by Alan Burns
We climbed a higher – far higher – rock, more dangerous; falls of a hundred feet led down to ledges of terrifying steepness. We stood on the edge of a chasm. A gun was fired at the foot, at the legs. With bewildering sounds of thunder and splashes of blood on the rocks, they left a dog dead on the ground. Like a ship covered with hair, the teeth quite small, the eyes large, the inner surface blank. It appeared blind, the power drawn from its eyes, facing a storm of rain. I used a handkerchief to clean its eyes. We made a grave in the shelter of a bush. She scratched away the earth.
She did not feel sorry for herself; she did not care. She dug a hole and knelt in it. She waited for hours – she did not know whether she was falling asleep or dying – then an inner change occurred; she began to murmur. She underwent a peculiar transformation, dashed about in fits of wildness in the middle of the afternoon. She made a sudden rush down the hillside; about a quarter of a mile away from me she turned towards the guns – they came out to meet her before she had a chance to turn. “Best to hide! Don’t risk being killed!” she shouted to me as she ran.
Cleverly she crossed swampy ground and doubled back towards the town. She taught me the art of lying motionless on the ground to avoid being seen. She showed me how to feed on milk sucked from a feeding bottle; we stole a few garden vegetables and scraps of meat left lying on the ground.
We were challenged by a guard. I heard her inward grunt, pathetic scream. “The only way, the open fields.” I held her arm. I showed my papers, told my story. The hour was marked on the papers; two or three of them, each with a different date. The guard was in a hurry – he had no time to investigate. I considered this man. He was not satisfied. I had made a mistake: I had hesitated to declare myself. I said we were returning to the town. We walked around, uncertain of our direction.
Chapter 13
It could have been any town, on either side. Squads of soldiers marched the streets in rapid time, drilled, disciplined, yet at moments, where the road divided, uncertain which way to march. The way back to the bridge was barred by a lorry loaded with coiled barbed wire. We went to the nearest café, moving in the direction indicated by the police. We were trying to reach her father’s house by a roundabout route; we were disturbed, and everyone knew it. I thought we had found the house. I saw no sign – maybe we were too late. Information about the escape would by now have reached her father. I had been too talkative.
The front door of one house was slightly open. I had no hesitation in entering. Her father was at home, eating. I asked the old man whether we might stay for the night. I said I wanted to return home, I wanted peace and quiet. I whispered to him that I did not wish the police to know – they might ask questions, although I had a proper explanation. He said he wished to talk to his daughter alone, but I remained. They, on the other side of the room, sat and talked in his bedroom; she sat on the edge of his bed. “I want to speak to you,” he said. I could not hear the reply, only the sound of his feet shuffling on the floorboards. His low voice: “I knew he was not what he appeared to be. You should have come to me.” She asked him: “What has happened? Why are you living here?” The shuffling stopped. I looked at the door. Then a slurred sound, not like speech, a different sound: his voice, but his voice changed – high-pitched, almost singing. “The building was in perfect condition; as my official residence it belonged to the people, not to me, yet heavy bills for furnishing and repairs were presented. I sent them back; they were returned for signature; I refused to sign. I knew nothing about repairs – there had been no repairs. Every pressure was brought on me; they begged me to talk to the press; I allowed myself to be persuaded, but after one tumultuous interview I knew I had made a mistake – the reporter had been carefully chosen as one who could be made to serve their purpose. I signed a joint statement for our mutual protection, setting out the facts of the matter, but after his article had been published, he disappeared. Then, one day, smiling his vacant smile, my deputy handed me a copy of the paper. I glanced at the paragraph, I understood I was to be accused of a crime against the state. Anger is no weapon against power. I consulted old friends, well-known men, but control lay in other hands. I learnt that my removal was the price for the setting aside of a menace to the party’s power. So I was involved in the party feud; my career was of no importance – the matter was to be arranged between them. I was advised to tell my story, and I did so. But unrest was increasing, and personal problems faded before the emergency. I was promised that, as soon as I resigned, the wrong would be righted. I submitted. I went to them and was welcomed, but one of those men warned me. I knew his advice was wise; I had not yet heard the end. I came to rid myself of my power. My old friend was asked for an explanation; he attempted to defend himself, saying I had been ungrateful – he had loaned me sums of money and had not been