Читать книгу The Elegance of the Hedgehog - Muriel Barbery - Страница 20

‘What are you reading?’ asks Manuela, who has just arrived breathless from her Lady de Broglie’s, feeling consumptive after preparing the evening’s dinner party. She had just accepted delivery of seven jars of Petrossian caviar and was breathing like Darth Vader.

‘An anthology of folk poems,’ I say, closing the Husserl chapter forever.

Manuela is in a good mood today, that I can see. She eagerly unpacks a little hamper filled with almond sponge fingers that are still set in the frilly white paper in which they were baked, then sits down and smooths the tablecloth carefully with the flat of her hand, the prelude to a statement that will send her into transports of delight.

I set out the cups, join her at the table and wait.

‘Madame de Broglie is not pleased with her truffles,’ she begins.

‘Oh, really?’ I ask politely.

‘They do not smell,’ continues Manuela crossly, as if she held this shortcoming to be an enormous personal affront.

We indulge in this information for all it is worth, and I savour the vision of Bernadette de Broglie in her kitchen, looking haggard and dishevelled and doing her utmost to spray a potion of cep and chanterelle juice onto the offending roots in the ridiculous, insane hope that they might condescend to give off some faint odour evocative of the forest.

‘And Neptune peed on Monsieur Saint-Nice’s leg,’ continues Manuela. ‘The poor beast must have been holding it in for hours, and when Monsieur Badoise finally got out the leash the dog couldn’t wait, and in the entrance he went on Saint-Nice’s trouser leg.’

Neptune, a cocker spaniel, belongs to the owners of the third-floor right-hand-side apartment. The second and third floors are the only ones divided into two apartments (of two thousand square feet each). On the first floor you have the de Broglies, on the fourth the Arthens, on the fifth the Josses and on the sixth the Pallières. On the second floor are the Meurisses and the Rosens. On the third, the Saint-Nices and the Badoises. Neptune belongs to the Badoises, or more precisely, to Mademoiselle Badoise, who is studying for her law degree at Assas, and who organises soirées with other cocker spaniel owners studying for law degrees at Assas.

I am very fond of Neptune. Yes, we appreciate each other a great deal, no doubt because of that state of grace that is attained when one’s feelings are immediately accessible to another creature’s. Neptune can sense that I love him; his multiple desires are perfectly clear to me. What charms me about the whole business is that he stubbornly insists on remaining a dog, whereas his mistress would like to make a gentleman of him. When he goes out into the courtyard, he runs to the very very end of his leash and stares covetously at the puddles of muddy water idling before him. His mistress has only to give one jerk to his yoke for him to lower his hindquarters down onto the ground, and with no further ado he will set to licking his attributes. The sight of Athena, the Meurisses’ ridiculous whippet, causes Neptune to stick his tongue out like a lubricious satyr and pant in anticipation, his head filled with phantasms. What is particularly amusing about cocker spaniels is their swaying gait when they are in a playful mood; it’s as if they had tiny little springs screwed to their paws that cause them to bounce upwards – but gently, without jolting. This also affects their paws and ears like the rolling of a ship, so cocker spaniels, like jaunty little vessels plying dry land, lend a nautical touch to the urban landscape: utterly enchanting.

Ultimately, however, Neptune is a greedy glutton who’ll do anything for a scrap of turnip or a crust of stale bread. When his mistress leads him past the rubbish store, he pulls frenetically in the direction of said room, tongue lolling, tail wagging madly. Diane Badoise despairs of such behaviour. To her distinguished soul it seems that one’s dog should be like the young ladies of antebellum high society in Savannah in the Confederate South, who could scarcely find a husband unless they feigned to have no appetite whatsoever.

But instead, Neptune carries on as if he were some famished Yankee.