The Dark Frontier

by A. B. Decker

  “I just wish I knew what the problem was. I know Bill Plattner had a funny influence on him, but I can’t believe he’s into drugs. And I can’t believe he’s capable of burglary either, let alone murder. I just wish I knew what’s going on, and where he is. I just wish. Every morning I wake up and I just wish.”

  Marthe detected the despair in Ellen’s voice – it would have been palpable even over the deafening noise of the bells – and she touched her arm in her incomparably gentle way.

  “Let’s walk,” she said, suddenly switching back to her earlier vivacious mood. Taking Ellen’s hand, she led her up the hill overlooking the plateau where the abbey fitted so much more naturally into the landscape now that Ellen knew it better. When they reached the brow of the hill and the road into France that was nothing more than a farm track, Ellen was struck by the beauty of the scene before her, which she had not fully appreciated on her first visit here. Just beneath, on a kind of saddle between them and the hill opposite, lay the same hamlet of half a dozen half-timbered houses, dwarfed by the same castle ruins that rose above them, lit up by the low midday sun almost white against the smoky blue backdrop of the sky.

  “On the left of the castle, in the distance,” Marthe said with a certain breathless excitement in her voice which Ellen put down to the climb up the hill in the cold winter air, “you can just see the snow on the Vosges Mountains through the mist. On the right, not so far, the buildings of the chemical industry and the city.

  “But that’s another world,” Marthe added. “We’re standing in France now. So much more space. So emptier. I find it so beautifully peaceful up here. But depressing in a way – it reminds me how alone we all are.”

  She stood in silence for some time, looking out over the dark green forest of the foreground that fell away into the mists between them and the snowy peaks of the Vosges. She seemed to be lost in the disturbing pregnancy of her own words. She appeared concerned.

  “Ellen,” said Marthe, turning to Ellen as if suddenly struck by a momentous thought. “We must find Frank soon. Urs is perhaps lacking imagination, but if he believes that Frank could be in danger, he may be right. We must find him soon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. We need to keep an open mind.”

  Marthe’s words unsettled Ellen. She did not fully understand, but Ellen almost had the feeling Marthe was struggling with a personal problem of her own, that what she was saying had nothing to do with Frank at all.

  ‘Perhaps this accounts for the mistakes she’s suddenly making in her English’, Ellen speculated. ‘It seems absurd to think that Frank could be a danger to anyone.’

  “But for now, we will walk to the castle and enjoy the view from there,” Marthe said, suddenly changing tack. “Until then we have an appetite for lunch.”

  She had an uncanny ability to manipulate the mood without irritating Ellen. Whatever she said, Ellen felt safe in her company. It was not simply that Ellen was a hapless foreigner who needed the guiding hand of a native. Marthe seemed to be interested in her and Frank as people and not simply as a case of psychiatric interest. And yet, her unsettling words stayed with Ellen all the way to the castle ruins.

  As they were approaching the woods that surrounded the castle, Ellen’s eye fell on a narrow path leading off to the right. A path to which she would not normally have paid any attention, but the sound of gardening, a hoe against stony ground, caught her ear. When she stopped and looked a little closer, she could see a short, stocky man in a small clearing a few yards down the path busily working the soil. It was obviously a well-tended patch. In the earth around where he was hard at work removing the last few weeds of winter, there stood a cross.

  For some inexplicable reason Ellen was reminded at that moment of Frank. At any other time, she would have been uncontrollably curious to know what this incongruous scene in the middle of nowhere meant. And she was curious now. Nosy, Frank used to call it, and he did his best to get her out of the habit, which she found slightly sanctimonious coming from a journalist. But so successful was he in controlling her natural instincts that, on this occasion, the struggle to overcome her nosiness reached such an intensity that she began to feel acutely uncomfortable. As if she was trespassing on private property. She wanted to go. In some strange way, she almost felt as though Frank’s reproachful eye was on her.

  “Marthe,” Ellen said, “would you mind if we skip lunch? I think I’ve had enough fresh air for one day.”

