up to her for abandoning a life of respectability, for knowing what misery she had caused her husband. Come on, you debtor, give her an interest in life, provide fresh joy. Come on, use your imagination, be author and actor.

Yes, talk to her, and sharp about it! But what about? He hadn't done anything. Who about? He never saw anyone. Should he tell her why he hadn't done anything, why he never saw anybody? Should he tell her that he'd been dismissed from the service? Tell her that his French nationality had been withdrawn? Admit that he was nothing, nothing but a lover? No, he mustn't. His social standing had been one of the contributory factors in the love she had for him, and still was. Moreover, he could not possibly deny the poor girl the pride she had in him. So keep up the lie about having been given extended leave. She'd find out in the long run, of course. Well, he'd meet that when he came to it. He'd kill himself.

Bed her again? Didn't feel like it. He couldn't be doing it all the time, now could he? In any case, though she might not be aware of it, she had begun to take less pleasure in their coupling. But she was a stickler for it all the same. For to be desired was to be loved. It was absurd, but that's how women were. If ever a day or two went by without her making him jump through the hoop, without her tapping his barometer, without a damned tilt in the lists, she started to worry. Of course she was far too refined and discreet to bring the matter up openly, or even make oblique reference to it. But he could sense her unease. Which was why hfe had to be one long round of passion punctuated with proper proofs of same, under pain of Hurting Her Feelings. Does he still love me as much as he used to? and the rest of it. A sweet and biddable handmaiden, but dreadfully demanding. Poor thing, she was saying nothing, just sat there waiting meekly, respecting his silence. He'd have to give her something to think about. But what? He could hardly go on wanting her twenty-four hours a day. So what could they do to pass the time until dinner? If this silence went on, she was quite capable of suggesting a walk. She had a mania for wanting to go walkies with him the minute a freezing wind got up. What possible pleasure did she see in trudging about in silence, putting one foot forward then the other, and then repeating the process, with the silence still unbroken, for he could never find much to say during these ghastly slow-footed forward marches into the teeth of a bitter wind. Get her to read to him, that would be the simplest solution.

'Let's have some more of that novel you were reading to me yesterday, darling. I'd like to know what happens next. Besides, you read so well.'

So there it was, he was in charge, he was the master of the ship of their love, he was thinking, while she read from a clever, slim French novel, paying particular attention to enunciating clearly, taking great pains with the dialogue, varying her intonation, putting on a silly gruff voice when it was the hero talking, touchingly concentrating on giving a perfect performance, but also thoroughly irritating. Yes, he was in charge, responsible for stage-managing each day's long-running farce of love, for dreaming up fresh scenarios daily to keep her happy. The worst thing about all this was that he genuinely cared for the poor girl. But they were always alone, and all they had for company was their love.

That damned wind-up gramophone. The day she'd come back with it from Saint-Raphaël, so excited, he had shuddered inwardly. It was the first leak in their ship of love. The Mozart aria was a vitamin supplement. Whenever that hellish 'You who know' blared out, she felt that her love was being given a new lease of life. Mozart, a purveyor of sentiments which the heart no longer manufactured for itself. Another dire symptom of love's vitamin deficiency was the way she had of resorting to lesser stimulants. Initially she had been very reserved with him when there were other people about, but now, when they were at the Moscow, she kissed him in public. The exhibitionism of it excited her. As did what transpired, on more than one occasion, beneath the sequestered pine-trees. And communal ablutions in the bath. And the bold cavorting in front of the mirror. It was all designed to ward off anaemia. Heigh-ho. And now she was putting on her voice of Jove again because it was the young hero who was talking. Living this life of love in a goldfish bowl was softening her brain. Where was the crazy, clever girl he had known in Geneva?

'Have a rest now, darling, don't read any more.'

He came over, sat down facing her, made a few lacklustre remarks about the novel, but soon recognized that simpering look of genteel misery he associated with well-bred women who have no idea just how bored they are. He stopped talking. To be sure, she still loved him madly, but in her unconscious she was obviously thoroughly sick of their stupendous passion! He, on the other hand, was not the least bored, for he had something terrible to occupy his mind: he was observing the slow wreck of their ship of love.

He looked at her. Oh the way she smiled, frozenly, like a set of false teeth, the way she sat there prim, flawless and quite lifeless: everything about her cried out that she was terminally bored, though no doubt she would prefer to call it feeling off colour or being depressed for no particular reason. She bit her lip, and he realized that she had been just in time to stifle a yawn. No, it was not stifled entirely, for by dilating her nostrils she managed to yawn inwardly. He had to act quickly, for her sake, for love of her. He looked her in the eye, to prompt a question.

'What are you thinking, darling?'

'I was thinking how bored I am,' he said. (Should he add 'with you'? No. It wasn't necessary.)

She paled. It was the first time he'd said such a thing to her. To finish what he had started, he set about producing a repressed yawn which was all the more significant for being covered up. Whereupon she burst into tears. At this, he shrugged and left her.

Back in his room, he allowed himself a smile in the mirror. His angel girl had come to life again. There had been a quickening of interest in her eyes which he had not seen for days. Whenever he said that he loved her, told her she was beautiful, she flashed him one of her set, denture smiles. But the spark he had just seen in her eyes was genuine, had struck real fire. His darling girl had come to life again. Oh, if all it took to make her happy was to be nice to her all the time he would have gladly danced around her like a whirling dervish and told her over and over, morning, noon and night, how much he adored her, only too eager to cram her with sweetness, to serve her, even unto brushing her clothes and polishing her shoes. But non-stop tenderness cloyed and was unmanly, and women did not care for it. They needed rapture, they cried out for the roller-coasters and toboggans of passion, delicious shifts from misery to joy, they wanted anguish, sudden bliss, waiting, hope and despair, the whole damned passion-shoot with its grisly bevy of alarums and theatrical life-goals. Well, he had given her a life-goal. From now on she would be on constant alert, she would keep a wary eye on him, wonder whether he was bored with her, and that would be plenty for her to think about. That is to say, she would take over his role. And tomorrow, if a vigorous carnal going-over were to follow a moment of tenderness which followed a moment of cruelty, the said going-over would be all the more keenly appreciated. Oh the misery of it, this obligation to be cruel to be kind. Solal, the unwilling tormentor.