by Tanith Lee
She did not write to me, and I did not suppose she would write. I could think of nothing but her. Snatches of the tidal wave of music would return and sweep me under, and in the same way the memory of her eyes and her shoulders, her hair, the sinuousness of her body as she moved across the salon. If I saw a white dog on the street, my heart turned over. I did not dream of her, but waked with the feeling she had been in the bed beside me (that sagging bed with its torn and sallow sheets), her hair spread everywhere and her fingers and lips printed all over me, but I, the fool, not opening my eyes until she was gone. I thought of her, and across the single leaves of parchment, her description was set down again and again, always a little differently.
In a few days I wrote her a letter, and disdaining the bureau of mail, gave it to a runner to deliver. What did the letter say? Not what the prose, the poetry had said, certainly. I had bludgeoned and possessed her body a hundred times, eaten her alive, licked up the juices of her flesh, gnawed her bones, and hanged myself in her hair. But, though she would guess, I could not commit the truth to paper.
“Esteemed madame,” said my letter, “Allow me, if you will be so good, a minute of your time in which to tender my apologies. I fear I was discourteous to you. I would be glad to make recompense, and also to discuss with you that ring you saw. I am woefully ignorant on the subject of stones, and should value your advice. I remain your servant, madame, with every respectful wish for your continued health and pleasure in life. A. St Jean.”
This, after I had bound her and time after time crucified her with my lust. Well.
She returned no answer.
In a few days more, I walked over to Philippe’s house. He would tell me when again the salon was to be opened.
He was lying on a sofa in the inner courtyard, under the plane tree, eating cherries from a china bowl. He looked wan, a wreck. What had he been doing that he had not attempted to force on me?
“Oh, sit, sit,” he said, “you wear me out, standing there.”
He began to talk about books, knowing quite well, from his sidelong grimaces, what I really wanted to discuss. I watched him eat the cherries and call out scruffy Hans to go and fetch some more for him from the market. Grumbling, Hans set off.
“And what have you been writing, eh, my dearest Andre?”
“Very little.”
“Not a single poem? I see you have taken to wearing that ring again.”
“And I see you have been sliced again by that senile fool of a barber,” I retorted, for his neck linen, on the left side, was stained right through by a blotch of blood.
“How wise you are,” he said, “never to let any of them shave you, here. Just strop the razor and get out. And you are always so closely shaved, it’s quite a miracle.”
“Be quiet. Tell me when she holds the salon again.”
“Oh, who?”
“Your banker’s bitch.”
“Not for some time, I should think,” he said. He lowered his eyes, and allowed himself, faintly, to blush.
In the hot afternoon, a surge of heat went through me like the most scalding cold.
“Oh then,” I said, “she truly is a fool.”
“Ah, Andre,” said he, taking my hand, “such amazements – she – oh, she. Do you want me to tell you everything?”
I flung off his hand and he laughed.
“Actually,” he said, “for a while, she and I. Even when I took you there. I wanted to see what you thought. You know how I revere your opinion. But she has been in Paradys society less than a month. I met her one day in the Gardens. She was in her carriage, do you see, and the little dog was wanting to get out. So I bowed low and I said, Madame, allow me to take care of your little dog.”
My heart lurched and roared. I said, “And what of him? The foreigner. He’s complacent, I take it.”
“Most complacent. He likes her to have lovers. Decorously, naturally. Like a new dress, or a new string of pearls.”
“When do you expect to be replaced?”
He leaned forward. “Kiss me,” he said. “Perhaps you may still detect a trace of her. Try for it.”
