Memory and Desire

by Lisa Appignanesi

  ‘Leave her be.’ The second order bore no trace of the jealous lover but had the distinct authority of the doctor. Sylvie, Jacob recognized, was in a bad way.

  At the sound of his voice, Sylvie now moved her head in his direction. Her lips curled into a sudden ravishing smile and then she lapsed back into her previous position.

  Jacob’s fists clenched. He gestured Michel into another room. On the walls, amidst a variety of canvases, a series of photographs were pinned. They were recent. One of them showed Michel leaning over Sylvie, his hands proprietorally covering her bare breasts. Jacob steeled himself.

  ‘What’s been happening?’ he asked as soon as they were out of Sylvie’s hearing.

  Michel shrugged. His brow was furrowed in worry. ‘I don’t know. Everything was fine until about a week ago. She was glorious,’ his eyes glowed with the memory. ‘A little wild, but that’s the Sylvie we love. We both painted her, Max and I. Nastasie was here, too, and she and Sylvie drew. We swam, drank, went for walks together, did a little automatic writing. Hers was extraordinary, full of the most erotic images, tangled vines and unicorns.’ He flushed a little.

  ‘Did you sleep with her,’ Jacob asked in a low voice. ‘Are you sleeping with her,’ he thought he could easily punch his friend in the face. He fought to separate the clinician from the lover.

  ‘I… She…’ Michel hesitated, turning away from the force of Jacob’s eyes. He threw his hands up in the air. ‘She teased me outrageously. She was always brushing against me, playing with my hair, looking at me with those seductive eyes. I know you and her… But I thought when she turned up here alone and, well, she aroused me. He looked at his friend helplessly. ‘Anyhow, it was a fiasco. I’d rather not go into it.’

  ‘I need to know,’ Jacob said in a steely voice.

  Michel put a bottle of wine on the table, uncorked it, poured out two glasses and downed his in one. ‘Nothing happened, Jacob. When, it came to it nothing happened, not for my lack of trying. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’ He paused for a moment then went on. ‘Maybe it was because of the picture. That’s when things started to go wrong.’

  ‘What picture?’ Jacob urged him on.

  ‘I painted her. Painted her as a bird. I’ll show you. I think it’s good.’

  ‘Later. Tell me what went wrong.’

  ‘The bird. I think it got to her.’

  ‘And…’

  ‘Well, somehow she decided she was that bird. She found a dead mouse, a large one, in the shed over there,’ he gestured nervously, ‘and she brought it to me. “See,” she said. She was gleeful. “I’ve caught a mouse for you. Look at it’s neck. It’s got my mark.”’ Michel shivered. ‘Then she brought another and another. She just sat and looked at them all lined-up in a row. I told her to stop. It was enough of that game. “Don’t you like birds?” she asked me. “My brother liked birds, but he’s dead, like these. I killed him. I flew away.”

  ‘I didn’t know what to say. I took the mice and threw them all out. She hasn’t spoken to me since. Hasn’t spoken at all. She just sits there or prowls around.’ He shivered again.

  ‘Why didn’t you get in touch with me straight away?

  ‘I wanted to. I said to her, right when she started to play this bird, I said to her, “Why don’t we invite Jacob down?” And do you know what she did? She slapped me hard, right across the face and then drew her nails down my cheek. Look.’

  Jacob saw the trace of red welts on Michel’s face. ‘And so you rang Caroline?’

  Michel nodded. ‘I was at my wits’ end. I rummaged through her bag, found a notebook with a few addresses. I rang the one person I knew.’ He paused. ‘Jacob, I’m very glad you’re here. Can you do anything?’

  Jacob shrugged. ‘We’ll see. It would probably be better if you stayed out of the way.’

  Michel breathed a visible sigh of relief. ‘There’s nothing I’d like better. I’ll go into Gordes for the day.’ He got up with alacrity.

  ‘There’s just one more thing,’ Jacob detained him. ‘How attached are you to your picture?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It might be necessary to get rid of it.’

  Michel looked confused. ‘But it’s one of my best. I…’ he stopped as he took in the grim cast of Jacob’s features. ‘I leave it to you,’ he said finally and turned to leave. ‘But you should have a look at hers, if you’re interested. You might want to destroy those too.’ It was a parting shot which Jacob didn’t answer. He went back to Sylvie.

