Dreams of Innocence

by Lisa Appignanesi

  They sat in the warm spring sun on the cafe terrace, sipped strong bitter coffee, and looked out at the lake, Anna proudly introducing Katarina to any of the acquaintances who stopped.

  ‘So,’ Anna prodded her at last.

  ‘So his name is Adam Mackenzie and he’s a Scot and I met him in the way silly young girls are supposed to meet their saviours in Viennese novels. Utterly ridiculous. There was a Zeppelin raid and I was terrified, didn’t know which way to turn and suddenly this rugged man appeared from nowhere, took my arm and led me to safety. Yes, that’s just how it was.’ She laughed at Anna’s astonished face. ‘Then, after poor old Hansl died, the heroic Mr. Mackenzie told me he’d been in love with me for years and duly proposed to me.’ Katarina’s lips curled mischievously.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I told him to wait a little longer for my answer. At least until after this trip, so that I had time to think.’

  ‘You’re very hard on your men, Katarina.’

  ‘Am I? Well, he’s very rich, three years younger than me, and he’s in love with me. So I can hardly be certain there’s a sound basis there for marriage. Think, Anna,’ her dark eyes twinkled ironically, ‘what would the Professor say.’

  ‘He’d say you were a heartless wretch.’

  ‘That, Anna, was hardly the language he used.’

  Anna gazed at her speculatively. ‘I don’t know what he’d say,’ she murmured after a moment. ‘But I’d say you were afraid. Afraid to risk disappointment.’

  Katarina looked at her askance. Slowly she lit a cigarette, puffed, gazed into the distance. ‘That Anna is perhaps the most astute thing you’ve ever said to me.’ She paused, scrutinized Anna’s face. ‘And I suppose that you know this because you, yourself, are always singularly unafraid.’

  ‘So that’s what you think of Johannes,’ Anna said softly.

  ‘A dangerous man? Yes, perhaps.’ She took Anna’s hand, stroked it slowly., ‘And he makes you forget your child.’

  A shadow passed over Anna’s face.

  ‘But then you too have always been a passionate creature,’ there was a wistfulness in her eyes as she said it. Then she shook herself, smiled in self-deprecation. ‘But I’ve barely known the man for five minutes, Anna, and here you are wanting great proclamations from me,’ she chided her. ‘All I know about Johannes Bahr so far is that he’s very attractive, very talented, and that if we don’t get back soon, he’ll be running after you.’

  It was Anna’s turn to laugh, but the laughter quickly turned into a look of utter astonishment, for there, coming towards them across the harbour street, was Johannes.

  Katarina winked at Anna in her old comic manner.

  The days of Katarina’s stay with them passed quickly. Johannes seemed to grow as fond of Katarina as she was, Anna thought, rarely leaving their side, particularly after Katarina had gazed raptly at his paintings and declared that if she had sufficient funds, she would buy two or three or even four of his recent pictures straight away.

  She was even, to Anna’s surprise, enthusiastic about the Inferno sequence. If only, she wailed she had the funds to commission a portrait of herself. Johannes asked her to sit for him one morning, in any event; gave her a charcoal drawing he had done of Anna in Munich. On the bottom, he inscribed it, ‘For Katarina, who cares for her too,’ making Anna flush.

  It had been months since she had seen him so witty and utterly charming. It made her think that the life they led together was too reclusive, that he needed people more than she did. She suggested to him that they throw a party on the eve of Katarina’s departure. The weather was balmy; the garden with its bursts of flower beginning to take on a little of the hues of her dream.

  Johannes responded with alacrity, telling her to leave everything to him. She saw him race from the house with a sheaf of drawings under his arm. Only later did she realise that he had used them to pay the restauranteur for his services, to induce a local accordionist to play for them.

  Everyone she knew in Ascona and more seemed to be present on the night - artists and poets and writers and dancers and naturists speaking a multitude of tongues above the tones, mellow and brash by turn, of the tiny dark accordionist.

  Torches played over the garden, on the terraces, in the loggia, casting strange shadows on faces known and unknown. Food was heaped on plates. Wine flowed. A woman burst into dance, rising from the ground, like one of Anna’s plants and twirling amidst the guests. Katarina in a dramatic silver sheath of a dress glowed like a moon goddess, turning her light on everyone by turn. Amidst the growing hilarity of the evening, as couples began to twirl a little drunkenly to the music, she suddenly threw her arms round Anna.

  ‘This is wonderful. I feel like a girl again,’ she kissed her softly on the lips. ‘And you look ravishing,’ she touched the folds of Anna’s amber dress where they gathered dramatically over her left shoulder, and gazed at her, her fingers smoothing her bare skin, her hips beginning to sway slowly in a dance. Anna followed her.

  ‘I think I’ve decided to accept the redoubtable Mr. Mackenzie,’ she smiled dreamily.

  ‘Because of Johannes’s shining example?’ Anna teased her.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she laughed. ‘And yours.’ She embraced her again lightly.

  Over her shoulder, Anna spied Johannes, his eyes dark, glinting dangerously. He was dancing with a tall willowy woman with raven hair. She blew him a kiss, waved him over. He didn’t smile, but a moment later, he was at their side, the dark woman on his arm. Anna gazing at her, suddenly shivered, almost forgot what she had wanted to say.

  ‘Katarina,’ she stumbled, ‘Katarina’s going to get married. A toast is in order.’

  She saw Johannes lift her friend in his arms and kiss her, saw Katarina’s look of astonishment, saw a spasm pass through the dark woman, all in the space of the moment before Johannes’s arm was round her shoulder and he was waving over the restauranteur, invoking the group to silence, raising his glass in a toast to Katarina.

  Tears sparkled in Katarina’s eyes. She, too, raised her glass in a toast of thanks to her dear, dear, old friend, Anna and her new friend, Johannes, their hosts. There was a general round of applause, a burst of music, and then at a signal from Johannes, a sudden hush, as fireworks illuminated the sky.

  The next day Katarina was gone. Anna, having accompanied her as far as Locarno, returned to a house which felt hollow after the night’s celebrations.

  The last guests, Anna realised, must have left at the crack of dawn. She and Katarina had retired to the latter’s room at about three when the party was still going strong, and talked. At some point sleep must have overtaken them, for she had woken, still fully clothed, tangled in her friend’s arms. Johannes had been asleep when they set off, was perhaps still asleep.

  Shaking off the tug of sadness, Anna went upstairs to change into her gardening clothes. She opened the door to the bedroom softly, but Johannes was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was up in his studio. She wouldn’t bother him. Things had been so good between them since she had made the vow not to infringe on his space, to interrupt. Though she would have liked to be with him now. Somehow, in these last days with Katarina here, she felt she had lost touch with him, even if he had been so much with them. Still, she was delighted by how Katarina had taken to him.

  In the gathering heat of the afternoon the chirrup of the cicadas filled the garden. It looked slightly the worse for wear. Pebbles from the path were strewn on beds and lawn. Overhanging branches had been cracked, flowers and pale shoots trampled. With a little sigh which she knew was partly fatigue, Anna began to work, half-hoping that Johannes would see her from the studio and come down to help. She wanted to ask him about the dark woman she had seen him with, the one in his paintings, though she didn’t quite know how or what to ask.

  At a rustle behind her, she looked up to see the very figure she had been thinking about emerge from the foliage. The woman held a small basket in her hand. Herbs protruded from it, bright green aga
inst her white slip of a dress. Anna stepped back.

  ‘I hope I didn’t frighten you,’ the woman addressed her in French. ‘Johannes said I could help myself,’ she smiled dreamily, stretched out a hand. ‘My name is Janine.’

  Anna stared into dark, deepset eyes, down at that long angular hand with the scarlet nails, didn’t take it, then covered her rudeness by displaying the dirt on her own. ‘I’m Anna,’ she murmured. ‘Do you live near here?’

  Janine pointed vaguely up the mountain.

  ‘I see,’ Anna turned back to her clearing. She could feel the woman’s eyes on her

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked after a moment.

  Anna shrugged, ‘If you like.’

  ‘I like,’ Janine reached for a small rake, bent to a flower bed.

  Watching her, Anna wished she hadn’t been polite, wished the woman would go, didn’t know how to tell her so. How dare Johannes give this stranger run of the house. But not a stranger to him, no. Anger coiled inside her, as dark and sinuous as Janine’s curved shape.