repaid. I could not answer. I wrote a letter. Fear of the new man was so great. I was tried for treason. My opponents were powerful, connected by family with other politicians; they were feared by many; it was useless and dangerous to fight them. I would lose my case. I was avoided, followed by spies, a prisoner in my house. I still believed I could win. I had cheques proving it was I who had loaned the money. I was acquitted. I won my last victory there. I had been persecuted; a letter had been written to the judge by the Ministry of Justice – he was ‘interested in the maintenance of judicial dignity’. My adversaries sought a sentence condemning me to exile – if only for one day; it would have been sufficient to break my power. On the day for the trial of the prosecutor’s appeal the court was ready. I called my lawyer. He was not in court! A search was ordered. I could not understand his failure to appear at the last moment, before the court of last resort. I demanded that they acquit me – I was obliged to do so; I demanded payment of my costs. Each spoke in turn. The prosecutor said he would take my argument for his own; he would not speak of costs – I had borrowed from the people, and their debt demanded to be repaid. I became ill; I asked to be allowed to speak – I repeated my request. My lawyer had had in his possession a slip of paper containing conclusive evidence, the full explanation of all questionable transactions – the paper was delivered to him so that it could be examined. The usual procedure had been followed, but the clerk entrusted with the work had apparently overlooked an important item – he had abstracted the slip from the file and kept it. With this conclusive evidence in his hands he had sent word to the lawyer on the other side and had said that he would without hesitation publish this overwhelming proof of the injustice of the accusations and appear as witness for the defence. I had asked him to show me the precious document; he had done so, but had not allowed me to take a copy of it. I had set down our entire conversation on the back of a letter which my lawyer had kept among his papers. This trial has meant the loss of my home. I have been obliged to remain here under police surveillance – they made it easy for me to go elsewhere, but the dense bureaucracy prevented this, and, anyway, I knew it was better to remain. This was the result desired by my adversaries, and their tactics may keep me here for years; my agony is due to my own actions; I have tried, wanted; my years are clouded, but I have kept alive.”
Voices outside: voices gave instructions concerning luggage for dispatch by train, the handing-over of letters for personal delivery. “Give… immediately you… ocean… funds.” One foot across the step, I heard her shout; I twisted to look across. “Thank you for choosing me to be the one to come with you.” I saw that same individual, criminally stupid. “Goodbye.” Her fingers digging into my arm. “The wheels won’t go round.” The words in her throat, staring at a lunatic. Her face did not even know the essentials. She laughed. Her manner became quite different. I remembered that I was not supposed to know the meaning of the journey. A word, a look, a kiss, a scarf, a sleeve, those white arms, thick red hair, her father, his crushed face; he grinned as he watched – he had trapped wolves and buried them. I saw his face twitch. “She has disappeared.” “You mean she flew.” Alone in his room her hands seeme
d helpless, fingering ribbons, her wet eyes singing of murder, her body among red and green embroidered cushions, a wasp sting on her cheek, a pity, sad. Bending forwards, I kissed her hair; her voice was cut off; she fell; I held her.
Sixteen miles from the town I lifted her onto the train. We travelled together towards the frontier. She became violent. “Never again abuse those who welcome you, or judge when you have shown yourself ignorant. When you get home, find that out for yourself.” Anger in her eyes. “We shall continue the life we are used to. We feel free. Look at the map, and try to understand why.” An underlying layer of jealousy. “I don’t see.” I pushed the girl towards the train, climbed onto the leather seat; we flew towards the gates, the cracked light, brass, blood. We drove, continuously changing, with hollow trees, drowned in rivers, one hand to shade her head, with the other testing the balance of a whip.
There were no cars waiting outside the station. “It is too cold. You can’t expect them to wait.” Another train, this time unheated. There was no light in the coach nor in the whole length of the train, though the windows were intact. We sat on wooden seats in the dark, in the cold. She showed a knowledge of politics far in excess of mine. We discussed her father’s programme – a subject about which I had the haziest ideas. Three hours later they managed to get the steam working. We slept: a triumph.
Fresh coffee and bread were provided at the frontier town. There were two stalls for coffee, so that when one was handing out hot drinks, the other was boiling a fresh supply. Once more we heard the commander’s name – the name that was disturbing the country. His friends had gathered others who shared his views.