  She was reclining where they had left her, immobile in her chair. Jacob sat down on the sofa behind her and waited. A long time passed before she stirred. Then she got up and draped a shirt loosely over her. She didn’t look at Jacob but he knew she was aware of him. She walked over to Michel’s easel and stared at it intently. Then she sat down at the desk, took a pencil and did a quick sketch. She brought it towards Jacob and let it fall near his feet, before turning abruptly away. He picked up the drawing, saw a bird in a cage, its human face blackened, its beak tied with a thick rope.

  Sylvie was watching him. He played into her logic. He walked toward the wall where Michel’s canvasses were racked, turned them round one by one. Yes, this was the one. Michel was right. It was very good. His Sylvie had a frenzied reality, a vast magical bird-like creature whose feathers were like heavy fur. Not a bird who could fly, Jacob reflected. He rummaged in the desk and found a pair of scissors. It was one chance in a thousand, but it might stir her to an action. He put the scissors in a prominent position and returned to his place on the sofa. He waited. In the heavy warmth of mid-day, the waiting took on trance-like proportions. A fly buzzed at the window. Its sound invaded the room’s hush. Suddenly Sylvie leapt up. With a swift sure animal gesture, she trapped the fly in her fist.

  She’s going to swallow it, Jacob thought. And indeed, Sylvie raised her hand to her mouth. Then a look of confusion spread over her features. She looked at her hand intently and strode determinedly over to the canvas which leaned against the wall. With an aggressive thrust, she squashed the fly against the face of Michel’s bird-girl.

  A feeling of relief pervaded Jacob. It wasn’t as bad as he had feared. Yes, Sylvie’s guilt over her brother’s, her parent’s death had taken on a palpable embodiment. She was the bird who had flown away, escaped. But she could still separate a part of herself off from that. She wasn’t altogether Michel’s image of her.

  A malevolent smile had now lodged itself on Sylvie’s face. With a rapid gesture, she picked the scissors up from the table, headed back towards the canvas, jabbed once lightly and then, as if she had changed her mind, she marched towards Jacob. She pointed the scissors at him threateningly. Jacob met her eyes and held them. Otherwise he didn’t stir. For a breathless moment they looked at each other, the man contained, his strong face a study in neutrality; the girl, wildly beautiful, menace in every inch of her stance.

  ‘Go away. Run,’ Sylvie hissed, her voice erupting with the force of a loudspeaker. She wielded the scissors blindly. Jacob kept very still. Her use of words was a cue. Instinctively he realised that if he didn’t move, she wouldn’t harm him. Sylvie thrashed the air and then with a clatter let the scissors drop on the bare tiles.

  ‘Go away,’ she repeated. ‘Go away.’ She flew to the other end of the room and hid her face in her hands.

  Jacob ached to go over to her and hold her in his arms. Her suffering was grittily tangible. Instead he rose and said in his neutral doctor’s voice. ‘Sylvie. I am doing as you bid. But I am not going far. If you want me I shall be outside in the courtyard.’

  ‘Go away,’ she was crying now. ‘You killed him. It was you, you, with your flying. You deserve to be dead.’ All this in a pained, muffled voice.

  Jacob moved slowly toward the door. For a moment he was baffled by her utterance, but then he remembered. Her father, of course. Her father had been flying the plane.

  A small smile dented his sombreness. The unconscious had its cunning. Sylvie had
now shifted some of her guilt onto her father. It was an easier place for it to rest for the moment, than on her own burdened shoulders.

  Jacob paced round the courtyard. He was worried about leaving Sylvie on her own. She might in this state do something dangerous to herself. But if he countered her wishes, he knew she would become more violent or simply resist him by retreating into greater silence, deeper isolation. In his pacing, he looked surreptitiously into the room. She was kneeling on the floor, her back to him. He couldn’t see what she was doing. He sat down on one of the deck chairs a short distance from the windows and tried to think what it was that had made Sylvie run away, what it was in her that had occasioned this breakdown.

