Ice

by Anna Kavan

  I went on to the platform. They must have dynamited some of the ruins to lay the track. I could see the single line running out of the town, crossing a strip of open ground before it entered the fir forest. This fragile link with the world did not inspire confidence. I had the feeling it stopped just beyond the first trees. The mountains rose close behind. I shouted, “Is anyone here?” A man appeared from somewhere, made a threatening gesture. “You’re trespassing—get out!” I explained that I had just come off the boat and wanted to find a room. He stared, hostile, suspicious, uncouth, saying nothing. I asked the way to the main street. In a sulky voice I could hardly understand he muttered a few words, staring at me the whole time as if I had dropped from Mars.

  I walked on with my bag, came to an open square where people were going about. The men’s black tunics were variations of those I had already seen, and most of the wearers carried knives or guns. The women also wore black, producing a gloomy effect. All the faces were blank and unsmiling. For the first time I saw signs that some buildings were occupied, a few even had glass in the windows. There were market stalls and small shops: wooden huts and lean-tos had been tacked on to some of the patched-up ruins. A café was open at the end of the square, and there was a cinema, shut, displaying a tattered advertisement of a year-old program. This evidently was the living heart of the town; the rest was just the remains of the dead past.

  I invited the proprietor of the café to drink with me, hoping to establish good relations before I asked for a room. All these people seemed insular and suspicious, antagonistic to strangers. We drank the local brandy made out of plums, potent and fiery, a good drink for a cold climate. He was a big, robust man, better than a peasant. At first I could hardly get a word out of him, but over the second glass he relaxed enough to ask why I had come. “Nobody ever comes here; we have nothing to attract foreigners—only ruins.” I said: “The ruins of your town are famous. They’re the reason for my coming. I’m making a study of them for a learned society.” I had decided beforehand to say this. “You mean people in other countries are interested?” “Certainly. This town is a place of historic importance.” He was flattered, as I expected. “That’s true. We have a glorious war record.” “And also a record of discovery. Did you know that a map has been found recently which indicates that your long boats crossed the Atlantic and were the first to reach the new world?” “You expect to find proof of this in the ruins?” It had not occurred to me, but I assented. “I know of course that I must get permits: everything must be done correctly. Unfortunately I don’t know who’s the right man to approach.” Without hesitation he said: “You must ask the warden. He controls everything.” Here was an unexpected stroke of luck. “How do I get in touch with him?” I had a vision of an iron hand gripping a girl’s thin wrist, crushing the brittle prominent bones. “That’s simple. You make an appointment through one of the secretaries at the High House.” I was delighted by such good fortune. I had been prepared to wait and scheme for a chance of seeing this man; now the opportunity had presented itself at the very beginning.

  The business of the room was also settled without difficulty. I was having a run of good luck. Although the proprietor could not accommodate me himself, his sister who lived nearby had a spare room I could rent. “She’s a widow and can do with the extra money, you understand.” He went off to telephone to her; returned after rather a long absence, saying that it was all arranged. He would provide my two main meals at the café; breakfast would be brought to my room. “You won’t be disturbed there while you’re working, it’s very quiet. The house looks away from the street, faces the water; and nobody ever goes there.” His cooperation was valuable, so to keep the conversation going I asked why people avoided the vicinity of the fjord. “Because they’re afraid of the dragon that lives at the bottom.” I looked at him, thought he was joking; but his face was perfectly serious, his voice had been matter-of-fact. I had never before met anyone who owned a telephone and believed in dragons. It amused me, and also contributed to my sense of the unreal.

  The room proved to be dark and devoid of comfort or convenience. It was not warm enough. However, it had a bed, a table and chair—the basic necessities. I was lucky to get it as no other accommodation was available. The sister looked older and much less sophisticated than her brother, who must have persuaded her to take me in against her will during their long talk on the telephone. She was evidently reluctant to admit a foreigner to the house where she lived alone; I could feel her suspicious dislike. To avoid trouble I paid the exorbitant price she asked without question, a week in advance.