  Marthe smiled. She could not possibly have known what was going through Ellen’s mind, but it seemed to Ellen that she understood in some puzzling way.

  It was a long walk back to the car in the shadows of the abbey. And the journey home to Marthe’s house became even longer when they were held up on the road down the valley into the next village. It was a sleepy little community, which nestled inconspicuously between the steep, forested slopes either side of it. Only a single road ran through the village, and the police were stopping every vehicle travelling on it, questioning the occupants and searching the contents of the vehicles with quiet fussiness. This was the first time Ellen had ever encountered a roadblock, and she sensed an instant chill of guilt run through her body. In a foreign country, in a foreign car on the wrong side of the road being interrogated by police in a language that sounded more like an obscure eastern European tongue than anything she had ever learned in school, she suddenly felt she had been dumped in a police state.

  “A man has been attacked at the shooting range here,” Marthe explained, when eventually the police were satisfied of their innocence and let them pass. “And his guns have been stolen.”

  “In such a quiet little place,” Ellen said.

  “You would not believe some of the things which happen in these quiet towns and villages on the frontier,” Marthe replied with an ominous sideways glance that disturbed Ellen all the more.

  As she lay in bed that night, Ellen’s mind returned to the incident with the police and the story of the man being attacked and robbed. All at once, this comfortable little country, which had started its acquaintance with her from the outset as a source of mystery, had now acquired an air of menace. She thought of Frank. And Marthe’s words. And she wondered whether he was also feeling the menace at that moment, wherever he was.

  As Ellen was pondering these thoughts, there was a knock at her bedroom door. Marthe discreetly pushed it open.

  That morning, she said, there had been a terrible fire at a clinic in Zurich, where Urs spent some time in practice. So he had gone there to meet with colleagues and see if he could help in any way. He would not be back until tomorrow evening, so she had come to say goodnight – and look for some company – she explained as she sat down on the side of Ellen’s bed.

  Ellen was equally glad of her company, and felt instantly at peace when Marthe took her hands in hers. Like she wished Beth had done a few days earlier.

  “Marthe, what did you mean when you spoke about the danger Frank might be in?” Ellen asked. In the back of her mind, she was still troubled by the incident with the roadblock. “What sort of danger?”

  Marthe smiled and ran her fingers through Ellen’s hair, brushing it off her forehead with a gesture that reminded her of the way Beth used to be so many years ago – on the occasions when she took the responsibilities of sisterly affection seriously. It made her sad to realise how often she had missed this affection, but happy to enjoy it now with Marthe, whose only words in reply to her question were: “You know, we Swiss have an exaggerated idea about danger and risk. We insure ourselves against everything. But don’t think of such things now. You must relax, and we will talk some more tomorrow.”

  As if to reinforce her words she took Ellen in her arms and held her tightly as she continued stroking her hair. To feel the warmth of Marthe’s embrace and the gentle comforting strength of her body was like sinking back deep into a feather-down pillow, eyes closed, and drifting into a dream world.

  Under any other
circumstances Ellen might have been shocked by her own behaviour. But when Marthe slipped out of her nightdress a few moments later and slid in between the sheets with Ellen, she did not bat an eyelid. It seemed the most obvious and natural thing to do. The slight intake of breath as they touched was not of outrage or surprise, but excitement at the softness of her skin and the sweet curvature of her body. Ellen had never held a woman in this way. It lent an entirely new dimension to the sense of touch.

  With a new kind of ecstasy dispelling any sense of inhibition, she gladly let Marthe’s hands explore beneath her own nightdress, which triggered an indescribably pleasant thrill at every stroke. Not a word was spoken as together they lifted the last remaining barrier between them, pulled her nightdress with a final flourish from her body and sank back into each other’s arms. It was a curious, electrifying feeling that had her completely at Marthe’s mercy.

