by D. M. Thomas
spring here will take away all sin,
don’t stop. It was the spring that fed the lake
the sun drew up to fall again as rain.
She washed the clothes. We scrambled up the slope
into the region of eternal cold
above the trees. The sun dropped, just in time,
we entered the observatory, blind.
I don’t know if you know how much your son
admires the stars, the stars are in his blood,
but when we gazed up through the glass there were
no stars at all, the stars had gone to earth;
I didn’t know till then the stars, in flakes
of snow, come down to fuck the earth, the lake.
It was too dark to reach the white hotel
that night, and so we fucked again, and slept.
I felt the ghostly images of him
cascading, and I heard the mountains sing,
for mountains when they meet sing songs like whales.
The whole night sky came down that night, in flakes,
we lay in such high silence that we heard
the joyful sighs of when the universe
began to come, so many years ago,
at dawn when we crunched stars to drink the snow
everything was white, the lake as well,
the white hotel was lost, until he turned
the glass down towards the lake and saw the words
I’d written on our window with my breath.
He moved the glass and we saw edelweiss
rippling in a distant mountain’s ice,
he pointed where some parachutists fell
between two peaks, we saw the sunlight flash
in the now heavenly blue, a corset clasp,
it was our friend, there was the lilac bruise
his thumb had printed in her thigh, the sight
excited him I think, my light
head felt him burst up through, the cable car
hung on a strand, swung in the wind, my heart
was fluttering madly and I screamed, the guests
fell through the sky, his tongue drummed at my breast,
I’ve never known my nipples grow so quickly,
the women fell more slowly, almost drifting,
because their petticoats and skirts were galing,
the men fell through them, my heart was breaking,
the women seemed to rise not fall, a dance
in which the men were lifting in light hands
light ballerinas high above their heads,
the men were first to come to ground, and then
the women fell into the lake or trees,
silently followed by a few bright skis.
On our way down we rested by the spring.
Strangely from so high we saw the fish
clearly in the lucid lake, a million
gliding darting fins of gold or silver
reminding me of the sperm seeking my womb.
Some of the fish were nuzzling guests for food.
Am I too sexual? I sometimes think
I am obsessed by it, it’s not as if
God fills the waters with mad spawning shapes
or loads the vine with grapes, the palm with dates,
or makes the bull dilate to take the peach
or the plum tremble at the ox’s reek
or the sun cover the pale moon. Your son
crashed through my modesty, a stag in rut.
The staff were wonderful. I’ve never known
such service as they gave, the telephones
were never still, nor the reception bell,
honeymoon couples, begging for a bed,
had to be turned away, as guests moved out
a dozen more moved in, they found
a corner for a couple we heard weeping
at being turned away, we heard her screaming
somewhere the next night, the birth beginning,
waiters and maids were running with warm linen.
The burnt-out wing was built again in days,
the staff all helped, one morning when my face
lay buried in the pillow, and my rump
taking his thrusts was coming in a flood
we heard a scraping, at the window was
the jolly chef, his face was beaming, hot,
he gave the wood a fresh white coat, and winked,
I didn’t mind which one of them was in,
the steaks he cooked were rare and beautiful,
the juice was natural, and it was good
to feel a part of me was someone else,
no one was selfish in the white hotel
where waters of the lake could lap the screes
of mountains that the wild swans soared between,
their down so snowy-white the peaks seemed grey,
or glided down between them to the lake.
2
The
Gastein
Journal
She stumbled over a root, picked herself up and ran on blindly. There was nowhere to run, but she went on running. The crash of foliage grew louder behind her, for they were men, and could run faster. Even if she reached the end of the wood there would be more soldiers waiting to shoot her, but these few extra moments of life were precious. Only they were not enough. There was no escape except to become one of the trees. She would gladly give up her body, her rich life, to become a tree, frozen in humble existence, the home of spiders and ants. So that the soldiers would rest their rifles against the tree, and feel in their pockets for cigarettes. They would shrug away their mild disappointment, saying, One did not matter, and they would go home; but she, a tree, would be filled with joy, and her leaves would sing her gratitude to God as the sun set through the trees around her.
At last she collapsed in the bitter earth. Her hand touched something hard and cold; when she cleared away the leaves she found the iron ring of a trapdoor. She pushed herself up on to her knees, and tore at the ring. For some time there had been silence, as though the soldiers had lost her; but now again she heard them crashing through the undergrowth, close behind her. She tugged at the ring with all her strength but it would not give. A shadow fell across the fallen leaves. She closed her eyes, expecting everything to explode inside her head. Then she looked up into the frightened face of a small boy. He was naked like her, and blood poured from a hundred gashes and scratches. “Don’t be frightened, lady,” he said. “I’m alive too.” “Be quiet!” she told him. The iron ring would not budge, and she told the boy to crawl after her through the undergrowth. Perhaps the soldiers would mistake the blood on their backs for the crimson stain of the leaves. But as she crawled she felt bullets pumping into her right shoulder, quite gently.
The ticket collector was shaking her, and, apologizing, she fumbled with the clasp of her handbag. She felt stupid because, like the iron ring, the clasp would not give. Then it opened, she found her ticket, and gave it to him. He punched a hole in it and gave it back. When he had closed the door of the compartment she brushed down her black-and-white striped dress, and moved herself into a more comfortable and seemly position. She glanced at the soldier opposite who had joined her in the compartment while she slept; felt herself blush as she met his stare, and started tidying the contents of her handbag. She noticed that the young man with whom she had slept (in a manner of speaking) had placid green eyes. She took up her book and began reading again. Occasionally she looked out of the window, and smiled.
It was very peaceful: the rattle of the rails, the turn of a leaf, the rustle of her companion’s newspaper.
The young man wondered how anyone could smile while looking out at the monotonous ochre plain. It did not seem a smile of happy memory or expectation, but simply of pleasure at the scene outside the window. The smile transformed her pleasant, dull features. She carried rather too much weight, but her figure was well proportioned.
One of her smiles turned into a y
awn, which she stifled quickly. “A nice sleep,” he said to her boldly, folding his paper in his lap and giving her a friendly smile. Her cheeks reddened. She nodded, glancing again out of the window; “Yes,” she said, “or dead, rather than asleep.” He found her reply disconcerting. “It’s the lack of rain,” she went on. “Yes, indeed!” said the young man. Still he could think of nothing more to say, and she returned to her book. She lost herself in her reading, for a few pages; then again her eyes slipped to the dry plain, behind flying telegraph poles, and her smile returned.
“Interesting?” he asked, nodding at her lap. She offered him the open book and stayed leaning forward. He was puzzled for a moment by the black and white dots which jumped about on the page to the train’s rhythm, like the stripes on her dress. Thinking to find a light novel, he found it hard to adjust to the strange language, and at first he thought—for some reason—that the book was in Tamil, or some other outlandish tongue. He was on the point of saying, “So you’re a linguist?” Then he realized it was music. There were words in Italian between the staves, and when he glanced at the book’s stiff cover (the binding crackled in his hands) he saw the name Verdi. He returned the book to her, saying that he could not read music.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, running her fingers over the cover. She explained that she was taking this opportunity to learn a new role. Only it was frustrating not being able to let her voice ring out, since the part was so tuneful. He told her to go right ahead and sing—it would relieve the boredom of this damnable plain! That was not, she said, smiling, what she had meant; her voice was tired and she had to rest it. She had been forced to cut short her tour and go home a month early. The only consolation was that she would see her little boy again. Her mother was looking after him; but although he liked his grandmother it was not much fun for him being cooped up all the time with an elderly woman. He would be overjoyed to see her come back early. She had not wired to let them know she was coming, as she wanted it to be a surprise.
The young man kept nodding sympathetically during her dull explanation. “Where is his father?” he inquired. “Ah! who knows?” She dropped her gaze to the operatic score. “I am widowed.” He murmured a regret, and took out a cigarette case. She declined, but said she enjoyed the smell of smoke, and it would not bother her throat. She would not be singing for some time to come.
Closing her score, she looked out of the window sadly. He thought she was remembering her husband, and tactfully kept silent as he smoked. He saw the attractive bosom of her black-and-white striped dress rising and falling in agitation. Her long straight black hair framed a somewhat heavy face. The pleasantly curved lips did not altogether compensate for the large nose. She had a darkish, greasy complexion, which he enjoyed, because he had spent three years on a very inadequate diet.
The young woman was thinking of the smoke of the train being carried away behind them. Also she saw this friendly young soldier lying frozen in his coffin. She managed at last to bring her breathing under control. To divert her mind from these terrible things, she started questioning her companion, and found he had been a prisoner of war and was returning to his family. Her compassionate expression (he was thin and pale) changed to one of astonished pleasure when she caught the words “Professor Freud of Vienna.” “Of course I’ve heard of him!” she said, smiling, all her sadness forgotten. She was a great admirer of his work. She had even thought, at one stage, of consulting him; but the need had passed. What was it like to be the son of such a famous father? Not unexpectedly, he screwed up his face and gave a wry shrug.
But he was not at all jealous of his father’s fame. He just wanted to find a young wife, and put down roots. She must find her life as a singer, constantly in demand here, there and everywhere, a terrible strain? Not really, she said; not usually. This was the first time she had strained her voice. Foolishly she had taken on a role which was too high for her register, and demanded too much power. She was not by nature a Wagnerian singer.
The train, which had been travelling non-stop for about two hours, flashing through great cities without even slowing, surprised them by coming to a halt at a small, quiet station in the middle of the great plain. It was scarcely a village—just three or four houses and a church spire. No one was waiting to get on, but the corridors of the train filled with struggling movement, confusion, shouts, and they saw a mass of travellers disgorge on to the platform. As the train pulled out again they watched the disgorged host put down their cases uncertainly on the platform. The hamlet was soon out of sight. The plain grew dustier, more desolate.
