North (27 page)

But Inge here . . . hm, time to watch our p's and q's . . . to look moved . . . sensitive . . . she expected it . . . magnificent eyes . . . black, almond-shaped . . . women start looking in the mirror in childhood, only natural that at forty they've got their fascination down pat . . . okay . . . she wanted me to be fascinated . . . When it comes to the "mirrors of the soul" . . . if you must you must . . . I can be very attentive . . . her eyes are worth it . . . most women's eyes are just "smooth bitch" . . . hers were a little more . . . desperate! . . . oh, just an impression! . . . I hadn't looked at her before . . . and now the body! by and large, people don't bother about bodies, just take a look at the Famous Beauty Magazines, good grief! . . . I'm repeating myself . . . museum of horrors! . . . staring you in the face! . . . no fantasies! the real thing! . . . those knees, those rear ends, those ankles, those varicose veins, those udders! . . . those poor atrophied bodies, pounds of blubber, wads and wattles . . . the highest-paid screen idols! millionaire stars! Egerias of the popes! . . . no need of bombs and atoms to destroy this lovely species of ours! . . . even now the women don't bear looking at. . . I mean from the veterinary, healthy, and honest point of view that we judge fillies, greyhounds, spaniels, and pheasants by . . . there'd be no more agricultural shows if we had to hand out prizes to women!

But women aren't just bodies! . . . boor! they're "companions" as well! what of their charms, their grace, their twitterings? sure, sure! if suicide appeals to you . . . with three hours a day of charms and twitterings . . . you'd better hang yourself . . . for your own good . . . or you'll spend your old age feeling very angry at your pecker for making you waste all those years pirouetting, prancing, sitting up on your hind legs, pleading for a smile . . .

With Inge now, considering the jam we were in, we weren't going to high-hat her . . . no intention of playing the tired skeptic . . . oh no, I was very much interested . . . I could pretty well guess what her body was like . . . I had to! in her ample dressing gown with flounces . . . satin and chiffon . . . pink and green . . . I had to pierce through and see an adorable, desirable body, I had to be flustered . . . to stammer and blush, to be at a loss . . . the works . . .

She stretched out . . . well, almost . . . enough for me to see her legs and a bit of thigh . . . and a glimpse of her breasts without brassiere . . . this is the point, it occurs to me, when all literature, dime store or Goncourt, sacristy or opium parlor, jumps the rails . . . "her exquisite satiny skin, the graceful line of her thighs . . ." I ought to wax lyrical too . . . I haven't got it in me . . . of course I could have once upon a time! . . .

Writers are like salons . . . every sect, academy, or even café terrace . . . they always wait for flesh to be a little ripe before swooning over it . . . there's something of the jackal in their judgments . . . if it's fresh, new, and authentic, they don't care . . . a certain diffidence . . . they need a few varicose veins, plenty of welts, swollen ankles, before they get really ardent . . . skin-and-bones or bag of blubber . . . but this was no time to look doubtful . . . Le Vig felt the same way! . . . enthusiasm! seeing her close up like that, I've got to admit she was still in the running . . . thighs, breasts, face . . . certainly born of sound parents, neither alcoholic nor syphilitic . . . raised in the woods in East Prussia, well fed . . . shame and misery are a terrible handicap for poor girls! I know whereof I speak . . .

Actually, in our situation, this Inge, this fine figure of a well-preserved woman, could just as well have been the old bag upstairs or la Kretzer, she could have been fifteen or a hundred, we'd have been mighty flattered . . . not to say up--and-coming . . . at the honor she was showing us . . . admitting us to her seminudity swathed in embroideries, satins, and chiffons . . . we weren't going to fall short on respect! . . . good gracious no! . . . sooner cyanide!

What's she telling us? . . . in French . . . banalities . . . that Berlin is in flames . . . hell, we knew that . . . that the English are monsters . . . where does that get us?

Ah, but a tear! yes, she's crying . . . two tears! . . . her little handkerchief . . .

"You know, Messieurs, I went to Berlin every Tuesday, I won't be going any more!"

More tears . . . we're not indifferent . . .

"The
Landrat
took me . . . he still has his car . . . you realize we have nothing here . . . all gone . . ."