  Caroline had rejected her: he had overheard the scene. That was obviously part of it. It must have brought back to her older, deeply buried rejections. Her mother. Sylvie never spoke of her. There must have been problems there - a flighty woman, he had been told, who probably paid little attention to her child, then sent her far away to school. Nothing terribly unusual in that, except that she had died before Sylvie had a chance to come to terms with her or with her mother in herself. He wondered for a moment what role Sylvie took on in her relationship with Caroline. Odds on, it was the man’s. Jacob rose again and paced. All that was too painful to think about. As was the thought of Michel in bed with Sylvie. Obviously he had tried to force her. Jacob gripped the arms of his chair. He felt again the impossibility of his position. He was too involved with Sylvie to think clearly, perhaps too involved to help.

  The sun beat down on the paved courtyard. Heat rose from the stones in response. Jacob realised his shirt was soaked through. He took it off and wiped his brow with it. A small grey lizard whisked along the ochre wall and trapped a fly with its flickering tongue, then disappeared into a trellis. The cicadas hummed in the heavy air. Jacob pulled his chair into a single patch of shade and again glanced into the room. He couldn’t see Sylvie. Anxiety pulsed through him. He stepped over the threshold and looked around. She had gone. Strewn all over the floor were pieces of paper. Drawings, cut up in a thousand pieces. Jacob picked some up. They were her own, he recognized the style. Then, in the distance he heard a resounding splash. Sylvie, where was she? He ran in the direction of the sound, his fear now palpable.

  A small path led along the edge of ancient vines thick with clumps of purple grape. Jacob raced blindly down it and found himself at a dead end. Lush rampant greenery spread before him, blocking his way. He looked round him with mounting despair. He was certain the sound had come from the direction he had followed. Now he would be too late. He was about to turn and rush back when he identified what he was certain was a watery trickle very close by. He gazed at the wall of greenery. It was impenetrable. Then to one side he noticed the breeze lifted some trailing branches. He pushed them aside. Sure enough, there was an opening here, a kind of shoulder high tunnel. He made his way quickly through it and then stopped abruptly. An old bassin had been converted into a swimming pool. In the middle of the pool, Sylvie floated. She was naked, motionless, her eyes closed. His heart pounded. He had come too late. Only Sylvie’s hair fanning out luxuriantly on the water seemed to have life.

  ‘Sylvie,’ the cry bounded into his throat. He strangled it just in time. He had seen her eyelids flutter. It was his fear that had imposed death on her. Jacob crouched in the shade of the leafy tunnel and watched. A sigh inadvertently escaped him. She was so beautiful, floating there on the glistening water, only the shadows of the vegetation wrapping her golden skin in intricate and changing garb. A nymph clothed in innocence. Despite himself, his body stirred. How easy it would be to dive in beside her, take those full breasts in his hands, kiss her.

  Sylvie’s sudden movement shattered Jacob’s daydream. With wild, vigorous strokes, she now pounded the water and swam back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like a caged animal. Then, exhausted, she lifted herself out of the pool. Jacob shrouded himself in bushes. Her raucous breath broke the afternoon’s stillness as she ran, hair and body streaming, blindly past him towards the house. Slowly, Jacob followed.

  Later, Sylvie lay on the rumpled bed in the dusky room. Strips of light played through the shuttered windows and fell on her like prison bars. She tossed and turned and struggled with the sheets. ‘It’s all right,’ Babushka said. ‘He’ll be home tonight. He promised. Your father never breaks his word.’

  ‘But why did he go away? Just when I was ill? He missed my fourth birthday. Mama must have made him go.’ A small, strangled voice came from Sylvie. She felt hot, dizzy, as if she were waking from a long sleep filled with terrible dreams.

  Babushka’s calm tones comforted her. Her cool hand was on her brow. ‘He had to go away. With your mother. And when they come back, they’ll have a lovely new baby brother for you to play with.’

  ‘I didn’t want him to go away. I don’t want a baby brother. I don’t want mother. She’s smelly,’ Sylvie wailed plaintively.

  ‘There, there. You’re getting much better now. Soon, you can get up and have some bread and jam and put on your pretty white dress. Then Papush will be back.’