“Yes, we can certainly do with rain,” said the young man. The woman sighed, saying, “But you have your whole life before you. You shouldn’t have such gloomy thoughts at your age. Now, for me, it’s certainly true. I’m almost thirty, I’m beginning to lose my looks, I’m widowed, in a few years my voice will start to go altogether, there seems little to look forward to.” She bit her lip. He felt mildly irritated that she ignored or misunderstood all his remarks. But the renewed rise and fall of her bosom produced a tightness at his groin which was luckily hidden by his newspaper.
When—still clutching his newspaper—he went up the corridor to wash his hands, he saw how empty the train was. They seemed to be the only two travellers left on it. Returning, he found that his absence, short though it had been, had broken the intimacy. She was reading her score again, and nibbling a cucumber sandwich (he glimpsed her small, pearly, even teeth as she bit). She smiled at him briefly before burying herself in the score. “What a lot of crows there are on the wires,” he found himself saying. It sounded—to him—boyish, uncertain, stupid; his maladroitness disturbed him.
But the young woman smiled a joyful agreement, saying, “It’s a very difficult passage. Vivace.” And she broke into a husky, pleasant hum, running up and down the bristling semi-quavers. She stopped as suddenly as she had started, turning red. “Lovely!” he said. “Don’t stop!” But she shook her head and fanned her face with the open book. He lit another of his cigarettes, and she shut the book and her eyes at the same time, leaning back. “It’s Turkish, isn’t it?” She thought there was opium in the smell, and began to feel drowsy again in the warm, stuffy compartment.
He had changed, during his brief absence, into a smart light-blue civilian suit. The train entered a tunnel, turning their small travelling room into a sleeping compartment. She felt him stretch across and touch her hand. “You’re perspiring,” he said sympathetically. “You should let the air get to your skin.” It did not surprise her when she felt his hand part her legs. “You’re running in sweat,” he said. It was very peaceful and free, letting the young officer stroke her thighs in the dark. She had already, in a sense, slept with him, allowing him the much greater intimacy of watching her while she was asleep. “It’s stuffy,” she said drowsily. “Shall I open a window?” he suggested. “If you like,” she murmured. “Only I can’t afford to become pregnant.”
Finding it almost impossible to breathe, she spread her thighs and made it easier. He was looking into the dark blur of her face where now and then the whites of her eyes glowed. Those plump delicious thighs under the stretched silk were all too tempting, for someone who had been caged up for several years. Over her eyes appeared a small patch of red. It increased in intensity and grew larger. It separated into little spurts of crimson, and he realized her hair was on fire. He whipped off his coat and smothered her head with it. She came up choking for breath, but the flames were out. The train moved into the sunlight.
The fire and the harsh sunlight had broken the mood, and the young man stubbed his cigarette angrily. The woman jumped up and stood before the mirror, rearranging her hair, covering the burnt patch with a glossy black lock. She took down her white bonnet from the rack and put it on. “You can see how easily roused I am.” She chuckled nervously. “That’s why it’s best for me not to start. It doesn’t take much.” He apologized for being so careless, and she perched on the edge of her seat, taking
his hands tenderly and anxiously, and asked if she could be pregnant. He shook his head. “Then,” she said with relief, “there’s no harm done.”
He stroked her hands. “Do you want me?” she asked. “Yes. I do. Very much,” he said. She blushed again. “But how would your father feel about your marrying a poor widow, so much older than you? With a four-year-old son? And that’s another thing—my son. How would he take it? You’d have to meet him and we’d have to see how you got on.” The young man did not know what to say to this. He decided to say nothing, but to begin stroking her thighs again. To his relief her thighs parted at once, and she leaned back, her eyes closed. Her bosom heaved and he laid his free hand on it. “We could spend a few days together,” he suggested.
“Yes,” she said, her eyes still closed. She gasped and bit her lip. “Yes, that would be lovely. But let me see him first and prepare him for meeting you.” “I meant you and I,” he said, “on our own. I know a hotel in the mountains, by a lake. It’s beautiful. They’re not expecting you?” She shook her head, with another gasp as his finger slid into the opening. The young man lost interest in the woman, through the mystery of his finger having disappeared inside her. He could feel it gliding through her flesh, yet it had vanished. She grew so wet he was able to cram more into her. She cried out—so many fingers gliding in her, as though she were a fruit he was paring. She imagined both his hands crammed into her, to get at the fruit. Her dress was up around her waist, and the telegraph poles flashed by.
Gradually through her distracted senses she heard torrential rain falling on the corridor window; while on the other side the plain was still barren and dusty and the sky a yellow glare. The rain stopped, and when they glanced aside they saw the ticket collector cleaning the window with a soft brush. His startled face looked in at them but they carried on with what they were doing as though he were not there. The thump of her buttocks against his fingers caused her book to fall to the floor, creasing the second act of The Masked Ball. “Oughtn’t we to stop?” she gasped, but he said he needed his fingers there.
He needed them there, as they ran past streets of neat houses and then high tenement slums with lines of washing stretched from window to window. And besides, they were so jammed he doubted if he could remove them even if he had wanted to. She nodded, convinced it was not possible to stop.