I struck him in the face; it was not enough and I had to hit him again. He sprawled backwards off the sofa, and staggering up, came for me. We struggled in the lacy shade of the plane, and now and then rolled together over its roots. We had fought before, always viciously; continuous bouts of fighting in childhood and adolescence had eventually ended in haphazard orgasm, and so the similarly struggling, thrusting, desperate union of sex. But this time I seemed to want to kill him, and it was only my realisation of it that at last reined me back. I left him lying under the tree, went to the china bowl and scooped out the last of the cherries. I kneeled over him and crushed them into his fair bruised face, his snow-blond hair, and into the muslin of his cravat to stain it and his shirt more thoroughly than the blood. That done, I abandoned him, spitting and weeping with his fury and hurts.
My first impulse, next, was to leave the house. Then I thought better of that. Let the ancestral mound overlook a few more of the antics of this lizard.
I used the third of the bathrooms – cold water in the heat was not amiss – and dressed myself, as before, in one of the more breathtaking of his suits of clothes. His brushes through my red hair then, and his mirrors to show me he had not left a mark on me, but for a contusion along my knuckles. The scarab ring, however, had done him some damage, blacked his eyes and split his lip for him. He was vain. Would he go to her like that, with his prettiness spoiled? Or maybe he would seek her mothering solace in his pain.
Lastly I visited his library and took off his shelves a novel of my own, given him a year ago, the latest finished work I had written. He had never read it, I thought. No, here was a page turned down one quarter of the way in, that had a look of midnight yawning. I’d made him no dedication, I had only inscribed it Andre St Jean. (“If I die, it may be worth something, for if I die they will know I was a genius. They will be safe then to do it.”)
With that under my arm, and his fine garments all over me, I left the house. I had heard nothing further of Philippe, but I met Hans by the basement step. “Be careful,” I said, “how you take him those cherries.”
What would she be doing? The single Bell of Prayer was sounding from Our Lady of the Wounded Rose, the shadows lengthening under walls, trees and gate-pillars. At this hour, lying on a sofa as he had done, probably, but indoors, out of the sun. Reading, the little white hound on her lap. Too hot still to play the piano. And no one of any sophistication dined for three hours yet, if at all, since it had become the rage for suppers at midnight, or one or two in the morning.
I reached the von Aaron house, announced my arrival, was let in, and waited. I had thought of assuming another name, but did she even remember the real one?
The domestic came back and said, “Excuse me, monsieur, but Madame is resting, and not to be disturbed.”
“Please tell Madame, without disturbing her more than is essential, that I shall remain here, in her hallway, until I have seen Madame.”
Off he went again, and back he came again, and conducted me into a downstairs side-parlour. “You may remain if you desire,” he said, “but Madame regrets she may have to keep you waiting a long while.”
“Tell Madame I will wait as long as is necessary. I imagine,” I added, “that eventually your employers will think of moving house, and will then discover me, a skeleton, still propped in one of the chairs. Pray ask Madame which, as I should hate to ruin a favourite by expiring in it.”
When he was gone, I poured myself a brandy from the decanter, then another, for I was misgiving and in a cold sweat. God knew, he might come down or in, and then I should have to talk to him, the cuckold whose horns apparently I wanted so badly to refurbish.
An hour passed. A small porcelain clock told me the news, chiming sweetly. Did she then remember me, if only as unwelcome? If so, this was a politic ploy, for if she left me to kick my heels a sufficient time, I must get
bored, or only hungry, and skulk away. I looked about for something I could disfigure with a secret message, something she must discover with time. If I were able, any more, to write anything, I would have written of her, flayed her with her own self and my delirious fascination with it, and published. Sent her a copy. Let her read at length and in detail, what she had been to me, I the magician who drew every night her soul out of her body, remade it into flesh, and over and over possessed it.
I expected she would never appear, but after five more minutes, I turned, and found her in the doorway. It was an afternoon gown she wore, a robe for reclining, dark, as previously. Her face was expressionless and flat. Was this she? Was she only this, nothing else or more? Her eyes, after a second’s black burning, she lowered.
“Thank you,” I said, “for coming down.”
“I am afraid you have had to wait some while.”
“I’m afraid I have.”
“It is not the hour for visiting.”