  ‘Papush, Papush, are you there?’ Sylvie’s eyes fluttered open. In the half-light she studied the form sitting on the bath chair by her bed. Dark, curly hair, furrowed brow, strangely worried eyes, broad shoulders, long legs stretching, stretching almost up to her bed. This wasn’t Papush. She shivered. Her body felt coldly clammy. She looked down at her legs. They were too big. Where was she? Then with a shudder she remembered.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked in a cold voice. She looked Jacob directly in the eyes. ‘What have you done with her. Is she here with you?’

  Jacob met the hostility of her gaze. He didn’t know which Sylvie was addressing him so directly. The little girl he had begun to piece together from her dream mutterings or the troubled woman who lay there so poignantly naked.

  ‘Who?’ he asked quietly.

  Sylvie sat bolt upright. ‘Who?’ she repeated in a high piercing voice. ‘Who, he asks,’ she addressed an invisible audience. ‘Why Madame la Princesse de Polignesco. Your mistress, that’s who,’ she shrieked.

  With the speed of a tigress, she leapt off the bed and struck him across the face. Jacob caught her wrist and held it. Sylvie glowered at him. Then with a savage look, she sat astride him, wrapping long legs round his, pressing her taut breasts against him. ‘Does she do this to you?’ ‘Or this?’ She ran her nails under his shirt, nibbled his ears. Jacob’s mouth crushed down on her with all the force of weeks of pent-up passion and worry. He held her tightly. Held both the frightened little girl and the ardent woman who aroused him unbearably.

  ‘No one does this to me Sylvie. Only you,’ he whispered to her. ‘There is no one else. No one.’ Then, with a force which he thought would tear him in two, he lifted her away from him. He held her at arms length and looked deeply into the blue ocean of her eyes.

  ‘I love you Sylvie,’ he said, his voice aching. ‘I want to be with you. Always.’ He waited, watching her face, the confusion of mistrust, of pain, the glimmerings of a smile tugging at her wide lips. Then the large, silent tears. He shielded her in his arms and let her cry for the length of the night.

  By the end of that week, Sylvie Kowalska, with little fuss and less bother, had brought her two suitcases of possessions to Jacob Jardine’s apartment. They began their life together.

  Chapter

  Seven

  __________

  ∞

  Even for those Europeans not addicted to pessimism 1937 could hardly have been called a promising year. True the electoral victory of the Popular Front in France in May of the previous year had been the cause of celebration. Conditions for workers were looking up: a forty-hour week had been instituted and for the first time paid holidays were ensured. But the Popular Front had come to power on the back of Hitler’s occupation of the Rhineland. And for those, like Princesse Mathilde, who had observed the increasingly violent regimentation of the Ger
man dictatorship at first hand, who had heard Hitler’s bloated, hate-filled rhetoric conjuring up a purified Germany at the helm of Europe, it seemed that more than tough words from Léon Blum, the Popular Front’s leader, would be needed to stop Germany’s advance and the spread of Fascism. Why, even the League of Nations with its 52 member states had not been able to summon up the muscle to stop Mussolini’s invasion of Ethiopia.

  There was more. What had started as a small scale mutiny in Spanish Morocco against the young Spanish Republic had gained the momentum of a full-scale civil war. After Franco’s forces, aided and abetted by Germany and Italy, had held Madrid under siege for several months and still the French and British governments did nothing, the Princesse began to despair. Everywhere, the very fabric of the civilisation she had known seemed to be at the mercy of irrational and destructive forces. And no government did anything about it.

  Princesse Mathilde knew herself well enough to recognize that her despair was not only political. It had a personal component. Her friends, her family, seemed increasingly alien to her. They cocooned themselves from realities. They didn’t share her fears. The one person she felt she could talk to honestly, Jacob Jardine, was hopelessly estranged from her. She was carrying the burden of a secret which she now feared might follow her to the grave. The dishonest weight of it tormented her more with each passing day.

  Whereas on the political front the Princesse felt she was impotent to do more than bend the ear of any politician or journalist who would listen to her views, on the personal front she could take action. It was simply a question of building herself up to the moment.

  Late one afternoon in early February, after a downpour had washed the Paris streets clean and the houses glowed anew in the setting sun, the Princesse made her decision. She had just seen Charlie Chaplin’s Modern Times yet again and his invented nonsense language kept pace with her footsteps as she walked towards the Quai Voltaire: