Authors: Angelica J.
Fermentation
FERMENTATION
FERMENTATION
ANGELICA J.
Grove Press
New York
Copyright © 1997 by Angelica Jacob
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 154 West 14
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Originally published in Great Britain by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Cover design by Jacky Davis
Cover photograph courtesy of Craig Morey / Swanstock
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
J., Angelica
Fermentation / Angelica J.
p.
cm.
ISBN 978-0-8021-3590-2
eBook ISBN: 978-0-8021-9318-6
I. Title.
PS3560.A2476F47
1997
813’.54—dc21
97-10198
Grove Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
154 West 14
th
Street
New York, NY 10011
Distributed by Publishers Group West
Behold, I saw upon earth men carrying milk in earthen vessels and making cheeses therefrom. Some was of the thick kind from which firm cheese is made, some of the thinner sort from which more porous cheese is made, and some was mixed with corruption and of the sort from which bitter cheese is made. And I saw the likeness of a woman having a complete human form within her womb
. . .
Men and women alike, having in their bodies the seed of mankind from which are procreated the various kinds of human beings. Part is thickened because the seed in its strength is well and truly concocted and this produces forceful men to whom are allotted gifts both spiritual and carnal
. . .
And some had cheese less firmly curdled, for in their feebleness they have seed imperfectly tempered and they raise offspring mostly stupid, feeble and useless.
from the
Liber Scivias
of St Hildegard (translated by Singer)
In the womb of a mother was I moulded
. . .
being compacted with blood of the seed of man and the pleasure that accompanieth sleep.
Wisdom of Solomon (vii, 2)
FERMENTATION
PRELUDE
Two things marked that long summer out. The first was the heat. It had crept up on us in the early days of April, starting with the dry silent winds from East Africa that blew in across the sea, then moved stealthily upwards over the country until they reached the city and came to rest like a tight shroud. The moon and stars burned, the grass in the city's gardens gradually turned brown and the flowers were all but devoured. A plague of red caterpillars hatched out in their thousands. Some people said their eggs had been blown in with the winds and that they would spread disease. The city's pestilence-control teams tried to contain the outbreak by spraying but the creatures did not die. Instead all the flowers shrivelled and the trees grew thin and faded. The river's water level dropped. Earth turned to dust, woodwork splintered and the sky remained a hot, pearly blue.
There was no break to the heat, no let-up, no relief, and finally no renewal.
The second thing that marked that summer out was the strike. The refuse men were in dispute with local
government. The papers said the strikers could not hold out for longer than two weeks, but after two months there were no signs that the end was in sight. The rubbish piled up; outside the restaurants rotting food spilled over into the gutters: fish heads, mouldy vegetables, lumps of fat, babies’ nappies, green meat: and rancid milk all littered the streets and grew putrid in the heat.
Most of the city's inhabitants had closed their doors and shutters and left for the hills and the mountains where the snow never melted or the coast where the breeze was still fresh. Those who remained had seen rats; thousands of them scrabbling along the pavements, nesting in the rubbish.
At night I would lie in bed with no covers and the windows wide open, praying for a breeze to pass over my skin. But the air did not stir. It was heavy with the sweet scent of rotting food and there were times I believed it would suffocate me in my sleep. It twisted around my throat like a rope and left me hanging in the night for breath. That is when I began to write it all down. During these long broken nights I would wake in a pool of sweat and write down the dreams in the notebook I kept on my bedside table. The book was full of ideas for stories, and lists of words I liked, things I had seen, strange sentences I heard people say in passing on the street. Now I began to write down my dreams. They were very vivid, like short films with a story to tell. I could remember them in detail on waking, and at first it was
this intensity that caused me to record them in my notebook. Later it wasn't their clarity that kept me writing; the writing down was the reason for my having them in the first place. There was a definite cause, a pattern if you like, which it took me a while to work out but once detected was indeed very simple.
Let us say then, to begin with, that different women crave different things. I read once of a woman who ate coal. At night, when her husband and children were asleep, she would creep down into the cellar in order to suck on the cold, dark lumps of rock. Then there was the woman who smelt neat disinfectant: she bought huge plastic containers of bleach so she could sniff the invisible liquid on pads of cottonwool which she kept secreted in her pockets. Anne Boleyn ate larks’ tongues. Fabienne, the girl in the apartments opposite, kept a large tank of catfish. She would cut off their heads and eat the bodies raw. My mother told me of an African woman who ate termite mounds, preferably after it had rained so the earth was moist. Mary Queen of Scots was said to have requested swans’ genitals, and one of my aunts on my father's side insisted on smothering pickled onions in golden syrup. It is also recorded that a certain Tibetan princess favoured rats. Then there was Eve and her overwhelming desire for that now infamous piece of fruit.
