Another Green World

by Richard Grant

  He would forget other, more vital things. Where the hell they thought they were going. What time of day it was. And whose bright idea it had been to cross someone's soggy meadow and clamber up onto that huge pile of hay, a whole field's worth heaped together in the only dry spot, so it seemed, amid acres of empty bottomland.

  The hay he did remember. How it smelled—nutty and earthy and sweet—and how it sagged under your weight but only so far, then it lifted you again, and you felt as though you were floating up in the air. You could sway, you could bounce, you could roll around luxuriously; the hay both held and hid you, and you were absolutely safe. He remembered how it trapped the sun, the warmth seeming to radiate not just down from the sky but upward from the golden mound itself—as if these wild grasses and flowers had been storing up sunlight all summer long, and now that they'd been cut, their stems and blades and flower heads carefully laid, layer upon layer, to make a bed for two boys tired of walking and drowsy from lunch, all that patiently husbanded warmth was gently seeping out, around and over them like a blanket. He remembered how hot it was, the two of them sweating, their skin gleaming wet. Isaac pulling his shirt off.

  He did not remember the exact order in which things happened next, nor was he certain there was anything much to remember—only certain details that clung to his mind with singular tenacity.

  He had closed his eyes, then opened them, but it must have taken longer than the instant or two it seemed, because in the interval a number of things had rearranged themselves. Ingo's clothes lay folded beneath his head, a makeshift pillow. Isaac's were strewn all over the place, and he was sprawled on his back, apparently asleep, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. His head pinned one of Ingo's arms against the hay, and Ingo left it like that. Not that he cared about waking Isaac—he'd have to do that, sooner or later. Only not just now.

  There wasn't much he could do from that position except look around, and so he looked. There wasn't much to see except Isaac, and so he studied him in fine detail, bringing to his subject the passionate interest of a naturalist examining some rare and striking specimen, discovered by chance in its natural state in the wild. He followed the red hair as it marginally darkened and trailed down behind the ears onto the narrow neck. He traced out the bone structure around the upper chest. Counted the wispy, orange-blond hairs that had gained a tentative hold in the cleft of the chest. He considered the matter of skin tone, the darker regions, tinted raw umber and freckled heavily by the sun, bordering so closely on the lighter zones, according to the whims of anatomy. Thus the skin around the shoulders was mottled tan and brown, while centimeters away, in the tender hollow of the armpit, it was pale as chalk and the sparse hairs looked quite dark by contrast. And so, downward.

  In the course of his examination the budding naturalist made a number of observations, fodder for later reflection in the laboratory. In no special order:

  That the body, though indeed trim, looked less skinny when unclothed. Under these field conditions one notes areas of fleshy softness and others of distinct muscularity. Surprisingly often, one finds both present at once, as for instance in the belly (long, warm, rising gently at each breath) or the buttocks (partially obscured, but more clearly linked to the straplike sinews of the thigh than one had previously supposed).

  That the evident disproportion in size of various body parts— hands, head, legs, torso—becomes less striking when viewed in a more comprehensive context. It is as though the body in its entirety possesses an organizational logic that is not apparent until the subject is fully revealed. (This point merits further inquiry.)

  In contrast, certain unexpected features appear. Who knew that the hipbone extends so far upward, relative to the plunge of the abdomen below the navel? How carefully was this knee design tested? Will it hold up under stress? What on earth could cause hair to grow so thickly here, while elsewhere it is either very sparse or absent altogether?

  One last item of note—of unique interest in itself, but also in contrast with other recently examined specimens—appears to bear out the snowflake principle: No two are the same.

  By this time it was only too obvious why Ingo had taken up the humanities instead of the natural sciences. He found himself in what might be called his blue-flower state. But this was somehow different, less hopeless or thwarted, indeed almost enjoyable in an excruciating sort of way. To lie next to Isaac was, almost, like being with a lover. He could feel the heat of the body beside him, the softness of the skin against his own. He could hear the air moving in and out as the pale chest swelled and contracted. Could smell the strange but not disagreeable mix of odors—cookies fresh out of the oven, a puppy after rolling around in the yard—of healthy young bodies that could use a bath. That was about all he could do without waking the boy. But for the moment—maybe because he was half drunk and half dreaming, maybe because it was the best deal on offer, or maybe because in this instance, contrasted again with that of Anton, anything more was superfluous—it was enough.