Her eyes lifted, looked a mile beyond me. She searched the horizon for something, or someone. But she had come alive for me, by speaking, or only by existing. Yes, she was more, much more.
“You received my letter,” I said.
“Oh yes, indeed I did receive it.”
“But did not think to reply.” Nor did she think to now. I said, “Naturally, I’m no one you would have to reply to. But it would have soothed my remorse.”
“You really should not suffer remorse, monsieur, on such slight occasion.”
“I offended you. That was enough. So. Here I am again to offend you again, merely by my presence.”
“My husband,” she said, “is a banker not a jeweller. For myself, I know nothing about jewels, except in a very ordinary way.”
“You told me, Madame, the ruby was rare and old.”
“Which was all I could possibly know of it.”
“I added that, given five minutes alone with you, I would tell you how I had come by the stone. Here we are.”
“No,” she said, very quickly. “I’m not at all interested, Monsieur St Jean. Please excuse my frankness.”
I felt myself go very white.
Walking straight across the room to her, before she could drift away or disappear through the partly open door, I held out my book. It was precious to me, as were all the things I had written; even where I despised their inadequacy there was not one I would disown. Each tore its way from my entrails. Each had shortened my life, killed me with its own especial little death, regardless of any other thing I had ever done with or to myself.
“Please take this, Madame. I’m aware you can’t want it, a book by an unknown writer, doubly of no consequence to you. But nevertheless.”
“Why should you wish me to have this book?” Her eyes floated over its surface like black water.
“One day you might read it, Madame. In, say, a fit of aberration. And if you had forgotten me sufficiently, you might even enjoy a passage, a sentence, a phrase, here or there.”
“Oh my dear Monsieur St Jean. This constant spectacle with which you present us all, of your bleeding body, mutilated by a thousand wounds, pegged out for the vultures and our chariot-wheels always to be at you.”
I turned and threw the book, the precious book, onto the table by the decanter.
“I can say nothing to that,” I said.
“Indeed,” she said. “Do you think I want something that was hurled at me?”
“Give it then,” I said, “to your beloved Philippe. I must confess,” I said, “that I have rather marred his looks for you, if only temporarily. I hope that will not distress you too greatly.”
She stared at me, with all her eyes, then walked by me, crossing the room to one of its windows.
“Are you now resorting to blackmail, Monsieur St Jean?” she asked the street outside.
I was angry with a child’s anger, and could only choke it down, which left nothing to be said, for sure.
I thought, in a blinding, sickening horror, You will not escape me. You will not get away. The pin of the pen, if not the lance of lust, will go through you because of me. Redress – I must have something!
She said, “My husband, of course –”
“Of course knows everything you do, and condones it. Ask Philippe, he may tell you some of the things I have done. I’d never want to cast stones, Madame.”That uttered, somehow, I walked out, into a place of despair, into an endless down-pouring of hell, not knowing where I went.
All the cafés and the bars of my world would see me that night, and none would be any good to me.
As I stepped paralysed down the hill, someone came flying after me. I started round, and there was the man from the door, bowing, and trying to give me something – a book. Mine.
“Forgotten in my hurry to leave,” I yelled at him, “did she say so? Wait.”And drawing out my matches, I struck one, and wrenching the book from him, set fire to it. I burnt it, my book, so precious to me, there before the startled domestic, and a multitude of faces appearing like pale turnips in several windows of the thoroughfare, attracted by my scream of anguish.
It did not burn all through, but most of it was gone, when I gathered up the ashes and the brittled leather, and thrust them on the servant, who was still waiting there patiently, as required.
“Take her that,” I said. “Take her that.”
He did not argue with me. He clumped stolidly off up Clock-Tower Hill, with ashes in his arms for Antonina von Aaron.
“Antonina, I love you – I cannot say: as I have never loved another thing, for there are other things I have loved so well – the night, the sun, music, beauty itself, life itself. Yet all these things I have loved are now valueless to me. You have put out the light. Priestess of darkness, you.