Whatever; the list is endless and the stories unique. I
had hoped that my craving, should I ever fall pregnant, would be oysters. I had a vision of myself going into the most exclusive restaurants in the city and snapping my fingers at the waiters to bring me the menu. I would be seated in front of a long table with a starched white cloth spread over it and I would order them to serve me with platters of oysters arranged on huge piles of ice. One by one I would split the shells open with my knife and tip their contents into my mouth. I would feel the soft flesh on my tongue and taste their velvety fishiness before swallowing them whole. This I would do day and night whenever the craving took me. If the restaurants weren't open I would simply ask Serge to get up and find me the shellfish, even if it meant crossing the city or travelling the four hundred kilometres or so down to the harbour to wait for the boats to return.
But it wasn't to be. My body chose my craving for me, and oysters weren't on the menu.
BRIE
Brie should feel slightly plump and supple. It should have a mild flavour and ideally its body should be of a rich, pliable consistency. Eat at room temperature and avoid cheeses that are inflexible, have a chemical smell or any that are rheumy.
‘Don't eat that,’ Serge said, trying to grab the plate out of my hands. ‘Not just before going to bed. It will give you bad dreams.’ I had returned from the kitchen with a shiny red apple and a huge piece of Brie which lay in its bloomy envelope like thick creamy vellum.
‘It's all I feel like eating,’ I said. ‘Maybe this is my craving.’
‘That's an old wives’ tale and you know it. It's all in the mind, and besides you've been pregnant for weeks without any strange cravings.’
‘My book says that cravings can start at any time during a pregnancy. I want to eat it.’
‘Okay,’ he said, smiling. ‘Cheese. That's not so bad. Do you think it's particularly Brie? I could stock up on it. Buy some of those huge round pieces.’
‘I don't know. Brie's all we have in the fridge.’
I went and found a knife and then sat down at the table with my plate. The cheese spread out slightly as I pierced a small segment on my knife. It hadn't reached the stage where it oozed out on to the plate. That was the
stage I liked best but Serge always insisted on keeping the cheese refrigerated so it didn't smell out the kitchen. I slipped the piece into my mouth and immediately felt how soft it was and how delicate the taste. While I ate Serge told me a story he had heard from one of his friends a long time ago.
‘He said that on a trip to America, Salvador Dali was asked what he thought of New York. “New York,” he said, “is like a Gothic Roquefort.” He was right, wasn't he?’ Serge said. ‘It does taste somehow dark and strong. The brownstones, the gargoyles. Anyway, apparently later on during this trip someone else asked what he thought about San Francisco. “San Francisco,” he said, “is a romantic Camembert.” Just imagine,’ Serge said, looking at me while I ate, ‘we could build a new language. How would you describe this city?’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘A pastoral Brie?’
‘A Dionysian Gloucester?’
‘Infernal Gorgonzola.’
‘Dublin is like a virginal mozzarella.’
‘Copenhagan is a melancholic Comte.’
‘Prague is a hedonistic feta.’
‘Sybaritic Port Salut.’
‘An Emmentalian hole.’
‘I love you with a Stiltonic passion,’ I said and looked into his eyes.
Later we slipped between the white linen sheets I had been keeping in the icebox and which smelt vaguely of the mushroomy Brie. We lay silently side by side in the
dark listening to a thin cat hissing in the street below. I could smell our bodies trying to breathe against the heat. Tiny beads of perspiration silently formed on our skin, dampening the sheets. It was too hot to make love; even to lie like that, skin to skin, made me feel agitated. I edged away from Serge and closed my eyes. At some point I drifted into sleep.
I knelt down by the huge brown animal and with my hot cheek pressed into its rounded flanks let my fingers tease out long lines of milk which hit the metal pail beneath with the satisfying ring of bullets. It was hot and dark inside the milking sheds and the strong sweet smell of the heavy beasts, their milky breath and the hay was making me drowsy. I leant my full weight against the firm body of the animal and closed my eyes. Its skin was soft and warm. Outside I could hear the sound of girls laughing and playing and I wanted to join them in the gardens and the sunlight that I knew lay beyond. The fields were like a paradise: all the buds were splitting, the grass was green and the still air spilled with floating seeds and luminous insects. I knew it all lay beyond the door and yet I stayed in the dark of the sheds. With my strong brown fingers, I pulled methodically at the animal's shuddering sack of milk and watched as the bucket slowly began to fill with the warm frothy liquid. Every now and then I'd dip my finger in and suck on the sweet milk like a child.