  I asked for the keys, saying I would have a duplicate cut for the outer door: I had to be independent. She brought the two keys, but gave me only the key of my own door, hiding the other one in the palm of her hand. I told her to hand it over. She refused. I insisted. She became stubborn and retreated into the kitchen. I followed and took the key from her forcibly. I did not much care for this sort of behavior, but a principle was involved. She would not oppose me again.

  I went out and walked about, exploring the town: the empty lanes silent between shapeless shapes of decay, the ruined forts jutting into the greengage sea, the huge slab-steps of a giant’s staircase where the great wall had fallen, subsiding in solid sections. Everywhere the ubiquitous ruins, decayed fortifications, evidences of a warlike bloodthirsty past. I searched for buildings of a more recent date. There were none. The dwindling population lived like rats in the ruins of a lost martial supremacy. If one place became uninhabitable its occupants moved to another. The community was gradually dying out, each year its numbers declined. There were enough disintegrating structures to last them out. At first it was hard to distinguish the inhabited buildings; I learned to look for the signs of occupation, the reinforced door, the boarded-up windows.

  I made an appointment to see the warden at the High House, which dominated the town, a fortress-like mass built at its highest point. At the time agreed, I climbed a steep road, the only one that led to it. From the outside the place looked like an armed fort, enormously massive, thick walls, no windows, some narrow slits high up that might have been meant for machine guns. Batteries flanked the entrance, apparently trained on the road. I assumed they were relics of some old campaign, although they did not look especially obsolete. I had spoken to a secretary on the telephone; but now I was met by four armed guards in black tunics, who escorted me down a long corridor, two walking in front, two behind. It was dark. High above, thin pencils of daylight, entering through the slits in the outer wall, dimly revealed glimpses of other corridors, galleries, stairs, bridge-like landings, at different levels, radiating in different directions. The invisible ceiling must have been enormously high, the full height of the building, for all these indistinct ramifications were far overhead. Something moved at the end of one vista: a girl’s figure. I rushed after her as she started to climb some stairs, her silvery hair lifting, glimmering in the darkness, at every step.

  The short steep stair led to one room only, large, sparsely furnished, its polished floor bare like a dance floor. I was immediately struck by the unnatural silence, a curious hushed quality in the air, which reduced her movements to mouse-like scratchings. Not a sound penetrated from outside or from other parts of the building. I was puzzled, until it dawned on me that the room had been soundproofed, so that whatever took place there would be inaudible beyond its four walls. Then it at once became obvious why this particular room had been allotted to her.

  She was in bed, not asleep, waiting. A faint pinkish glow came from a lamp beside her. The wide bed stood on a platform, bed and platform alike covered in sheepskin, facing a great mirror nearly as long as the wall. Alone here, where nobody could hear her, where nobody was meant to hear, she was cut off from all contact, totally vulnerable, at the mercy of the man who came in without knocking, without a word, his cold, very bright blue eyes pouncing on hers in the glass. She crouched motionless, staring silently i
nto the mirror, as if mesmerized. The hypnotic power of his eyes could destroy her will, already weakened by the mother who for years had persistently crushed it into submission. Forced since childhood into a victim’s pattern of thought and behavior, she was defenseless against his aggressive will, which was able to take complete possession of her. I saw it happen.

  He approached the bed with unhurried steps. She did not move until he bent over her, when she twisted away abruptly, as if trying to escape, buried her face in the pillow. His hand reached out, slid over her shoulder, strong fingers feeling along her jawbone, gripping, tilting, forcing her head up. She resisted violently, in sudden terror, twisting and turning wildly, struggling against his strength. He did nothing at all, let her go on fighting. Her feeble struggles amused him, he knew they would not last long. He looked on in silence, in half-smiling amusement, always tilting her face with slight but inescapable pressure, while she exhausted herself.