“Antonina, even your name, even the misery you have afforded me, are worth more than anything I ever owned. I would give it all away in exchange for you, even those scraps of a blazing talent, all in fragments, that you would never recognise, but which are all I have and am, and for which, solely, if ever remembered, remembered I should be.
“What can I do? I would murder you, I would cherish you. I would torture you and take you by force, I would lie across your door and die for you. But you want nothing of mine, or of me. Who is he, you say, if you think to say anything: ah, a little second of annoyance. And to me you are everything that exists. The soul of my soul. Black light, by which I see.
“Oh, let me go down and find the waters of forgetful night, and drinking them underground, unremember you. All memory take, your face, your voice, your eyes, all of you, till nothing remain – but still I would be in agony, all of you forgotten, yet all of you unforgettable and with me still, my sin of omission – Lethe leaves me to grieve, though I no longer know why.”
This I wrote to her, and much, much besides. But did not trouble her with it.
A month, it seemed to be a month, went by. Days and darknesses. Nightingales sang in the parks, and one night fireworks burst over the city, it was the democratic decade of the Senate, Year Ten of Freedom, a celebration. All Paradys stood in its trees, on its roofs and balconies to watch. I watched. If my heart would burst like one of those gunpowder lights, into stars, falling. Ah, it was not to be.
During the days, I lay on the bed, I slept when I could. At night I roamed the avenues, the squares, the boulevards. I resisted the temptation to climb Clock-Tower Hill, or to scutter lizard-like to Philippe’s domicile and hammer on its doors and shutters.
I avoided the women in the places where I drank. Some came mewing to me. I gave them money to go away.
Alone, in my room near dawn, I once or twice tried to summon up a demon, or something dead, to instruct me. Numbed by wine and brandy, burning with spirits, I requested spirits of another kind to come to me. The candlestick, the gryphon ink-well moved, and papers flew about like birds. Heat filled the room, then clinging cold, but all these happenings ultimately failed and went away, leaving nothing behind them but a common mess
. The climax of manifestation had not been achieved.
Why should it be so difficult to die, so impossible to live?
My landlady trudged to my door, and asked me if she should summon a doctor.
“Why, madame, are you ill?”
She explained that she was not, but that I would seem to be, I had been screaming in the night again with bad dreams.
“There is a window,” I said, “it drips blood, it runs with tears.”
I heard them say on the narrow stairs that I was in the process of going mad and should be evicted.
Russe, who had found me at the Imago, attended on me from a discreet distance as I spewed into a gutter. When I was done with that, or it with me, he lifted me off my knees, and took me to his own lodging. Here I was placed in a clean bed, between sheets that had the fragrance of new bread and lavender. His mistress kept house for him very nicely. I slept far into the new day in this unaccustomed comfort. Then the two of them came to perch by me, while she fed me milk and fruit.
When he sent her away again, he said to me, “Why do this to yourself?”I lay in the marvel of the bed, watching the shadows of birds fan over the ceiling. There was a bird in a cage, too, very thrilled with itself and tweeting, not aware of something missed.
“We are each given a life,” I said, “do with it as we may or must.”
“There are other roads to the sewers and death,” he said, “more profitable and more gallant than this.”
“Take them, my dear Russe. You are so solemn. Take them.”
“Over some woman,” he said. “You bloody idiot. You’re behaving like some stupid girl yourself.”
I laughed, drearily, not without appreciation of his wit.
“This is not being kind, my friend,” I said. “Nurture me if you must, or put me out on to the street. But let me do what I am inclined to.”
His girl began to sing, charmingly, downstairs in the house. I had never wanted that, the nesting proximity of a shared life. Never. What then had I intended with her, my lady of shadows? Not to leave her with her husband, surely, enjoying her at random? No matter. No question could arise of it.
