Free Her Lover by Albert Cohen Page A

intoxication when you look at me. Oh night! Oh this love of mine inside me, eternally enclosed within me and perpetually released so that I may contemplate it, and then folded away once more and shut up and kept in my heart. Oh she who permeates my sleeping hours, so loving when I sleep, her tender complicity in my sleep. Oh she whose name I write with my finger in the air or, when I am alone, inscribe on paper. I doodle her name, carefully retaining all the letters, and I jumble them and make up Tahitian names, names for all her charms, Rianea, Eniraa, Raneia, Aneira, Neiraa, Niaera, Ireana, Enaira, all the names of my love.
    'Oh she whose sacred name I speak during my solitary walks and patrols around the house where she sleeps, for I watch over her as she sleeps, and she does not know that I watch, and I speak her name in secret to the trees, and I tell them, for I am mad for her long curved lashes, that I am in love, that I love the woman I love who will love me too, for I love her as no one else could, and why should she not love me back, she who can truly love a toad, and she will love me, love me, love me, the paragon will love me, and each evening I shall wait yearningly for the moment when I shall see her again and I shall make myself handsome to please her, and I shall shave, shave myself so close to please her, I shall bathe, bathe for an age to make the time pass more quickly, and all the time I shall think of her, and soon it will be time, oh the wonder of it, the snatches of song in the car which will carry me to her, to she who waits for me, towards her long star-spangled lashes, and the soon look, the look in her eyes when I stand before her, she waiting at her door, tall and slender and dressed all in white, ready and beautiful for me, ready and fearful lest she mar her beauty if I should delay, and darting to her mirror to view her beauty, to see if her beauty is still there, still intact, and then returning to the door and waiting for me in a cloud of love, heart-stoppingly standing at her door under the roses, oh tender night! Oh youth that is mine once more! Oh the wonder when I stand before her! the look in her eyes! the love we share! and she shall lower her head to my extended hand, a simple country-girl now, and oh the wonder of her kiss upon my hand! and she shall look up at me and our eyes shall light up with love and we shall smile at loving so, you and I, and glory be to God.'
    He smiled at her, and she shuddered and averted her eyes. Horrible, that toothless smile. Horrible, the words of love which had escaped from that vacant mouth. He advanced one step and she felt the danger come near. Don't cross him, say whatever he wants to hear, but O God make him go, let him be gone!
    'Behold, I stand before you,' said he, 'I am come. I am old but await your miracle. Here am I, feeble and poor, white of beard, and of teeth I have but two, but no man will love you or know you as I love and know you, nor could another honour you with such love. Two teeth only, but I give them to you with my love. Will you receive this love of mine?'
    'Rather,' she said and she moistened her dry lips and essayed a smile.
    'Glory be to God,' said he, 'in truth glory, for here is she who redeemeth all women. Behold the first woman!'
    He bent his knee before her, a gesture which made him look quite ridiculous, then stood up and came towards her, towards their first kiss, came with his dark smile that was the badge of old age, his hands reaching out to she who redeemed all women, the first woman, who suddenly recoiled, backed away with a coarse yelp, a yelp of fear and hate, collided with the bedside table, grabbed the empty tooth-glass and hurled it at that antique face. He raised his hand to his eye, wiped the blood away and stared at the blood on his hand. Then he laughed and stamped his foot.
    'Turn away, you little fool!' said he.
    She obeyed, turned round, stood still, alone with the fear that she was about to get a bullet