Hours to wait for the night train, we explored the lovely town – streets shaded, iron walls, the superstructure of a sunken ship caught lengthways across the mouth of the harbour, the coal-dark sea, silent, alert, the coming night, change of light, the night filled with basketwork chairs. Our argument about wealth. Her small fist on the book, splitting the pages. “For the last five years we have been very orderly and well disciplined. We have become organized. The only bridge across the river is a temporary construction. Everyone wonders whether it will stand the rush of ice in the spring. Work on the other – partly demolished – bridge is planned, to be completed in July.” In comparison with the harbour, the town had not suffered much: houses were still windowless, bookshelves bare, laboratories devoid of apparatus, but this was to be expected. She stepped onto the street, sucking an ice cream. “I assume you are interested, though I know you are from a wealthy land.” She persisted in continuing the conversation. I said: “I’m starting home tonight. If you agree, I should like to photograph the spot where the commander was killed.” The scene of the crime was pointed out with her customary charm, politeness and generosity. This sort of reaction made it difficult to hit out. He was dead, a sore on his mouth, no mark on the pavement in the peaceful street. Meanwhile, several iron-hooped packing cases on which there were many curious marks and growths attracted her attention. She examined a length of brown paper which she pulled out through a gap in the sewing by slitting the tightly stretched canvas with the sharpened blade of a pair of scissors. A rolled rectangular piece of brown paper; she told me she could tell its origin: “The place from which you come”.
We ate a cheerful supper in a brightly lit restaurant. Bells rang and were answered by bells. We strolled about, her hand on my sleeve. She stared at a shabby monument – the statue of a soldier, a brother, a kneeling man. There was an inscription; it was impossible to read. We wasted the day, though we had been warned not to. The trams were running; people walked to work in lit streets – they looked at their wristwatches by the light from shop windows. She liked whatever I gave her – a length of steel, a leather case. She stood in the doorway and tested the instrument. Free to make the most of the minute, I hoped I might be delayed. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning. Write a letter to me and give it to me before eight o’clock tonight.” I presented her with the package, and some tea and sugar. I understood her hatred; I saw failure ahead. But the partial concession succeeded. She puzzled over my speech. With arrogance, soundlessly, her eyes rested; the gloom, the light, close to my hand. She pulled my coat, her breath dry, rapid. “You often said you would leave. I accept it. I want you to stay. I cannot force you.”
With pellets of light thudding overhead, she held a needle; we were huddled in a shelter – wet planks, rope, the copper light beat high above, which the eyes, the smoke, the wind, glimpsed above – we ducked for shelter. “You’ll be glad to get home.” I steered her away from the track with my hand; it was impossible. “You tell me how much – what power the state has.” “I wouldn’t know.” “Have you thought about it?” “It’s different now. Of course I’m against war, genuine war.” Smoke flew past with a white hand, distinguishing marks – white numbers painted large. Empty huts; long hills shone with oil. Her glance went to the town with its menacing platforms, barracks, roofs, furnaces. I planned that she should. Without a smile, she shifted her position, leant towards the curved and slatted sun, completed her turn back to the walls of red stone, the sun now behind low cloud, through smoke, lines of streets, lines of trees, a spire hidden by smoke. I was home. My luggage would be taken down by car, unless I neglected altogether… “I can collect the stuff tomorrow.” Her hand clutched. The smell of oil and smoke. A woman walked along the gutter, her grey face bleeding from scratches. A statue; her silence blocked the exit; there was no room. Flags, letters; I hoped to be home – the sky filled with familiar buildings; this visit would be made. There were two trains leaving at about the same time. I made sure that the luggage was sent on the first – it would be well looked after. Of course this visit had to be made. I had two hours, and during the whole of that time it would be necessary for me to shave and dress. My luggage contained my notes. When I unpacked, these were not to be found – they had been mislaid en route.
Chapter 14
She lived close by. A green-painted lamp with rust on it, a dozen narrow steps, zinc handrails either side, a table, steaming food, a dark place, bright metal and white plates, the staircase leading away. I turned my back. “Eat in this place?” I said loudly, stopped suddenly, interrupted. “It is, is it? Terrible?” Then her terror disappeared; she behaved as though she were welcoming me home – she referred to the food: “When did you last eat?” “I haven’t eaten. I’m not hungry.” To save trouble, she said, I should take my meals in the restaurant, set out on a cloth. I guessed why. I nodded towards the stairway. “Is there anyone here tonight?” “The person who has been sharing the room left yesterday.” It would be possible for me to have my old room back, but I must understand why, and on what conditions. I said I had hoped to return home with her, after what I had seen. “It’s late in the month,” she sniffed. “One returning after so long should expect this particular difficulty. Everybody comes, and stays for days – a whole week at a time; you should see the crowds we have in this house.” I picked up my possessions and began to climb the stairs. “You can have half, then.” “A man doesn’t come back for half.”