When the pail was full I stood up and wiped the
perspiration from my face. My entire body was hot and I could feel tiny rivulets of sweat trickling down the insides of my thighs. The animals around me moved in anticipation and I could see milk oozing from their swollen teats dripping down on to the floor. I lifted the pail and began to walk unevenly across the barn, but as I moved my foot caught on a stone and the bucket jerked from my hands and landed with a clatter. The milk immediately spilled out, forming a large white lake on the dirty stone floor.
‘You're very clumsy,’ a voice said from inside the barn.
I looked around me and saw a shadow in the far corner.
‘Don't you think you ought to clear it up? Get down on your hands and knees and lick.’ I hesitated and the voice repeated itself ‘I said get down and lick it up.’
Slowly I put the pail down and crouched on the floor. The stones were cool and smelt mildly of ammonia.
‘Lick,’ the voice again commanded and I stuck out my tongue and began to lick at the pool, all the time aware of the fact that a man stood in the shadows watching me. Then I heard him cross the barn and felt him prod me from behind with his boot.
‘You're far too slow,’ he said. ‘It will never get cleared up at this rate. Take off your skirts and underclothes and clear it up.’
I stood up slowly and began to slip off my clothing until my lower half was naked. When that was done I felt
his hands on my shoulders pushing me down so that I had to squat in the white pool. I began wiping at the milk with my skirts.
‘Not with your clothing,’ the man said, grabbing my skirts from my hands.
I crouched down lower and immediately could feel the cool milk brushing against my sex. I dragged myself over the floor.
‘That's better. Much better,’ he said. ‘Now get down on all fours like that animal.’ I could hear the man crouch down behind me. ‘Let me see you drinking from it,’ he said, pushing me towards the beast in its stall.
I put my tongue to the warm sack of milk and began to suckle the animal, making my lips work as fingers, tightening and relaxing them to ease out the milk, and all the while I could feel the man's hand touching me between my milky wet legs, stroking and caressing me. The milk dripped from my sex and spilled from my mouth.
‘You've made a terrible mess of yourself,’ he whispered gently as he moved closer and began to lick the milk from my skin.
I could feel his strong tongue like a giant cat's rasping and flicking up inside me. My body shuddered with short even spasms and I felt myself unfolding like a fat pink bud. I wanted him now, and it was as if he read my desire for at that moment he mounted me and pushed with the full weight of his body deep inside.
In the dark I could hear the animals growing restless,
stamping the ground, waiting. The beast I was drinking from shifted uneasily. My mouth filled again with its warm sweet milk, and as I drank my body heaved with the thrust of the man and the animals’ moaning and slowly filled to the brim with thick rich milkiness.
When I awoke I put my hand between my thighs and felt how wet I was. I slipped my fingers inside, then gently drew them out and began to draw tiny circles against my soft wet skin. I hadn't done this for many years but it did not take me long to make myself come.
As a child I had learnt this art by sitting on the fence at the bottom of our garden. I would sit astride it to watch the horses in the field. I liked the way they moved and sometimes my mother gave me sugar-lumps to feed them with and they would come over and press their large velvety noses into the palm of my hand. One day when I was waiting for my friend Alicia to arrive I discovered that if I wriggled around on the fence just a little I could produce a delicious sensation between my legs. At its climax was a relief of such glorious pleasure that I knew I would have to repeat it over and over and I began to experiment. I discovered that, if I did it at around the same time as my mother was cooking in the kitchen, the thought that she might at any moment look out of the window and discover me in the act was the best way to produce the sensation I craved. And then as I grew older my stimuli changed. I realised I did not need the magic
fence but could use any object I desired. My mother's personal belongings rapidly superseded the rough wood; the handle of a dressing-table mirror was one I often used, but my particular favourite was the oval-shaped lid of the silver urn in which my mother kept my father's ashes.
I got up now and went to splash some cold water over my face in the bathroom, but the pleasure of feeling cool was momentary. The instant I turned the tap off and dried my face my skin felt hot and clammy again.
