Dreams of Innocence

by Lisa Appignanesi

  But then she saw a different image, not a dream, but a memory: Max and her walking in the woods in Norway during the conference. She had been telling him about Bhopal, about the sheer human horror of it, but also about how the management of the plant hadn’t ensured adequate safety; hadn’t informed the staff adequately of the dangerous substances they were working with. Max had listened, had given her more background on Union Carbide, the parent company, had told her she should visit their USA plant at Institute in West Virginia.

  Then in the midst of it all, he said, ‘I heard you speaking German before Helena. I didn’t know you did.’

  She had answered, laughing, ‘I’m a woman of hidden talents. Em taught me.’

  ‘Em?’

  ‘Emily Latimer, my adoptive mother. She was a headmistress, and a wonderful teacher. ‘

  ‘Oh.’

  Did she now imagine the look of consternation on his face, the furrowing of the brow. Or had it been there? Had she struck a memory in him?

  Helena opened her eyes abruptly. She was clutching at air, particles of memory with no visible substance to them, as wavering as the flickering shadows playing on the wall in front of her. But where was she? She sat bolt upright.

  Adam Peters’s room. There he was beside her on the far corner of the bed. He was sprawled on top of the bedclothes. That was her doing, it all came back to her. There was a gutting candle on the nighttable. That, too, for her. A kind man with a rare thoughtfulness. She gazed at him: tousled dark hair, thick lashes, an arm curled under his head - a stranger, who hadn’t insisted, though she was palpably in his debt.

  He must be cold, Helena suddenly thought. She lifted one of the two blankets she had lain under and folded it over him gently, tucking it round his shoulders.

  He stirred beneath her. She arched away as if she’d been caught in an unthinkable act.

  ‘Hello there,’ he murmured.

  ‘I thought you might be cold,’ she stumbled over the words.

  He met her eyes, a warm brown gaze, questioning.

  ‘I am,’ he stretched out his hand to her. She took it hesitantly.

  He pulled her towards him. ‘It’s very nice to see you,’ he said. He was looking up at her as if she were an apparition. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is me,’ she laughed.

  He lifted her hand to his lips, his touch feather light.

  She rested her head against his chest, felt his fingers in her hair. She touched him, that bare stretch of throat where his robe was open. Cool, smooth, and then the roughness of hair. She heard the rush of his breath.

  When she looked at him again, his face had that hunger in it which she recognized from other men’s faces. She knew how to assuage that, how to fill that brooding expectation. And he deserved it. He had been so patient, so kind; there was nothing to be afraid of. She smiled a little, removed the barrier of blankets and robes. He was handsome, those broad shoulders tapering into the tautness of his stomach, pale against the blackness of his briefs, and then those long, strangely elegant legs. She slipped astride him, played her lips against his throat, ran her fingers along his chest.

  Adam felt her, and watched. Watched in fascination. It was as if his body were the site for some strange ritual to which he was a mere spectator. He had a sixth sense that if he moved too abruptly, held that ministering priestess just a little too hard, she would flee. Or finish him off.

  Yes, that was it, a bizarre thought leapt into his mind. Finish him off like some skilful prostitute in a remote Brazilian outpost might. For the moment she was playing him like some new instrument she had yet to get the measure of, but as soon as she had, she would be in her stride, thrumb over him skilfully, perhaps even find the condom and slip it on him, then finish him off, give him his penny worth of pleasure, complete the rite. And smile sweetly, averting her eyes, before she rushed off to wash.

  He arched against her nonetheless, his body running away with the pleasure of her, those quick sensitive fingers, that silken hair tumbling against him, those long smooth legs clutching. He cupped her small firm breasts, watched that wide-eyed smile. Did she close her eyes when he kissed her, he wondered and kissed her. So sweet. There was a flicker in her gaze and she put her hands to his groin.

  Should he let her? Did he really want to stop her now? Stop that delicious rubbing, that whisper in his ear, that expert roll of the plastic over his cock, followed by the cool fingers, and then that taut yet soft grip of her bringing the moan to his lips.