  Then, it appears, he slept. Or maybe he slept before and after. Or else he dreamed the whole damn thing.

  The boys woke up late in the afternoon. The nearly sunset chill awakened them: night and autumn sneaking down from the mountains, putting out feelers across the summer plain. Groggily they pulled on their clothes and headed back to the camp in the foothills by the last light of day and the first pale limning of moonlight. Isaac, leading at a surefooted pace, could as easily have found his way in the dark.

  Ingo trailed along feeling confused but strangely content, among other incompatible things. He felt as though he had made love and that he would never make love again. He felt dejected and alone, yet for the first time in his life recognized and understood. He felt lost in an unfamiliar world, on the very border of his true homeland. He felt ordinary and powerless, singular and omnipotent. And beneath it all, like the undebatable number written below the line in an arithmetic problem, he felt something bald and unexpected. He didn't understand where any of this had come from. From within or without? Why here, why now? Why him? Why Isaac?

  Years later, in a wholly different world, he was no closer to knowing. But at least he knew this. All those things he could not, no matter how hard he tried, remember about Anton—big and small, trivial and crucially important—he could never get out of his head where Isaac was concerned. Isaac, who had never been his lover. Who, unlike Ingo, was able to flit between the two worlds at will, the real and the imagined, the dreamlike past and the nightmarish present. Who doesn't read, whose clothes don't fit, who is to blame for absolutely everything.

  Isaac the trickster, the wild card, the fool.

  Isaac, my destiny.

  Isaac.

  CHANGING SCENES

  SEPTEMBER 1929

  From Butler's journal.

  2. SEPT

  The journey of a thousand miles begins with a hangover.

  3. SEPT

  I think the story has changed—not Innocents Abroad now. That was wrong anyway. The Old/New World scheme doesn't fit, the fault lines lie elsewhere.

  Something sharper, a biting edge, Tucholskyish. Chronicle of bourgeois kids doing, as Berliners say, their Wandervogel. Borrow that wonderful line from Joseph Roth—” They have a sort of loden-jacket relationship with Nature.”

  Perhaps hard to sell that, however.

  Or Waugh. Comedy of class and type. Heart of Greenness, in which with neither fear nor toilet paper our heroes plunge into darkest Germania, the land that swallowed Roman legions, inhabited by tribes of brutish guitar-strumming boy scouts clad like heathens in sandals and short pants. As calamity is heaped upon misadventure—my god, wails the Hysterical Brunette, I have lost my comb!!— suspense mounts to an unbearable pitch. Will the Jew succeed in his plot to drive the German mad via insolence and incorrect adjective endings? Will the Catholic Lass shag the Expatriate till his schwanz falls off (and if so, will she be properly contrite next morning)?

  Later p.m. note to self: Take t
he gown off, dear fellow. Don't make it too literary. No one will read it.

  5. SEPT

  What a day! Wax poetic in scene-laying. Sweet shorn grass carpeting meadows gentled by grazing. Sunshine butter yellow, its warmth enfolding one. Lying there, we five, under a boundless Bohemian sky. Overhead, weightless, majestic, Heine's Greek-god clouds—imagine how the characters see them.

  Isaac: an outfielder stretching to make a catch? The ball's trajectory sketched in cirrus.

  Hagen, god only knows. Thor that would be, or Wotan—or who was the beautiful young thing, slain by Loki's trickery? Baldur? [LOOK UP] A castle… perhaps too obvious. Clash of warriors. Siegfried and namesake. Dragon!

  Marty? The female point of view is not, as critics have noted, our au-thor's strong suit. Always the danger of trivializing. ‘A puffy hairdo, how unstylish.’ Keep it neutral, if unimaginative—a ship, an elephant, an apple tree.

  Ingo: a land in the heavens, dreamy and perfect, fields to roam in, flowers to pluck, cozy grottoes for one's intimate rendezvous. A pathos about this character that grows on you.

  Expatriate: Clouds.