The tears keep coming . . . she explains . . . her manicurist is in Berlin! . . . the Landrat, by the way, where is he? . . . he was expected for lunch . . . not a word! . . . they must all be in their cellars . . . she smiles . . . we smile. . . the masseur, the Landrat, the dressmaker, all in holest. . . we here in Zornhof have no conception . . . all we know is that bombs are falling . . . and the earth trembling . . .

It was trembling all right . . . just then the big heavy tapestry in back collapses! . . . rod and all!
kshsh!
gone! . . . and somebody . . . the cripple in a rage . . . an apparition! . . . rolling his eyes at us!

"Schweine!
swine! . . .
raus! raus!
get out!"

I translate for you . . . the cripple didn't speak French . . . only German . . .

"Spione! Spione!
. . .
lauter Spione!"

Not just swine, we're spies too! . . .

"You won't throw them out? . . .
Spione! Spione!
ah, you won't! Nicholas!"

The giant hands him his shotgun . . . and up there a-straddle he takes aim . . . point-blank, so to speak . . . well, ten twelve feet . . . we haven't time to think . . . Inge, who'd been lying in a languid pose, charming us . . . thighs and sighs . . . springs like a tigress! she grabs his rod! she flings it across the room! and him with it! . . . he lands on his head . . . he screams at her: whore . . . whore! twice! . . . I see him on the carpet . . . he stays put . . . he drools, he writhes, he gurgles . . . ah, at last something definite that I recognize . . . he's biting his tongue . . . thrashing and yelling . . . that's no syringomyelia . . . a different kettle of fish! von Leiden Jr. is epileptic . . . there on the floor! . . . undeniably! all the earmarks . . . Inge's surprised me . . . so quick on the draw! . . . the way she disarmed him! before you could say Tom Thumb! precision work! . . . Harras must have known this cripple was dangerous . . .

"You see, Doctor! . . . you see him!"

I saw him all right . . . he'd be writhing and drooling for at least an hour . . .

"It's jealousy and the air-raid alarms! . . . he hasn't slept for two years . . . I beg your pardon, Doctor . . . and yours too, Monsieur Le Vigan . . . he doesn't know what he's doing . . . I thought Harras could have him cared for in Berlin . . . really . . . really . . . I can't stand it any more . . . especially for the child . . . he's dangerous even for her! . . . he's out of his mind . . . and he's in pain . . . more than a man can bear . . . his back . . . his heart. . . his nerves . . . sometimes his attacks go on all night . . . can't you do something for him, Doctor?"

"Well see, Madame . . . well see . . ."

Meanwhile he's having a terrible convulsion . . . on his back . . . at our feet . . . his little stumps jerking . . . his anus fighting with the carpet . . . his face screwed up, framed in his wrinkles, and thick foam . . . saliva and blood . . . on his chin . . .

"You see him, Doctor! . . . he's like that at least twice a week . . . worse and worse . . ."

"Of course he ought to be in treatment somewhere else . . . not in a place like this with the constant air-raid alarms . . . in Switzerland, for instance . . ."

"He'd never gol he's too jealous!"

"Well discuss it with Harras!"

"Oh, him! if he ever comes back!"

"How long do these attacks last?"

"They vary . . .
verschieden
. . . ten minutes . . . two hours . . . the doctors all say to wait a long time . . . let him sleep . . . three hours . . . four hours . . . is that right?"

"Perfect! . . . but what medicine do you give him?"

"Come and see . . ."

She takes me to the medicine chest . . . everything . . . powders . . . ampuls . . . bottles . . . Luminal . . . Dolosal . . . heroin . . . a feast! . . . I ask her how many pills she gives him? how many ampuls?

"All he wants, any time he wants . . . Harras told me . . . some days two or three times . . . but especially at night . . . the attacks come on at about eleven . . ."

It wasn't only the air raids that brought on his attacks . . . it could be some irritation . . . now it was jealousy . . . she was sure . . . he was pathologically jealous . . . jealous of Harras or the
Landrat 
. . . Harras I could see, but us? nothing about us to make him jealous! moth-eaten beggars . . . absorbed in messkits and the trembling of the walls, with Article 75 on our ass . . . if the lady was interested in us, Cod bless her! actually no matter how crummy the situation, you'll never make one of those sultry ladies understand that you've stopped wanting anything . . . appetizer, roast, or dessert! . . . they can keep it all! and for Christ's sake leave us alone!

