Albert Cohen: Book of My Mother

I reproach myself too for having found it perfectly natural to have a mother who was alive. I did not fully realize how precious and fleeting were her comings and goings in my flat. I was not sufficiently aware that she was alive. I did not long enough for her visits to Geneva. Is it possible? There was actually a wondrous time when I had only to send a ten-word telegram and two days later she would alight on the station platform with her formal smile of the shy, her bags, which were falling apart, and her hat, which was too small. I had only to write ten words and there she would be, as if by magic. I held the key to that magic and I made so little use of it, for I was idiotically taken up with nymphs. You balked at writing ten words. Write forty thousand now.

I am obsessed by the thought of that telegram form. I write ten words at the post office and there she is at the compartment door, making signals by pointing me out with her index finger. And now she is clumsily hurrying to alight from the train, with a horrible fear of falling, because gymnastics are not in her line. And now she is coming toward me, dignified and bashful, with her curly hair, her rather large nose, her hat, which is too small, her slightly swollen ankles. She looks a bit ridiculous as she lumbers along with one arm outstretched to steady her walk, but I admire that awkward creature with magnificent eyes — living Jerusalem! She is disguised as a respectable lady of the West, but she hails from Canaan of ancient days and she does not know it. And now her little hand is stroking my cheek. She is so excited. How carefully she has combed her hair and brushed her clothes in the carriage toilet half an hour before arrival. I know her well. She has spent a long time smartening up to honor her son and win his approval. Now she places herself under my protection, certain that I will take care of everything — the porter, the taxi. She follows me meekly. I can sense the slight anxiety of the eternal foreigner as she hands her passport to the Genevan policeman. But she is not really afraid, because I am with her. In the taxi, she takes my hand and gives it a clumsy little kiss. She smells of not-very-expensive eau de cologne. And now we are there. She is overawed by my fine flat. She sucks in a bit of saliva — that is a self-conscious mannerism of hers when she is trying to be refined. And now her presents start coming out of the suitcase. There are homemade cakes, like so many love poems. I thank her, and then she gives me another of her own special kisses, a shy poetic kiss: she takes my cheek lightly between two of her fingers and then she kisses the two fingers. You see, darling, I remember everything. I look at her closely. Yes, I know her well. I know her innocent little secrets. I know she has not given me all her presents. There are others hidden in the suitcase, and they will emerge gradually over the next few days. She wants to draw out her enjoyment, to give me a present each day. I let her think I don’t know. I do not want to spoil her little pleasure. Now it is the following morning. She brings me the breakfast tray. She is in her dressing gown. Her days of elegant modesty are behind her; she is old. I am glad she is in her dressing gown and slippers. Let her relax.

The only fake happiness left to me is to write about her, unshaven, deaf to the music on the radio, beside my cat, to whom in secret I speak in the Venetian dialect of the Jews of Corfu, which I sometimes used to speak with my mother. My impassive cat, my substitute mother, my piteous little mother with such a limited capacity for loving. Sometimes when I am alone with my cat I lean toward her and call her my little Maman. But my cat merely gives me an uncomprehending stare. And I am left all alone and my ridiculous tenderness remains unemployed.

I am haunted by the scene which I made. “Please forgive me,” sobbed my angel. She was so appalled by the sin she had committed in daring to phone that countess and ask “if my son, Albert, is still at your house, if you please.” That countess, because of whom I was cruel to my holy mother, was an imbecile with no behind who was actually impressed by the functions and medals of her diplomat of a husband and who chattered nonstop, the idiot, like a parrot drunk on white wine. “I’ll never do it again,” sobbed my angel. When I saw blue marks on her hands I broke down, and I fell on my knees and passionately kissed those little hands, and we gazed at each other, son and mother forever. She took me on her lap and consoled me. But the following evening, when I went off to another grand reception, I did not take her with me.

She was not angry at being left behind. She did not consider it unfair that isolation should be her lot, her lamentable lot of being hidden from my acquaintances, my stupid social connections, the vile tribe of the well-bred. She knew she was ignorant of what she called “fine ways.” Like a good and faithful dog, she accepted her humble fate, which was to wait, alone in my flat and sewing for me — to wait for my return from those smart dinners from which she thought it natural to be debarred. To wait in obscurity, sewing for her son, humbly to await the return of her son, was enough for her. To admire her son on his return, her son in a dinner jacket or tails and in good health, was enough to make her happy. To be told the names of his important fellow guests was enough for her. To be given details of the dishes on the sumptuous menu and the low-necked evening dresses of the ladies, those grand ladies she would never know, was enough for her, enough for that unresentful soul. She savored from afar the paradise from which she was excluded. My darling, I am introducing you to everyone now, proud of you, proud of your accent, proud of your incorrect French, passionately proud of your ignorance of fine ways. It’s a bit late in the day for such pride.

ONE DAY in Geneva when I had arranged to meet her at five in the university square, I was detained by a girl with fair hair and did not arrive until eight. She did not see me coming. My heart filled with shame, I watched her sitting there patiently waiting, all alone on a bench in the waning light and the now chilly air, in her poor coat which was too tight and with her hat askew. She had been waiting there for hours — meekly, peacefully, slightly drowsy, older because she was alone, resigned, used to solitude, used to my lateness, uncomplaining in her humble wait, a servant, a poor, put-upon saint. What could be more natural than to wait three hours for her son, and was he not entitled? I hate that son! She saw me at last and came back to life, entirely dependent on me. I can see the little start she gave as her vitality came flooding back, I can see her passing in a flash from lethargy to life, suddenly younger, the quietude of a slave or a faithful dog yielding all at once to an intense interest in living. She adjusted her hat and her features, for she wanted to do me credit. And then my aging Maman made her own two special gestures. Whence had they come, and in what childhood lay their source? I see them so well, those two awkward poetic gestures which she made when from a distance she saw me coming. The terrible thing about the dead is their gestures, which live on in our memory. For then they are dreadfully alive and we are at a loss to understand.

You made those two gestures whenever you saw me coming to meet you. First, your eyes lighting up shyly for joy, you would point me out needlessly with your finger, with a delight full of dignity, to let me know you had seen me, but in reality to give yourself confidence. I sometimes suppressed a kind of irritated giggle of shame when I saw that absurd gesture, which I expected and knew so well, your gesture of pointing me out to no one. And then, my darling, you would get up and come toward me, blushing, abashed, exposed, smiling with embarrassment at being seen from a distance and observed for too long. Like a clumsy debutante, you would advance with the delighted, sheepish smile of a not very clever little girl, while your eyes would scrutinize my face to see whether I was criticizing you inwardly. Poor Maman, you were so afraid of not pleasing me, of not being Western enough for my taste. And then you would make your second shy gesture. How well I know that gesture and how it lives on in my eyes, which see all too clearly everything from the past. You would put your little hand to the corner of one lip as you came toward me, your other hand outstretched to steady you and keeping time with your labored step. It was a gesture which hailed from our Orient — the gesture of the chaste virgin seeking to conceal part of her face. Or perhaps you wanted to hide that little scar, Maman, for despite your age you were still just a girl at heart. How ridiculous I am to try to explain the humble treasure of your two gestures, O my living mother, my regal dead mother. I know very well that what I say about your gestures does not interest a soul and that no one indeed cares a rap for anyone.