The door was open; light filtered through dirty windows. The room was adequate. Fireplace, table facing windows, against the wall by the door a side table with necessities on it. Four chairs. Beyond the small table, a cupboard in which, among rubbish stuffed away, were two painted jugs, a cup decorated with the figure of Frederick the Great, a plate with a ship painted on it, a note found in a drawer, a bundle of papers written in order to be left behind. I examined the windows of the room, the lamp on which green letters were painted, attachments decorated with imitation leaves.
Staring idiotically at the closed door, I listened to two conversations continuing simultaneously. A man saying: “Not like you. The injustices, the iniquities of the system.” Her soft reply: “I’m not saying which one I would choose.” She sounded frightened; the door crashed open; her face showed in the doorway; she lost her balance; her shoulder fall was broken by the room
, her face on the floor, flushed to the forehead. Light, bright light – yellow in the dark-looking burdened home. I followed, rested my knee on the curved window seat; ugly foundations of the old house – a tombstone from the old building. “We should celebrate my return.” “Tell me, what do you think of yourself?” My reputation for being uncommunicative about either my movements or my amusements would not let me reply. Illuminated by the moon, she smiled. I held a fold of her skirt. “Leave me alone.” I held a fold of sacking, looked down at the face of a child, ghastly with life, strong, violent. Betrayed, I sharply instructed her; she became frozen; I lost patience, I became an actor; she quiet, simple, cruel – an unhappy child shaped by the shape of a fall. “You killed.” She went for my cheeks with her nails; I tried to grab her – she got to the window, tried to leap out. “Murderer!” I dragged her back, put my hand over her mouth. I turned off the light.
Next morning she had a scab on her wrist – she stared in surprise; she was sick. The house was bright with daylight. She was unable to move – she said her back was broken – she lay with wide face asleep, without a word. I understood what had happened.
After three days I called the state doctor. He came gorgeously in gold buttons. He was worse than a priest. He wrapped her in sheets – sheets soaked in icy water. He made her stand; he ordered pills and massage. She wanted me to nurse her. She was choking to the point of suffocation. The heart was bad. She feared the knife. I rushed out of the room, listened through the half-open door. It was too late. He wrapped a blanket round the child to save its life. I banged the door shut. I remained by the side of the bed, watching the terror. The operation would help. She nodded. An envelope on the table under the lamp told me that she had received that morning… there was no time for discussion. He decided to inject. The reaction was terrific. The body sprang up in a violent fit, bleeding from the nose. The condition improved. It was intensely interesting to watch the case. The child must be removed or the mother would die. I knew of no suitable place. The arrangements were inadequate. The doctor ordered it to be removed. In the morning it had gone. I dared not tell her; I decided to wait. The body was taken and buried. I nearly fell. It must be buried. It was impossible; it was forbidden by law. The body must be burnt. I asked what would be the price for a first-class funeral and grave. Times were hard – there had been a rise in the price of coffins. Ten thousand would cover everything – flowers would be extra. I arranged to have the body burnt – it was against the law to embalm or otherwise preserve the body. The certificate was signed; the cause of death was the heart. The sum paid in advance would have saved its life. I visited it; I had reasons. The night was dark with rain; my foot against the soft earth; I fell. Neither wanted to tell her. She knew. She had been sitting up in bed; she thought she was dead, and said she had died – looked straight and knew. She wanted to write a letter to her father accusing herself; I told her such a letter might make her father crazy. The next morning she was carried down and taken home. She presented the nurse with two big trunks full of clothes, and a hat. I persuaded her to keep the hat. I spent an hour on my knees in the room, on the floor in a spare room – I can still see the carpet. I told her I was all right. I wanted sleep. My brain dropped. I was asleep. The bell rang. I heard her voice. She was standing on the table in her short white skirt and embroidered bolero, painting her eyes and her mouth. She asked me how much money there was in my wallet – she needed some of the cash at once as she had come to the end of her savings. I told her the wallet was empty, but I offered to loan her some money if she wished, and gave her my personal cheque. She borrowed from me several times, and I was told she borrowed from others. She developed a mania for economy, forbade the lighting of fires, and at each purchase of food she complained bitterly. I entrusted her with the dispatch of my reports, but rather than spend money on telegrams she sent them by ordinary post, though she knew that the messages were for immediate publication. I was accustomed to cigars of the highest quality, but she bought the cheapest and wrapped them in silver paper. I threw them onto the fire.