  But as they worked side by side, clearing and patting, prodding and tying, it began to subside. Janine had a way with the plants, her hands quick, gentle, her eyes intent, a hum always on her lips. When she caught Anna gazing at her at one point, she smiled mysteriously, ‘I talk to them, you know. They understand.’

  ‘Yes,’ Anna’s voice faltered. She wiped the perspiration from her brow. Her anger was now all aimed at Johannes. Where was he? She gazed up at the house, towards the loggia where he sometimes sat sketching. Was it his shadow she saw there?

  Janine’s dark gaze was on her. ‘You look tired. Why don’t we rest for a while?’

  Without waiting for her response, the woman sat down beneath the flowering cherry, patted the ground beside her in invitation. ‘It’s so hot,’ her lips curled whimsically and then in one swift gesture she pulled her dress off over her shoulders. But for a pair of briefs, she was naked beneath. ‘You don’t mind do you?’ she was rubbing the moisture from her long body, her small erect breasts. Then she stretched out languorous as a sleepy panther, ‘Ah, that’s better. You should join me,’ she looked up at Anna from beneath long lashes.

  She must have come from one of the naturist colonies, Anna thought. Yes, she could see Johannes visiting them, his eyes alert to the women. With sudden decision she slipped out of her frock, stretched out on the ground. A soft breeze tickled her skin. The warmth of the ground made her drowsy. She closed her eyes.

  Suddenly she was aware of the touch of a strange hand, cool, long-fingered, playing over her body, circling her nipples. She stirred, looked up to see that sharp-featured face above her, the heavy flow of dark hair.

  ‘Si belle,’ the woman murmured, ‘No, don’t move. It’s nice, non? That rapt black gaze held her.

  Then, behind Janine’s raven head, silhouetted in the brightness of the sun, she saw tousled hair, eyes strange in their intensity.

  ‘Johannes,’ she breathed.

  He was down on his knees at her side, his fingers following in Janine’s trail, ‘She’s lovely, isn’t she, Anna, almost as lovely as Katarina,’ his voice was strained. ‘Touch her,’ he lifted her hand to the other woman’s bosom, led it down to her taut hip. ‘Soft, silky.’

  Janine moaned softly, curled closer to her.

  ‘What are you doing, Johannes?’ Anna arched away from him, away from the woman who had now started to stroke him, to ease open the buttons of his shirt.

  He didn’t answer her, didn’t seem to hear her, seemed to be in some kind of trance. But he pulled her back, ‘Kiss her, Anna, you like’ll kissing her.’ His fingers traced the line of her lip. She shivered.

  ‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘Kiss her.’

  Anna met Janine’s eyes, wondered for a moment if the women understood German. ‘It’s not natural what you’re doing, Johannes, what you’re saying,’ she hissed at him.

  ‘Not natural, Anna?’ He mocked her, ‘Everything we do is natural. We’re only animals, after all’ he laughed, pulled back her hair with a tug to stare at her from black eyes. ‘Isn’t what you and Katarina do behind locked doors natural?’

  ‘Johannes!’ A sudden horror of realization rose up in her, made her gasp. She leapt up

  ‘Laisse-la,’ Janine had curled close to him. ‘Elle n’a pas envie. Mais moi…’ her long fingers flickered over his crotch.

  He was kissing her. Anna leaned heavily against the tree, felt her legs giving way. They were rolling over and over on the ground and he was kissing her, had already done more than kiss her, had allowed Janine into her space, had painted her. Had manoeuvered her into approaching Anna. In revenge for Katarina. Not only that. For the first time, she noticed the sketch pad, the pens scattered on the ground at a short distance from them. To watch them.

  And now, because of her resistance, and not only because of her resistance, he would make love to Janine, right here, in front of her eyes. Deliberately in front of her eyes, to taunt her. In her garden. Yes, she could see his erection straining, see Janine beginning to writhe, those long legs wound round him. No, she couldn’t allow that. Not that. And if he wanted to see, she would let him see. Two could play at the manipulation game.

  Anna laughed her wild laugh. What was it Katarina used to say to her, show her?

  She bent to run her fingers through Janine’s dishevelled hair, languorously smooth the skin of her back, brush the grass from it. The woman raised her head away from Johannes, looked towards her in surprise.