  6. SEPT

  Summer returns. Rather nice the way these hills roll out, how many hundreds of years have peasants lived off them? The earth so soft and black you could stew it right up, no need running it through a cabbage.

  At midday discover a pond isolated from view. Therefore: man muß schwimmen! Now the delicious drama—will this play in America?— of everyone taking their clothes off.

  Catholic Girl contests with Fearless Flapper, a match that goes three rounds. 1. Demure, locate a bush to undress behind, the absurdity of this no obstacle. Clothing removed in a definite order, hung out daintily on branches. 2. The line is crossed with the unclasping of the bra. Linger here a paragraph. Conflict of emotions plays out in the eyes. Why not? Go ahead. I can't. This isn't the Victorian Age—it is 1929. I can't help it. Plus, look, I'm the only girl! So what? You've been to the Meissner. It's nothing, it's natural. All right then. Ooo, yummy! I feel so free! 3. Out from behind the bush, breasts white and pertly upturned, pubis bared, legs in brazen mid-stride, three steps toward the water—then freeze. They are staring at me. Ingo, who has known me all his life. And Hagen, Isaac, I barely know them at all. Aaaaa!!!!

  Same stage, separate drama. The Blond Godling is perfect and knows it. Quite pleased to suffer one's admiration. The Scrawny Urchin more than a match for him in brazenness, which only makes the contrast even more telling—a Kollwitz puppet, all joints and limbs, beside a Michelangelo casting of muscle and sinew. Neither can spare much body hair. Each feigns indifference—unawareness—of the other.

  Not so Ingo. Blatantly gawking. The only question being, where to look. Phaedrus or Pinocchio. [GOOD. Use this.] Embarrassment of riches— though in a currency of limited circulation.

  Expatriate swoops in, hefts Frozen Flapper on a shoulder, splash, in we go, shrieks and laughter, fists on one's back. Put me down! With pleasure, my darling. Let loose, she flails, submerges, down then up, spluttering. You bastard! Rising like a naiad naked from the quivering depths. Wetness like molten silver streaming down her tits, her slender belly, proud hips, mons veneris. A Venus indeed.

  All this, before lunch. Then more miles behind us.

  7. SEPT

  Lovely bit of Carpathian folklore: There are bodies of water here—the knowledge of which is a great secret, only certain old women possess it— where, if you swim in there, confer upon you the ability to pass unseen through walls.

  ‘Old wives’ tales.' Why attribute such stories to women only? One does, however. The Grimms even put that superannuated nanny on their frontispiece—imprimatur of folkishness. Yet so many of the stories (this one, a case in point) project clearly a male sort of fantasizing. Slip unseen through the neighbors' wall, spy on their pretty daughter in her bath. Or disguise yourself in an old frock so you can ravish delectable Red Käppchen.

  Perhaps the old dame functions as a Geheimnisträger, bearer of secrets. I may be aged and ugly, but I know where the tiny bodies are buried, I know a spell to make you a werewolf, I know a root that will keep you alive.

  —Further thought. Is there something about a landscape that gives rise to a folklore of atrocity? Children baked alive, devoured by wolves, left to die in the forest. The shiny apple is poisoned. The smiling lady is a witch. You don't find such tales everywhere, do you? Can a place then be a natural home to wickedness, a nexus of dark energies? I bet the Steiner people would say so. If not, somebody. The Thule Society, the Rune Guild, the Armanenschaft—we suffer no shortage of pagans with Ph.D.' s.

  Idea for a dissertation. (What field, anthro, lit, philology?) Geographical survey of folktale motifs, ranked by degree of relative ghastliness. Scale runs from cannibalism down to social impropriety (sore spot with the Japanese). Results to be presented in narrative and cartographic form. The question: at what point on earth is the well of consciousness most fatally—Platen's word is best—verziechend?

  8. SEPT

  Behold, a new prospect. North and east from these mountains, we see the marches of Northern Europe. It looks like a muchness of nothing. A desert, from which the lights of Prague and Vienna—the lights of fucking Düsseldorf—must shimmer like an oasis. Go South, young man! Go West!

  Why then does the German soul pine for the unpopulous East?