  The strange familiarity of her body intrigued Ellen. As her fingertips explored its sweetly feminine peculiarities with an eagerness every bit as charged as her own, it occurred to Ellen how similar to her Marthe was in shape and feel. ‘Now I know what it’s like for Frank to hold me in his arms,’ she thought. It brought a smile to her face. ‘I almost envy him,’ she told herself.

  “I never thought of myself as having any lesbian leanings.”

  Marthe laughed.

  “Just because you enjoy the embrace of a woman does not mean you are a lesbian.”

  “Doesn’t it?’

  “Any more than Frank posing naked for a male sculptor means that he is homosexual. You must keep an open mind. Life is full of doors to be opened and boundaries to be crossed, not a place for closed compartments.”

  “I always wanted to have babies. I wouldn’t if I was a lesbian, would I?” Ellen asked in an attempt to reassure herself.

  “A lesbian is also a woman. But, as I say, you don’t have to be a lesbian to enjoy the comfort of another woman.”

  “One thing puzzles me, Marthe. You have a very prominent painting in your lounge of two women in an erotic embrace. I’m surprised you don’t like it.”

  “What makes you think I don’t like it?” Marthe asked. “I like it very much. But I don’t like the way Urs likes it. He looks at it as a psychiatrist. Not as a man.”

  “I’m so confused,” Ellen said. She wanted to cry, and felt Marthe tighten her embrace as if sensing her despair. She was grateful for the affection and nestled her head under the gentle sweep of Marthe’s chin – no stubble, no hint of aftershave, but smooth and soft, the smells of a woman. Such surprising, unaccustomed comfort in her arms.

  Marthe ran her fingers over Ellen’s lips and rested her thumb in the deep furrow that ran from her upper lip to the lower reaches of her nose. It reminded Ellen of the way Frank liked to stroke her upper lip.

  “You have a beautifully deep philtrum,” Marthe said. “That’s a good sign. We call it a love charm in German. The deeper the better.”

  “A bit like Cupid’s bow,” Ellen said with an embarrassed smile. She was keen to change the subject. “Have you never wanted to have babies?” she asked.

  It was an innocent question. But Marthe gave no immediate reply. And when Ellen looked up, she was gazing into space, a vague smile on her lips, but sadness hidden in her eyes. She felt for a moment that she had lost her, that her words had stirred an unwanted memory. She was desperate to say something, to bring her back, but was afraid of what further damage she might do.

  They remained in this uncomfortable silence beside each other, touching, until Marthe judged the time was right for a reply. And when eventually she did speak, she gave the impression at first of having returned from some internal struggle which she needed to put behind her.

  “Do you remember that man we saw this morning who tidied the grave in the woods?” she asked, taking Ellen briefly by surprise with this digression. “That’s the local gravedigger. He is looking after that grave all his life, and his father before, and his father before him. According to legend, a nun from the convent was walking through the forest and suddenly stopped when she reached that place. She could not go any further, and was overcome by such a fit that she fell on the ground. When they tried to help her, she refused to move. She said that she could feel the spirit of a body buried there which was not consecrated. And she would not move until the body had been dug up and given a proper burial. When at last they dug the ground, they really did find a body – or better, a skeleton. It was very old, and a strange leather bag was lying beside the body, which contained only a few stones. Many stories have been invented to explain the meaning of these stones, but nobody knows for certain what happened. So they made a new grave for the skeleton and consecrated the burial. Since then, the gravedigger from the next village always looked after the grave and brought new flowers for it. So it became a tradition, which was passed through the family – the gravedigger’s son became the new gravedigger and took on this duty, like his son after him.”

  Marthe paused. She ran the painted nail of her index finger pensively along the midline from Ellen’s belly to her sternum. And left her hand to lie there on Ellen’s chest.

  “Such continuity.” She paused again. Ellen smouldered under the gentle friction of her caresses. But there was a sense of disquiet in Marthe’s words, as if she was struggling to come to terms with a troubled past. “This is the reason why we have children. So that we can pass on our traditions. Perhaps I never had any which I wanted to pass on. But what about Frank? I have this picture of a man with a very strong sense of tradition.”