  Suddenly she gave in, worn out, beaten; she was panting, her face was wet. He tightened his grip slightly, compelled her to look straight at him. To bring the thing to a finish, he stared into her dilated eyes, implacably forced into them his own arrogant, ice-blue gaze. This was the moment of her surrender; opposition collapsed at this point, when she seemed to fall and drown in those cold blue mesmeric depths. Now she had no more will. He could do what he liked with her.

  He leaned further, knelt on the bed, pushed her down with his hands on her shoulders. Will-less, she submitted to him, even to the extent of making small compliant movements fitting her body to his. She was dazed, she hardly knew what was happening, her normal state of consciousness interrupted, lost, the nature of her surrender not understood. He was intent only on his enjoyment.

  Later she did not move, gave no indication of life, lying exposed on the ruined bed as on a slab in a mortuary. Sheets and blankets spilled on to the floor, trailed over the edge of the dais. Her head hung over the edge of the bed in a slightly unnatural position, the neck slightly twisted in a way that suggested violence, the bright hair twisted into a sort of rope by his hands. He sat with his hand upon her, asserting his right to his prey. When his fingers passed over her naked body, lingering on thighs and breasts, she was shaken by a long painful shudder; then she went still again.

  He lifted her head with one hand, looked into her face for a moment, let the head fall back on the pillow; it lay as it fell. He stood up, moved away from the bed; his foot caught in the fold of a blanket, he kicked it back and went on to the door. He had not spoken a single word since he entered the room, and he left it without a sound, apart from the faint click of the closing door. To her, this silence was one of the most terrifying things about him, in some way associated with his power over her.

  I wondered where I was being taken. The place was colossal, the passages wound on and on. We passed the trap doors of oubliettes, cells hacked out of the rock. The walls of these hutches were running with water, with some noisome exudation. Perilous steps led down to still deeper dungeons. We went through several pairs of huge doors, which the guards in front unlocked and the others slammed shut behind us.

  The warden received me in a civilized room. It was spacious and well-proportioned, the wood floor reflecting dim old chandeliers. The windows faced away from the town, over park-like grounds, sloping down to the distant fjord. His perfectly fitting black tunic was of superb material, his high boots shone like mirrors. He was wearing the colored ribbon of some order I did not know. This time my impression was more favorable; the arrogant look I disliked was less in evidence, although it was clear that he was a born ruler, a law unto himself, not to be judged by the usual standards. “What can I do for you?” He greeted me with formal politeness, his blue eyes looked me straight in the face. I told him the story I had prepared. He agreed at once to have the necessary permits made out and signed, I would get them tomorrow. On his own initiative he suggested adding a note to the effect that I was to be given help in my investigations. To me it seemed superfluous. He said: “You don’t know these people. They are naturally lawless and have an innate dislike of strangers, their ways are violent and archaic. I’ve tried hard to introduce more modern attitudes. But it’s useless, they’re embedded in the past like Lot’s wife in her pillar of salt; you can’t detach them from it.” I thanked him; at the same time I was thinking about the guards, who hardly seemed to fit in with his enlightened outlook.

  He remarked that I had chosen a strange time for my visit. I asked why. “The ice will be here very soon. The harbor will freeze, we shall be cut off.” He flashed a blue glance at me. Something had not been said. He had a trick of blinking his very bright eyes, which then seemed to emit blue flames. He went on: “You may be stranded here longer than you bargained for.” Again the sharp look, as if something more were implied. I told him: “I’m only staying for a week or so. I don’t expect to find anything new. It’s more a matter of getting the atmosphere.” In spite of my original aversion, I suddenly had a curious sense of contact with him, almost as though some personal link existed between us. The feeling was so unexpected, unaccountable and confusing that I added, “Please don’t misunderstand me,” without knowing quite what I meant. He seemed gratified, smiled, and at once became more friendly. “So we speak the same language. Good. I’m glad you’ve come. We need closer contact in this country with the sophisticated nations. This is a beginning.” Still somewhat hazy as to what we were talking about, I stood up to go, thanking him again. He shook my hand. “You must come and dine one evening. Let me know in the meantime if I can be of any further service to you.”