  ‘Nous sommes belles, nous les femmes,’ Anna murmured, slowly tracing the line of Janine’s angular face, her long neck. ‘We women are beautiful,’ she repeated again. She cupped Janine’s breast softly, saw her eyes flicker. She skimmed her lips.

  Janine extricated herself from Johannes’s embrace. ‘Yes, beautiful,’ she echoed Anna’s gestures, gripped her hand.

  Anna shivered. They were on their knees facing each other. Beyond Janine’s shoulders, she was aware of Johannes’s gaze, aware too of the white flash of her foot, still buried in his crotch. She pulled the woman towards her, ‘Will you come with me?’ she whispered, stroked, cajoled.

  The smile Janine gave her had a girlish mischief in it, despite the dark drama of her features, ‘I always prefer women,’ she laughed, her face a little tremulous. ‘Certainly in the daytime. Though sometimes at night, Johannes…’

  Her voice trailed off as Anna tugged her to her feet.

  ‘Come,’ she wound her arm through Janine’s, led her away from Johannes. Away towards the edge of the garden, where the old trees provided a leafy canopy.

  Later that night, with the door of the room safely locked against him, and a chair propped against it for good measure, Anna lay in bed and wondered at the day’s events. She had only a hazy recollection of the sequence of things after the two of them had left Johannes. She remembered stretching out on the ground, closing her eyes and imagining Katarina still with her, Katarina in Vienna, so gentle and witty in her touch. But this Janine was different: there was a frenzy about her, a fierceness which tore at her, forced her into a kind of excited awareness. And then at one point, she had seen Johannes standing over the two of them, his eyes black, raging; had seen him touch Janine who arched catlike at his caress.

  She had been afraid then, afraid that the two of them would finish what they had begun earlier. And somehow, she had interposed herself between them and it was her, Anna, he had come into, whether by her stealth or his choice, she didn’t know. Her, he had shuddered into convulsively, telling her he loved her. But she had been angry at him, had veiled her anger as she saw a humming Janine off the premises, was angry again now.

  Anna thrust his pillow onto the floor, curled into her side of the bed. Her eyes wide open, she dreamt. Dreamt of someone sucking at her, draining her life blood like those leeches she had once read about, no, seen, black, shiny, clamped to her mother’s body.

  In the morning, she could hear him knocking, his voice soft, asking to be let in. She lay
very still. She didn’t want to see him, wanted only to scream.

  Later the knock came again, the soft voice followed by a rustling beneath the door. A piece of paper. She looked at it for a long time, before picking it up. A picture. A small boy weeping, the tears thick on his cheeks beneath the sad, lowered eyes, his shirt in disarray above short trousers. One sock had fallen to his ankle.

  She gazed at the picture, fascinated by the thick whorls of the fallen sock. Then she let it flutter to the floor. It fell on the reverse side. There was a word, scrawled there. ‘Sorry.’

  She returned to her bed. Leo, she thought, she must go to Leo, though the picture wasn’t of Leo.

  The knocking, the soft voice, recurred throughout the day and into the night. It woke her the following morning and was followed again by the rustle of paper. An envelope. She tore it open, saw a strange spidery script. She read it three times, before its meaning began to penetrate her anger.

  Dear Anna,

  You said I should call you thus, so I take the opportunity. You also said that you would be like a daughter to me. I have had no sign of this as yet and I hope this letter will provoke the first and certainly the last.

  I am on my deathbed. The doctors tell me I have some three weeks to live, four at the utmost. I would like to see my wayward son and yourself one last time. To make my peace.

  Tell Johannes no harm will come to him in Germany.

  I count on you.

  Your father,

  Karl Gustav Bahr

  Anna stared out the window onto the glistening lake. A boat was just leaving the small harbour, its stern spreading a fan of waves in the still water.

  Suddenly she was all decision and haste. She washed herself cursorily, brushed her hair, pinned it up, found one of the dresses she had bought in Milan, lemon yellow with a lime stripe. Its colours pleased her and she let her eyes rest on it for a moment. Then hurriedly, she put on matching stockings, high-heeled shoes, packed a small bag. Finally, she pulled a soft straw hat down over her hair. She looked at herself in the glass. She was ready.

  She pushed the chair away from the door, heard it rattle strangely, opened it to find Johannes perched there, a picklock in his hand. He stared at her, his face drawn.