I still felt tired too, as though I had had no sleep at all, and I sat down on the pale green tiles and leant my head against the wall. From the small bathroom window I could see the horizon which looked red like the edge of a distant planet. It reminded me of the cover of the book Serge was reading. It was called The
Perspex Planet
and the picture on the front was of a naked girl holding a ball of fire in the palm of her hand. Behind her you could see an outline of fire like an angel's halo. I stared out from the window over the city. There had been talk of forest fires reaching the suburbs and of the munitions factory and the chemical plants on the outskirts burning to the ground. The news broadcasts did not confirm these rumours, but at night we would be woken by the sound of fire engines screaming through the streets and we could all smell burning. I knew about fire and I knew its smell.
I heard a key turn somewhere along the corridor and the sound of footsteps walking down the central stairwell
and then disappearing. It must be one of the many occupants of the building leaving for work. I went back to the bedroom where Serge lay and nestled up beside him.
‘I had the strangest dream last night,’ I whispered in his ear and Serge smiled drowsily in the way he did first thing in the morning. He always looked as though he'd walked across whole continents in his dreams.
‘I told you you shouldn't eat cheese before going to sleep,’ he said.
‘It wasn't a bad dream, just strange.’
Serge was a good-looking man. He was dark and complete; the precise image of the man I wanted to be with. Before I met him I had been in a long relationship that had ended miserably. I was tired and withdrawn but Serge had changed all that. After I had finished with R—, I had gone to stay for the winter in the small spa town of Cauterets high up in the mountains. I went there to take the waters and relax. The pools were deep and dark and salty and lying in them helped me to forget. I would slip into the water and push myself down under the surface, totally submerging myself in the warm saline solution, and when I resurfaced I would lie quite still with eyes closed. All I could hear was the sound of my own breathing, a rasping boom in my ears, and I felt like a piece of driftwood afloat at sea and the feeling was one of great space and depth.
I read of a river once, called Lethe, a river of the underworld that to all those who drank of its waters
caused an amnesia. These then were the waters of Lethe and within the river's folds I felt safe and at peace.
Sometimes I would sit by the side of the pools and watch the other bathers floating before me. Most of them were elderly men and women, their skin grey and wrinkled as though they had lain in the water for hundreds of years. I wondered if they too had come here to wash away their memories. I would pass them by and they would nod and smile at me in complicity.
I took the waters every day, leaving the small hotel at daybreak and walking the short distance to the building which housed the pools, down the quiet streets, past the central square. In the evenings, on my way back, I would stop off at a café to eat before returning to my room and lying down to read and sleep. I lived by this routine. I did not want to be noticed but enjoyed the invisibility of this existence.
The first night I had arrived in Cauterets I had turned up at the hotel very late and a young girl had come to the desk and given me a key. I had crept up the stairs and down the long corridor as quietly as I could, so as not to disturb the other guests, but my footsteps made the bare floorboards creak and as I reached my room the door to the one opposite opened and a thin old man had appeared in striped blue pyjamas.
‘Do you ever wonder why floorboards creak?’ he hissed.
I stopped and shook my head.
‘Because of all the dead bodies. It's not floorboards that creak. It's the victims. You're waking the dead.’
‘I'm sorry,’ I said, but before I had time to finish my apology he had slammed his door fast behind him.
I had been in Cauterets three weeks before I met Serge. One evening as I approached the square I heard laughter and the sound of applause. A group of people were gathered round a troupe of circus performers. From a distance the arrangement looked like a magic circle: the spectators in shadow while a marvellous light glowed from the centre. I drew nearer. There was a knife-thrower, a young girl who charmed plastic snakes, a man with feather wings who walked on stilts, a one-armed woman who juggled ten silver balls on her feet, and a fire-eater. I stood and watched for a while as one by one the performers took their turn, and then the fire-eater stepped into the circle and immediately I was in awe. I watched as the man's hands threw the flames up into the air and how the people lifted their faces to see him make the fire dance in giant loops about his head.
I remember afterwards walking over to the café and sitting down at a table by the window. Although it was cold outside I ordered myself a drink filled with ice. The sight of the fire-eater swallowing the flames had made me thirsty. I stared out of the window for a time and then I remember turning round and looking across the café. The fire-eater was sitting at a table on the far side of the
room, watching me.
It was Serge who joined me, although, as he always insists, it was I who first smiled at him. He came over to my table and asked if he could sit down.
‘I saw you watching,’ he said.
‘There were a lot of people watching.’