  I was jubilant. My luck was holding. I seemed almost to have attained my object already, I was sure of a chance of seeing the girl. If the dinner invitation failed to materialize, I could always fall back on his final offer.

  FOUR

  The signed permits arrived the next day. The warden had initialed an additional sentence saying that I was to receive every assistance. This impressed the café proprietor, and I left it to him to circulate the message.

  I began making notes on the town: my performance had to be convincing and thorough. I had sometimes thought vaguely of writing about the fascinating singing lemurs; now I had a perfect opportunity to describe them before the memory faded. Each day I wrote a little about my surroundings and a lot more on the other subject. There was nothing else to do, I would have been bored without this occupation, which became an absorbing interest and kept me busy for hours. The time passed surprisingly fast. In some ways I was better off than I had been at home. It was exceedingly cold, but I was warm in my room, having organized a daily supply of logs for the stove. No fuel problem existed here, close to these great forests. To think of the ice coming nearer all the time was very disturbing. But for the present the harbor remained open, occasional ships came and went. From these I sometimes managed to obtain a few delicacies to supplement my meals at the café, which were ample, but lacking in variety. I had arranged for my food to be served in a sort of alcove off the main room, where I was out of the noise and smoke and had a certain amount of privacy.

  The work I was supposed to be doing among the ruins enabled me to keep the High House unobtrusively under observation. I never once caught sight of the girl, although on several occasions I saw the warden emerge, always accompanied by his bodyguard. He usually jumped straight into his big car and was driven off at tremendous speed. I gathered that threats from political opponents accounted for these precautions.

  After two or three days I became impatient. I was getting nowhere and time was short. As she never seemed to leave the High House, I should have to get in. But no invitation arrived. I was trying to decide on the best excuse for approaching the warden again when he sent one of his guards to fetch me to lunch. The man intercepted me on my way to the café at midday. I disliked the absence of notice, and the whole imperious style of the summons and its delivery. It was more a command than an invitation, and, feeling oblige
d to protest, I said it was hardly possible to cancel the meal already prepared and waiting for me at that very moment. Instead of answering me, the guard shouted. Two more black tunics appeared from nowhere: the wearer of one was sent to explain things to the café proprietor, while the other stationed himself beside me. I now had no alternative but to go with this double escort. Of course I was glad to do so, it was what I wanted. But I would have preferred less high-handed treatment.

  The warden led me straight into a large dining hall with a long table intended for twenty people. He took his chair at the head, an imposing figure. I was seated beside him. A third place was laid opposite. Seeing me glance at it, he said: “A young friend from your country is staying with me; I thought you might like to meet her.” He gave me one of his piercing looks as I replied calmly that I would be delighted. Inwardly I was exulting; it seemed almost too good to be true, the climax of my good fortune, to be spared the tricky business of asking to see her.

  Dry Martinis were brought in a frosted jug. Immediately afterward someone came in, whispered something, gave him a note. His face changed as he read the few words, he ripped the paper across and across, reducing it to minute fragments. “It appears the young person is indisposed.” I hid my disappointment by murmuring something polite. He was frowning furiously, obviously could not bear to be thwarted over the least thing; his anger pervaded the atmosphere. Saying no more to me, he signed for the extra setting to be removed, glasses and cutlery were whipped out of sight. The food was served, but he hardly touched what was on his plate, sat pounding the shreds of paper into a pulp with his clenched fist. I became more and more annoyed the longer he ignored me, particularly resenting this additional rudeness after the peremptory way he had sent for me. I wanted to get up and walk out, but knew it would be fatal to break off relations at this stage. To distract myself, I thought of the girl, decided I was probably responsible for her absence; she must have guessed who I was, if she had not known all along. I tried to imagine her alone in a silent room overhead. But she seemed miles away, a dream figure, inaccessible and unreal.