  “I don’t think so. Not really.” Ellen said. “We only seriously discussed having a family once, just a few weeks before he disappeared. Well, it wasn’t even a discussion, really.”

  “And?”

  Ellen paused for thought, before finding the words to reply.

  “He’s just not ready yet.”

  “Do you think this had something to do with Frank leaving?” asked Marthe.

  “He hasn’t left. He’s gone missing,” Ellen insisted. She was ruffled, yet irritated at the same time by her own oversensitivity. “Oh please Marthe, don’t spoil everything. I was so enjoying this.” She let her hand skate over Marthe’s silky body to emphasise her pleasure – so free and so understanding, not tied by the demands of the male body, or at least of Frank’s.

  “Have you ever slept with a woman before?” Ellen asked.

  Preferring to respond to Ellen’s caresses rather than to her words, Marthe resumed her own exploration, running the fingers of her hand back down over Ellen’s belly, a finger poised teasingly on the edge of her desire.

  “The first time was in the boarding school, when I was fifteen. This is the second time.”

  “Does your husband know?”

  “Why should he? It was a long time ago. Anyway, he has a very open mind. He may seem conservative in many ways. But he was the one who encouraged me to help campaign for the women’s vote in the referendum.”

  This prosaic turn in the conversation threatened to pull the rug from under Ellen’s longing. To counter the looming change of mood, she lifted her right leg and draped it over Marthe’s left thigh, inviting Marthe’s hand to explore more deeply. Fingers deliciously poised. And as they lingered, seeming to hesitate, they transported Ellen back to memories of Frank.

  “If a white sweating bull of a poet told us our cunts are ugly,” she whispered, “why didn’t we admit we have thought so too?”

  “What?”

  The sound of shock in that one brief word and the puzzlement in Marthe’s eyes brought Ellen back from her trancelike dream of Frank. With sheepish awkwardness, she tried to explain. And sensed Marthe’s hand inching away.

  “I’m sorry,” Ellen said and placed a hand on the retreating fingers. “I got carried away by memories of Frank. He’s a bit of a poetry freak and loves quoting those words at me when we’re in bed. They’re by a poet called Denise Levertov. He does it just to tease me. But there’s a certain truth to the wor
ds, isn’t there?”

  “You surprise me,” Marthe said. “For all the rights you’ve enjoyed as a woman for so much longer than me, I would expect a greater sense of confidence.”

  She peered through the strawberry-blonde curls that flowed over Ellen’s eyes, brushed them aside and smiled.

  “Why are you laughing?” Ellen asked.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing,” Marthe explained. “I was just reminded of something.”

  Ellen’s mood had suddenly taken on an edge of insecurity as she looked into Marthe’s eyes.

  “During the time around the vote,” Marthe continued, “women’s groups began to organise some strange events. I remember one led by a very serious woman who was keen that we should understand our bodies. ‘Embrace’ was the word she used I believe.” Marthe’s smile instantly broke into a chuckle. “At one session, she handed a mirror to each of us and instructed us all to examine our vulva and describe it in detail to each other. And how we felt about it.”

  Marthe paused again. The smile still lingered over the memory. Then out of the blue she asked: “Why do you think Frank is not ready?”

  By now, any arousal had long since been deflated.

  “I don’t know. But it has nothing to do with his disappearance. You say it as if I might be to blame for everything – just because I want to have babies.”

  “Oh Ellen. I was not meaning it in this way.” Marthe moved closer again and tightened her embrace. But the comfort Ellen had felt earlier was no longer there. What had seemed like boundless rapture just a moment before had now evaporated. Its place taken by an ill-defined disquiet. And Marthe was about to provide some definition.

  “But I do wonder whether he was upset by something that happened,” she added “Or something that was said.”

  By now, Ellen’s carefree sensuality was completely banished. She sensed that Marthe was attempting to frame a further probing question for her.