Her Lover by Albert Cohen Page A

and groaned. Straightening up, he opened the Cameroon file. He leafed right through it unseeingly, turning his yawns into little tunes. He shut it, took out his lighter and flicked the wheel. Was the flame not just a trifle too low? He examined the wick, decided reluctantly that it was the right length, removed the flint, noted that it was worn right down, replaced it with a new one, humming the while. How satisfying to know that there was a new flint in one's lighter. 'You can't complain, I look after you,' he said to the lighter. Then he frowned. No, it was not certain that his Garcia ploy would work, not certain at all.
    In fact his only real guarantee was a personal intervention by one of the bigwigs. Oh yes, the top men knew exactly how to work the promotions racket, manipulate the budget, arrange for posts to be transferred from one section to another and so forth. And the most suitable bigwig was Solal whose word was law throughout the organization. Give him five minutes and the swine could get you made up to a grade A. Hell's teeth! to think that your fate was in the handsofayid!
    'But how can I get him to do the necessary for me?'
    He cupped his head in his hands, leaned forward again until his forehead was on the desk, and remained there for some time without moving, breathing in the depressing smell of the imitation-leather top. All at once he sat up. Aha! he exclaimed at the prospect opened up by an idea which had just emerged. Aha! how about toddling off and loitering in the vicinity of the Under-Secretary-General's office? If he hung around long enough he would be bound to see him pass by sooner or later. He would say good-morning or whatever and, who knows, perhaps the yid would stop and they might exchange a few words.
    'Right. I'm all for it. It's worth a try. So, gentlemen, the matter is settled,' he declared as he stood up and buttoned his jacket with gusto.
    No sooner said than done. He did his hair, combed his beard, looked at himself in his pocket mirror, straightened his tie, undid his jacket, pulled on it to improve the hang, refastened the buttons, and then left his office, gripped by a vague uneasiness.
    'The battle for survival,' he murmured in the lift.
    Getting out on the first floor, he had second thoughts. Was it dignified to hang about in the hope of meeting up with the Under-Secretary-General? His conscience came up immediately with the answer that it was his duty to fight. There were chaps who were As but didn't deserve to be. He did. Therefore, by trying to catch the eye of the USG, he was fighting for right. Besides, if he were indeed to be promoted to a grade A, he would be in a position to serve the cause of the League of Nations more effectively, for he would then surely be entrusted with serious political business, duties which were worthy of him. And in any case, with the higher salary, he could do a lot of good in smaller ways, like lending a helping hand to good old Vermeylen. And, not least, the honour of Belgium was at stake.
    At peace with his conscience, he walked up and down in the corridor, checking from time to time that his flies were not undone. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. If anyone saw him hanging about empty-handed, what would they make of him? He hurried back to his office, returned breathing hard with a fat file under one arm which made him look earnest and busy. Fine, but even so hanging around slowly still made him look idle. So he strode purposefully down the whole length of the corridor. If the USG did appear, then it would look as though he were rushing off to see a colleague with the redeeming file under his arm. Yes, but what if the USG should come by at the delicate moment when he had reached one end of the corridor and was turning to go back the way he'd come? In terms of probabilities, there was little risk of that happening. Anyway, if he were to be taken unawares at the critical instant when he was making his turn, an explanation would not be hard to