  9. SEPT

  An evening's break from the rigors of the open road—modest inn at a crossroads in the Moravian Pass whose charm, though marked, will be hard to convey to an American readership inclined to view the private indoor bathroom as a matter of birthright. Here one finds a sturdy built-on bathhouse equipped with a magnificent oaken tub. For a few coins the landlord supplies heated water, a mound of towels, and a block of soap smelling of unknown local herbage. This fine vessel would accommodate all of us, but you know the Brunette. (One hopes by now the reader will at any rate.)

  Thus, while the water cools and the lady ablutes adjacently, a grumbling male contingent seeks consolation in a pitcher or two of the local beer which is not too many kilometers removed from being a true Bohemian Pilsner. More exactly such consolation is sought by Ingo, Isaac, and the Transparent Narrator only, as drinking of alcohol is one of 3 mortal prohibitions of the Jugendbewegung, as writ in the Gospel of Hagen. The others—one perforce enquires—are in order of ascending deadliness: Smoking of tobacco. Visiting of prostitutes.

  This far, one might hope to carry at least the more sophisticated type of American reader. But even this audience is lost (and given up for dead) when the Narrator poses the natural follow-up: ‘So, you're allowed to have a steady girlfriend, are you?'

  To which Hagen, in behalf seemingly of German maidenhood, takes immoderate offense. We then must suffer one of his periodic lectures— this one concerning the sacrosanct nature of the marital bond, the dangers to normal healthy development posed by ‘a premature and morbid type of conjugality,’ and of course, the obligation to defend one's own sisters from defilement.

  But wait: lest the reader feel that he has heard this sermon before, we rush to assure him he has not. For when Isaac makes some feckless interjection or other—one does not often jot these things down, nearly all are unprintable—to the effect that German Youth in this case ought to find itself some baggier hiking shorts, because its balls are going to swell up, Hagen surprisingly takes no offense. Natural sexual yearning (geschlechtliche Sehnsucht) must have a healthy outlet: so he informs us, his manner straightforward, instructional. On which account, masturbation is encouraged and may be practiced quite frankly, as one attends to other bodily needs. Indeed one ought not to be furtive in such matters, as this might indicate, or be symptomatic of, some sexual incorrectness.

  At which astonishing point, the female of the species appears, demurely sheathed. Hagen does not terminate his lecture but turns his attention to certain dietary practices recommended in such cases. What with one thing and another, the details have been lost.

  10. SEPTr />
  Enough.

  One has had enough. Walking, sweating, fornicating on terra ardua, communing with the genius loci.

  One misses Leipzig. Better: Berlin. Waking at ten, an intelligent newspaper. Rudeness of pedestrians, ugliness of streets—waiting at the corner for the tram to pass—then out of nowhere, an apotheosis. A violin sighs from an upper window. You imagine the beauty up there, she is sixteen next month, waif-waisted, practicing her recital piece. You stare upward as an elderly linden fans yellow leaves against the coal-smeared sky.

  [Long descriptive passage crossed out.]

  Enough of this landscape. Sum it in a sentence. If you should ever want to lose a thing, to let it drop, then stroll away and think of it nevermore— do it here.

  Enough of cows!

  Of the Brunette however. Toothsome, musky, mischievous, untiring. The eyes that blaze then slowly close—eclipse of passion. The arms, enveloping. The mouth, hot, hungry, generous with laughter, lair of the sharp tongue. The body, sweet and bountiful as a soft fruit plucked hot in the sun; you seek to taste it but it, instead, consumes you. Her voice, her hair, her elbows, small feet, trivial complaints, shallow breathing in the night, moments of zany, girlish abandon. By no means ever enough.

  11. sept—arndtheim.

  What, wondered the Expatriate, would Tucholsky make of this?

  12. SEPT

  Finally catch one's breath. Nothing I've ever seen before. Whole new world here, but (the usual rub) likely of zero interest to New World readers.

  They do not like ‘commune’— the term sounds too Parisian, I suppose. We are a voluntary community, they say, freiwillige Gemeindshaft, and we choose to share the labors and the rewards. And by the way, we don't like talking about this, actually (while never ceasing to blather), so why don't you put down that expensive writing instrument and come join us for a mug of applemint tea?