                                 O rage! old men, it's sure to be your death! 

                                 A woman's life four hundred periods . . . 

                                Out with the passion! Hurry! Fire! . . .

For us, Le Vig and me, it was out of the question . . . retired . . . retired for ever! . . . this awful obsession beauties have! the more cities in flames, the more people being massacred, hanged, drawn and quartered, the more intimacies they want . . . the worlds Article 1 is fucking! . . . I who forget very little (nothing to be proud of), I remember very clearly how in October 1914, when on the right bank of the Lys our regiment of dismounted cavalry was waiting for dawn under the constant fire of the batteries across the river, a crowd of women and young girls, middle and working class, came out under cover of darkness to feel us up and hoist their skirts, no talk, not a word wasted, from one dismounted cavalryman to the next . . . polite society takes ten months, ten years, dragging out engagements from one winter sports holiday, one art show to the next . . . surprise parties, automobile accidents, big dinners, little dinners, boozefests, belches, bans, and City Hall . . . but when necessary, when the circumstances are right, whole regiments of hot-loving ladies can copulate hoodie-boodle a thousand at a time . . . in one minute flat . . . under a canopy of bombs! . . . what's going to stop them? . . . shell holes? stiffs all over the place? . . . jig-jig! they fuck like flies!

I give you my reflections, I feel I haven't too long to live . . . if I don't do it while I can, my enemies will have it top easy, they'll put me down all wrong, they're doing it already . . . nobody, you say, gives a damn . . . I do! I was, telling you about yon Leiden . . . the cripple . . . on his back . . . writhing . . . I'll get back to the stinker . . . no collar, no tie . . . he's flailing, he's biting his tongue . . . but no danger of choking . . . a clear case of epilepsy . . . classical . . . his shotgun . . . I pick it up . . . it's loaded all right. . . two shells . . . I put them in my pocket . . . "He threatens us too . . . often . . . me and my daughter!" I can imagine . . . hell, it's her lookout! . . . worries of our own . . . no shortage . . . I'm dunking about Lili . . . she must be wondering what's become of us . . . and getting her something to eat . . . the
Tanzhalle
is too far . . . so's the grocery store . . . I can't see us passing the bar again . . . or the huts . . . with all the wives and widows on the lookout . . . those women never shut an eye! . . . no, it can't be done . . . I'll help myself from the pot down below . . . I won't ask anybody . . . if I ask Inge von Leiden, she'll tell me she doesn't trust her Russian servants, that they have orders not to dish out soup without the cripple's permission . . . did anyone give them permission to keep our food cards? . . . the
Landrat?
the devil's grandmother? . . . only one way . . . thieving, at certain times, comes natural . . . when everybody says no . . . not and no! the only way is to help yourself and split . . . watch my dust! We take our leave of Inge, oh, very discreetly, on tiptoes . . . her old man is still on his back, still writhing, but not drooling so much . . . he'll come to in an hour or so . . . he won't have seen us leave . . . he won't remember his attack . . . we go down the steep little stairway, Hjalmar and the pastor are still there, dead to the world . . . they haven't budged . . . the pastor in his chair, his back to the wall, Hjalmar stretched out in the gutter, his drum and bugle lying on the ground . . . though this would be the time for a bit of drumming and bugling . . . the sky is furrowed with RAF, Berlin-London round trip, breaking up the clouds . . . black . . . white . . . snowflakes, flecks of soot, fluff . . . Hjalmar's snoring, so's the pastor . . . but where are the kitchen girls? . . . I go in . . . not a soul! . . . the whole place deserted . . . cookpots brim-full, steaming, smelling good . . . I've only got to dig in . . . the tables are covered with messkits . . . I go to it. . . I fill . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . we've only got to cross the yard, well be at the manor in two minutes . . . around the big pond, past the barns . . . the little road . . . the walk through the ash trees . . . the isbas . . . maybe the "objectors" had finished their carpentry . . . our conscientious silent objectors . . . good thing they're silent! if they started talking . . . I wouldn't want to hear them . . . one look at their mugs . . . more hate-ridden than ours . . . we're passing the barns . . .

"Hey! Hey . . . come here!"