Читать книгу A Woman, In Bed - Anne Finger - Страница 15

Jacques

The company—save for the birdwatcher who retired early, since she left the house before dawn, carrying bread, a hunk of cheese wrapped up in a cloth, a thermos of blackstrap molasses and hot water, and Mme. Vidal, who napped with Marcel in Simone’s room—adjourned to the parlor after dinner, sorting itself onto the various settees and armchairs.

“I’m afraid,” Jacques said to Simone, “I must take my leave—”

The look that passed over her face, in the seconds before she regained her composure, was one of desolation.

Seeing it, Jacques added, “—despite your charming company…I’ve a terrible headache.”

“Ah, yes, yes, no doubt from the scirocco.”

The lady from Rouen offered aspirin, which Jacques declined, saying he needed to just lie down and give his eyes a rest.

Simone drove off her sense of abandonment by becoming gay to the point of freneticism. She sang, only slightly off-key, an arabesque she’d learned in Turkey, which brought a round of applause from the assembled guests. Simone cranked up the victrola and Caruso sang an aria from Pagliacci. “A miracle!” the father from Lyon declared. “It’s as if he were right here in the room with us!” although when Caruso reached the phrase una smorfia il singhiozzo, his voice began to deepen and slow, and Simone rushed to turn the crank again.

The daughter from Rouen, sensing that her mother had taken a dislike to Simone, shifted from her position on the couch next to her parents to a footstool next to Simone, from which position she could gaze upwards as she said, “Tell us all about Constantinople.”

Simone wove the words scimitar, pasha, fez, Blue Mosque, harem, Nubians, odalisque, minaret, casbah, opulent into her conversation, the words with which Luc had seduced her. “And do you know the title the Ottoman sultan took for himself?…Let me see if I can remember it all,” and she held up her left index finger: “The Emperor of Emperors, Sole Arbiter of the World’s Destiny, Refuge of Sovereigns, Distributor of Crowns to the Kings of the Earth, Master of Europe, Asia and Africa—”

“Not of Europe!” the major grumbled.

“—High King of the Two Seas, the Shadow of God on Earth.”

In the midst of her list, Jacques had reappeared with a book in his hand. “The light up there was really quite impossible for reading—if you don’t mind, I’ll just—” and he indicated a nook, as far as possible from the assembled company, into which he cocooned himself, even going so far as to turn the chair in it away, so that his back was presented to the other guests.

“The sick man of Europe,” the major coughed. “Turkey, that is.” He mumbled a bit: the words “Gallipoli” and “butchers” rising out of the rumbling brook of his muttering.

Simone, although not known for strong opinions, ventured one now: “It seems to me both sides can be said to be guilty of—well, butchery.”

The major answered her with a glare.

Hereafter, he will be neither avuncular nor sly towards her: he will treat her as if she does not exist. To hear the British Army criticized by a flighty girl, one who had been living amidst the enemy, allowed herself to be seduced by them…

The major rose. He inclined his head and said, “If you will excuse me, please,” and marched out of the parlor, ramrod back, head high.

He will finish out his stay chez Vidal but in the future will holiday in Brighton. He’d put up with a lot for the sake of the sunshine—their gussied-up food, for a start, sauces covering the meat which for all one knew was rancid. Good, straightforward English cooking, that’s what he’ll dine on in the future. Blood sausage, spotted dick, winkles. And none of those syrupy liqueurs they’d plied him with after dinner; a good pint of British bitter. Years later, after the Fall of France, he’ll know: I was right about those frogs all along.

“Oh, dear.” Simone rose to go after him, but Albert gestured to her to stay.

To break the awkward silence, Albert said, “Ah, but perhaps it’s true that this was the war to end all wars. Shall we raise a glass to peace? In our time and for all time!” But the toast to peace did nothing to lift the gloom that had descended on the room. To speak of peace reminded them of the war.

Albert clapped his hands together. “I have it, on very good information—from the lady herself—” he gestured towards Simone.

“Ah, Albert, you mustn’t repeat things we ladies have—”

“—that our lovely hostess not only went to a costume party—”

“Oh, Albert, no,” she said.

Hearing the grace note of shame in Simone’s voice, Jacques perked up, made a quarter turn towards the group.

“Yes, not only did she go dressed as a Turkish janissary—”

“Oh, we’re back to the Turks again, are we?”

“But her husband, the absent and no doubt estimable Chief Engineer Clermont”—Albert raised his glass—“accompanied her, also in costume—and she has a photograph of the two of them. Go fetch it for us, Simone.”

“Maybe one of the others would like to entertain us for a while,” Simone said. “Perhaps a song or the recitation of a poem?”

Albert and the mother from Rouen responded at the same time, Albert saying, “Oh, don’t try and wiggle out of it. Go and fetch the picture,” while she said, “I’m not much of a one for poetry,” and then, in a lower voice, “Waste of time if you ask me.”

“If you don’t go and get the picture, I shall start declaiming poetry. Which will greatly annoy at least one of your guests,” Albert winked.

Simone returned with the studio portrait which showed her with ballooning trousers and a flowing coat, a glued-on mustache, a scimitar, felt boots and turban, while Luc wore an embroidered red caftan. A veil covered the lower half of his face, revealing kohl-rimmed eyes.

“Who is the Turkish lady with you?” the Lyonnaise woman asked.

“That is my husband. In costume. For the party.”

“Do they all dress like that?”

“More and more you see women in modern dress. Especially in the cities…he wore a veil to hide his mustache.” Simone twirled both her index fingers before her face to indicate that her husband’s mustache was no mean thing.

“They treat their women badly, don’t they? The Arabs.”

She sensed Jacques was looking at her and turned her head. And sure enough, he was giving her a look she couldn’t quite decipher. Was he saying: What a ridiculously old-fashioned dandy this husband of yours must be—with his waxed and curled mustache? Did his look also convey: Yes, and you are beginning to admit the truth to yourself, that you have wed a vain and ridiculous man. But perhaps she was reading too much into it. Maybe it wasn’t a look of scorn, but one of complicity. It might be that he only meant a smirking acknowledgement of their mutual superiority to those who didn’t know a Turk from an Arab.

“Ah,” Albert cried, “Ladies, gentlemen, your attention, please! A momentous event has occurred! Jacques Melville has set down his book. I am not certain, but I think he is about to grace us with his presence.”

“May I?” Jacques asked, taking the photograph.

Albert leaned over his friend’s shoulder. “Doesn’t our Simone make a handsome man?”

“I prefer her as a woman,” he said, giving her a look of such frank sexual regard that she blushed.