  He pulled her down to him, so that he could look into those wide blue eyes. So distant. Somehow virginal. A Diana. She was somewhere in her own world. Did he exist there? An edge of anger grew alongside his pleasure.

  ‘Helena,’ he whispered, turned her over, so that she was beneath him, moved slowly inside her, pinning her arms back, kissing her, lapping against her. ‘Helena,’ he murmured again, searching her eyes. And then he rolled off her.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked softly.

  He didn’t answer, got up instead, strode to the other end of the room. She watched him. Watched him pour out the brandy, light a cigarette. He didn’t want her, she thought. It made her despondent. She covered herself, appalled that she had been so wrong.

  ‘Don’t you like me?’ she murmured, as he handed her a glass.

  ‘I like you,’ he said abruptly. ‘But for some reason, that isn’t enough.’ His eyes were black. She could feel the controlled rage in him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she shrugged, made herself small in her corner of the bed. Then with a gesture of irritation, rose, looked for her shoes.

  ‘Sit down. I want to talk to you.’

  He saw her shudder.

  ‘Please,’ he said more gently.

  There was a look of trepidation in the face she turned to him and for a moment he thought he had been wrong about everything. ‘Please,’ he said again, stretched out his hand.

  She sat stiffly at the edge of the bed.

  ‘Is there someone at home you’re attached to? A man you particularly miss…’

  She swung round to face him. ‘Whatever do you think of me?’

  ‘Or a woman, perhaps?’

  ‘No, not that. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Do you like sex, Helena?’

  She laughed loudly at that, ‘You mean do I like it with you?’

  ‘Maybe that’s all I mean.’ He strode over to the window and looked out at blackness.

  ‘Actually, I do prefer work. The struggle against pollution, the battle for the earth, averting a self-inflicted apocalypse. It really is rather more important don’t you think than a little self-indulgence?’

  She was sneering at him.

  He veered round, his movements suddenly violent. ‘Do you know what I think? I think that if I hear the word pollution used in that tone one more time, I’m going to take that person and rub his or her face in mud, good earthly mud, or better still, shit, that wonderfully pure and natural human or animal excrement that used to float happily in the water supply in the good old green days and still does in some places to spread those wonderful natural ailments like typhus or cholera.

  ‘And do you know why? No don’t give me that look of disdain. Do you know why?’

  She shook her head once, abruptly.

  ‘Because the idea of pollution presupposes that there is something called purity. And oh that wonderful mentality of purity! Purity of the water supply, purity of the environment, purity of the air, purity of nature, and let’s extend it a little to its other obvious ramifications, purity of the blood, purity of the race, purity of the nation, purity of the gender. Let’s worship purity! And in order to keep purity pure, we really must get rid of all those irritating pollutants, those poisons, toxins, acids, Jews, blacks, foreigners. And men, of course, those ultimate sexual and environmental pollutants. Get rid of the pollutants. Keep the world pure. Keep Helena pure. Avert the apocalypse.’

  ‘You’re raving,’ she was pacing now, as angry as he was.

>   ‘Yes, I’m raving. And you can go back to London and tell your pure friends that you met a dirty unregenerate raver, who tampered with your body and with your emotions. No, no, what am I saying? It’s quite the reverse. That’s my line. I tell them, this pure little green and feminist miss came along and tampered with my body and my emotions and remained quite pure, untouched. Like all those uncaring male swine purportedly do..

  She had come to a halt in front of him. Her eyes flashed wildly and for a moment, he thought she was going to hit him, the way she had hit the man in the tavern. But she didn’t; she simply hissed, ‘I think you’re talking about someone else.’

  He took a deep breath, forced into silence by the possible truth of that. He gazed at her, the robe tightly belted at her waist, her colour high, her face proud, only a tell-tale tremor in her lips. ‘Am I, Helena?’

  He kissed her again, hard, too hard, oblivious to her struggle, wanting something back from her that wasn’t mechanical, controlled, distant, even if it was her rage.

  Helena felt herself beginning to suffocate, to drown. She pulled at his hair, pummelled his chest, but still those hands pressed down on her back, her hair, pressed her close to him, too close, kept her lips on his. And then alongside her panic, something within her leapt and took fire, bounding over her controlling sense of herself, making her cling to him as she beat at him; kiss, in a way she didn’t recognize, so that she was breathless when he let her go, riven with confusion.

  He had moved back from her, was staring at her with those dark, soft eyes of his. She took a step towards him, wanting him close again, suddenly wanting the risk of him, the risk of obliteration which was also a freedom.

  And then she wasn’t quite sure what happened, wasn’t sure if he was making love to her or she to him, whose gestures were whose, whose breath or kisses or fingers or lips or limbs were hers or his. All she knew was that after a great deal of time and no time at all, she heard his cries and hers echoing through the silence, as mingled as their intertwined legs and the moisture of their bodies.

  Then he was staring at her, something like wonder on his face. ‘Well, well, well,’ he murmured.

  ‘Don’t joke. Please don’t make a joke of it,’ she felt the tears spring into her eyes.

  ‘I wasn’t. Wouldn’t,’ he stroked her damp hair, touched her breast. ‘My darling.’

  And again that flame she didn’t recognize leapt in her, so that she turned a face to him which was molten in its beauty. ‘Am I?’

  He nodded, loving her once more, this time with a mixture of passion and gratitude that he had long ceased hoping would ever be possible again.

  Afterwards, before they fell asleep, she said to him, ‘I hadn’t planned for this.’

  ‘Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans,’ he laughed a little wryly. He looked into her eyes. ‘You’ll stay, won’t you? Please stay. Your Max is as likely to turn up here as anywhere else.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she murmured against him, having for the moment utterly forgotten what had brought her here.

  Helena woke first. A thin stream of light played through the shutters, fell on the man at her side. He was sleeping soundly, his hair ruffled against the pillow, his arm stretched across her in a proprietary gesture. From somewhere deep inside her, there was an unfamiliar tremor. Its presence confused her. She frowned, found herself tempted to wake him with a caress. No, she would wash first, make breakfast, bring up a tray. Surprise him.

  She slipped silently from the bed, wrapped herself in the heavy robe, tugged it firmly round her, padded towards the bathroom.

  What a graceful room this was, with its vast fireplace, the deep blue chairs, the lofty French windows, the bed in the arched alcove. The bed: she looked back at it shyly, then went on. The recessed shelves in the corner held all his musical equipment, tapes, records. She paused to examine them, get a sense of his tastes. She knew him so little.

  On the top shelf, there were some framed photographs. A large one in black and white of an old couple, a woman with an oval face that must once have been handsome. Her eyes gazed out at one with an unmistakeable authority, which was also an irony; next to her a hatted man with a close-cropped beard and a faraway expression. Bettina and Klaus, Helena suddenly thought. It had to be them.

  She scanned the other pictures, hoping to see Anna and Johannes Bahr. There was another couple, but the woman was dark, American she thought, judging from the palm tree in the background. Adam’s parents, perhaps. She looked for a resemblance, could see nothing in particular. Next to it there was a coloured portrait of a young woman with dark hair and eyes, a calm expression on her face. Was she a friend of Adam’s, a former lover? She found the thought strangely irritating. She would have to ask him.

  Then her eyes alighted on a photograph that had been pushed back a little, a threesome. Helena leaned heavily against the wall. It was Adam, Adam looking dashingly handsome in a pale dapper suit, next to him a woman with brightly flowing red hair. He had his arm round her shoulders and between them stood a child, a toddler with hair as bright as the woman’s, the dimple in its chin, the shape of its eyes unmistakeably Adam’s.

  Helena stared at the image, transfixed, saw another beside it, a little red-headed girl on her own, a winsome look on her face. Adam’s child.

  He had a wife and child.

  She felt as if she were about to gag.

  ‘Good morning,’ his voice reached her from the other end of the room, soft, almost a caress.

  ‘Morning,’ she didn’t look at him. ‘Your family?’ she queried, despite herself, gestured towards the photographs.

  ‘Mmmm…’

  ‘They look nice,’ her tongue felt thick. ‘Very nice,’ she paused, gave him a chance to explain.

  But he only laughed evasively, ‘All families seem nice from the outside.’

  She waited.

  ‘Come here, Helena.’

  ‘No. I must rush. I’ve got an appointment. I’m late. No, no don’t get up.’ She raced from the room, blotting him from her sight, afraid that if she were to focus on him, she would start to shout, to rail, to throw things at him.

  She pulled on yesterday’s muddied tights, didn’t bother to tuck her shirt into her suit, fled down the stairs.

  No wonder he had reviled purity. He didn’t have a shred of it, had lied to her, misled her, cajoled her, bullied her, forced her to trust him. To feel. The worst kind of seducer. She loathed him.

  The most important thing now was to get out of here while a shred of her pride remained intact.

  And he had made her forget Max. Max who had written to her, who had called for her help, who was in trouble, somewhere. Helena sat in the car for a moment and looked at the house, the grounds. In the distance, she could see the arch of the beech, the strands of morning light glittering over the lake. By its side, those two people lay buried. She shuddered.

  It was a nightmare. The whole place in its very stillness, was like a nightmare, pulling at her, turning her topsy turvy, making time formless, tumbling the past into the present, casting shadows into the future. It was this place. with its ghosts, that had made her certain yesterday that Max was her father. She had clutched at him, then clutched at that man. The stuff of dreams.

  Helena started the car, revved the engine, sped down the drive.

  She didn’t pause to see the face peering at her from behind the curtains.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Snow still covered the meadows and rolling hills around Orion Farm. Against the high crisp blue of the New Hampshire light, the rambling clapboard house with its twin pointed gables seemed suspended in time. The outlying barns, the distant greenhouses, had an eerie quiet to them as if Max Bergmann’s disappearance had robbed them of active life.

  But the high fortress-like gate opened automatically as Helena nosed her car towards it and when she turned off the engine, she could hear the barking of dogs. They were soon at her side, two golden collies closely followed by a burly
man in a redchecked lumberjacket.

  ‘Helena. Good to see you.’

  ‘Hello Sam. All well?’

  ‘As well as can be expected.’ He looked at her as if he were about to pose a question. Then changed his mind. ‘James is expecting you.’

  He led her to a side entrance, down a narrow corridor, past a series of doors each clearly marked with their uses, past the office she knew as Max’s.

  It was odd to pass by it. The last time she had been here she had been ushered straight in to see Max whose warm voice had embraced her. But now everything was quiet and the hush felt slightly eerie. Funny how what she had last experienced as calm and order now exuded an almost regimental hostility.

  But James Whitaker put paid to that. He was a slender reserved young man with sandy close cropped hair and a narrow face which seemed impassive until he took off his rimless spectacles and turned his blue eyes on you. Something about that impassivity reminded her a little of Andy Newman, the man she had once shared her life with.

  James was sitting in front of a computer screen. Stacks of bound files, a print out, lay spreadeagled on the desk next to him. He rose eagerly when she came in, as if she were offering salvation. It occurred to her for the first time that the whole business of the farm, Max’s enterprises, now lay on his shoulders.

  ‘Am I glad you’re here!’ he shook her by the hand. ‘But you must be exhausted. Can I get you some coffee, tea? There’ll be lunch soon.’

  ‘Tea would be lovely.’

  He gestured to Sam who closed the door softly behind him.

  ‘And so, what have you found? Tell me everything.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s much.’ She brought out Max’s letter which she had photocopied. ‘I’d like you to read this properly first, in case it means anything to you.’

  He looked over the letter quickly. ‘Max’s style. I’d recognize that anywhere. As for the rest…’ he shook his head a little hopelessly. ‘But you said on the phone, you’d found the track.’